Part 5

Wyth Flora paynted and wrought curyously, In divers knottes of marvaylous gretenes; Rampande lyons stode up wondersly, Made all of herbes with dulcet swetenes, Wyth many dragons of marvaylos likenes, Of dyvers floures made ful craftely, By Flora couloured wyth colours sundry.

Amiddes the garden so moche delectable There was an herber fayre and quadrante, To paradyse right well comparable, Set all about with flours fragraunt; And in the myddle there was resplendyshaunte A dulcet spring and marvaylous fountaine, Of golde and asure made all certaine.

In wonderfull and curious similitude There stode a dragon, of fyne golde so pure, Upon his tayle of myghty fortitude, Wretched and skaled al wyth asure, Havyng thre hedes divers in fygure, Whych in a bathe of the sylver grette Spouted the water that was so dulcette.

Besyde whiche fountayne, the moost fayre lady La Bel Pucel was gayly syttyng; Of many floures fayre and ryally A goodly chaplet she was in makynge. Her heer was downe so clerely shynynge, Lyke to the golde late purifyed with fyre, Her heer was bryght as the drawne wyre.

Lyke to a lady for to be moost trewe, She ware a fayre and goodly garment, Of most fyne velvet, al of Indy blewe, Wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent. On her fayre handes, as was convenient, A payre of gloves ryght sclender and softe. In approchyng nere I did beholde her oft.

And whan that I came before her presence, Unto the ground I dyd knele adowne; Sayeng: O lady! moost fayre of excellence, O stere so clere of vertuous renowne! Whose beaute fayre in every realme and towne, Indued wyth grace and also wyth goodnes, Dame Fame the her selfe doth evermore expresse.

Amoure.

Please it your grace for to gyve audyence Unto my wofull and pitous complaynte; How fervent love, wythout resystence, My careful herte hath made low and faynte, And you therof are the hole constraynt; Your beauty truly hath me fettered faste, Wythout your helpe my life is nere hand paste.

Pucell.

Stande up, quod she; I marvayle of this cace, What sodayne love hath you so arayde Wyth so great payne your heart to embrace? And why for me ye should be so dismayde? As of your lyfe ye nede not to be afrayde. For ye of me now have no greater awe, But whan ye lyst ye may your love wythdraw.

Amoure.

Than stode I up, and right so did she, Alas! I sayd than, my heart is so set, That it is yours, it may none other be; Your selfe hath caught it in so sure a net, That if that I may not your favour get, No doubt it is, the great payne of love May not aswage tyl death it remove.

Pucell.

Truely, quod she, I am obedient Unto my frendes whych do me so guyde; They shal me rule as is convenient, In the snare of love I wyl nothyng slyde, My chaunce or fortune I wyl yet abide. I thanke you for your love right humbly, But I your cause can nothing remedy.

Amoure.

Alas! madame, yf I have enterprysed A thyng to hye truly for my degre, All that causes whych I have commysed Hath ben on fortunes gentyl unyte, Trustyng truely that she wold favour me. In this case wherfore now excuse Your humble servaunte, and not me refuse.

Pucell.

Ha, ha! what vayleth all your flattery? Your fayned wordes shall not me appese To make myne herte to enclyne inwardly; For I my selfe nowe do nothynge suppose But for to prove me you flatter and glose. You shall not dye as longe as you speke, There is no love can cause your herte to breke.

Amoure.

I wolde, madame, ye hadde prerogatyve To knowe the prevyte of my perfyte mynde, How all in payne I lede my wofull lyfe; Than, as I trowe, ye wolde not be unkynde, But that some grace I myght in you fynde, To cause myne herte, whyche you fetred sure Wyth brenninge cheynes, suche wo to endure.

Pucell.

By veraye reason I may give judgement, That it is guyse of you everychone To fayne you sicke wyth subtyll argument, Whan to your lady ye list to make your mone: But of you true is there fewe or none. For all your payne and wordes eloquent, Wyth dame Repentaunce I will not be shent.

Amoure.

O swete madame! now all my desteny Unhap and happy, upon you doth growe: Yf that you call me unto your mercy Of all happy the most happy, I trow, Than shall I be, of hye degre or lowe; And yf ye lyste so me than to forsake, Of all unhappy none shal be my make.

Pucell.

Your fortune on me is not more applyed, Than upon other, for my minde is fre; I have your purpose oft ynoughe denyed, You knowe your answere now certayne; What nede your wordes of curyosyte? Wo we here no more, for thou shalt not spede; Go love another where ye may have mede.

