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

now that ye be so light,

For certes ye now make me heavy cheer; Me were as lief be laid upon my bier.

For which unto your mercy thus I cry,

Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

 

Now vouchesafe this day, ere it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sunne bright, That of yellowness hadde peer.

Ye be my life! Ye be my hearte’s steer! rudder Queen of comfort and of good company!

Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

 

Now, purse! that art to me my life’s light And savour, as down in this worlde here, Out of this towne help me through your might, Since that you will not be my treasurere; For I am shave as nigh as any frere. <1>

But now I pray unto your courtesy,

Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

 

Chaucer’s Envoy to the King.

 

O conqueror of Brute’s Albion, <2>

Which by lineage and free election

Be very king, this song to you I send; And ye which may all mine harm amend,

Have mind upon my supplication!

 

Notes to The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse 1. “I am shave as nigh as any frere” i.e. “I am as bare of coin as a friar’s tonsure of hair.”

 

2. Brute, or Brutus, was the legendary first king of Britain.

 

GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER. <1>

 

FLEE from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; Suffice thee thy good, though it be small; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, instability Press hath envy, and *weal is blent* o’er all, prosperity is blinded

Savour* no more than thee behove shall; have a taste for Read well thyself, that other folk canst read; *counsel And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. doubt Paine thee not each crooked to redress, In trust of her that turneth as a ball; <2>

Great rest standeth in little business: Beware also to spurn against a nail; <3>

Strive not as doth a crocke* with a wall; earthen pot Deeme thyself that deemest others’ deed, *judge And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.

 

What thee is sent, receive in buxomness; submission The wrestling of this world asketh a fall; Here is no home, here is but wilderness.

Forth, pilgrim! Forthe beast, out of thy stall!

Look up on high, and thank thy God of all!

*Weive thy lust,* and let thy ghost* thee lead, forsake thy And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. inclinations

*spirit Notes to Good Counsel of Chaucer

 

1. This poem is said to have been composed by Chaucer “upon his deathbed, lying in anguish.”

 

2. Her that turneth as a ball: Fortune.

 

3. To spurn against a nail; “against the pricks.”

 

PROVERBS OF CHAUCER. <1>

 

WHAT should these clothes thus manifold, Lo! this hot summer’s day?

After great heate cometh cold;

No man cast his pilche* away. *pelisse, furred cloak Of all this world the large compass

Will not in mine arms twain;

Who so muche will embrace,

Little thereof he shall distrain. grasp The world so wide, the air so remuable, unstable The silly man so little of stature;

The green of ground and clothing so mutable, The fire so hot and subtile of nature; The water *never in one* — what creature never the same

That made is of these foure <2> thus flitting, May steadfast be, as here, in his living?

 

The more I go, the farther I am behind; The farther behind, the nearer my war’s end; The more I seek, the worse can I find; The lighter leave, the lother for to wend; <3>

The better I live, the more out of mind; Is this fortune, n’ot I, or infortune; I know not misfortune Though I go loose, tied am I with a loigne. line, tether Notes to Proverbs of Chaucer

 

1. (Transcriber’s Note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer’s may have been the author of the first stanza of this poem, but was not the author of the second and third).

 

2. These foure: that is, the four elements, of which man was believed to be composed.

 

3. The lighter leave, the lother for to wend: The more easy (through age) for me to depart, the less willing I am to go.

 

VIRELAY. <1>

 

ALONE walking

In thought plaining,

And sore sighing;

All desolate,

Me rememb’ring

Of my living;

My death wishing

Both early and late.

 

Infortunate

Is so my fate,

That, wot ye what?

Out of measure

My life I hate;

Thus desperate,

In such poor estate,

Do I endure.

 

Of other cure

Am I not sure;

Thus to endure

Is hard, certain;

Such is my ure, destiny <2>

I you ensure;

What creature

May have more pain?

 

My truth so plain

Is taken in vain,

And great disdain

In remembrance;

Yet I full fain

Would me complain,

Me to abstain

From this penance.

 

But, in substance,

None alleggeance alleviation Of my grievance

Can I not find;

Right so my chance,

With displeasance,

Doth me advance;

And thus an end.

 

Notes to Virelay

 

1. (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

 

2. Ure: “heur,” or destiny; the same word that enters into “bonheur” and “malheur.” (French: happiness & unhappiness) “SINCE I FROM LOVE.” <1>

 

SINCE I from Love escaped am so fat,

I ne’er think to be in his prison ta’en; Since I am free, I count him not a bean.

 

He may answer, and saye this and that; I *do no force,* I speak right as I mean; care not

Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

 

Love hath my name struck out of his slat, slate, list And he is struck out of my bookes clean, For ever more; there is none other mean; Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

 

Notes to “Since I from Love”

 

1. (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

 

CHAUCER’S WORDS TO HIS SCRIVENER.

 

ADAM Scrivener, if ever it thee befall Boece or Troilus for to write anew,

Under thy long locks thou may’st have the scall scab But *after my making* thou write more true! according to my So oft a day I must thy work renew, composing

It to correct, and eke to rub and scrape; And all is through thy negligence and rape. haste CHAUCER’S PROPHECY. <1>

 

WHEN priestes *failen in their saws, come short of their And lordes turne Godde’s laws profession*

Against the right; And lechery is holden as *privy solace, secret delight*

And robbery as free purchase,

Beware then of ill!

Then shall the Land of Albion

Turne to confusion,

As sometime it befell.

 

Ora pro Anglia Sancta Maria, quod Thomas Cantuaria. <2>

 

Sweet Jesus, heaven’s King,

Fair and best of all thing,

You bring us out of this mourning,

To come to thee at our ending!

 

Notes to Chaucer’s Prophecy.

 

1. (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

 

2. “Holy Mary, pray for England, as does Thomas of Canterbury” (i.e. St Thomas a Beckett) The end of the Project Gutenberg e-text of The Canterbury Tales and Other Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer.