Part 8

* * * * And betwene them bothe they did get a sonne, Whiche was my father, that in Kente did wonne. His name was Davy Dronken-nole, He never dranke but in a fayre blacke boule. He toke a wyfe that was very fayre, And gate me on her for to be his ayre. Her name was Alyson, she loved nought elles But ever more to rynge her blacke belles. Now are they deade all, so mote I well thryve, Excepte my selfe Godfray Gobelive, Whiche rode about a wyfe me to seke, But I can finde none that is good and meke; For all are shrewes in the world aboute, I coude never mete with none other route; For some develles wyll their husbandes bete, And tho that can not, they wyll never let Their tongues cease, but gyve thre wordes for one, Fy on them all! I wyll of them have none: Who loveth any for to make hym sadde, I wene that he become worse than madde. They are not stedfast nothyng in their mynde, But alway tornyng lyke a blaste of wynde. For let a man love them never so wele, They will hym love agayne never a dele. For though a man all his lyfe certayne Unto her sue to have release of payne, And at the last she on hym do rewe, If by fortune there come another newe, The first shall be clene out of her favoure. Recorde of Creseyd and of Troylus the doloure. They are so subtyll and so false of kynde, There can no man wade beyonde their mynde. Was not Aristotle for all his clergy, For a woman rapt in love so marveylously, That all his connyng he had sone forgotten. This unhap love had his mynde so broken, That evermore the salte teres downe hayled Whan the chaunce of love he hymselfe bewayled. Aferde he was of the true love to breke, For sayng nay whan he therof should speke; Tyll of constraynt of wofull hevynes, For to have remedy of his sore sekenes, Whan he her spyed ryght secrete alone, Unto her he wente and made all his mone. Alas! he sayd, the cause of my wo, Myne only lady and maystres also, Whose goodly beaute hath my harte enrached, With fervent love and fyry lemes entached, Wherfore take pyte of the paynfull sorowe Of me your servaunt both even and morowe. She stode ryght styll, and hearde what he sayde: Alas! quod she, be ye no more dismayed, For I am content to fulfill your will In every maner, be it good or ill, Of this condicion; that ye shall release Me first of my wo and great distresse; For I my selfe have thought many a daye To you to speake, but for feare of a nay I durst never of the matter meve Unto your person, lest it should you greve. Nay, nay, quod he, with all my whole entente, I shall obeye to your commaundement. Well then, quod she, I shall you nowe tell Howe the case standeth, truely, every dele: For you knowe well that some women do long After nyce thynges, be it ryght or wrong. Ryght so must I upon your backe nowe ryde, In your mouthe also a brydle you to guyde. And so a brydle she put in his mouthe, Upon his backe she rode both north and south, About a chamber as some clarkes wene, Of many persones it was openly sene! Lo! what is love, that can so sore blynde A philosopher to bryng hym out of kynde? For love doth passe any maner of thyng, It is harde and privy in workyng. So on the grounde Aristotle crept, And in his teeth she long the brydle kept, Till she therof had inough her fyll; And yet for this he never had his wyll. She dyd nothing but for to mocke and scorne This true lover whiche was for love forlorne: But when he knewe the poynt of the case, The fyry angre dyde hys herte enbrace, That he him selfe dyd anone well knowe, His angre dyd his love so overthrowe, And ryght anone, as some poets wryte, He the gret mockage dyd her well acquyte. Dyd not a woman the famouse Vyrgyle By her greate fraude full craftely begyle? For on a day, for hys owne dysporte, To the court of Rome he gan to resorte, Amonge the ladyes the tyme for to passe; Tyl at the last, lyke Phebus in the glasse, So dyd a lady wyth her beaute clere Shyne throughe his hert wyth suche love so dere, That of great force he must nedes obey, She of his mynde bare bothe the locke and the kay: So was his hart set upon a fyre Wyth fervent love to attayne hys desyre. She had him caught in suche a wyly snare, Great was his payne and muche more his care, To fynde a tyme whan it should be meved To her of love and he nothynge repreved. Thus every day, by ymagynacyon, In his mynde was suche perturbacyon, And at the last he had found a tyme Hym thought to speke, and unto hym no cryme. Mercy! lady, nowe, in all humble wyse, To her he sayd: for yf ye me dyspyse So hath your beaute my true hart aryed, It is no mervayle thoughe I be afrayde To you to speake it, that you deny My purpose truely I am marde utterly. So do I love now wyth all my heart entere, Wyth inwarde care I by your beauty dere, I must abyde wyth all my hole entente Of lyfe or death your onely judgement. Wyth fayned eares of perfyte audyence She did him here, gyvyng this sentence: Vyrgyl, she sayd, I wolde fayne you ease Of your trouble, and of your great disease; But I wote not howe that it should be, Without tournynge us to great dyshoneste; If it be knowen, than bothe you and I Shall be reheited at full shamefully. But what for that? I have me bethought A praty craft by me shalbe