Works of King James I of Scotland

The Kingis Quair and Other Poems

James I of Scotland (1394–1437) was held captive in England for eighteen years before returning to rule his kingdom. During his imprisonment he composed The Kingis Quair ("The King's Book"), a dream-vision poem in the tradition of Chaucer and Boethius, inspired by his love for Lady Joan Beaufort, whom he later married. It is one of the finest examples of Middle Scots poetry and a landmark in Scottish literary history.

The texts here are drawn from public domain editions of the king's poetical works. The Kingis Quair survives in a single manuscript (Bodleian Library, MS Arch. Selden B.24).

The Kingis Quair

Hereafter follows the quair made by King James of Scotland the First, called The Kingis Quair, made when His Majesty was in England.

Heigh in the hevynnis figure circulere

The rody sterres twynklyng as the fyre,

And, in Aquary, Citherea the clere

Rynsid hir tressis like the goldin wyre, That late tofore, in fair and fresche atyre, Through Capricorn heved hir hornis bright, North northward approchit the myd-nyght;

Quhen as I lay in bed allone waking,

New partit out of slepe a lyte tofore,

Fell me to mynd of many diuerse thing,

Off this and that; can I noght say quharfore, Bot slepe for craft in erth myght I no more; For quhich as tho coude I no better wyle, Bot toke a boke to rede apon a quhile:

3
Off quhich the name is clepit properly
Boece, eftere him that was the compiloure, Schewing the counsele of philosophye,

Compilit by that noble senatoure
Off Rome, quhilom that was the warldis floure, And from estate by fortune a quhile

Foriugit was to pouert in exile:

And there to here this worthy lord and clerk, His metir suete, full of moralitee; His flourit pen so fair he set a-werk,

Discryving first of his prosperitee,

And out of that his infelicitee;

And than how he, in his poetly report,

In philosophy can him to confort.

5
For quhich thoght I in purpose, at my hoke, To borowe a slepe at thilke tyme began; Or euer I stent, my best was more to loke Vpon the writing of this noble man, That in him-self the full recouer wan
Off his Infortune, pouert, and distresse, And in tham set his verray sekernesse.

6
And so the vertew of his youth before
Was in his age the ground of his delytis; Fortune the bak him turnyt, and therfore

He makith Ioye and confort, that he quit is Off theire vnsekir warldis appetitis; And so aworth he takith his penance,
And of his vertew maid It suffisance:

7
With mony a noble resoun, as him likit,
Enditing in his faire latyne tong,
So full of fruyte, and rethorikly pykit, Quhich to declare my scole is ouer 3ong; Therefore I lat him pas, and, in my tong, Proceed I will agayn to my sentence

Off my mater, and leue all Incidence.

8
The longe nyght beholding, as I saide,
Myn eyen gan to smert for studying;
My buke I schet, and at my hede it laide; And doune I lay bot ony tarying,

This matere newe in my mynd rolling;
This is to seyne, how that eche estate,
As fortune lykith, thame will oft translate.

9
For sothe it is, that, on hir tolter quhele, Euery wight cleverith in his stage, And failyng fating oft, quhen hir lest rele, Sum vp, sum doune, is non estate nor age

Ensured, more the prynce than the page:
So vncouthly hir werdes sche deuidith,
Namly in youth, that seildin ought prouidith.

10
Among thir thoughtis rolling to and fro, Fell me to mynd of my fortune and ure; In tender youth how sche was first my fo, And eft my frende, and how I gat recure

Off my distresse, and all myn auenture
I gan oure-hayle, that langer slepe ne rest Ne myght I nat, so were my witits wrest.

11
For-wakit and for-walowit, thus musing,
Wery, forlyin, I lestnyt sodaynlye,
And sane I herd the bell to matynis ryng, And vp I rase, no langer wald I lye:

Bot now, how trowe ye? suich a fantasye
Fell me to mynd, that ay me thoght the bell Said to me, "tell on, man, quhat the befell."

Thoght I tho to my-self, "quhat may this be?

This is myn awin ymagynacioun;

It is no lyf that spekis vnto me;

It is a bell, or that impressioun

Off my thoght causith this Illusioun,

That doath me think so nycely in this wise;"

And so befell as I schall you deuise.

Determyt furth therewith in myn entent,

Sen I thus haue ymagynit of this soun,

And in my tyme more Ink and paper spent

To lyte effect, I tuke conclusioun

Sum neue thing to write; I set me down,

And furth-withall my pen in hand I tuke, And maid a +, and thus begouth my buke.

Thou sely youth, of nature Indegest,

Vnrypit fruyte with windis variable;

Like to the bird that fed is on the nest, And can noght flee; of wit wayke and vnstable, To fortune both and to Infortune hable;

Wist thou thy payne to cum and thy trauaille, For sorow and drede wele myght thou wepe and waille.

15
Thus stant thy confort in vnsekernesse,
And wantis it that suld the reule and gye:
Ryght as the schip that sailith stereles Vpon the rokkis most to harmes hye, For lak of it that suld bene hir supplye; So standis thou here in this warldis rage, And wantis that suld gyde all thy viage.

16
I mene this by my-self, as In partye;
Though nature gave me suffisance in youth, The rypenesse of resoun yit lakit I, To gouerne with my will; so lyte I couth, Quhen stereles to trauaile I begouth,

Amang the wawis of this warld to driue;
And how the case, anon I will descriue.

17
With doutfull hert, amang the rokkis blake, My feble bate full fast to stere and rowe,

Helples allone, the wynter nyght I wake, To wayte the wynd that furthward suld me throwe.

O empti saile! quhare is the wynd suld blowe Me to the port, quhar gynneth all my game?

Help, Calyope, and wynd, in Marye name!

The rokkis clepe I the prolixitee

Off doubilnesse that doith my witits pall:

The lak of wynd is the deficultee

In enditing of this lytill trety small:

The bate I clepe the mater hole of all:

My wit vnto the saile that now I wynd,

To seke connyng, though I bot lytill fynd.

At my begynnyng first I clepe and call

To you, Cleo, and to you, polymye,

With Thesiphone, goddis and sistris all, In nowmer nine, as bokis specifye; In this processe my wilsum witits gye;

And with your bryght lanternis wele conuoye My pen, to write my turment and my Ioye!

20
In vere, that full of vertu is and gude, Quhen nature first begynneth hir enprise, That quhilum was be cruell frost and flude And schouris scharp opprest in many wyse, And Synthius begynneth to aryse
Heigh in the est, a morow soft and suete, Vpward his course to driue in ariete:

21
Passit mydday bot foure greis evin,
Off lenth and brede his angel wingis bryght He spred vpon the ground doune fro the hevin; That, for gladnesse and confort of the sight, And with the tiklyng of his hete and light, The tender flouris opnyt thame and sprad; And, in thaire nature, thankit him for glad.

Noght fer passit the state of Innocence, Bot nere about the nowmer of yeris thre, Were it causit throu hevinly Influence

Off goddis will, or othir casualtee,

Can I noght say; bot out of my contree,

By thaire avise that had of me the cure, Be see to pas, tuke I myn auenture.

23
Puruait of all that was vs necessarye,
With wynd at will, vp airly by the morowe, Streight vnto schip, no longere wold we tarye, The way we tuke, the tyme I tald to-forowe; With many fare wele and sanct Iohne to borowe

Off falowe and frende; and thus with one assent We pullit vp saile, and furth oure wayis went.

24
Vpon the wawis weltering to and fro,
So infortunate was vs that fremyt day,
That maugre, playnly, quhethir we wold or no, With strong hand, as by forse, schortly to say,

Off Inymyis takin and led away
We weren all, and broght in thaire contree; Fortune it schupe non othir wayis to be.

Quhare as in strayte ward and in strong prisoun, So fer-forth, of my lyf the heuy lyne, Without confort, in sorowe abandoun,

The secund sistere lukit hath to twyne,

Nere by the space of yeris twise nyne;

Till Jupiter his merci list aduert,

And send confort in relesche of my smert.

26
Quhare as in ward full oft I wold bewaille My dedely lyf, full of peyne and penance,

Saing ryght thus, quhat haue I gilt to faille My fredome in this warld and my plesance?

Sen euery wight has thereof suffisance,
That I behold, and I a creature
Put from all this-hard Is myn auenture!

27
The bird, the beste, the fisch eke in the see, They lyve in fredome euerich in his kynd; And I a man, and lakkith libertee;
Quhat schall I seyne, quhat resoun may I fynd, That fortune suld do so? thus In my mynd My folk I wold argewe, bot all for noght; Was non that myght, that on my peynes rought.

Than wold I say, gif god me had deuisit

To lyve my lyf in thraldome thus and pyne, Quhat was the cause that he me more comprisit Than othir folk to lyve in suich ruyne?

I suffer allone amang the figuris nyne,

Ane wofull wrecche that to no wight may speke, And yet of euery lyvis help hath nede.

The longe dayes and the nyghtis eke

I wold bewaille my fortune in this wise, For quhich, agane distresse confort to seke, My custum was on mornis for to ryse

Airly as day; o happy excercise!

By the come I to Ioye out of turment.

Bot now to purpose of my first entent:

Bewailing in my chamber thus allone,

Despeired of all Ioye and remedye,

For-tirit of my thoght, and wo begone,

Unto the wyndow gan I walk in hye,

To se the warld and folk that went forby; As for the tyme, though I of mirthis fude

Myght haue no more, to luke it did me gude.

31
Now was there maid fast by the touris wall A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set

Ane herbere grene, with wandis long and small Railit about; and so with treis set Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet, That lyf was non walking there forby, That myght within scarse ony wight aspye.

So thik the bewis and the leues grene

Beschadit all the aleyes that there were, And myddis euery herbere myght be sene The scharp grene suete Ienepere,

Growing so faire with branchis here and there, That, as it semyt to a lyf without, The bewis spred the herbere all about; 33

And on the smalle grene twistis sat

The lytill suete nyghtingale, and song

So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat

Off lufis vse, now soft, now lowd among, That all the gardyng and the wallis rang

Ryght of thaire song, and on the copill next Off thaire suete armony, and lo the text:

Cantus

Worschippe, ye that loueris bene, this may, For of your blisse the kalendis are begonne, And sing with vs, away, winter, away!

Cum, somer, cum, the suete sesoun and sonne!

Awake for schame! that haue your hevynnis wonne, And amorously lift vp your hedis all, Thank lufe that list you to his merci call.

35
Quhen thai this song had song a lytill thrawe, Thai stent a quhile, and therewith vnaffraid, As I beheld and kest myn eyne a-lawe,
From beugh to beugh thay hippit and thai plaid, And freschly in thaire birdis kynd arraid

Thaire fetheris new, and fret thame In the sonne, And thankit lufe, that had thaire makis wonne.

36
This was the plane ditee of thaire note, And there-with-all vnto my-self I thoght,

Quhat lyf is this, that makis birdis dote?
Quhat may this be, how cummyth It of ought?
Quhat nedith It to be so dere ybought?
It is nothing, trowe I, bot feynit chere, And that men list to counterfeten chere.

37
Eft wald I think; “o lord, quhat may this be That lufe is of so noble myght and kynde,

Lufing his folk, and suich prosperitee

Is It of him, as we in bukis fynd?

May he oure hertes setten and vnbynd?

Hath he vpon oure hertis suich maistrye?

Or all this is bot feynyt fantasye!

38
For gif he be of so grete excellence,
That he of euery wight hath cure and charge, Quhat haue I gilt to him or doon offense, That I am thrall, and birdis gone at large, Sen him to serue he myght set my corage?

And gif he be noght so, than may I seyne, Quhat makis folk to Iangill of him In veyne?

39
Can I noght elles fynd, bot gif that he
Be lord, and as a god may lyue and regne, To bynd and louse, and maken thrallis free, Than wold I pray his blisfull grace benigne, To hable me vnto his seruice digne; And euermore for to be one of tho
Him trewly for to serue In wele and wo.

40
And there-with kest I doune myn eye ageyne, Quhare as I sawe, walking vnder the toure,

Full secretly new cummyn hir to pleyne,
The fairest or the freschest yong floure That euer I sawe, me thoght, before that houre, For quhich sodayn abate, anone astert
The blude of all my body to my hert.

41
And though I stude abaisit tho a lyte,
No wonder was; for-quhy my wittis all
Were so ouercom with plesance and delyte, Onely throu latting of myn eyen fall, That sudaynly my hert became hir thrall, For euer, of free wyll; for of manace

There was no takyn in hir suete face.

And In my hede I drewe ryght hastily,

And eft-sones I lent It forth ageyne,

And sawe hir walk, that verray womanly,

With no wight mo, bot onely wommen tueyne.

Than gan I studye in my-self and seyne,

"A! suete, ar ye a warldly creature,

Or hevinly thing in likenesse of nature?

Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse,

And cummyn are to louse me out of band?

Or ar ye verray nature the goddesse,

That haue depaynted with your hevinly hand This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand?

Quhat sall I think, allace! quhat reuerence Sall I minister to your excellence?

Gif ye a goddesse be, and that ye like

To do me payne, I may It noght astert;

Gif ye be warldly wight, that dooth me sike, Quhy lest god mak you so, my derrest hert, To do a sely prisoner thus smert,

That lufis you all, and wote of noght bot wo?

And therefor, merci, suete! sen It is so."

45
Quhen I a lytill thrawe had maid my moon, Bewailing myn infortune and my chance,

Vnknawin how or quhat was best to doon,
So ferre I-fallyng Into lufis dance,
That sodeynly my wit, my contenance,
My hert, my will, my nature, and my mynd, Was changit clene ryght In aii-othir kynd.