Amoure.

That shall I not; though that I contynewe All my lyfe in payne and hevynes, I shall not chaunge you for none other new; You are my lady, you are my masteres, Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes. Exyle him never from your hert so dere, Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere.

Pucell.

The minde of men chaungeth as the mone. If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght, Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone, An other fayrer unto your owne syght. Unto her than your minde is tourned ryght, Truely your love, though ye make it straunge, I knowe full well ye wyl often chaunge.

Amoure.

Alas! madame, nowe the bright lodes sterre Of my true herte, where ever I go or ryde, Thoughe that my body be from you aferre, Yet my herte onely shall wyth you abyde, Whan than you lyst ye may for me provyde.

Pucell.

Nay, truly, it can nothyng be myne, For I therof take no possessyon; Your heart is your by substancyall lyne, It is not in my domynacyon. Love where ye list; at every season Your heart is fre, I do not it accept: It is your owne, I have it never kept.

Amoure.

Alas! madame, ye may say as ye liste, With your beaute ye toke mine hert in snare; Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst, Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care, That of all joye I am devoyde and bare. I se you ryght often when I am aslepe, And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe.

Pucell.

So great deceyt amonge men there is, That harde it is to finde one full stable; Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis: Your great deceyte is nothing commendable. In storyes olde it is well provable How many ladyes hath bene right falsely Wyth men deceyved yll and subtylly.

Amoure.

O goodd madame! though that they abused Them to theyr ladyes in theyr great deceyte, Yet am I true; let me not be refused: Ye have me taken wyth so fayre a bayte, That ye shall never out of my conceyte. I can not wrynche by no wyle nor croke, My heart is fast upon so sure a hoke.

Pucell.

Ye, so sayd they, tyll that they had their wyll; Theyr wyll accomplysshed, they dyd fle at large; For men say wel, but they thinke full yll. Though outwarde swetenes your tonge doth enlarge, Yet of your heart I never can have charge; For men do love, as I am right sure, Nowe one, now other, after theyr pleasure.

Amoure.

All that, madame, I knew ryght perfetly, Some men there be of that condicyon; That them delyte often in novelty, And many also love perfeccyon. I cast all suche noveltes in objection; My love is set upon a perfet grounde, No falshed in me truly shal be founde.

Pucell.

Ye saye full well, yf ye meane the same; But I in you can have no confydence; I thinke right well that it is no game To love unloved wyth percynge influence. You shall in me fynde no suche neclygence To grante you love, for ye are unthryfty, As two or thre to me doth specify.

Amoure.

Was never lover without enemies thre, As Envy, Malyce, and Perturbaunce? Theyr tongues are poyson unto amyte; What man on live can use suche governaunce To attayne the favoure withouten varyaunce Of every persone, but right pryvely Behinde his backe some sayth unhappely?

Pucell.

Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace, Your love and myne is full ferre asunder: But thoughe that I do your herte so race Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder; Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under, I dare not love but as they accorde, They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde.

Amoure.

I knowe, madame, that your frendes all Unto me sure wyll be contraryous; But what for that? your selfe in speciall Remembre there is no love so joyous As is your owne to you most precyous; Wyll you gyve your youthe and your flourynge aege To them agaynst your mynde in maryage?

Pucell.

Agaynst my mynde, of that were I lothe, To wed for fere, as them to obey; Yet had I lever they were somwhat wrothe, For I my selfe do here the locke and kaye Yet of my mynde, and wyll do many a daye. Myne owne I am, what that I lyste to do I stand untyed, there is no joye therto.

Amoure.

O swete lady! the good perfyte sterre Of my true herte, take ye now pyte; Thynke on my payne whiche am tofore you here, Wyth your swete eyes beholde you and se, How thought and wo, by great extremyte, Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne: It was not so whan I to love began.

Pucell.

So, me thynke, it doth right well appere By your coloure that love hath done you wo; Your hevy countenaunce and your dolefull chere; Hath love suche myght for to aray you so In so short a space? I marvayle moche also That ye wolde love me so sure in certayne, Before ye knewe that I wolde love agayne?

Amoure.

My good dere herte! it is no mervayle why; Your beaute cleare and lovely lokes swete My herte dyde perce with love so sodaynly At the fyrste tyme that I dyde you mete; In the olde temple whan I dyde you grete, Your beaute my herte so surely assayde, That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde.