wrought. Ye knowe my chambre joyneth to a wall, Beynge right hyghe and a wyndowe wythall. Soone at nyght, when all folke be at reast. I shall take a basket as me thynketh beast, And therto I shall a longe corde well tye, And from the wyndowe let it downe pryvely. Right so, whan it is downe on the grounde, Ye may well entre in it, both hole and sound, And my two maydens the whiche secrete be Shall anone helpe to hale you up with me. Lo! in this wyse you may have ryght well Your owne desyre in short space every deel. At xi. of the clocke, in the nyght so darke, They did appoynt for to fulfyll this worke. He often thanked her gentlines, And so departed with great gladnes; And so he went unto his study, Passyng the tyme himselfe full merely, Tyll that the clocke did strike aleven, Then to the wall he went full even, And founde the basket at the grounde already, And entred into it full sodaynly, Waggyng the rope, which the lady espied, Whiche to the wyndowe ryght anone her hyed. With her two maydens she did him up wynde, Amiddes the wall, and left hym there behynde, That was fyve fadom and more from the grounde. When him selfe in suche a case he founde, Alas! he sayde, myne owne lady, save Myne honestye, and what ye list to have, Ye shall have it at your owne desire. Nowe wynde me up, my hart is on fyre. Thou shalt, quod she, in that place abyde, That all the cytie so ryght long and wyde May the beholde and the matter knowe, For myne honestie, and thy shame, I trowe. So there he hong tyll noone of the daye, That every persone whiche went by the waye Myght hym well se and also beholde, And unto them the very cause she tolde. Lo, howe with shame she her love rewarded. His payne and sorowe she nothyng regarded; Thus at the last he adowne was brought, Replete with shame, it vayleth hym ryght nought. Thus with great anger he his love confounded, Healyng the stroke whiche that she hath wounded. And by his craft he in Rome did drenche Every fyre for he left none to quenche, And towarde Rome a great circuite aboute, There was no fyre that was un-put-out. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thus all the cytie upon her did wonder, For perfite sorowe her harte was nere asunder; And thus Vyrgyle, with crafty subtilnes, Rewarded her falshode and doublenes. All this I tell though that I be a fole, To the, yong knight, for thou maist go to schole, In tyme commyng of true love to learne. Beware of that for thou canst not decerne Thy ladies mynde: though that she speake the fayre, Her harte is false, she wyll no truthe repayre. Nay, quod I, they are not all disposed So for to do as ye have here disclosed. Aha! quod he, I trowe well ye be A true lover: so mote I thrive and the, Let not thy lady of thy harte be rother; When thou art gone, she wyll sone have another. Thus forth we rode tyll we sawe afarre A royall tower as bryght as any starre, To whiche we rode as fast as we myght. When we came there, adowne my stede I lyght, So dyd this Godfrey Gobilive also; Into the temple after me gan go. There sate dame Venus and Cupide her sonne, Whiche had their parliament ryght newly begone. To redresse lovers of their payne and wo, Whiche in the temple did walke to and fro. And every one his byll did present Before Venus in her hyghe parliament. The temple of her royall consistory Was walled all about with yvory, All of golde, like a place solacious, The roufe was made of knottes curious. I can nothing extende the goodlines Of her temple, so much of ryches. This Godfrey Gobilyve went lightly Unto dame Sapience, the secretary, That did him make this supplication To the goddesse Venus with brevacion: Redresse my payne of mortall heavines; I did once woe an olde mayden ryche A foule thefe, an olde wydred wiche. Fayre mayde, I sayd, will ye me have? Nay sir, so God me kepe and save! For you are evill favoured and also ugly, I am the worse to se your visnamy; Yet was she fouler many an hundred folde Then I my selfe, as ye may well beholde. And therewithall he caused to depaynte His face and hers, all under his complaynte. And to Venus he made deliveraunce Of his complaint by a short circumstaunce; Whiche ryght anone, when she had it sene, Began to laughe with all the courte I wene. Lo here the fygures of them both certayne, Judge whiche is best favoured of them twayne. Thus Godfrey Gobilyve did make such a sporte, That many lovers to hym did resorte; When I sawe tyme I went to Sapience, Shewyng to her with all my diligence Howe that my hart by Venus was trapt, With a snare of love so prively bewrapt; And in her tower to have a dwellyng place, I seke adventures to attayne her grace. Her name, quod I, La Bell Pucell is, Both east and west she is well knowen ywys: And my name, La Graunde Amoure is called, Whose harte with payne she all about hath walled With her beautie, whiche dame Nature create, Above all other in most hygh estate. Well, sayde Sapience, I thinke in my mynde Her love and favoure you shall attayne by kynde; And I wyll drawe to you incontinent. All your complaynt, as is convenient Unto dame Venus, to se directly For your payne and sorowe sone a remedy. She drewe my pyteous lamentacion, Accordyng to this supplication:

CAP. XXX. THE SUPPLICATION.

O, Venus! lady, and excellent goddesse, O celestiall starre! havyng the soverayntie Above all other starres as lady and princes, As is according unto your deitie; Pleaseth it nowe your great benignitie Unto my complaynt for to geve audience, Whiche burne in love with pearcyng vyolence.

For so it happened that the lady Fame Did with me mete, and gan to expresse Of a fayre lady whiche had unto name La Bell Pucel, come of hye noblesse; Whose beautie cleare and comely goodlines From day to day doth ryght well reuenue, With grace brydled and with great vertue.

She tolde me of her fayre habitation, And of the wayes therto full daungerous; Her swete report gave me exhortation Unto my herte for to be courigious, To passe the passage harde and troublous; And to bring me out of great encumbraunce, She me delyvered both Grace and Governaunce.

So forth we went to the toure of Science, For to attayne in every artike poole. And first Doctryne by good experience Unto dame Grammer did sette me to scoole, Of mysty ignoraunce to oppres the dole; And so I ascended unto dame Logyke, And after her unto lusty Rethorike.

Tyll at the last, at a feast solemply To a temple I went, dame Musike to heare Play on her organs with swete armony; But than on lofte I saw to me appeare The floure of comforte, the sterre of vertue clere, Whose beaute bright into my herte did passe, Lyke as fayre Phebus doth shyne in the glasse.

So was my herte by the stroke of love With sorow prest, and with mortall payne; That unneth I myght from the place remove, Where as I stode I was so take certayne, Yet up I loked to se her agayne, And at aventure with a sory moode, Up than I went where as her person stode.

And first of all my herte gan to lerne Right well to register in remembraunce, How that her beautie I might than decerne, From top to to endued with pleasaunce, Which I shall shew withouten variaunce; Her shining here so properly she dresses Alofe her forehed with fayre golden tresses.

Her forehead stepe, with fayre browes ybent, Her eyen gray, her nose streyght and fayre, In her whyte chekes the fayre bloud it went As among the whyte the rede to repayre: Her mouth right small, her breth swete of ayre, Her lyppes softe and ruddy as a rose, No hert on lyve but it wold him appose.

Wyth a lyttle pytte in her well-favored chynne; Her necke longe as whyte as ony lylly, With vaynes blew in which the blode ran inne; Her paypes round and therto right prety; Her armes sclender and of goodly body; Her fingers small and therto right longe, White as the milke, with blew vaynes among.

Her fete proper, she gartered well her hose, I never saw so swete a creature; Nothing she lacketh as I do suppose, That is longing to fayre dame Nature; Yet more over her countenaunce so pure, So swete, so lovely, wold my hert inspyre, Wyth fervent love to attayne his desyre.

But what for her maners passeth all, She is both gentyll, good, and vertuous; Alas! what fortune did me to her call Without that she be to me piteous? With her so fettered in paynes dolorous, Alas! shall pite be from her exyled, Which all vertues hath so undefiled?