46
Off hir array the form gif I sall write, Toward hir goldin haire and rich atyre In fret-wise couchit was with perllis quhite And grete balas lemyng as the fyre, With many ane emeraut and faire saphire; And on hir hede a chaplet fresch of hewe,

Off plumys partit rede, and quhite, and blewe;

47
Full of quaking spangis bryght as gold,
Forgit of schap like to the amorettis,
So new, so fresch, so plesant to behold, The plumys eke like to the floure-Ionettis, And othir of schap like to the round crokettis, And, aboue all this, there was, wele I wote,

Beautee eneuch to mak a world to dote.

48
About hir nek, quhite as the fyre amaille, A gudely cheyne of smale orfeuerye,

Quhareby there hang a ruby, without faille, Lyke to ane herte schapin verily, That, as a sperk of lowe, so wantonly
Semyt birnyng vpon hir quhyte throte;
Now gif there was gud partye, god It wote!

49
And forto walk that fresche mayes morowe, An huke sche had vpon hir tissew quhite, That gudeliare had noght bene sene toforowe, As I suppose; and girt sche was a lyte; Thus halflyng louse for haste, to suich delyte It was to see hir youth in gudelihede, That for rudenes to speke thereof I drede.

50
In hir was youth, beautee, with humble aport, Bountee, richesse, and wommanly facture,

God better wote than my pen can report:
Wisedome, largesse, estate, and connyng sure In euery poynt so guydit hir mesure, In word, in dede, in schap, in contenance, That nature myght no more hir childe auance.

Throw quhich anon I knew and vnderstudc

Wele, that sche was a warldly creature;

On quhom to rest myn eye, so mich gude

It did my wofull hert, I you assure,

That It was to me Ioye without mesure;

And, at the last, my luke vnto the hevin I threwe furthwith, and said thir versis sevin:

"O venus clere! of goddis stellifyit!

To quhom I yelde homage and sacrifise,

Fro this day forth your grace be magnifyit, That me ressauit haue in suich a wise, To lyve vnder your law and do seruise;

Now help me furth, and for your merci lede My hert to rest, that deis nere for drede."

53
Quhen I with gude entent this orisoun
Thus endit had, I stynt a lytill stound; And eft myn eye full pitously adoune

I kest, behalding vnto hir lytill hound, That with his bellis playit on the ground; Than wold I say, and sigh there-with a lyte, "A! wele were him that now were In thy plyte!"

Another quhile the lytill nyghtingale,

That sat apon the twiggis, wold I chide, And say ryght thus; "quhare are thy notis smale, That thou of loue has song this morowe-tyde?

Seis thou noght hire that sittis the besyde?

For Venus sake, the blisfull goddesse clere, Sing on agane, and mak my lady chere.

55
And eke I pray, for all the paynes grete, That, for the loue of proigne thy sister dere,

Thou sufferit quhilom, quhen thy brestis wete Were with the teres of thyne eyen clere, All bludy ronne; that pitee was to here
The crueltee of that vnknyghtly dede,
Quhare was fro the bereft thy maidenhede,

56
Lift vp thyne hert, and sing with gude entent; And in thy notis suete the treson telle, That to thy sister trewe and Innocent
Was kythit by hir husband false and fell; For quhois gilt, as It is worthy wel,

Chide thir husbandis that are false, I say, And bid thame mend, In the twenty deuil way.

57
O lytill wrecch, allace! maist thou noght se Quho commyth yond? Is It now tyme to wring?

Quhat sory thoght is fallin vpon the?

Opyn thy throte; hastow no lest to sing?

Allace! sen thou of resoun had felyng,

Now, suete bird, say ones to me 'pepe;'

I dee for wo; me think thou gynnis slepe.

Hastow no mynde of lufe? quhare is thy make?

Or artow seke, or smyt with Ielousye?

Or Is sche dede, or hath sche the forsake?

Quhat is the cause of thy malancolye,

That thou no more list maken melodye?

Sluggart, for schame! lo here thy goldin houre, That worth were hale all thy lyvis laboure!

59
Gyf thou suld sing wele euer in thy lyve, Here is, in fay, the tyme, and eke the space:

Quhat wostow than? sum bird may cum and stryve In song with the, the maistry to purchace.

Suld thou than cesse, It were grete schame, allace!
And here, to wyn gree happily for euer,
Here is the tyme to syng, or ellis neuer."

60
I thoght eke thus, gif I my handis clap, Or gif I cast, than will sche flee away; And gif I hald my pes, than will sche nap; And gif I crye, sche wate noght quhat I say:

Thus, quhat is best, wate I noght be this day:
"Bot blawe wynd, blawe, and do the leuis schake, That sum twig may wag, and mak hir to wake."

61
With that anon ryght sche toke up a sang, Quhare come anon mo birdis and alight;

Bot than, to here the mirth was tham amang, Ouer that to, to see the suete sicht

Off hyr ymage, my spirit was so light,
Me thoght I flawe for Ioye without arest, So were my wittis boundin all to fest.

62
And to the notis of the philomene,
Quhilkis sche sang, the ditee there I maid Direct to hire that was my hertis quene,

Withoutin quhom no songis may me glade;
And to that sanct, there walking in the schade, My bedis thus, with humble hert entere,

Deuotly than I said on this manere.

63
"Quhen sall your merci rew vpon your man, Quhois seruice is yet vncouth vnto you?

Sen, quhen ye go, ther is noght ellis than:
Bot, hert! quhere as the body may noght throu, Folow thy hevin! quho suld be glad bot thou That suich a gyde to folow has vndertake?
Were It throu hell, the way thou noght forsake!"

64
And efter this, the birdis euerichone
Tuke vp an othir sang full loud and clere, And with a voce said, "wele is vs begone, That with oure makis are togider here;
We proyne and play without dout and dangere, All clothit In a soyte full fresch and newe, In lufis seruice besy, glad, and trewe.

65
And ye, fresche may, ay mercifull to bridis, Now welcum be ye, floure of monethis all; For noght onely your grace vpon vs bydis, Bot all the warld to witnes this we call, That strowit hath so playnly ouer all
With neue fresche suete and tender grene, Oure lyf, oure lust, oure gouernoure, oure quene."

66
This was thair song, as semyt me full heye, With full mony vncouth suete note and schill, And therewith-all that faire vpward hir eye Wold cast amang, as It was goddis will, Quhare I myght se, standing allane full still, The faire facture that nature, for maistrye, In hir visage wroght had full lufingly.

67
And, quhen sche walkit had a lytill thrawe Under the suete grene bewis bent,

Hir faire fresche face, as quhite as ony snawe, Scho turnyt has, and furth hir wayis went;

Bot tho began myn axis and turment,
To sene hir part, and folowe I na myght; Me thoght the day was turnyt into nyght.

68
Than said I thus, "quhare unto lyve I langer?
Wofullest wicht, and subiect vnto peyne; Of peyne? no: god wote, ya: for thay no stranger May wirken ony wight, I dare wele seyne.
How may this be, that deth and lyf, bothe tueyne, Sall bothe atonis in a creature

Togidder duell, and turment thus nature?

69
I may noght ellis done bot wepe and waile, With-In thir calde wallis thus I-lokin; From hennefurth my rest is my trauaile;
My drye thrist with teris sall I slokin, And on my-self bene al my harmys wrokin:

Thus bute is none; bot venus, of hir grace, Will schape remede, or do my spirit pace.

As Tantalus I trauaile ay but-les,

That euer ylike hailith at the well

Water to draw with buket botemles,

And may noght spede; quhois penance is an hell:

So by my-self this tale I may wele telle, For vnto hir that herith noght I pleyne; Thus like to him my trauaile Is In veyne."

71
So sore thus sighit I with my-self allone, That turnyt is my strenth In febilnesse, My wele in wo, my frendis all in fone,
My lyf in deth, my lyght into dirknesse, My hope in feer, in dout my sekirnesse;

Sen sche is gone: and god mote hir conuoye, That me may gyde to turment and to Ioye!

72
The longe day thus gan I prye and poure, Till phebus endit had his bemes bryght, And bad go farewele euery lef and floure, This is to say, approchen gan the nyght, And Esperus his lampis gan to light;
Quhen in the wyndow, still as any stone, I bade at lenth, and, kneling, maid my mone.

73
So lang till evin, for lak of myght and mynd, For-wepit and for-pleynit pitously,

Ourset so sorow had bothe hert and mynd, That to the cold stone my hede on wrye

I laid, and lent, amaisit verily,
Half sleping and half suoun, In suich a wise:
And quhat I met, I will you now deuise.

74
Me thoght that thus all sodeynly a lyght In at the wyndow come quhare that I lent,

Off quhich the chambere-wyndow schone full bryght, And all my body so it hath ouerwent, That of my sicht the vertew hale I blent; And that with-all a voce vnto me saide,

"I bring the confort and hele, be noght affrayde."

75
And furth anone it passit sodeynly,
Quher it come In, the ryghte way ageyne, And sone, me thoght, furth at the dure in hye

I went my weye, nas nothing me ageyne;
And hastily, by bothe the armes tueyne,
I was araisit vp into the aire,
Clippit in a cloude of cristall clere and faire.

76
Ascending vpward ay fro spere to spere,
Through aire and watere and the hote fyre, Till that I come vnto the circle clere

Off Signifere, quhare faire, bryght, and schire, The signis schone; and In the glade empire

Off blisfull venus, quhar ane cryit now
So sudaynly, almost I wist noght how.

77
Off quhich the place, quhen I com there nye, Was all, me thoght, of cristall stonis wroght, And to the port I liftit was In hye,
Quhare sodaynly, as quho sais at a thoght, It opnyt, and I was anon In broght Within a chamber, large, rowm, and faire; And there I fand of peple grete repaire.

78
This Is to seyne, that present in that place Me thoght I sawe of euery nacioun

Louer’s that endit had thaire lyfis space In lovis seruice, mony a mylioun,

Off quhois chancis maid is mencioun
In diuerse bukis, quho thame list to se; And therefore here thaire namys lat I be.

79
The quhois auenture and grete labouris
Aboue thaire hedis writin there I fand;
This is to seyne, martris and confessouris, Ech in his stage, and his make in his hand; And therewith-all thir peple sawe I stand, Witlz mony a solemnit contenance, After as lufe thame lykit to auance.

80
Off gude folkis, that faire In lufe befill, There saw I sitt In order by thame one With hedis hore; and with thame stude gude-will To talk and play; and after that anon

Besydis thame and next there saw I gone
Curage, amang the fresche folkis yong,
And with thame playit full merily and song.

81
And in ane othir stage, endlong the wall, There saw I stand, In capis wyde and lang, A full grete nowmer; bot thaire hudis all, Wist I noght quhy, atoure thair eyen hang; And ay to thame come repentance amang,
And maid thame chere, degysit in his wede:
And dounward efter that yit I tuke hede;

82
Ryght ouerthwert the chamber was there drawe A trevesse thin and quhite, all of plesance, The quhich behynd, standing there I sawe A warld of folk, and by thaire contenance

Thaire hertis semyt full of displesance, With billis In thaire handis, of one assent

Vnto the luge thaire playntis to present.

83
And there-with-all apperit vnto me
A voce, and said, "tak hede, man, and behold:
Yonder thou seis the hiest stage and gree Off agit folk, with hedis hore and olde;

Yone were the folke that neuer change wold In lufe, bot trewly seruit him alway, In euery age, vnto thaire ending-day.

84
For fro the tyme that thai coud vnderstand The exercise of lufis craft the cure, Was non on lyve that toke so moch on hand For lufis sake, nor langer did endure In lufis seruice; for man, I the assure, Quhen thay of youth ressauit had the fill,

Yit In thaire age tham lakkit no gude will.

85
Here bene also of suich as In counsailis And all thar dedis, were to venus trewe;

Here bene the princis, faucht the grete batailis, In mynd of quhom ar maid the bukis newe,

Here ben the poetis that the sciencis knewe, Throwout the warld, of lufe in thaire suete layes,

Suich as Ouide and Omere in thaire dayes.

And efter thame down In the next stage,

There as thou seis the yong folkis pleye:

Lo! thise were thay that, in thaire myddill age, Seruandis were to lufe in mony weye, And diuersely happinnit for to deye;

Sum soroufully, for wanting of thare makes, And sum in armes for thaire ladyes sakes.

And othir eke by othir diuerse chance,

As happin folk all day, as ye may se;

Sum for dispaire, without recouerance;

Sum for desyre, surmounting thaire degree; Sum for dispite and othir Inmytee;

Sum for vnkyndenes without a quhy;
Sum for to moch, and sum for Ielousye.

And efter this, vpon yone stage adoun,

Tho that thou seis stond in capis wyde;

Yone were quhilum folk of religioun,

That from the warld thaire gouernance did hide, And frely seruit lufe on euery syde In secrete, with thaire bodyis and thaire gudis.

And lo! quhy so thai bingen doune thaire hudis:

89
For though that thai were hardy at assay, And did him seruice quhilum priuely,

Yit to the warldis eye It semyt nay;

So was thaire seruice half del cowardy:

And for thay first forsuke him opynly,

And efter that thereof had repenting,

For schame thaire hudis oure thaire eyne thay hyng.

90
And seis thou now yone multitude, on rawe Standing, behynd yone trauerse of delyte?

Sum bene of tham that haldin were full lawe, And take by frendis, nothing thay to wyte, In youth from lufe Into the cloistere quite; And for that cause are cummyn recounsilit, On thame to pleyne that so tham had begilit.

