Canterbury Tales and Other Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📖

*browes flaw,* of colour pure, *yellow eyebrows <28>

Between the which was mean disseverance From ev’ry brow, to show a due distance.

 

Her nose directed straight, even as line, With form and shape thereto convenient, In which the *goddes’ milk-white path* doth shine; the galaxy

And eke her eyne be bright and orient

As is the smaragd,* unto my judgment, *emerald Or yet these starres heav’nly, small, and bright; Her visage is of lovely red and white.

 

Her mouth is short, and shut in little space, Flaming somedeal,* not over red I mean, *somewhat With pregnant lips, and thick to kiss, percase as it chanced (For lippes thin, not fat, but ever lean, They serve of naught, they be not worth a bean; For if the bass* be full, there is delight; *kiss <29>

Maximian <30> truly thus doth he write).

 

But to my purpose: I say, white as snow Be all her teeth, and in order they stand Of one stature; and eke her breath, I trow, Surmounteth all odours that e’er I fand found In sweetness; and her body, face, and hand Be sharply slender, so that, from the head Unto the foot, all is but womanhead. womanly perfection I hold my peace of other thinges hid:

Here shall my soul, and not my tongue, bewray; But how she was array’d, if ye me bid, That shall I well discover you and say: A bend* of gold and silk, full fresh and gay, band With hair in tress, y-broidered* full well, plaited in tresses

Right smoothly kempt,* and shining every deal. combed About her neck a flow’r of fresh device With rubies set, that lusty were to see’n; And she in gown was, light and summer-wise, Shapen full well, the colour was of green, With aureate seint* about her sides clean, golden cincture

With divers stones, precious and rich: Thus was she ray’d,* yet saw I ne’er her lich,* arrayed **like If Jove had but seen this lady, Calisto and Alcmena had never lain in his arms, nor had he loved the fair Europa, nor Danae, nor Antiope; “for all their beauty stood in Rosial; she seemed like a thing celestial.” By and by, Philogenet presented to her his petition for love, which she heard with some haughtiness; she was not, she said, well acquainted with him, she did not know where he dwelt, nor his name and condition. He informed her that “in art of love he writes,” and makes songs that may be sung in honour of the King and Queen of Love. As for his name —

 

“My name? alas, my heart, why mak’st thou strange? why so cold Philogenet I call’d am far and near, or distant?*

Of Cambridge clerk, that never think to change From you, that with your heav’nly streames* clear *beams, glances Ravish my heart; and ghost, and all in fere: all together Since at the first I writ my bill* for grace, *petition Me thinks I see some mercy in your face;”

 

And again he humbly pressed his suit. But the lady disdained the idea that, “for a word of sugar’d eloquence,” she should have compassion in so little space; “there come but few who speede here so soon.” If, as he says, the beams of her eyes pierce and fret him, then let him withdraw from her presence: “Hurt not yourself, through folly, with a look; I would be sorry so to make you sick!

A woman should beware eke whom she took: Ye be a clerk: go searche well my book, If any women be so light* to win: easy Nay, bide a while, though ye were all my kin.” my only kindred*

 

He might sue and serve, and wax pale, and green, and dead, without murmuring in any wise; but whereas he desired her hastily to lean to love, he was unwise, and must cease that language. For some had been at Court for twenty years, and might not obtain their mistresses’ favour; therefore she marvelled that he was so bold as to treat of love with her.

Philogenet, on this, broke into pitiful lamentation; bewailing the hour in which he was born, and assuring the unyielding lady that the frosty grave and cold must be his bed, unless she relented.

 

With that I fell in swoon, and dead as stone, With colour slain,* and wan as ashes pale; *deathlike And by the hand she caught me up anon: “Arise,” quoth she; “what? have ye drunken dwale? sleeping potion <31>

Why sleepe ye? It is no nightertale.” night-time “Now mercy! sweet,” quoth I, y-wis afraid; “What thing,” quoth she, “hath made you so dismay’d?”

 

She said that by his hue she knew well that he was a lover; and if he were secret, courteous, and kind, he might know how all this could be allayed. She would amend all that she had missaid, and set his heart at ease; but he must faithfully keep the statutes, “and break them not for sloth nor ignorance.” The lover requests, however, that the sixteenth may be released or modified, for it “doth him great grievance;” and she complies.

 

And softly then her colour gan appear, As rose so red, throughout her visage all; Wherefore methinks it is according* her *appropriate to That she of right be called Rosial.

Thus have I won, with wordes great and small, Some goodly word of her that I love best, And trust she shall yet set mine heart in rest.

 

Rosial now told Philobone to conduct Philogenet all over the Court, and show him what lovers and what officers dwelt there; for he was yet a stranger.