CAP. XIX. HOW LA BELL PUCELL GRAUNTED GRAUND AMOURE LOVE, AND OF HER DISPITEOUS DEPARTAGE.

Your wo and payne, and all your languishynge Continually ye shall not spende in vayne, Sythen I am cause of your great mornynge, Nothynge exyle you shall I by dysdayne; Youre hert and myne shall never parte in twayne: Though at the fyrste I wolde not condescende, It was for fere ye dyde some yll entende.

Amoure.

With thought of yll my mynde was never myxte, To you, madame, but alway clene and pure, Bothe daye and nyght upon you hole perfyxte. But I my mynde yet durst nothynge discure, How for your sake I dyd suche wo endure, Tyll now this houre with dredfull hert so faynt To you, swete herte, I have made my complaynt.

Pucell.

I demed ofte you loved me before, By your demenour I dyde it aspye, And in my mynde I juged evermore That at the laste ye wolde full secretly Tell me your mynde of love right gentilly; As ye have done, so my mercy to crave, In all worshyppe you shal my true love have.

Amoure.

O Lorde God than! how joyfull was I! She loked on me wyth lovely countenaunce; I kyst her ones or twise right swetely; Her depured vysage, replete with pleasaunce, Rejoyced my heart with amerous purveaunce. O lady clere! that perste me at the rote, O floure of comforte, all my hele and bote!

O gemme of vertue, and lady excellent! Above all other in beauteous goodlynesse! O eyen bright as sterre refulgent, O profounde cause of all my sekenesse, Now all my joye and all my gladnes, Wolde God that we were joyned in one, In maryage, before this day were gone.

Pucell.

A, a! sayd she, ye must take a payne a whyle; I must depart, by the compulcyon Of my frendes, I wyl not you begyle, Though they me led to a ferre nacion, My heart shall be without variacion Wyth you present, in perfite sykernes, As true and stable without doublenes.

To me to come is harde and daungerous, When I am there; for gyauntes ugly, Wyth two monstres also, blacke and tedyous, That by the waye awayte full cruelly For to distroye you yll and utterly, Whan you that way do take the passage, To attayne my love by hye advauntage.

Amoure.

All that, madame, was to me certyfyde By good dame Fame, at the begynnynge, Whan she to me of you well notyfide, As she came frome the toure of Lernynge, Of all such enemyes the myght excludynge. I promyse unto you here, full faythfully, Whan I departe frome dame Astronomy,

That I wyll to the toure of Chyvalry, And for your sake become adventurous To subdue all enemyes to me contrary; That I may after be ryght joyous Wyth you, my lady, most swete and precyous. Wo worth the cause of your departynge, Which all my sorowes is in renuynge!

Alas! what pleasure, and eke wythout disporte, Shall I now have, whan that ye be gone? Ha, ha! truly now wythout good conforte, My dolorous herte shall be left alone, Wythout your presence to me is none; For every houre I shall thynke a yere, Tyll fortune brynge me unto you more nere.

Yet after you I wyll not be ryght longe, But hast me after as faste as I maye; In the toure of Chyvalry I shall make me stronge, And after that passe shortly on my way, Wyth diligent laboure on my journay. Spyte of your enemyes, I shal me so spede, That in short tyme ye may rewarde my mede.

I thanke you, quod she, with my hert entere; But yet with me ye shall make covenaunt, As I to you am ryght lefe and dere, Unto no persone ye shall so advaunte That I to love you am so attendaunte, For any thynge your councell not bewraye, For that full soone might us bothe betraye.

And to tell me I pray you hertely; Yonder is Counseyle, how were ye acquaynted? He is bothe honest and true certaynly: Doth he not knowe how your hert is faynted, Wyth fervent love so surely attaynted? Yf ye so do, yet I nothyng repent, He is so secrete and true of entent.

Truely, madame, because ye are content I shall you tell how the matter was; Whan that your beaute, clerely splendent, Into my herte full wonderly dyd passe, Lyke as fayre Phebus dothe shyne in the glas, All alone, wyth inwarde care so rent, Into a temple forth on my way I went.

Where that I walked, plunged in the pytte Of great dispayre; and he than me mette. Alas! he sayde, me thinke ye lose your wytte; Tell me the trouth now, wythout any lete, Why ye demeane suche mortall sorow great. A voyde! quod I, you shall nothing it knowe, You can not helpe in the case I trow.