91
And othir bene amongis thame also,
That cummyn ar to court, on lufe to pleyne, For he thaire bodyes had bestowit so, Quhare bothe thaire hertes gruchen ther-ageyne; For quhich, In all thaire dayes, soth to seyne,

Quhen othir lyvit In Ioye and in plesance, Thaire lyf was noght bot care and repentance;

92
And quhare thaire hertis gevin were and set, Coplit with othir that coud noght accord; Thus were thai wrangit that did no forfet, Departing thame that neuer wold discord;

Off young ladies faire, and mony lord,
That thus by maistry were fro thair chose dryve, Full redy were thaire playntis there to gyve."

93
And othir also I sawe compleynyng there
Vpon fortune and hir grete variance,
That quhere In loue so wele they coplit were, With thaire suete makes coplit in plesance,

Sche sodeynly maid thaire disseuerance,
And tuke thame of this warldis companye, Withoutin cause, there was non othir quhy.

94
And in a chiere of estate besyde,
With wingis bright, all plumyt, bot his face, There sawe I sitt the blynd god Cupide, With bow In hand, that bent full redy was, And by him hang thre arowis In a cas,

Off quhich the hedis grundyn were full ryght, Off diuerse metals forgit faire and bryght.

95
And with the first, that hedit is of gold, He smytis soft, and that has esy cure; The secund was of siluer, mony fold
Wers than the first, and harder auenture; The thrid, of stele, is schot without recure; And on his long yalow lokkis schene
A chaplet had he all of levis grene.

96
And In a retrete lytill of compas,
Depeyntit all with sighis wonder sad,
Noght suich sighis as hertis doith manace, Bot suich as dooth lufaris to be glad,

Fond I venus vpon hir bed, that had
A mantill cast ouer hir schuldris quhite:
Thus clothit was the goddesse of delyte.

97
Stude at the dure fair-calling, hir vschere, That coude his office doon In connyng wise, And secretee, hir thrifty chamberere,
That besy was In tyme to do seruise,
And othir mo that I can noght on a vise; And on hir hede, of rede rosis full suete, A chapellet sche had, faire, fresch, and mete.

98
With quaking hert astonate of that sight, Vnnethis wist I quhat that I suld seyne;

Bot at the laste f ebily as I myght,
With my handis on bothe my kneis tueyne, There I begouth my caris to compleyne; With ane humble and lamentable chere
Thus salute I that goddesse bryght and clere:

“HYE quene of lufe! sterre of beneuolence!

Pitouse princes, and planet merciable!

Appesare of malice and violence!

By vertew pure of your aspectis hable,

Vnto your grace lat now be acceptable

My pure request, that can no forthir gone To seken help, bot vnto you allone!

100
As ye that bene the socoure and suete well Off remedye, of carefull hertes cure, And, in the huge weltering wawis fell
Off lufis rage, blisfull havin and sure; O anker and keye of oure gude auenture,

Ye haue your man with his gude will conquest:
Merci, therefore, and bring his hert to rest!

101
Ye knaw the cause of all my peynes smert Bet than myself, and all myn auenture

Ye may conuoye, and as you list, conuert The hardest hert that formyt hath nature:

Sen in your handis all hale lyith my cure, Haue pitee now, o bryght blisfull goddesse,

Off your pure man, and rew on his distresse!

102
And though I was vnto your lawis strange, By ignorance, and noght by felonye, And that your grace now likit hath to change My hert, to seruen you perpetualye,

Forgeue all this, and shapith remedye
To sauen me of your benigne grace,
Or do me steruen furth-with in this place.

103
And with the stremes of your percyng lyght Conuoy my hert, that is so wo begone,

Ageyne vnto that suete hevinly sight,
That I, within the wallis cald as stone, So suetly saw on morow walk and gone,

Law in the gardyn, ryght tofore myn eye:
Now, merci, quene! and do me noght to deye."

104
Thir wordis said, my spirit in dispaire, A quhile I stynt, abiding efter grace:

And there-with-all hir cristall eyen faire Sche kest asyde, and efter that a space,

Benignely sche turnyt has hir face
Towardis me full plesantly conueide;
And vnto me ryght in this wise sche seide:

105
"Yong man, the cause of all thyne Inward sorowe Is noght vnknawin to my deite, And thy request, bothe now and eke toforowe, Quhen thou first maid professioun to me;

Sen of my grace I haue inspirit the
To knawe my lawe, contynew furth, for oft, There as I mynt full sore, I smyte bot soft.

106
Paciently thou tak thyne auenture,
This will my son Cupide, and so will I,
He can the stroke, to me langis the cure Quhen I se tyme, and therefor humily

Abyde, and serue, and lat gude hope the gye:
Bot, for I haue thy forehede here present, I will the schewe the more of myn entent.

107

This Is to say, though It to me pertene

In lufis lawe the septre to gouerne,

That the effectis of my hemes schene

Has thaire aspectis by ordynance eterne, With others bynd and mines to discerne,

Quhilum in thingis bothe to cum and gone, That langis noght to me, to writh allone;

108

As in thyne awin case now may thou se,

For-quhy lo, that by otheris Influence

Thy persone standis noght In libertee;

Quharefore, though I geve the beneuolence, It standis noght yit In myn aduertence,

Till certeyne courses endit be and ronne, Quhill of trew seruis thow have hir graice I-wone.

109
And yet, considering the nakitnesse
Bothe of thy wit, thy persone, and thy myght, It is no mach, of thyne vnworthynesse To hir hie birth, estate, and beautee bryght:
Als like ye bene, as day is to the nyght; Or sek-cloth is vnto fyne cremesye; Or doken to the fresche dayesye.

110

Vnlike the mone Is to the sonne schene;

Eke Ianuarye is vnlike to may;

Vnlike the cukkow to the phylomene;

Thaire tabartis ar noght bothe of array; Vnlike the crow is to the pape-Iay;

Vnlike, In goldsmythis werk, a fischis eye To peire with perll, or maked be so heye.

111

As I haue said, now vnto me belangith

Specialy the cure of thy seknesse;

Bot now thy matere so in balance hangith, That It requerith, to thy sekernesse, The help of othir mo that bene goddes,

And haue In thame the menis and the lore, In this matere to schorten with thy sore.

112
And for thou sall se wele that I en tend, Vn-to thy help, thy welefare to preserue, The streight weye thy spirit will I send To the goddesse that clepit is Mynerue, And se that thou hir hestis wele conserue, For in this case sche may be thy supplye, And put thy hert in rest, als wele as I.

113
Bot, for the way is vncouth vnto the,
There as hir duelling is and hir soiurne, I will that gude hope seruand to the be, Youre alleris frend, to lette the to murne, Be thy condyt and gyde till thou returne, And hir besech, that sche will, in thy nede, Hir counsele geve to thy welefare and spede.

114
And that sche will, as langith hir office, Be thy gude lady, help and counseiloure, And to the schewe hir rype and gude auise, Throw quhich thou may, be processe and laboure,

Atteyne vnto that glad and goldyn floure, That thou wald haue so fayn with all thy hart.

And forthir-more, sen thou hir seruand art,

115
Quhen thou descendis doune to ground ageyne, Say to the men that there bene resident, How long think thay to stand in my disdeyne, That in my lawis bene so negligent From day to day, and list tham noght repent, Bot breken louse, and walken at thaire large?

Is nocht eft none that thereof gevis charge?

116
And for," quod sche, "the angir and the smert Off thaire vnkyndenesse dooth me constreyne, My femynyne and wofull tender hert,
That than I wepe; and, to a token pleyne, As of my teris cummyth all this reyne, That ye se on the ground so fast ybete
Fro day to day, my turment is so grete.

117
And quhen I wepe, and stynten othir quhile, For pacience that is in womanhede, Than all my wrath and rancoure I exile;
And of my cristall teris that bene schede, The hony flouris growen vp and sprede, That preyen men, as In thaire flouris wise, Be trewe of lufe, and worschip my seruise.

118
And eke, In takin of this pi to use tale, Quhen so my teris dropen on the ground, In thaire nature the lytill birdis smale Styntith thaire song, and murnyth for that stound, And all the lightis In the hevin round
Off my greuance haue suich compacience,
That from the ground they hiden thaire presence.

119
And yet In tokenyng forthir of this thing, Quhen flouris springis, and freschest bene of hewe, And that the birdis on the twistis sing, At thilke tyme ay gynnen folk renewe That seruis vnto loue, as ay is dewe,
Most commonly has ay his obseruance,
And of thaire sleuth tofore haue repentance.

120
Thus maist thou seyne, that myn effectis grete, Vnto the quhich ye aught and maist weye, No yte offense, to sleuth is al forget:
And therefore In this wise to tham seye, As I the here haue bidden, and conueye The matere all the better tofore said;
Thus sall on the my charge bene Ilaid.

121
Say on than, 'quhare Is becummyn, for schame!
The songis new, the fresch carolis and dance, The lusty lyf, the mony change of game, The fresche array, the lusty contenance, The besy awayte, the hertly obseruance, That quhilum was amongis thame so ryf?
Bid tham repent in tyme, and mend thaire lyf:

122
Or I sall, with my fader old Saturne,
And with al hale oure hevinly alliance,
Oure glad aspectis from thame writh and turne, That all the warld sall waile thaire gouernance.

Bid thame be tyme that thai haue repentance, And with thaire hertis hale renew my lawe; And I my hand fro beting sall withdrawe.

123

This is to say, contynew in my seruise,

Worschip my law, and my name magnifye,

That am your hevin and your paradise;

And I your confort here sall multiplye,

And, for your meryt here, perpetualye

Ressaue I sall your saulis of my grace,

To lyve with me as goddis In this place.'"

124
With humble thank, and all the reuerence That feble wit and connyng may atteyne,

I tuke my leue; and from hir presence,
Gude hope and I to-gider, bothe tueyne,
Departit are, and, schortly for to seyne, He hath me led the redy wayis ryght

V nto Mineruis palace, faire and bryght.

125
Quhare as I fand, full redy at the gate, The maister portare, callit pacience, That frely lete vs in, vnquestionate;
And there we sawe the perfyte excellence, The said renewe, the state, the reuerence, The strenth, the beautee, and the ordour digne Off hir court riall, noble and benigne.

126

And straught vnto the presence sodeynly

Off dame Minerne, the pacient goddesse,

Gude hope my gyde led me redily;

To quhom anon, with dredefull humylnesse, Off my cummyng the cause I gan expresse, And all the processe hole, vnto the end, Off venus charge, as likit hir to send.

127
Off quhich ryght thus hir ansuere was in bref:
"My son, I haue wele herd, and vnderstond, Be thy reherse, the matere of thy gref, And thy request to procure, and to fonde Off thy pennance sum confort at my hond, Be counsele of thy lady venus clere,
To be with hir thyne help In this matere.

128
Bot in this case thou sall wele knawe and witt, Thou may thy hert ground on suich a wise, That thy laboure will be bot lytill quit; And thou may set It In an othir wise, That wil be to thee grete worschip and prise, And gif thou durst vnto that way enclyne,

I will thee geve my lore and disciplyne.

129

Lo, my gude sone, this Is als mich to seyne, As, gif thy lufe sett alluterly Of nyce lust, thy trauail is in veyne;

And so the end sall turne of thy folye

To payne and repentance; lo, wate thou quhy?

Gif the ne list on lufe thy vertew set,

Vertu sall be the cause of thy forfet.

130
Tak him before In all thy-gouernance,
That in his hand the stere has of you all, And pray vnto his hye purueyance,

Thy lufe to gye, and on him traist and call, That corner-stone and ground is of the wall, That failis noght, and trust, withoutin drede, Vnto thy purpose sone he sall thee lede.

131
For lo, the werk that first Is foundit sure, May better here a pace and hyare be, Than othir wise, and langere sall endure, Be monyfald, this may thy resoun see, And stronger to defend aduersitee:
Ground thou thy werk, therefore, vpon the stone, And thy desire sall forthward with thee gone.

132
Be trewe, and meke, and stedfast in thy thoght, And diligent hir merci to procure,

Noght onely in thy word; for word is noght, Bot gif thy werk and all thy besy cure

Accord thereto; and vtrid be mesure,
The place, the houre, the maner, and the wise, Gif mercy sall admitten thy seruise.

133
All thing has tyme, thus sais Ecclesiaste; And wele is him that his tyrne wel abit:

Abyde thy time; for he that can bot haste, Can noght of hap, the wise man It writ; And oft gude fortune flourish with gude wit:
Quharefore, gif thou will ay be wele fortunyt, Lat wisedom ay vn to thy will be Iunyt.

134
Bot there be mony of so brukill sort,
That feynis treuth In lufe for a quhile, And setten all thaire wittis and disport, The sely Innocent woman to begyle,
And so to wynne thaire lustis with a wile; Suich feynit treuth is all bot trechorye,

Vnder the vmbre of hid ypocrisye.

135
For as the foulere quhistlith in his throte Diuersely, to counterfete the brid, And feynis mony a suete and strange note That in the busk for his desate is hid,

Till sche be fast lokin his net amyd;
Ryght so the fatoure, the false theif, I say, With suete tresoun oft wynnith thus his pray.

136
Fy on all suich! fy on thaire doubilnesse!
Fy on thaire lust and bestly appetite!
Thaire wolfts hertis, in lambis liknesse; Thaire thoughtis blak, hid vnder wordis quhite;

Fy on thaire laboure! fy on thaire delyte!
That feynen outward all to hir honour,
And in thaire hert hir worschip wold deuoure.