 

And, stalking soft with easy pace, I saw About the king standen all environ, around <32>

Attendance, Diligence, and their fellaw Furtherer, Esperance,* and many one; *Hope Dread-to-offend there stood, and not alone; For there was eke the cruel adversair, The lover’s foe, that called is Despair; Which unto me spake angrily and fell, cruelly And said, my lady me deceive shall:

“Trow’st thou,” quoth she, “that all that she did tell Is true? Nay, nay, but under honey gall.

Thy birth and hers they be no thing egal: equal Cast off thine heart, <33> for all her wordes white, For in good faith she loves thee but a lite. little “And eke remember, thine ability

May not compare with her, this well thou wot.”

Yea, then came Hope and said, “My friend, let be!

Believe him not: Despair he gins to doat.”

“Alas,” quoth I, “here is both cold and hot: The one me biddeth love, the other nay; Thus wot I not what me is best to say.

 

“But well wot I, my lady granted me

Truly to be my wounde’s remedy;

Her gentleness* may not infected be noble nature With doubleness, this trust I till I die.” *duplicity So cast I t’ avoid Despair’s company,

And take Hope to counsel and to friend.

“Yea, keep that well,” quoth Philobone, “in mind.”

 

And there beside, within a bay window, Stood one in green, full large of breadth and length, His beard as black as feathers of the crow; His name was Lust, of wondrous might and strength; And with Delight to argue there he think’th, For this was alway his opinion,

That love was sin: and so he hath begun To reason fast, and *ledge authority: allege authorities “Nay,” quoth Delight, “love is a virtue clear, And from the soul his progress holdeth he: Blind appetite of lust doth often steer, stir (the heart) And that is sin; for reason lacketh there: For thou dost think thy neighbour’s wife to win; Yet think it well that love may not be sin; “For God, and saint, they love right verily, Void of all sin and vice: this know I weel, well Affection of flesh is sin truly;

But very* love is virtue, as I feel; *true For very love may frail desire akele: cool For very love is love withoute sin.”

“Now stint,”* quoth Lust, “thou speak’st not worth a pin.” *cease And there I left them in their arguing, Roaming farther into the castle wide,

And in a corner Liar stood talking

Of leasings* fast, with Flattery there beside; falsehoods He said that women ware attire of pride, *wore And men were found of nature variant,

And could be false and *showe beau semblant. put on plausible appearances to deceive*

Then Flattery bespake and said, y-wis: “See, so she goes on pattens fair and feat; pretty, neat It doth right well: what pretty man is this That roameth here? now truly drink nor meat Need I not have, my heart for joy doth beat Him to behold, so is he goodly fresh:

It seems for love his heart is tender and nesh.” soft <34>

 

This is the Court of lusty folk and glad, And well becomes their habit and array: O why be some so sorry and so sad,

Complaining thus in black and white and gray?

Friars they be, and monkes, in good fay: Alas, for ruth! great dole* it is to see, *sorrow To see them thus bewail and sorry be.

 

See how they cry and ring their handes white, For they so soon* went to religion!, *young And eke the nuns with veil and wimple plight, plaited Their thought is, they be in confusion: “Alas,” they say, “we feign perfection, <35>

In clothes wide, and lack our liberty; But all the sin must on our friendes be. <36>

 

“For, Venus wot, we would as fain* as ye, gladly That be attired here and well beseen, gaily clothed*

Desire man, and love in our degree,’

Firm and faithful, right as would the Queen: Our friendes wick’, in tender youth and green, Against our will made us religious;

That is the cause we mourn and waile thus.”

 

Then said the monks and friars *in the tide, at the same time*

“Well may we curse our abbeys and our place, Our statutes sharp to sing in copes wide, <37>

Chastely to keep us out of love’s grace, And never to feel comfort nor solace; delight Yet suffer we the heat of love’s fire, And after some other haply we desire.

 

“O Fortune cursed, why now and wherefore Hast thou,” they said, “bereft us liberty, Since Nature gave us instrument in store, And appetite to love and lovers be?

Why must we suffer such adversity,

Dian’ to serve, and Venus to refuse?

Full *often sithe* these matters do us muse. many a time

 

“We serve and honour, sore against our will, Of chastity the goddess and the queen; Us liefer were with Venus bide still, we would rather

And have regard for love, and subject be’n Unto these women courtly, fresh, and sheen. bright, beautiful Fortune, we curse thy wheel of variance!

Where we were well, thou reavest* our pleasance.” *takest away Thus leave I them, with voice of plaint and care, In raging woe crying full piteously;

And as I went, full naked and full bare Some I beheld, looking dispiteously,

On Poverty that deadly cast their eye; And “Wellaway!” they cried, and were not fain, For they might not their glad desire attain.

 

For lack of riches worldly and of good, They ban and curse, and weep, and say, “Alas!

That povert’ hath us hent,* that whilom stood *seized At hearte’s ease, and free and in good case!

But now we dare not show ourselves in place, Nor us embold* to dwell in company, *make bold, venture Where as our heart would love right faithfully.”

 

And yet againward shrieked ev’ry nun,

The pang of love so