But he suche reason and fruytfull sentence Dyd for him laye, that I tolde hym all. Whan he it knewe with all my diligence, He dyd me conforte than in specyall: Unto my minde he bad me to call, Who spareth to speke he to spede doth spare; Go tell your lady the cause of your care.

By whose counseyle grounded in wysdome, To the entent I should spede the better, And ryght shortly I dyd than to you come, But drede alway made my sorowe greatter; After great payne the joyes is the sweter. For who that tasteth paynfull bytternes, The joye to him is double swetenes.

And, therwythall, I did unto her brynge Councell my frende, and full right meke Dyd him receive as he was comynge; And of all thynges she did hym beseke, After her departinge, the same weke, To hast me forwarde to my journeyes ende. Therto, quod I, I do well condyscende.

Fare well, quod she, I may no longer tary; My frendes wyll come; of that were I lothe: I shall retayne you in my memory, And they it knewe they wolde with me be wrothe. To love you best I promise you my trouthe! And than mine eyen great sorowe shewed, Wyth teres salte my chekes were endewed.

Her eyes graye began to loke right reed, Her gaye whyte coloure began for to pale, Upon her chekes so the droppes were sprede Whiche from her eyen began to advale; Frome her swete herte she dyd the syghes hale; Never before, as I trowe and wene, Was suche departyng true lovers betwene.

We wyped our chekes our sorowe to cloke, Outwardly faynyng us to be glad and mery, That the people should not perceyve the smoke Of our hote fyre to lyght the emyspery: Thoughe inwardly wyth a stormy pery The fyre was blowen, yet we dyd it cover, Bycause abrode it should nothyng perceyver.

Out of the garden to an haven syde Forth he went, where as a shyppe ryght large That taryed there after the floynge tyde, And so than dyd there many a bote and barge. The shyp was great, fyve c. tonne to charge. La Bell Pucell ryght anone me tolde: In yondre shyp, whyche that ye beholde,

Forthe must I sayle wythout longer delaye; It is full see; my frendes wyll come soone; Therfore I pray you to go hence your waye, It draweth fast now towarde the none. Madame, quod I, your pleasure shal be done. Wyth wofull herte and great syghes, ofte I kyssed her lyppes, that were swete and softe.

She unto me nor I unto her colde speke, And as of that it was no great wondre, Our hertes swelled as that they should breke; The fyre of love was so sore kept under. Whan I from her should depart asundre, Wyth her fayre head she dyd lowe enclyne, And in lykewyse so dyd I wyth myne.

CAP. XX. OF THE GREAT SOROWE THAT GRAUNDE AMOUR MADE AFTER THE DEPARTYNGE AND OF THE WORDES OF COUNCEYLE.

Her frendes and she on theyr waye they sayled Alonge the haven, God them save, and bryng Unto the londe! I herd whan that they hayled, Wyth a great peale of gunnes, at theyr departyng, The marvaylous toure of famous cunnynge; No gunne was shotte, but my herte dyd wepe For her departynge wyth wofull teres depe.

Councell me comforted as ever he myght, Wyth many storyes of olde antyquyte. Remembre, he saide, that never yet was wyght That lyved alway in great tranquylyte, But that him happed some adversyte; Than after that, whan the payne was paste, The double joye dyd comfort them at laste.

Ye nede nothynge for to make great dolour, Fortune to you hath bene ryght favourable, Makyng you to attayne the good favour Of your lady so swete and amyable. No doubte it is she is true and stable; And demeane you so that in no wyse No man perceyve of your love surmyse.

Be hardy, fyers, and also coragyous, In all your batayles without feblenes, For ye shall be ryght well vyctoryous Of all your enemyes so full of subtylnes. Arme you wyth wysdome for more surenes, Let wysdome werke, for she can stedfastly In tyme of nede resyste the contrary.

Was never man yet surely at the bayte Wyth Sapyence, but that he dyd repent; Who that is ruled by her higher estate, Of hys after wytte shall never be shent; She is to man ryght benyvolent; Wyth walles sure she doth hym fortyfye, Whan it is nede to resyste a contrary.

Was never place where as she did guyde Wyth enemyes brought to destruccyon; A remedy she can so well provyde; To her hygh werke is no comparison, It hath so stronge and sure foundacyon: Nothyng there is that can it molyfy, So sure it is agaynst a contrary.