137

So hard It is to trusten now on da yes

The warld, It is so double and inconstant, Off quhich the suth is kid be mony assayes; More pitie is; for quhich the remanant,

That menen wele, and ar noght variant,

For otheris gilt ar suspect of vntreuth, And hyndrit oft, and treuely that is reuth.

138
Bot gif the hert be groundit fenn and stable In goddis law, thy purpose to atteyne,

Thy laboure is to me full agreable;
And my full help, with counsele trew and pleyne, I will thee schewe, and this is the certeyne;

Opyn thy hert, therefore, and lat me see Gif thy remede be pertynent to me."

139
"Madame," quod I, "sen It is your plesance That I declare the kynd of my loving,

Treuely and gude, withoutin variance,
In lufe that floure abufe all othir thing; And wold bene he that to hir worschipping

Myght ought auaile, be him that starf on rude, And nouthir spare for trauaile, lyf, nor gude.

140
And, forthirmore, as touching the nature Off my luting, to worschip or to blame,

I darre wele say, and there-in me assure, For ony gold, that ony wight can name,

Wald I be he that suld of hir gude fame
Be blamischere In ony point or wyse,
For wele nor wo, quhill my lyf may suffise.

141
This Is the effect trewly of myn entent, Touching the suete that smertis me so sore,

Giff this be faynt, I can It noght repent, All though my lyf suld forfaut be therefore,

Blisful princes! I can seye you no more; Bot so desire my wittis dooth compace, More Ioy in erth kepe I noght bot your grace."

142
"Desire," quod sche, "I nyl It noght deny, So thou It ground and set in cristin wise; And therefore, son, opyn thy hert playnly."
"Madame," quod I, "trew withoutin fantise, That day sall neuer be I sall up-rise, For my delyte to couate the plesance,
That may hir worschip putten In balance.

143
For oure all thing, lo, this were my gladnesse, To sene the fresche beautee of hir face; And gif I myght deserue, be processe,
For my grete lufe and treuth, to stond in grace, Hir worschip sauf, lo, here the blisfull cace That I wold ask, and therevnto attend,
For my most Ioye vnto my lyfis end."

144
"Now wele," quod sche, "and sen that It is so, That In vertew thy lufe is set with treuth, To helpen thee I will be one of tho
From hensforth, and hertly without sleuth, Off thy distresse and excesse to haue reuth That has thy hert; I will her pray full faire, That fortune be no more thereto contraire.

145
For suth It is, that all ye creaturzs,
Quhich vnder vs beneth haue your duellyng, Ressauen diuersely your auenturis,

Off quhich the cure and principall melling Apperit is, witoutin repellyng,

Onely to hir that has the cuttis two
In hand, bothe of your wele and of your wo.

146
And how so be it, that sum clerkis trete, That all your chance causit Is tofore

Heigh In the hevin, by quhois effectis, grete Ye movit are to wrething lesse or more,

Quhare In the warld, thus calling that therefore 'Fortune,' and so that the diuersitee

Off thaire wirking suld cause necessitee;

147

Bot othir clerkis halden, that the man

Has In him-self the chose and libertee

To cause his awin fortune, how or quhan

That him best lest, and no necessitee

Was In the hevin at his natiuitee,

Bot yet the thingis happin in commune

Efter purpose, so cleping thame 'fortune.'

148

And quhare a persone has tofore knawing

Off It that is to fallen purposely;

Lo, fortune is bot wayke in suich a thing, Thou may wele wit, and here ensample quhy; To god, that is the first cause onely

Off euery thing, there may no fortune fall:

And quhy? for he foreknawin is of all.

149
And therefore thus I say to this sentence; Fortune is most and strangest euennore,

Quhare lest foreknawing or intelligence
Is in the man; and, sone, of wit or lore Sen thou are wayke and feble, lo, therefore, The more thou art in dangere and commune With hir, that clerkis clepen so fortune.

150

Bot for the sake, and at the reuerence

Off venus clere, as I the said tofore,

I haue of thy distresse compacience;

And in confort and relesche of thy sore, The schewit here myn avise therefore;

Pray fortune help, for mich vnlikly thing Full oft about sche sodeynly dooth bring.

151
Now go thy way, and haue gude mynde vpon Quhat I haue said In way of thy doctryne."

"I sall, madame," quod I; and ryght anone I tuke my leve: als straught as ony lyne, Within a beme, that fro the contree dyvine Sche, percyng throw the firmament, extendit, To ground ageyne my spirit is descendit.

152
Quhare, In a lusty plane, tuke I my way, Endlang a ryuer, plesant to behold,

Enbroudin all with fresche flouris gay,
Quhare, throu the grauel, bryght as ony gold, The cristall water ran so clere and cold, That, In myn ere maid contynualy
A maner soun, mellit with armony;

153
That full of lytill fischis by the brym, Now here, now there, with bakkis blewe as lede,

Lap and playit, and In a rout can swym
So prattily, and dressit tham to sprede
Thaire curall fynnis, as the ruby rede,
That In the sonne on thaire scalis bryght As gesserant ay glitterit In my sight:

154

And by this Ilke ryuer-syde alawe

Ane hye way thar fand I like to be,

On quhich, on euery syde, a long rawe

Off treis saw I, full of leuis grene,

That full of fruyte delitable were to sene, And also, as It come vnto my mind,

Off bestis sawe I mony diuerse kynd:

155

The lyoun king, and his fere lyonesse;

The pantere, like vnto the smaragdyne;

The lytill squerell, full of besynesse;

The slawe ase, the druggare beste of pyne; The nyce ape; the werely porpapyne; The percyng lynx; the lufare vnicorne,

That voidis venym with his euour home.

156
There sawe I dresse him new out of haunt The fery tigere, full of felonye; The dromydare; the standar oliphant;
The wyly fox, the wedowis Inemye;
The clymbare gayte; the elk for alblastrye; The herknere bore; the holsum grey for hortis; The haire also, that oft gooth to the wortis.

157
The bugill, draware by his hornis grete; The martrik, sable, the foynee, and mony mo; The chalk-quhite ermyn, tippit as the Iete; The riall hert, the conyng, and the ro; The wolf, that of the murthir noght sayis "ho!"
The lesty beuer, and the ravin bare;
For chamelot, the camel full of hare;

158
With mony an othir beste diuerse and strange, That cummyth noght as now vnto my mynd.

Bot now to purpose, straught furth the range I held a way, oure-hailing in my mynd From quhens I come, and quhare that I suld fynd Fortune, the goddesse; vnto quhom In hye

Gude hope, my gyde, has led me sodeynly;

159

And at the last, behalding thus asyde,

A round place ywallit haue I found;

In myddis quhare eftsone I haue aspide

Fortune, the goddesse, hufing on the ground; And ryght before hir fete, of compas round, A quhele, on quhich than cleuering I sye A multitude of folk before myn eye.

160
And ane surcote sche werit long that tyde, That semyt vnto me of diuerse hewis,

Quhilum thus, quhen sche wald hir turn asyde, Stude this goddesse of fortune and of glewis; A chapellet, with mony fresche anewis.
Sche had vpon her hed; and with this hong A mantill on hir schuldris, large and long,

161

That furrit was with ermyn full quhite,

Degoutit with the self In spottis blake:

And quhilum In hir chiere thus a lyte

Louring sche was; and thus sone It wold slake, And sodeynly a maner smylyng make, And sche were glad; for at one contenance Sche held noght, bot was ay in variance.

162
And vnderneth the quhele sawe I there
Ane vgly pit, depe as ony helle,
That to behald thereon I quoke for fere; Bot o thing herd I, that quho there-In fell

Come no more vp agane, tidingis to telle; Off quhich, astonait of that ferefull syght,

I ne wist quhat to done, so was I fricht.

163
Bot for to se the sudayn weltering
Off that Ilk quhele, that sloppare was to hold, It semyt vnto my wit a strange thing, So mony I sawe that than clymben wold,
And failit foting, and to ground were rold; And othir eke, that sat aboue on hye, Were ouerthrawe In twinklyng of an eye.

164
And on the quhele was lytill void space, Wele nere oure-straught fro lawe vnto hye; And they were ware that longe sat In place, So tolter quhilum did sche It to-wrye;

There was bot clymben and ryght dounward hye, And sum were eke that fallyng had so sore,

There for to clymbe thaire corage was no more.

165
I sawe also that, quhere as sum were slungin, Be quhirlyng of the quhele, vnto the ground,

Full sudaynly sche hath thaim vp ythrungin, And set thame on agane full sauf and sound:

And euer I sawe a neue swarn abound,
That thought to clymbe vpward vpon the quhele, In stede of thame that myght no langer rele.

166
And at the last, In presence of thame all That stude about, sche clepit me be name; And therewith apon kneis gan I fall
Full sodaynly hailsing, abaist for schame; And, smylyng thus, sche said to me in game;

"Quhat dois thou here? quho has the hider sent?
Say on anon, and tell me thyn entent.

167
I se wele, by thy chere and contenance,
There is sum thing that lyis thee on hert, It stant noght with thee as thou wald, perchance?"

"Madame," quod I, "for lufe Is all the smert That euer I fele, endlang and ouerthwert;

Help, of your grace, me wofull wrechit wight, Sen me to cure ye powere haue and myght."

168
"Quhat help," quod sche, "wold thou that I ordeyne, To bringen thee vnto thy hertis desire?"

"Madame," quod I, "bot that your grace dedeyne, Off your grete myght, my wittis to enspire, To win the well that slokin may the fyre In quhich I birn; a, goddesse fortunate!

Help now my game, that is in poynt to mate."

169
"Off mate?" quod sche, "o! verray sely wrech, I se wele by thy dedely coloure pale,

Thou art to feble of thy-self to streche Vpon my quhele, to clymben or to hale

Withoutin help; for thou has fundin stale This many day, withoutin werdis wele, And wantis now thy veray hertis hele.

170
Wele maistow be a wrechit man ycallit,
That wantis the confort suld thy hert glade; And has all thing within thy hert stallit, That may thy youth oppressen or defade.
Though thy begynnyng hath bene retrograde, Be froward opposyt quhare till aspert, Now sall thai turn, and luken on thee dert."

171
And therewith-all vnto the quhele In hye Sche hath me led, and bad me lere to clymbe,

Vpon the quhich I steppit sudaynly.
"Now hald thy grippis," quod sche, "for thy tyme, Ane houre and more It rynnis ouer prime; To count the hole, the half is nere away; Spend wele, therefore, the remanant of the day.

172
Ensampill," quod sche, "tak of this tofore, That fro my quhele be rollit as a ball; For the nature of It is euermore,
After ane hicht, to vale and geue a fall, Thus, quhen me likith, vp or doun to fall.

Fare wele," quod sche, and by the ere me toke So ernestly, that therewithall I woke.

173
O besy goste! ay flikering to and fro,
That neuer art In quiet nor In rest,
Till thou cum to that place that thou cam fro, Quhich is thy first and verray proper nest:

From day to day so sore here artow drest, That with thy flesche ay walking art in trouble, And sleping eke; of pyne so has thou double.

174

Couert my-self all this mene I to loke,

Though that my spirit vexit was tofore

In sueuening, alsone as euer I woke,

By twenty fold It was In trouble more,

Bethinking me with sighing hert and sore, That I nan othir thingis bot dremes had, Nor sekernes, my spirit with to glad.

175

And therewith sane I dressit me to ryse, Fulfild of thoght, pyne, and aduersitee; And to my-self I said vpon this wise;

A! merci, lord! quhat will ye do with me?

Quhat lyf is this? quhare hath my spirit be?

Is this of my forethoght Impressioun,

Or Is It from the hevin a visioun?

176

And gif ye goddis, of your puruiance,

Haue schewit this for my reconforting,

In relesche of my furiouse pennance,

I you beseke full humily of this thing,

That of your grace I myght haue more takenyng, Gif It sal be as in my slepe before

Ye shewit haue: and forth, withoutin more,

177

In hye vnto the wyndow gan I walk,

Moving within my spirit of this sight,

Quhare sodeynly a turture, quhite as chalk, So evinly vpon my hand gan lyght, And vnto me sche turnyt hir full ryght,

Off quham the chere in hir birdis aport

Gave me In hert kalendis of confort.

178
This fair bird ryght In hir bill gan hold Of red lorofflis with thair stalkis grene A faire branche, quhare writtin was with gold, On euery list, with branchis bryght and schene In compas fair, full plesandly to sene,
A plane sentence, quhich, as I can deuise And haue In mynd, said right vpon this wise.

179

"Awak! awake! I bring, lufar, I bring

The newis glad, that blisfull befi and sure Of thy confort; now laugh, and play, and syng, That art besid so glad an auenture;

For In the hevyn decretit is the cure;"

And vnto me the flouris fair present:

With wyngis spred, hir wayis furth sche went.

180

Quhilk vp anone I tuke, and as I gesse,

Ane hundreth tymes, or I forthir went,

I haue It red, with hertfull glaidnese;

And, half with hope, and half with dred, It hent, And at my beddis hed, with gud entent,

I haue It faire pynnit vp, and this
First takyn was of all my help and blisse.

181

The quhich treuly efter, day be day,

That all my wittis maistrit had tofore,

From hensferth the paynis did away.

And schortly, so wele fortune has hir bore, To quikin treuly day by day my lore, To my larges that I am cumin agayn,

To blisse with hir that is my souirane.