Thus in my mynde whan I had engraved Her goodly countenaunce and fayre figure, It was no wonder that I was amased, My herte and minde she had so tane in cure. Nothing of love I durst to her discure; Yet for bicause I was in her presence, I toke acquaintaunce of her excellence.

My herte was drenched in great sorow depe, Though outwardly my countenaunce was lyght; The inward wo into my hert did crepe, To hide my payne it was great force and myght. Thus her swete beaute with a soden sight My hert hath wounded, which much nedes obey Unto such a sorow, alas, welawaye!

For she is gone, and departed right ferre, In her countre where she doth abyde; She is now gone, the fayre shining sterre! O lady Venus! I pray the provide That I may after at the morow tide, And by the way, with hert rigorious, To subdue mine enemies contrarious.

And yet thy grace moost humbly I pray, To send thy sonne lytle Cupide before, With loving letters as fast as thou may, That she may know somwhat of my paynes sore, Which for her sake I suffer evermore. Now, lady Venus, with my hole intent Of lyfe or death I byde the judgement.

Well than, sayd Venus, I have perseveraunce That you know somwhat of mighty power Which to my court sue for my quayntaunce, To have release of your great paynes sower. Abyde a whyle, ye must tary the hower; The time renneth toward right fast: Joy cometh after whan the sorow is past.

Alas! I sayd, who is fettered in chaynes He thinketh long after delyveracion Of his great wo and eke mortall paynes; For who abideth paynfull penaunce Thinketh a short whyle a longe contynuaunce; Who may not speke with her he loveth best, It is no wonder though he take no rest.

Abyde, quod she; you must a whyle yet tary, Though to have comfort ye right long do thinke: I shall provide for you a lectuary, Which after sorow into your herte shall sinke. Though you be brought now unto dethes drynke, Yet drede exile and lyve in hope and trust, For at the last you shall attayne your lust.

And specially I gyve to you a charge To fyxe your love, for to be true and stable Upon your lady, and not to fle at large As in sundry wise for to be variable, In corrupt thoughtes vyle and culpable; Prepence nothing unto her dishonesty, For love dishonest hath no certaynte.

And sithen that I was cause you be gone Fyrst for to love, I shall a letter make Unto your lady, and send it by my sonne, Lytle Cupyde, that shall it to her take, That she your sorow may detray or slake. Her harded herte it shall well revolve, Wyth pyteous wordes that shall it dissolve.

And right anon, as the mater foloweth, She caused Sapyence a letter to wryte; Lo! what her favour unto me avayleth Whan for my selfe she did so well indite, As I shall shew in a short respyte The gentyll fourme and tenour of her letter, To spede my cause for to attayne the better.

CAP. XXXI. THE COPY OF THE LETTER THAT VENUS SENT TO LA BELL PUCELL.

Right gentyll herte of grene flouring age, The sterre of beute and of famous porte, Consyder well that your lusty courage Age of his cours must at the last transporte: Now trouth of his right dooth our selfe exhorte That you your youth in ydelnes wyll spende, Wythouten pleasure to bryng it to an ende.

What was the cause of your creacion, But man to love, the world to multeply? As to sow the sede of generacion, Wyth fervent love so well conveniently, The cause of love engendreth perfytely, Upon an entent of dame Nature, Which you have made so fayre a creature.

Than of dame Nature what is the entent But to accomplyshe her fayre sede to sow? In such a place as is convenient, To Gods pleasure, for to increase and grow. The kinde of her ye may not overthrow: Say what ye lyst, ye can nothing deny, But otherwhyle ye thinke full prively

What the man is, and what he can do Of chambre werke, as nature can agre, Though by experience ye know nothing therto, Yet oft ye muse, and thinke what it may be. Nature provoketh of her strong degre, You so to as hath bene her olde guyse; Why wyll you than the true love dispyse?

In our court there is a byll presented By Graund Amour, whose hert in dures You fast have fettered, not to be absented Frome your person with mortall hevynes: His hert and service, with all gentylnes, He to you oweth, as to be obedient For to fulfyll your swete commaundement.

What you avayleth your beaute so fayre, Your lusty youth and your gentill countenaunce, Without that you in your minde will repayre It for to spend in joye and plesaunce? To folow the trace of dame Natures daunce; And thus in doing you shall your servaunt hele, Of his disease and hurte you never a dele.