Of her alwayes it is the parfyte guyse To begynne nothyng of mutabylyte, As is the warre which may sone aryse And wyl not downe, it may so stourdy be, The begynner oft hath the iniquite. Whan he began, wysdome did reply, In his grete nede to resyst the contrary.

The myghty Pryant, somtyme kynge of Troye, Wyth all his cyte so well fortyfyed, Lytle regarded all his welth or joye, Wythout wysdome truely exemplyfied, His propre death him selfe he nutrifyed; Agaynst his warre wysdome did reply, At his grete nede to resyst the contrary.

And where that wysdome ruleth hardynes, Hardynes than is ever invincyble, There may nothinge it vanquishe or oppres; For prudence is so well intellygyble, To her there is nothing impossible; Her grounded werke is made so perfytely, That it must nedes resyst the contrary.

To wofull creatures she is goodly leche, Wyth her good syster called Pacyence, To the toure of joye she doth them tell weche, In the way of hope wythout resystence; Who to her lyst to applye hys dylygence, She wyll hym brynge to worshyppe shortly That he shall well resyst the contrary.

Ryght so let wysdome your sorowe surrendre, And hye you fast unto dame Geometry, And let no thought in your herte engendre, But after thys speke to Astronomye; And so frome thence to the toure of Chyvalry, Wher of the worthy kynge Melyzyus You shall be made soone knyght adventurous.

And fare you well, for I must frome you go, To other lovers whyche are in dyspayre, As I dyd you, to confort them also: It is great nede that I to them repayre, Habundant teres theyr hertes do refleyre. Farewell! quod I, my good frende so true, I wolde wyth me ye might alwaye ensue!

Then agayne I went to the toure melodyous Of good dame Musyke, my leve for to take; And pryvely wyth these wordes dolorous I sayd: O toure! thou mayst well aslake Suche melody now in the more to make The gemme is gone of all famous porte, That was chefe cause of the great comforte.

Whylome thou was the fayre toure of lyght, But now thou arte replete with darkenes; She is now gone that shone in the so bryght; Thou was some time the toure of gladnes, Now mayst thou be the toure of hevynes, For the chefe is gone of all thy melody, Whose beauty clere made moost swete armony.

The fayre carbuncle, so ful of clerenes, That in thee truely dyd moost purely shyne, The perle of pyte replete with swetenes, The gentyll gyllofer, the goodly columbyne, The redolente plant of the dulcet vyne, The dede aromatyke may no more ensence, For she is so ferre out of thy presence.

A, a! truly in the tyme so past, Myne erande was the often for to se; Now for to entre I may be agast, When thou art hens, the sterre of beaute, For all my delyte was to beholde the! A! toure, toure! all my joye is gone, In the to entre comfort is there none!

So then inwardly my selfe bewaylynge, In the toure I went, into the habytacle Of dame Musyke, where she was syngynge The ballades swete in her fayre tabernacle. Alas! thought I, this is no spectacle To fede myn eyne, whiche ar now all blynde; She is not here that I was wonte to fynde.

Than of dame Musyke, with all lowlines I dyde take my leve, withouten itarenge. She thanked me with all here mekenes; And all alone fourth I went musynge. A, a! quod I, my love and lykinge Is nowe ferre hence, on whome my hole delyght Dayly was sette, upon her to have sight.

Fare well, swete herte! farwell, farewell, farewell! Adieu, adieu! I wold I were you by! God gyve me grace with you sone to dwell, Lyke as I dyd for to se you dayly. Your lowly chere and gentyll company Rejoysed my herte with fode most delycate, Myne eyen to se you were insaciate.

Now, good swete herte! my lady and maystresse, I recommende me unto your pyte; Besechyng you wyth all my gentylnes, Yet other whyle to thynke upon me; What payne I suffer by great extremyte, And to pardon me of my rude wrytyng, For with woful herte was myne endytynge!

CAP. XXI. HOWE GRAUNDE AMOURE WENT TO GEOMETRY, AND WHAT GEOMETRY IS.

So forth I went, upon a craggy roche, Upon the toure moost wonderfully wrought Of Geometry; and as I did approche The altitude all in my mynd I sought. Sixe hundreth fote, as by my nomber thought; Quadrant it was, and did here and sette At every storme whan the wind was great.

Thus at the last I came into an hall, Hanged with arres riche and precious, And every window glased with cristall, Lyke a place of plesure much solacious. With knottes sixeangled, gay and glorious, The rofe did hange, right high and pleasauntly, By Geometry made right well and craftely.