182
Bot for als moche as sum micht think or seyne, Quhat nedis me, apoun so litill evyn, To writt all this? I ansuere thus ageyne, Quho that from hell war croppin onys In hevin,

Wald efter O thank for Ioy mak vj or vij:
And euery wicht his awin suete or sore
Has maist In mynde: I can say you no more.

183
Eke quho may in this lyfe haue more plesafice, Than come to largesse frrom thraldom and payne, And by the mene of lufe’s Ordinance,
That has so mony in his goldin chaine?
Quhich thinkis to wyfi his hertis souereyne, Quho suld me wite to, write thar-of, lat se!

Now sufficiante is my felicitee.

184
Beseching to fair venus abufe,
For all my brether that bene in this place, This is to seye, that seruandis ar to lufe, And of his lady can no thank perfe,
His paine relesch, and sone to stand in grace, Bot to his worschip and to his first ese; So that it hir and reson nocht disples.

185
And eke for tham that ar noght entrit in the The dance of lufe, bot thidder-wart oft way, In gude tyme and seel to begynne
Thaire prentisehid, and forthir more I pray For thame that passit ben the mony affray In lufe, and cummyn ar to full plesance, To graunt tham all, lo! gude perseuerance.

186
And eke I pray for all the hertis dull,
That lyveux here in sleuth and ignorance, And has no courage at the ros to pull,

Thair lyf to mend and thair saule to advance With thair suete lore, and bring tham to gude chaunce; And quho that will noght for this prayer turn, Quhen thai wald fayniest speid, that thai may spurn.

187
To reken of euery thing the circumstance, As hapnyt me quhen lessen gan my sore Of my rancoure and al my woful chaunce.
It war to long, I lat it be tharefor.
And thus this floure, I can seye you no more, So hertly has vnto my help attentioun, That from the deth hir man sche has defend.

188
And eke the goddis merciful waking,
For my long pain and trewe seruice in lufe, That has me gevin halely myn asking,

Quhich has my hert for euer sett aboue
In perfecte loy, that neuir may remoue,
Bot of the deid: of quhom, in laud and prais, With thankfull hert I say richt alwayz:

189

"Blissit mot be the heye goddis all,

So fair that glitteren in the firmament!

And blissit be thair myghtes celestiall, That haue convoyit hale, with one assent, My lufe, and to so glad a consequent!

And thankit be fortune’s exiltree

And quhele, that thus so wele has quhirlit me."

190
Thankit mot be, and fair and lufe befal
The nychtingale, that, with so gud entent, Sang thare of lufe the suete and smal,

Quhare my fair hertis lady was present,
Hir with to glad, or that sche forthir went!
And thou gerafloure, mot thankit be
All othir flouris for the lufe of the!

191

And thankit be the fair castle wall,

Quhare as I quhilom lukit furth and lent.

Thankit mot be the sanctis martiall,

That me first causit haif this accident.

Thankit mot be the grene bewis bent,

Throu quhom, and vnder, first fortunyt me My hertis hele, and my confort to be.

192
For to the presence suete and delitable, Rycht of this flour full of plesance, By processe and by menys favorable,
First of the blisfull goddis purveyance, And syne through long and true contynuance Of veray faith in lufe and trew seruice, I can I am, and yet more in this wise.

193

Vnworthy, lo, but onely of hir grace,

In lufeis seek, that esy is and sure,

In guerdoun of all my lufe’s space,

Sche hath me tak, hir humble creature.

And thus befell my blisfull aventure,

In solempne lufe, that now, from day to day, Flouris ay newe, and yet more I say.

194

Go litill tretise, nakit of eloquence,

Causing simplese and pouretee to wit;

And pray the reder to haue pacience

Off thy defaute, and supporten it,

Of his gudnese thy brukilnese to knyt,

And his tong for to rule and steir,

That thy defautis helit may ben here.

195

Allace! And gif thou cummyst in presence, Quhare as of blame faynest thou wold be quyt, To here thy rude and crukit eloquens,

Who sal be thare to pray for thy remy!

No wicht, but gev hir merci and permit,

The for gud will, that is thy gyde and steir, To quham for me thou pitousely requyr.

196
And thus endith the fatale influence,
Causit from hevin, quhare power is comytt Of gouernaunce, by the magnificence Of him that highest in the hevin sitt;
To quham we thank that all our life hath writt, Quho couth it red, agone syne many a yere, In hevinnis figure circulere.

197
Vnto the imples of my maisteris dere,
Gouwer and chaucere, that on the steppis satt Of rethorike, quhill thai were lyvand here,

Superlative as poetis laureate
In moralitee and eloquence ornate,
I recommend my buk in lynis sevin,
And also thair saulis unto the bliss of hevin. Amen.

The King's Song (Modern English Translation)

High in the heavens’ circling sphere,

The crimson stars glimmered like fire,

And, in Aquarius, radiant Venus anew

Was rinsing her locks, like golden wire, Which not long before, in fresh and fair attire,

Passing through Capricorn, displayed her horns so bright, Turning northward, nearing midnight’s height.

As I lay awake alone in bed,
Newly parted from brief repose,
My mind turned over many kinds of things— Of this and that; yet why, I could not disclose.

Sleep, by any contrivance, I could no longer impose; Thus, I knew no better course or style, Than to take a book and read for a while.

The name of which is rightly styled
Boethius, after its learned compiler,
Presenting philosophy’s counsel, compiled By that noble senator and scholar, Of Rome, that once stood as the world’s flower, From state by Fortune, for a time exiled,

Reduced to poverty and in sorrow’s file.

And so, I listened to this noble lord,
His sweet verse, full of morality’s intent; His flowering pen so delicately employed,

Describing first his days of prosperity spent, And then, his complete adversity’s torment— And how his poetic art in philosophy’s report Brought him comfort by reason’s support.

Thus, I resolved, as I bent above my book, To borrow sleep at that late hour; Or, ere I quit, it were best to look
More upon the writings of that noble flower, Who within himself, acquired again the power To overcome misfortune, poverty, and distress, Making security in his wise steadfastness.

So, the virtue that blossomed in his youth Became, in age, the ground of his delights;

Though Fortune turned her back—uncouth—
He found joy and comfort, freed from appetites Of the uncertain world; thus, he rights His course, takes on his penance’s weight, And finds in virtue alone his fate.

With many a noble reason, as he chose,
Composing in his lovely Latin tongue,
So full of fruit, and brilliantly verbose; But I, for schooling, am yet too young.

Therefore, I let his work pass, and among My own words in my own tongue, return To my main subject, letting incidentals adjourn.

Beholding the long night, as I said,

My eyes grew sore from study’s gleam;

I shut my book and by my head it laid,

Then lay me down—without delay it seemed— These thoughts still within my mind did teem:

That every estate, as Fortune wishes,
She will often translate to new conditions.

For, truly, on her tottering wheel,
Every creature climbs in their own hour, And often falling, rising at her reel, Some up, some down, with uncertain power; No age, nor rank—lest princes, lest pages cower— Are secured, since in unexpected measure, She divides men’s fates, especially in youthful leisure.

Among these thoughts, rolling to and fro, I pondered on my fortune and circumstance; In my tender youth how she was first my foe, Then my friend, and how I found deliverance From distress, and all my unsafe chance.
I recounted my adventure, sleep and rest denied, So much my wits were buffeted and tried.

Wakeful and tossing, thus engrossed,
Weary and restless, I listened suddenly, And soon, I heard the bell for matins tole—

I arose at once, would not longer lie idly.
But then—how, you ask—a fantasy
Came to my mind, as if the bell did tell:
“Speak, man. Tell now what befell!”

I thought to myself, “What might this mean?

This is but my own imagination’s voice;

No living thing is speaking unseen—

It’s only a bell, or some impression’s choice From my mind, causing this illusion,

Making me fancy such nicety in this wise.” Yet thus it happened, as I now devise.

So, with determination in my intent,
Since I’d so imagined of this sound,
And had in my time much ink and paper spent To little meaningful effect, I found A new conclusion—to write something newly profound; Thus, forthwith, I took pen in hand,

Made a cross, and so my work began.

O pitiable youth, by nature unrefined,
Unripened fruit, with shifting winds for guide, Like a nestling bird, yet to leave the nest behind, And cannot fly—a wit weak and untried,
Both to fortune and misfortune capable, wide— If you but knew the pain and hard travail to come, With sorrow and dread you’d weep and succumb.

Thus, stands your comfort in uncertainty’s ground, And what you lack should rule and guide; Just as a ship that sails, rudder unfound, Upon harsh rocks, is destined to collide For want of what should for her provide; So stand you here, battered in the world’s rage,

Wanting the hand to guide your voyage.

This is what I meant of myself in part;
Though nature gave me enough in youth’s grace, Ripeness of reason was missing from my heart, To govern my will—a skill I could not embrace; Steerless, I began my journey in life’s race,

Among the waves of the world set adrift— How it happened, soon I will shift.

With doubtful heart among black rocks I rode, My frail boat striving with all my might, Helpless alone, on a winter’s night I rowed, Waiting for the wind that would set me aright.

O empty sail! Where is the wind to light My passage to the port where all my hope resides?

Help, Calliope, and wind, in Mary’s name abide!

The rocks I call the delays
Of double-mindedness, which weakens my reason; The lack of wind, the difficulties I appraise In composing this small treatise with little vision; The boat, I call, is my matter for decision; My wit to the sail now I set,
Seeking wisdom, little though I get.

At my beginning, then, I call
To you, Clio, and to you, Polyhymnia,
With Tisiphone, goddesses and sisters all— Muses nine, as books describe with euphoria—

Guide my uncertain wit throughout this narrative's euphoria, And with your lanterns bright, convey My pen to write my sorrow and joy, I pray!

In spring, full of virtue and all that is good, When Nature first begins her enterprise, Once oppressed by cruel frost, cold flood, And sharp showers in various guise, Now Cynthia (the sun) begins to rise
High in the east, on fair and gentle morns, Upward he drives his course in Aries' horns:

Noon passed by a mere four degrees,
His angel-bright wings spreading with light Upon the ground, descending from the skies; For the joy and comfort of such a sight, With the gentle heat and glowing light, The tender flowers opened and spread there, And, in their nature, thanked him for their care.

Not far from the state of innocence,
But near about the number of three years, Whether it was by heavenly influence,

God’s will or mere accident appears,
I truly cannot say; yet away from my country’s peers, By the advice of those charged with my cure, By sea, I took my chance—my adventure sure.

Prepared with all we might require,
With wind at will, we rose early that day; Straight to the ship, we would not tarry;

We departed, counting the hours away,
With many farewells, invoking Saint John’s sway From friends and kin; thus unified, we went And hoisted our sails, forth on our journey bent.

Upon the waves tossing to and fro,

So unfortunate were we that alien day,

That, though we wished it not, it soon was so— By strong hand and force, to put it plainly, Our enemies took us, led us straightaway:

We were all seized and brought to their lands; Fortune decreed it, so it stands.

And there, in strict ward and prison strong, So far, the heavy thread of my life unspun, Without comfort, abandoned in sorrow long, The second sister (Atropos) prepared to be done;

Nearly for the space of twice nine years run, Till Jupiter’s mercy at last awoke, And sent relief to ease the yoke.

There, in prison, how oft did I bewail
My deadly life, all pain and penance,
Saying thus boldly, “What crime, what travail Hath made me lose my freedom and pleasance, When every creature’s born in such abundance— As I behold—all, save me alone,

Cut off from this, my fate’s hard stone!”

The bird, the beast, the fish in the sea— All live in freedom, each to their kind; And I, a man, lack liberty.

What reason, what justice can I find

That Fortune so unfairly has assigned?

Thus I would reason, but all to naught;

No one pitied me nor my lot.

Then I would say, “If God devised

That I be doomed to lifelong servitude and pain, What makes my suffering more than others—is it prized That I must alone this ruin sustain?

I suffer alone among the fates’ train,

A woeful wretch, with no one left to speak, And yet I need help more than the weak.”

The long days and nights alike
I’d bewail my fate in this wise;
Therefore, for comfort from distress to seek, My custom was at morning to rise

Early as day—O happy exercise!
Through it I came to joy from torment.
But now to return to my purpose and intent:

Bewailing thus in my chamber all alone,

Despairing of all joy and remedy,

Exhausted in thought, and woebegone,

To the window at once did I hurry,

To see the world and those who passed by free; And although, for the time, I could not taste the food Of mirth, still to gaze upon it did me good.

Nearby the tower’s wall, erect
A fair garden was, and in its corners set A green arbor, with slender wands bedecked And railed about; with trees they did perfect The entire place, binds of hawthorn hedge interlace So that none passing would likely spy
Any soul within as they walked by.

So thick the boughs and leaves so green— They shaded all the alleys there; And in every arbored nook could be seen

The sharp, sweet juniper, growing fair

With spreading branches here and there,

That, as it seemed from outside the space, The bows enwrapped the arbor’s embrace;

And on the small green twigs had come

The little sweet nightingale, who sang

So loud and clear, her hymns enthroned

With love’s song, now soft, now bright among Her fellows, so the garden’s wall and strong

Resounded with their harmony; lo,
This was the text that they did show:

Song
“Worship, O lovers, in this month of May, For the beginning of your bliss is here.

Sing with us, ‘Away, O winter, away!
Come, summer, come!—the sweet season is near!’ Awake for shame, who have won heaven so dear,

Lift up your heads, amorously all,
Thank Love, who called you to his hall.”