One must you love, it can not be denied, For harde it is to voyde you of the chaunce Than to love him best that you have so arayed Wyth fyry chaynes fettered in penaunce; For he is redy without doubtaunce In every thing for to fulfyll your wyll, And as ye lyst ye may him save or spyll.

Alas! what payne and mortall wo Were it to you and you were in lyke cace, Wyth him dismayde which you have rayed so; Wold you not than thinke it a longe space In his swete herte to have a dwellyng place? Than in your minde you may revolve that he Moost longe do thinke that joyfull day to se.

Is not he yonge, both wyse and lusty, And eke descended of the gentyll lyne? What wyll you have more of him truely, Than you to serve as true love wyll inclyne? But, as I thinke, you do now determine To fyxe your minde for worldly treasure, Though in your youth ye lese your pleasure.

Alas! remember first your beaute, Your youth, your courage, and your tender herte; What payne hereafter it may to you be Whan you lacke that which is true lovers deserte; I tell you this your selfe to converte, For lytle know ye of this payne ywys, To lyve with him in whome no pleasure is.

Where that is love, there can be no lacke; Fye on that love for the land or substaunce, For it must nedes right soone abacke Whan that youth hath no joye nor pleasaunce In the party with natures suffisaunce; Than wyll you, for the sinne of averiche, Unto your youth do such a prejudice?

Thus, sithen Nature hath you well indued With so much beaute; and dame Grace also Your vertuous maner hath so well renued; Exyle Disdayne and let her from you go, And also Straungenes, and to love the fo; And let no covetous your true herte subdue, But that in joye you may your youth ensue.

For of I love the goddes dame Venus, Right well to know that in the world is none That unto you shall be more joyous Than Graund Amour, that loveth you alone; Sith he so did, it is many dayes agone. Who ever saw a fayre yong hart so harde, Which for her sake wolde se her true love mard?

And so shall he, without ye take good hede, If it so be ye be cause of the same, For love with deth wyll ye reward his mede? And if ye do ye be to muche to blame. To love unloved ye know it is no game: Wherfore, me thinke, ye can do no lesse But with your love his paynes to redres.

If ye do not, this may be his songe; Wo worth the time that ever he you met; Wo worth your hert so doing him wrong; Wo worth the houre that his true herte was set; Wo worth dysdayne that wold his purpose let; Wo worth the flour that can do no bote; Wo worth you that perst him at the route.

Wo worth my love, the cause of my sorow; Wo worth my lady that wyll not it releace; Wo worth fortune both even and morow; Wo worth trouble that shall have no peace; Wo worth cruelte that may never cease; Wo worth youth that wyll not pitie have; Wo worth her that wyll not her love save;

Wo worth the trust without assuraunce; Wo worth love rewarded with hate; Wo worth love replete with variaunce; Wo worth love without a frendly mate; Wo worth the herte with love at debate; Wo worth the beaute which toke me in snare; Wo worth the hert that wyll not cease my care;

Wo worth her maners and her goodlynes; Wo worth her eyes so clere and amyable; Wo worth such cause of my great sicknes; Wo worth pite on her not tendable; Wo worth her minde in disdayne so stable; Wo worth her that hath me fettered fast; And wo worth love that I do spend in wast.

Wherefore of right I pray you to remembre All that I wryte unto you right now: How your true love is of age but tendre, His umble service we pray you alow: And he him selfe evermore emprowe, You for to please and give the soveraynte, How can you have a more true love than he?

And fare ye well: there is no more to say; Under our signet, in our court ryall, Of September the two and twenty day. She closed the letter, and to her did call Cupyde her sonne, so dere and speciall, Commaunding him, as fast as he myght, To La Belle Pucell for to take his flyght.

So did Cupyde with the letter flye Unto La Belle Pucelles dominacion, There that he spedde full well and wonderly, As I shall after make relacion. But to my matter with brevyacion: A turtle I offred for to magnefy Dame Venus hye estate to glorify.

She me exhorted for to be right hardy, Forth on travayle, and to drede nothing; I toke my leve of her full humbly, And on my way as I was riding This Godfrey Gobelyve came rennyng, Wyth his little nagge, and cryed: tary! tary! For I wyll come and bere you company.

CAP. XXXII. HOW GODFREY GOBELIVE WAS TAKEN OF CORRECTION, AND PUNYSHED.