When they had sung this song a little space, They paused a while; and with no alarm or doubt, As I beheld, casting my eyes down apace, From bough to bough they hopped about, And freshly decked their feathers out
And preened them in the sun’s warm gaze, Thanking Love, that they had won their mates.

This was the simple burden of their tune, And then I thought within myself:

What life is this—why are these birds immune?
What is love, and what can be its wealth?
Why should it be so dearly bought for self?
Is it naught but feigning, affectation’s guile— Are men mere mummers miming a style?

Then oft I wondered, “O Lord, what can this be— Is Love of such noble might and kind, So kind to his folk, that such prosperity Is his gift, as in books we find?

Can he bind or free our hearts and mind?
Has he such mastery over us within,
Or is it all but a fancy, chimerical din?”

If he’s of such great excellence
That for every soul he cares and is in charge, What have I offended—what offense Have I made, being captive whilst birds roam at large?
If he desired, he might set my heart’s barge To serve him well; but if it’s not so, Why, then, do folk babble of him so?

No conclusion found I, unless he be

A lord and god who rules and reigns,

To bind and loose, to make slaves free—

Then would I pray his blissful favor deign To allow me in his worthy service to remain; And ever after, be one of those

Who serve him truly in joys and woes.

And with that thought, my eyes cast down again, I saw, beneath the tower, walking unseen Most secretly, just entered to complain, The fairest and freshest flower, I ween, That ever I beheld in any scene—
A sudden change struck: all my blood’s tide Rushed anew, with longing I could not hide.

Though at first I stood in some dismay,

No wonder—my wits were so overthrown

With thought of that pleasure, that sweet display:

Just from letting my gaze fall on my own, Suddenly, my heart became her alone’s, For ever, and of my free will, I avow;

For there was no threat in her sweet brow.

Hastily, I drew within my head,

Then soon, I lent it forth again,

And saw her walk, so womanly led,

With no other soul, save two women within her train.

Unto myself, I mused and said,

“Ah! Sweet one, are you of mortal measure, Or some heavenly thing in nature’s vesture?

Are you perchance Cupid’s very princess, Come to free me from my prison’s band?

Or perhaps, true Nature’s goddess,
That with your heavenly hand
Has painted this garden, flower-strewn and grand?
What should I think—alas! What reverence Ought I offer to so much excellence?

If you be a goddess, and incline
To do me pain, I may not escape your art; If you are mortal, the wound is mine—

Why did God make you so, O dearest heart, To make a hapless prisoner thus smart, Who loves you wholly, and knows only woe?

Grant mercy, sweet lady, since it is so.” 45

When for a little space I made my moan,

Lamenting my chance and cruel fate,

Unknowing how or what ought best be done, So deeply fallen into love’s estate That suddenly, wit, demeanor, state—

My heart, my will, my soul, my mind—

Were changed, transformed, of another kind.

Of her attire, if I should write,
Her golden hair and rich array
With snowy pearls arranged in order quite, And balas rubies gleaming like day, With emeralds and sapphires showing their ray; And on her head a chaplet fresh in hue Of plumes divided red, white, and blue.

Full of trembling gold spangles bright,
Forged in shapes like Aphrodite's cupids new, So fresh, so lovely for the sight, The feathers, too, as bright as jonquils dew, And others round-crooked as if they grew; Yet above all else, I know for sure,
Such beauty as hers could a world allure.

About her neck, whiter than fire’s enamel, A lovely chain of finest gold was sure, From which a ruby, without fail,
Hung in the shape of a heart, demure,
That, like a spark of fire, burning pure, Seemed to glow upon her throat as white as snow; If harmony were sought, here was enough to show!

For walking on that fresh May’s morning cool, A surcoat she wore upon her tissue white, Such elegance ne’er seen at any school,

So I suppose—and girded, but slightly tight:

Loosely draped, in graceful delight,

Her youth and beauty so harmonious shone, That I fear to speak, for rudeness is none.

In her was youth, beauty with humble grace, Kindness, wealth, and womanly construction,

God knows better than my pen can trace:
Wisdom, generosity, station, and compunction, Guided all things with perfect function— In word, in deed, in gesture, and stance, Nature might no further her child advance.

Through that, at once, I knew and understood Well that she was of mortal estate; Upon whom to rest my eyes did me so much good, That for my woeful heart, no joy so great; In that moment, I cast my eyes to heaven, elate, And spoke these verses, seven-fold fair:—

“O Venus bright, of the gods made star,
To whom I yield homage, offering and prayer, From this day forth, may your favor go far— May you be magnified for taking me into your care, Now let me live beneath your law, your service declare;

Help me, for mercy’s sake, lead my heart to peace, That dies for dread and craves your sweet release.”

When, with good intent, that orison

Thus finished, I paused a little space;

Pitifully, I cast my eyes down anon

To her little hound, that in its place

With tinkling bells played about the grassy base; And then I’d think and sigh, in those times,

“O! How I wish that I were in his prime!”

Sometimes, the little nightingale
That on the twigs sang her litany,
I’d scold: “Where are your sweet notes now, so frail, That you of love have sung at dawn for me?

See you not her that sits beside thee?
For Venus’ sake, O blissful goddess clear, Sing on again, and give my lady cheer.

And also, for all the grievous pain,

That, for your sister Procne, you bore—

Your breast’s wet tears ran like rain,

All bloody, an agony at its core;

That piteous, knightly deed you wore—

O, blame those husbands that are false and sly, Bidding them change, let treacheries die.

Raise up your heart, in faithful song;

Within your notes, the treason tell—

That to your sister true and strong,

Was shown by her husband, false and fell:

For which, alas, as it is worthy well,

Scold these husbands, full many a knave, And bid them mend, or go the devil's way.

O little unfortunate one! Look and see—

Who comes there? Is it now time to sing?

What sorrow has fallen quick on thee?

Open your throat; do you not feel the spring?

Alas! Since you of reason have feeling,

Sweet bird, say but once to me 'peep;'

I die of woe; it seems you seek sleep.”

Have you no mind to love? Where is your mate?

Are you ill, or struck with jealousy’s pain?

Or is she dead, or have you met sad fate?

What is the cause of your melancholic strain, Is melody now too much a chain?

O idle one, for shame! Here is your golden hour, That were worth all your singing power.

If ever you should sing well in life,
Here is, I swear, the time and place;
What do you know that another might strive In song with you, seeking mastery’s grace?

Should you now stop, that would be disgrace!
For here to win favor eternally, too sure, Here is the time to sing, or sing never more.”

I also thought, if I but clap my hands,

Or toss a stone, then will she fly away; If I keep still, perhaps she understands; If I cry out, she hears not what I say;

So, what is best, I know not to this day.

But blow, winds, blow, and shake the leaves at once, Let some twig wag, and rouse her from her trance.

With that, suddenly, she took up a song, Whereat more birds alighted anon; To hear such mirth among them belong,
And above that, to see the sweet sight begun Of her likeness—my spirits were so spun,

I felt I flew for joy, imperiled not,
So utterly to happiness was I caught.

And to the notes from Philomela’s tongue, Which she sang, I composed there and then A poem for her who reigned my heart among; Without her, no songs could gladden again.

To that saint, walking beneath the glade’s den, I said my prayers thus, with humble intent,

Devoutly, these words, with heart unbent.

“When will your mercy show pity on your man, Who serves yet without notice or reward?

Since, when you go, there is no other plan— But, heart! Where the body cannot forward,

Follow your heaven! Who else would be more starred Than he who such a guide undertakes to follow, Even through hell, nor fear the way’s sorrow!”

Then, after this, the birds together
Took up another song, loud and clear,
And in one voice, said, “Well met the weather, For with our mates, together here

We preen and play without danger near—
All dressed in suits so fresh and new,
In love’s service, busy, glad, and true.

And you, fresh May, always merciful to birds, Now welcome be, the flower of months all; Your grace not only with us, but with words— The world bears witness to your call, That you’ve dressed with freshness over all With new sweet and tender green, Our life, our joy, our guide, our queen.”

So was their song, so high and clear,
With many a novel, shrill sweet note—in trance— And then, she who was fairest would peer

Upward with her lovely countenance,
Where I stood, all alone, as by chance—
Beholding the masterpiece that, for art’s pride, Nature in her visage lovingly supplied.

And when she had walked a little while

Under the green bows’ pleasant shade,

Her fresh fair face, as white as a smile, She turned, and from the garden’s scene did fade; But then began my fever and tirade—

To see her part, nor follow, had I might; It seemed to me the day turned into night.

Then said I, “Why should I live longer?

Most woeful, most subject unto pain;

Of pain? No, God knows, for no stronger

Affliction may touch another, I dare explain.

How can life and death, in a single frame, Inhabiting one creature at once, reside And so torment nature, divide upon divide?”

Nothing remains for me but weep and wail Within these cold walls where I’m confined; From now onward, my rest is only travail; With tears, my thirst to slake and mind, All my wounds on myself recompense defined.
There is no remedy, unless Venus in her grace Designed some cure—or lets my spirit pass from place.

As Tantalus, I strive endlessly in vain— Ever reaching to a well with bottomless pail, And cannot succeed; such is the pain

That hell for him is told in every tale.

By my own story, I may the same bewail—

For I complain to one who does not hear; Thus, like him, my travail is mere.

So sorely did I sigh alone, distressed,
That my strength was turned to feebleness, My joy to woe, my friends became my foes, My life to death, my light to darkness;
My hope to fear, my certainty to restlessness— Since she is gone, and God may her convoy, Who only can bring me to torment or joy!

So all the long day, I gazed and poured
Upon the prospect, till Phoebus ended beams of bright And bade, “Farewell, ye leaves and flowers adored,” That is, night’s approach brought ending light As Hesperus kindled his lamps for the night.

At the window, silent as any stone,
I stayed at length and, kneeling, wailed alone.

So long until evening, for lack of mind and might, For weeping and complaining piteously, My heart and mind vanquished utterly by night, Upon the cold stone, drowsily,

I laid my head and leaned, confounded truly, Half sleeping and half swooning, in such a wise;

What I dreamed, I’ll here devise:

Me thought, so suddenly, a light
Entered the window where at rest I lay,
Of which the chamber window shone full bright, And my entire body overwhelmed its ray, So that my sight’s virtue was struck away; And with that, a voice said to me bright,

“I bring you comfort—health—fear not the night.”

And straightaway it vanished suddenly,
Returning whence it came, in a moment’s race; Then soon, it seemed, through the door in high glee,

I hurried on, with nothing to efface;
Swiftly, by both arms’ embrace
I was lifted into the air’s clear sphere, Enveloped in a cloud of crystal transparent and dear.

Ascending always, from sphere to sphere, Through air and water, through fire’s blaze,

Till at last, I reached the circle clear Of the Zodiac, where bright glow and rays Of signs shone in the glad empire’s haze Of blessed Venus, where now there arose A sudden outcry, I barely knew how it goes.

The place, as I saw close thereby,

Seemed all of crystal stones combined,

And to the portal, I was lifted high

Which suddenly, without thought, unlined, And I was brought within, confined In a chamber, spacious, bright and fair, Where I found many people gathered there.

That is to say, diverse nations I saw
Of lovers whose lives’ courses were complete In love’s service—so many, without flaw— Whose fortunes, in books, are oft repeated; Of their stories, if curiosity you’d meet,

Consult those books—here, their names must rest, For to enumerate would weary my quest.

Above their heads, their destinies recorded Was found; martyrs and confessors, known of all Each on his stage, beside his mate afforded, With many bearing dignified air and call, As love did them bid, they advanced withal.

There, too, I saw—among good folk’s parade— Those who in love’s fortune were most blessed, All sitting in order, one by one arrayed Their heads now gray, yet goodwill readily expressed, Between them, talk and laughter addressed; Then near them were courage, youth, delight, Who with the young played games and sang aright.

In another quarter along the wall,

Stood many in long, wide gowns,

Their hoods, for reasons I recall

Drawn over their eyes, so as to frown;

And toward them, Repentance, everborne,

Came oft, disguised, clothed in his own guise;— And further down, I took heed with my eyes.

Right across the chamber, was drawn
A thin white partition, full of fair delight, Behind which, standing, I could see, as dawn, A world of folk—their faces showed, outright, Their hearts were full of sorrow and despite, With bills of complaint in hand and one intent— To present their pleas to the judge, their torment.

With that, a voice appeared to say,

“Pay heed, man, and mark what you see:

Yonder is the highest stage and way

Of aged folk, with hoary heads, old as can be; They are the faithful, who never ceased to be True in love, who served in every hour

Without departing, constant in love’s power.

From the day they could understand

The exercise of love’s craft and care,

No one alive took so much in hand

For love, nor would longer the labour bear In service—let it be known everywhere— For when youth’s fullness they had received, In age, no lack of goodwill was perceived.

Here also are those who in council’s shade And in all their deeds were true to Venus;

Here are the princes, great battles arrayed, Of whom new books recall to entertain us;

Here too the poets, experts fellacious,
Through all the world, in love’s sweet lays— Ovid and Homer, singers of bygone days.

After them, down in the next stage,
Where the young folk gamely dance and play; These were they who, in their middle age,

Served love devotedly, come what may:
Diversely it happened that they died one day— Some sorrowful, for want of their beloveds,

Others in arms, for their ladies above them.

Others, again, by various chance

As happens to people day by day:

Some by despair, with no deliverance;

Some with desire, exceeding their own array; Some from disdain or enmity’s sway; Some by unkindness, for no apparent reason; Some for excess; some for all-consuming jealousy’s treason.

And afterward, on that stage below,

Those you see standing in broad, wide cowls:

These were once religious, who in youth would go From the world and all its joys they’d disavow, But, secretly, to love did freely bow—

With bodies, goods, in clandestine devotion spent, And lo, behold why their hoods hang bent:

Though at the trial they were bold once, And served love secretly in their time, To the world’s eye their service was none— A feigned reprieve, half coward and half mime.

For they first renounced love with a public mime, And afterward repented bitterly of such parting, For shame, they hung their hoods as a warning.

Do you see that multitude in line

Standing behind that pleasure’s veil?

Some are those who kept themselves confined, Taken by friends—of no fault to detail— From youth, to the cloister’s pale;

And so now, they come to redress their part, To complain of those who thus beguiled their heart.

Others there, too, come to argue
At love’s court, displeased with the outcome, Because their own hearts and bodies due Could not agree with how their lives had become; Thus, through their days, when others found some Joy and pleasing hours, they knew but care, Their lives but mourning and regret laid bare;

For when their hearts were given and set, Paired with others who could not agree,

They were wronged, those who did not forfeit, Parted by mastery from their chosen love’s decree;

Fair young ladies, and noble lords—see,
Thus unfairly forced from choice, straight, They now are quick to bring their plaint.

Others, I saw, complaining there,
Of fortune and her great variety,
That, where in love’s joy they did share With their sweet mates, in great prosperity,

She suddenly brought separating misery,
Removing them from this world’s array,
Without known cause—no other why to say.

And on a stately chair beside,

With winged might, plumed but face concealed, There sat blind Cupid, love’s proud guide, With bow in hand, and arrows revealed,

Three in a case, their purpose sealed—

Their heads, each made of a different gear, Of diverse metals, forged fair and clear.

With the first, head of gold,
He strikes softly, that is curable and light; The second, of silver, manyfold

Worse than the first, a harder blight;
The third, of steel, is shot outright—
No remedy for him struck by that dart;
On shining yellow locks, a wreath apart—

Of bright green leaves for chaplet above; And in a shaded recess deep and round,

Painted all with sighs—sad for love—
(No sighs of hate, but lovers’ pain profound)— Lay Venus, on her bed, mantled around With a mantle cast on her shoulders white:
Thus was the goddess of delight.

At the door stood Fair Greeting, her usher true, A master of his office, wise and well; And Secrecy, her prudent chamberlain, too, Everbusy in service as befits her cell, And others besides whom I cannot tell;
And on her head, of red roses new,
A chaplet she wore, fresh and due.

With trembling heart, amazed by the sight, I scarce knew what I should say; At last, as best I might with all my might, Hands placed upon both knees, I did essay To pour forth my sorrow in humble way—
And thus with lamented air and care,
I saluted the goddess, radiant and fair:

“High Queen of Love, star of beneficence!
Pitying Princess and merciful planet bright!
Appeaser of enmity, dealer of peace and sense— By purest strength of your heavenly might, Let it please you now, in mercy’s sight, To grant my request, who has nowhere else to go,

Seeking aid from you alone, my woes to show!

You are the comfort and the sweet well

Of remedy, the cure for heavy-hearted care, Within the swelling, warring waves that swell With love’s rage: O blissful haven, anchor there!

O key of our fair fate’s affair!

You have conquered your servant’s will by force; Therefore, mercy—bring my heart to its proper course!

You know the cause of all my painful woe Better than myself, and all my fortune’s bent

You can guide, and as you wish bestow
The hardest heart with nature’s own consent; Since my whole healing in your hands is spent,

Pity me, O blissful goddess bright,
For your poor man—rue his sad plight!

Though I was once a stranger to your law, Through ignorance, not by felony or pride, And now your grace has worked in awe
To change my heart, that I might serve at your side; Forgive all this, by your benignity guide To save me, or let me die right here—
For without your help, death comes near.

With your piercing rays of light,
Direct my heart, so woeful and distraught, Back to the heavenly, sweet sight That I, locked within these cold walls, sought— So sweetly saw, in the morn’s fresh thought,

Low in the garden, right before my eye;
Mercy, O Queen, do not let me die.”

After these words said, my spirit in despair, I paused, awaiting grace’s sign;

Whereupon her crystal eyes so fair
She cast aside, and after some time
Benignly upon me turned her face, divine— Direct and pleasant, thus she spoke, And in these words my fortunes awoke:

“Young man, the cause of your inner sorrow Is not unknown to my divinity,

Nor your plea, both now and before,
When you first professed your loyalty to me; Since by my grace I have inspired thee To learn my law, continue now, take heart— For oft, though I aim hard, I strike soft in part.

Patiently endure your chance,

For thus it pleases my son Cupid and me.

For he strikes the blow; to me pertains

The healing, in due time, so humbly

Wait and serve, let Hope your guide be;

And since your brow is here presented,

More of my intent shall be commented.

Though it is to me alone that pertains
Love’s law and the scepter to wield,
My influences, like rays from Venus’ lanes, With others entwine, destiny must shield;

Sometimes in matters to come and revealed— Not all to me alone belongs the right, As in your case is shown tonight.

For, you see, by other influences led,
Your person now is not freely found;
Thus, though I give you willingness instead, It stands not within my realm’s bound Until certain courses are fulfilled and crowned, Till by true service you win her grace, And time completes its measured pace.

And yet, considering your deficiency—

Of wit, of person, and of might—

There is no match, by your unworthiness, truly, To her high birth, estate, and beauty bright; As different as day is to night,

Or sackcloth to fine crimson be,

Or dock-leaf to the fresh daisy.

Unlike the moon to the shining sun;

January unlike to lusty May;

Unlike the cuckoo to Philomel’s run;

Their garments are not the same array;

Unlike the crow to the jay so gay;

Unlike in goldsmith’s craft—a fish's eye With pearl to pair, or lifted high.

As I said, now it’s my special care

To heal your illness’ heavy load;

But now your case hangs in such air

That it requires for your sake

The help of other gods on this road,

Who know the means and all the lore

To shorten the pain you so deplore.

Thus, that you may see well my intent

To help and guard your welfare true,

Straightway your spirit I have sent

To the goddess whom we call Minerva, too— See that you her precepts carefully construe, For in your case she may supply

The rest your heart so much desires by and by.

And for the way is unfamiliar to you,
Where her dwelling lies and her domain,
I charge that Good Hope, friend and true, Become your guide and banish your pain,

Leading you back to my realm again;
Entreat her well, that she will provide
Good counsel for your welfare and guide.

That she fulfill, as is her office,

To be your lady, helper, guide,

And counsel you with wisdom’s novice,

By which, with labor well applied,

You may attain that golden flower espied You long to have—your heart’s true queen— And since you serve her, let this be seen:

When down to earth you re-descend,
Say to those men resident there below:
How long do they think in my disfavor to wend, Who in my law are so negligent, so slow,

Day by day unwilling even to show
Regret, but break loose and ramble wide?
Is there now none who cares for my pride?

And for,” she said, “the anger and the pain Of their unkindness compels me sore— My woman’s heart is so tender and plain, That then I weep, and as witness, more, From these my tears comes all this rain
You see daily beating the field so fleet— From day to day my torment is so great.

But when I weep and pause a while,

For patience innate in woman’s state,

Then all my wrath and rancor I exile;

And from my crystal tears, pure and straight, The honeyed flowers grow, at fate,

Praying all men, as in flower’s wise,
Be true to Love, and honor my prize.

And also, to show this plaint and tale,

When thus my tears fall to the ground,

By their nature, the little birds fail—

Cease their song, and mourn for that round, And all the stars in the heavens, round For my sorrow show such compassion,

That from the earth they shun apparition.

Yet further in token, when flowers spring And are freshest in hue’s array, When birds in the branches begin to sing, At that time, folk renew each day Their service to Love, as is the way,
As always he most commonly finds
Those who, in sloth before, now change their minds.

Thus may you see that my great effects
To which you most owe and weigh so well, Let not sloth your respect neglect; Therefore speak, as here I tell,
And convey the rest with knowledge to dwell, Thus, upon you, lays I all my charge— To pass my message in words at large.”

Say then, “Where are, for shame,
The new songs, the fresh carols and dance, The merry life, games without name, The bright array, the bold countenance,
The eager watching, the heartfelt observance, Which were among them not long ago?

Bid them repent, and their errors forego:

Or I, with my ancient father Saturn’s aid, And all our heavenly alliance’ force,

Will turn away my aspects fair and staid, So all the world may rue their course.

Bid them timely contrition endorse,
And faithfully renew my law’s rite;
And I my hand from strike will withhold from their sight.

This is to say: continue in my service,

Honor my law, and my name magnify,

That am your heaven and your paradise;

And I your comfort will multiply,

And for your merit here, eternally I

Receive your souls by my grace,

To live with me as gods in this place.’”

With humble thanks and all reverence

That weak wit and knowledge may attain,

I took my leave, and from her presence

Departed with Good Hope, both certain and plain.

In short, he led me the ready lane

Direct to Minerva’s palace, stately and bright, Where soon appeared wisdom’s sight.

There at the gate I found waiting
The master porter, called Patience,
Who let us in freely, without hesitating; There, we saw perfect excellence,

Ceremony renewed, noble reverence,
Strength, beauty, and order dignified—
In her royal court, noble and justly glorified.

And quickly, to the presence divine
Of Lady Minerva, goddess wise,
Good Hope, my guide, led me all the time; To whom, humble in dread’s disguise,

I explained at once the cause of my approach, And all the process, in full intent, Of Venus’ charge which she kindly sent.

To which, her answer was, in brief:

“My son, I have well heard and understand, By your account the nature of your grief, And your request, and will attempt,

By Venus’ counsel and my helping hand,

To offer comfort and cheer to you

To help you with your servitude true.

But in this case, you ought to know and realize— You may place your heart on such a course, That all your service will be of little prize; But you could set it otherwise, of force, To bring you honor and reward perforce;
If you dare that higher way incline,
I will give you my teachings—divine.

See, my good son, thus must you know:
If your love is only based on carnal delight, Your toil is vain, your end is woe; And so your folly turns its face from right To pain and repentance. Would you ask why?

If you set not your virtue in love’s estate, Virtue, truly, will be reason for your fate.

Take Him before all in governance,
Who steers in his hand the fates of all; Pray earnestly to His high providence To guide your love, trust in His call—
That cornerstone, sure foundation of the wall, Never fails: be certain and sincere;

He will lead you toward your purpose near.

For the work that’s founded sure and strong Can bear better, and endure long, Than that begun by hastening wrong;

Such wisdom can be easily understood—

Longer, stronger, will with adversity belong:

Therefore, lay your work upon that stone, And your desire will grow with you, full-grown.

Be true, be meek, be steadfast in your thought, And diligent for her mercy to secure, Not only in word—for word is naught
Unless your work and all your care endure, And all be measured right and pure, For place, for time, for manner, and for wise, If mercy will your service recognize.

All things have their time, Ecclesiastes says; And happy is he who his time abides,

Await your season; for he who only hastes Knows nothing of fortune, the wise man guides;

Often, good fortune with wisdom collides; So, if you ever would have fortune served,

Let wisdom ever to your will be reserved.

Yet many are of fickle sort,

Feigning truth in love for a space,

And bend all wit and every sport

To beguile an innocent woman’s grace,

So win their lustful desires in secret place— All such feigned truth is but treachery, Under cover of deep hypocrisy.

Just as the fowler whistles in his throat Deceivingly, to counterfeit the bird,

Feigns many a sweet and strange note
Hidden in bush, his deception unheard,
Till the bird is fast within his net preferred; Likewise, the dissimulator—the thief so sly— With sugared deceit his prize may occupy.

Shame be upon them! shame on duplicity!
Shame on their base and bestial desire!
Wolfish hearts masked in lambs’ simplicity; Fair words, while thoughts are dark as mire!

Shame on their labor, shame on their aspire— Who feign devotion outwardly, yet Would inwardly ruin a woman’s merit.

How hard is it now to trust mankind!

The world is double, false, unsteady;

Truth betrayed as many times we find.

Pity on those who, honest and ready,

Are tainted by suspicion, false and petty— The guiltless suffer with the base,

Too often, and that’s cause for disgrace.

But if your heart is firm and stable

In God’s law, desiring to attain,

Your labor is to me full agreeable;

With help and counsel, plain and fair, I’ll remain To show you what is certain, clear, and plain—

Open your heart, then, let me see
If your healing is appropriate to me.”

“Madam,” said I, “since it is your wish
That I disclose the nature of my love’s intent, It is truly noble, faithful, without selfish wish, And raises her above all things I might consent; I wish to serve her praise, by Christ who underwent The cross, refusing fatigue, life, and gain— For her, I’d endure all pain.”

And furthermore, as touches the nature

Of my love and my worship or blame,

I dare say, and herewith assure—

No gold, no thing, nothing would claim

From me the shame that would sully her name By any word, deed, or manner, For well or woe, as long as breath may endure.

So is the effect of my intent
Regarding the sweet that pains me still; If this is feigned, I can but repent,

Though forfeit my life for it, and my will, Blissful Lady, I ask nothing but your goodwill— For so my desire compasses my mind,
No other earthly joy I wish to find.

“Desire,” she said, “I deny it not,
If you ground it strong in Christian measure; Therefore, son, speak your heart and thought.”

“Madame, faithfully and without pleasure, That day will never come when my leisure Would covet any joy or delight
That would touch her honor, or impugn her right.

Above all, this would be my glad estate— To see the fresh beauty of her face, And if by labor or loving fate,

I earn the right to find in grace

Her regard, holding her worship safe—

Here is the blest condition I’d maintain As joy enough to fill my life’s domain.”

“Well,” said she, “since you’ve so declared, That in virtue, true love holds your heart,

Help shall be yours, by me prepared,
To take compassion in your pain and smart; For I’ll ask Fortune kindly to take your part So your heart’s path may not meet
With obstacles in sorrow or defeat.

For it is true, all creatures here below Live in different fates by Fortune’s hand, And in her charge, all their destinies go; It is to her that principally is consigned The two lots, of welfare and maligned—
In her care all fate is cast,
For well or woe, from first to last.

Some scholars say that all your chance
Is caused above, in stars’ effect immense, Moving you to fortune’s sway or mischance— That, in the world, is called ‘fortune’ thence, So all their working must cause necessity’s sense.

But others hold, that man himself
May choose his fortune, act or refrain;
No compulsion by heavens to decide or delve, All happens as he designs to attain.

Still, things happen commonly in fortune’s name, When purpose’s aim is thrown astray— Thus, though chance rules, the will still may.

Where a person has prior knowledge
Of what is to befall him by design,
Then fortune is weak,’tis just a pledge; Here’s how, and here’s an example for your mind:

To God—the First Cause—the only kind—
Nothing by fortune can appall;
Why? He foreknows and governs all.

Therefore, then, I say as elucidation:
Fortune’s might is strongest and most keen When there’s least foresight or preparation In man; and since, by rule or reason seen, You are now weak and feeble in the mean, All the more you’re at risk and domain
Of her whom scholars call Fortune again.

Yet for the sake and reverent

Of Venus bright, as before I spoke,

I take pity on your distress and end,

And for comfort, and to soften your yoke, I here advise you: pray Fortune evoke— For, oft and sudden, what’s least expected She turns about, and all is corrected.

Now, go your way and keep well in mind
All I have spoken as your doctrine true.” “I shall, Madame,” I said, and at once, find A straight road as parallel as a line drew; Within a beam, divine—as from the blue—

She, piercing through the firmament, extended, And down on earth my spirit descended.

Where, on a pleasant plain, I took my way Along a river, a lovely sight;

Embroidered all with fresh flowers gay,
Through the gravel, bright as gold in light, The crystal water ran so clear and right—

Ever in my ears the sound continued on,
A gentle music, with harmony shone.

Full of little fishes by the brim,

Here and there, with backs of blue and lead, They leapt and played, and together did swim, So prettily, and would show and spread

Their coral fins, ruby red,

In the sunlight on their scales so bright, They glittered like armor in my sight.

Beside that river, low as I went,

A highway, tall, I found to see;

On every side, trees in long rows bent,

Full of green leaves pleasing to me,

With fruit delicious on each tree—

And, as my mind would next perceive,

Many beasts diverse, I did believe.

The lion, proud king, and his consort too; The panther, shining as emerald stone; The busy squirrel, in tasks ever new;

The slow ass, the pack’s heavy crone;

The foolish ape, and porcupine alone;

The piercing lynx; the loving unicorn,

Who voids out venom with his ivory horn.

There I saw, boldly, the fierce tiger

Fresh from the chase, full of cruelty;

The dromedary, the stately elephant, higher; The wily fox, widows’ enemy; The climbing goat, the elk for archery;

The listening boar, the noble gray dog for hunt; The hare that often travels to the font.

The bison, huge with horns so great;
The marten, sable, marten, and others more; The chalk-white ermine tipped with jet; The royal hart, coney, and the roe;
The wolf, not withholding blood’s aglow; The lively beaver, the unadorned raven there; For camelot, the long-haired camel rare.

And many another beast, so strange and new, Which now at present comes not to my mind.

But to the purpose, I continued through— Recalling from whence I came, trying to find

Fortune, the goddess, whom Good Hope designed To guide me straight and suddenly, too, To where she might soon come into view.

At last, beholding thus aside,
I found a round place, walled so strong; Within whose center, I did espy,

Fortune, the goddess, waiting long;
And close before her feet, among
A wheel, around which, continually,
A crowd of folk swarmed precariously.

A surcoat she wore of colors diverse,

Which, as she would turn, would shift and play; So stood the goddess, Fortune, fortune’s nurse; On her head, a chaplet in fair array,

Adorned with many a fresh bouquet.

From her shoulders, a mantle hung,

Large and long, about her spun.

Furred with ermine, white as the sun,
Sprinkled with black spots, oddly arrayed; In her face, now frowning, now with fun, And next, she’d smile, suddenly displayed; Never one expression staid— But always shifting, ever so,
Her mood in constant overthrow.

Beneath the wheel, I saw there

A ghastly pit, deep as hell’s domain,

At sight of which I quaked with fear—

One thing I heard: whoever there in fell Would not rise up, nor tidings tell;

Astonished, at that fearful sight,
I knew not what to do, struck by fright.

But, to see the sudden swirling whirl
Of that wheel so slippery to grasp,
It seemed most strange to my simple soul— So many struggling up, losing their clasp,

Falling to earth at last, in their grasp; And others, who sat at the wheel’s high crest, Were overthrown in an instant, dispossessed.

Upon the wheel, no idle space

From bottom to top left, nor any slack;

They who sat long in favored place

Soon saw the wheel with overturn crack;

There was but climbing up, or tumbling back; And some, from fall, so hard discouraged found,

They cared not to make another round.

I saw also that, where some were cast

By sudden whirling to the ground,

Fortune would seize them up at last

And set them new upon the wheel’s round; Ever a fresh swarm would abound, Each striving upward in the stead

Of those who by fate were downward led.

At last, in presence of them all,
She called me by my name,
Whereat, falling on my knees, I did fall With sudden greeting, ashamed by my shame.

Smiling, in jest, she spoke the same:
“What do you here? Who sent you hither now?
Tell me your desire, speak, and avow.”

I see well, by your face and mood,
There is something burdening your heart; It stands not with you as you would."

“Madame,” I said, “for love is all the smart That ever I feel, in every part;

Help, of your grace, a wretched one:
You have the power—let me be undone.”

“What aid,” said she, “would you ordain, To bring you to your heart’s desire?”

“Madame,” I replied, “if you would sustain With your great strength and inspire The winning of the well that may quench the fire Wherein I burn; O goddess, fortunate,

Assist now, do not let me meet checkmate!”

“Checkmate?” quoth she, “O truly poor fool, I see well by your deathly pallor pale,

You are too frail, with no means nor tool To climb my wheel’s ascending scale,

You’ve languished so long without avail, And now you miss your very heart’s healing—

You’re a wretched soul, by your own revealing.

That you lack the comfort that should make you glad, And have stored up sorrow to destroy your youth;

Though your beginnings were retrograde,
Through opposition, fortune has unmoved stood; Yet now all these will turn, as Fortune would, And smile down kindly on you, as you yearn.”

With that, she led me to the wheel in haste, And bade me learn to climb without delay;

Whereat I stepped upon, and tried not to waste The time. “Now grasp tight,” she said, “your day And more has run; the morning’s away;
To count the whole, the half is spent—
Use well the remnant in your intent.

Mark this example of those led away

From my wheel, rolled off like a ball;

Its nature always is, after great display, To drop and grant a terrible fall— Thus, whomever I please, up or down I call.

Farewell,” she said; then by the ear she took Me so firmly, that straight I awoke.

O restless soul, flitting to and fro,

Never at ease, never at peace—

’Til you return to the home you know,

Which is your first and truest nest’s lease.

Here, day by day, you are so sorely pressed, With body always troubled, waking and asleep— Your labors doubled, no solace in rest.

Herein, I meant myself to view—
Though once my spirit vexed so by dream, As soon as I awoke, by troubles renewed

Twentyfold, it did truly seem.
Sighing, with anguished heart, in the extremity’s beam, I saw my visions were but dreams and air— No comfort real could ease my care.

So, resolved, I rose from my bed,

Full of thought, pain, and adversity;

And to myself, within my head,

I said, “Alas, Lord, what would you do to me?

What is this life, what spirit is free?

Is this all my anxious thought’s impression, Or a vision sent by heavenly suggestion?"

If you, O gods, by your providence,
Have shown this vision for my comforting, To relieve my furious penance,

I beseech you, give some marking,
For, if my dream was truly a sign,
Let some confirmation now appear—
And forthwith, without further fear,

Swiftly, to the window I walked in haste, Revolving my thoughts of this sight so bright, When, suddenly, a turtledove, pale as paste, So evenly upon my hand alight, And towards me, turned herself outright— And by the bird’s demeanor there,

Gave me hope and comfort fair.

In her bill, she held with care
A branch of laurels, stalks fresh and green, On which was written in letters rare—

Golden script and branches seen—
A plain sentence, circled neat and clean, Which, as I remember, in essence said In these very words as I read:

“Awake! Awake! O lover, awake!

I bring glad news, certain and sure,

Blissful tidings, now laugh, play, and sing, For such fortune stands by your door; In heaven, by decree, your cure

Is ordained.” Then she presented the branch to me, Spread wings, and departed forth gracefully.

At once I took it for my own—
A hundred times, before aught more I tried, I read it, heart brimming with joy grown; With hope and doubt, I clasped it, and applied It to my bed’s head, where it would abide—

Pinned it fair with best intent—
The first token of bliss and content.

From then, day by day anew,

My troubled wits, sore pressed before,

By fortune’s grace, found healing’s dew; Shortly after, more and more, My learning quickened, pain no more;

Returns my freedom, as I see—

Bliss, with her who is queen to me.

Should any one ask why I should tell

Of such a little happiness in the end,

Here’s my answer: Who crawls from hell

To heaven would thank for joy without amend— Every heart knows its own pain and bend, Most of all its pleasure, most its grief, Such memory, I say to you, is chief.

And who in life may have more delight,
Than to move from prison to liberty gained, By love’s device and gold chain bright, Who sets his heart’s desire obtained?
Who should blame me writing thus explained— Sufficing is my felicity, you see,

Let all my pleasure end in me.

I pray to fair Venus on high—

For all my brothers here in this place,

To say that servants to love can testify:

May he win soon his lady’s grace,

So his pain quickly finds solace,

Without offence to reason or her,

So that only honor may confer.

Also, for those not yet engaged
In love’s dance, who yet approach its way, May their apprenticeship be well staged— And, further, I pray for those who may,
Having suffered much, find love’s full day— To grant them, O great perseverance, In love’s joys, unbroken in constance.

And for all hearts dull and slow,

Who live in sloth and ignorance bland,

No courage to pull the rose and grow,

Let them mend their life, their soul expand With love’s sweet lore, and fate’s command; But those who will not turn with this prayer, May stumble when success seems near.

To recount every circumstance,
As my pain and fortune did begin to wane, Would be too long; I let it pass with chance.

Thus this fair flower, I cannot more explain; So kindly has she focused on my gain— So much as to keep me safe from death, defend Her loyal man, and to his aid attend.

Merciful gods, all waking,

For my long pain and loyal service due,

Have now granted all I was seeking—

My heart forever set above, true;

In perfect joy that never may remove,

Except by death, in praise and grateful song, With thankful heart I render all along:

“Blessed be the high gods all,

Shining in the firmament so bright;

Blessed their powers celestial,

Who have united, all in right,

My love, in consequence so blest in sight; Thanks to Fortune’s branching tree and wheel, That has thus well turned my ordeal.”

Blessed be the nightingale as well,

Who, with such good intent,

Sang there of love both soft and swell,

Where my heart’s lady was present,

Her to cheer before she went;

And you, garland flower, my thanks are due Above all blooms, for love of you!

Thanks be the fair castle wall,

Where sometimes I looked and leant;

Thank the patron saints, spiritual all,

Who brought about this accident;

Thank the green boughs, fresh and bent,

Beneath and through whom I saw by chance— My heart’s healing, comfort, and advance.

For, to the fair and sweet presence,

Of this flower full of delight,

By providence divine, and gracious influence, And then by long and true service right, With loyal heart by day and night,

I am, I say, by faith and love’s employ, Now more than ever filled with joy.

Unworthy, save through her grace, alone
In love’s peace, so easy and sure,
And as reward for all the years I’ve known Her, she has taken me, humble and pure.

Thus came my blissful adventure,
In solemn love, which day by day anew
Flowers ever fresh, and these more I say too:

Go, little treatise, clothed in humble speech, Let the simple and poor recognize their part;

Pray your reader, with patience to teach, To pardon your faults, from the heart; To guide and rule, for eloquence is art— So your imperfections may be covered here, By another’s wise tongue and ear.

Alas! Should you come before the wise,
Where most you would escape blame for your lot, With your rude, crooked phrases to their eyes— Who shall then pray for you and plead, I wot?
No one, unless she, who by mercy taught, Is your guide and counselor near; To her, pitifully, your cause adhere.

And thus ends the fatal influence,
Sent from heaven, whose governing might
Is administered there by holy excellence, By Him who sits on high in heaven’s height.

To whom we give thanks for all his light, Who can read all, year after year, In heaven’s figure, clear and clear.

To the pupils of my masters dear—
Gower and Chaucer—who, in life’s estate, Sat on steps of rhetoric while here,

Preeminent as laureate poets delphicate
In morality and eloquence ornate,
I recommend my book in seven-fold rhyme, And their souls to bliss in heaven for all time. Amen.

Colophon

This edition of the works of James I of Scotland reproduces texts from public domain editions. The Kingis Quair, composed during the king's long captivity in England (c. 1406–1424), stands as one of the great achievements of Middle Scots literature, blending Chaucerian romance with Boethian philosophy.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

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