Three random poems from PoetryDB
O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud, Then when the Dragon, put to second rout, Came furious down to be revenged on men, Woe to the inhabitants on earth! that now, While time was, our first parents had been warned The coming of their secret foe, and 'scaped, Haply so 'scaped his mortal snare: For now Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down, The tempter ere the accuser of mankind, To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell: Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast, Begins his dire attempt; which nigh the birth Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast, And like a devilish engine back recoils Upon himself; horrour and doubt distract His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir The Hell within him; for within him Hell He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell One step, no more than from himself, can fly By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair, That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue. Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad; Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun, Which now sat high in his meridian tower: Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began. O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned, Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, Of Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King: Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright eminence, and with his good Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. What could be less than to afford him praise, The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks, How due! yet all his good proved ill in me, And wrought but malice; lifted up so high I sdeined subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burdensome still paying, still to owe, Forgetful what from him I still received, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and discharged; what burden then O, had his powerful destiny ordained Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised Ambition! Yet why not some other Power As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within Or from without, to all temptations armed. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand? Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse, But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe. Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will Chose freely what it now so justly rues. Me miserable! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven. O, then, at last relent: Is there no place Left for repentance, none for pardon left? None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced With other promises and other vaunts Than to submit, boasting I could subdue The Omnipotent. Ay me! they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain, Under what torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of Hell. With diadem and scepter high advanced, The lower still I fall, only supreme In misery: Such joy ambition finds. But say I could repent, and could obtain, By act of grace, my former state; how soon Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay What feigned submission swore? Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void. For never can true reconcilement grow, Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep: Which would but lead me to a worse relapse And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear Short intermission bought with double smart. This knows my Punisher; therefore as far From granting he, as I from begging, peace; All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead Mankind created, and for him this world. So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear; Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost; Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know. Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair; Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld. For heavenly minds from such distempers foul Are ever clear. Whereof he soon aware, Each perturbation smoothed with outward calm, Artificer of fraud; and was the first That practised falsehood under saintly show, Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge: Yet not enough had practised to deceive Uriel once warned; whose eye pursued him down The way he went, and on the Assyrian mount Saw him disfigured, more than could befall Spirit of happy sort; his gestures fierce He marked and mad demeanour, then alone, As he supposed, all unobserved, unseen. So on he fares, and to the border comes Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champaign head Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides Access denied; and overhead upgrew Insuperable height of loftiest shade, Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend, Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung; Which to our general sire gave prospect large Into his nether empire neighbouring round. And higher than that wall a circling row Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed: On which the sun more glad impressed his beams Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed That landskip: And of pure now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair: Now gentle gales, Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole Those balmy spoils. As when to them who fail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past Mozambick, off at sea north-east winds blow Sabean odours from the spicy shore Of Araby the blest; with such delay Well pleased they slack their course, and many a league Cheered with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles: So entertained those odorous sweets the Fiend, Who came their bane; though with them better pleased Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume That drove him, though enamoured, from the spouse Of Tobit's son, and with a vengeance sent From Media post to Egypt, there fast bound. Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow; But further way found none, so thick entwined, As one continued brake, the undergrowth Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed All path of man or beast that passed that way. One gate there only was, and that looked east On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw, Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt, At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within Lights on his feet. As when a prowling wolf, Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey, Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve In hurdled cotes amid the field secure, Leaps o'er the fence with ease into the fold: Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors, Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault, In at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles: So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold; So since into his church lewd hirelings climb. Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life, The middle tree and highest there that grew, Sat like a cormorant; yet not true life Thereby regained, but sat devising death To them who lived; nor on the virtue thought Of that life-giving plant, but only used For prospect, what well used had been the pledge Of immortality. So little knows Any, but God alone, to value right The good before him, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use. Beneath him with new wonder now he views, To all delight of human sense exposed, In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more, A Heaven on Earth: For blissful Paradise Of God the garden was, by him in the east Of Eden planted; Eden stretched her line From Auran eastward to the royal towers Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian kings, Of where the sons of Eden long before Dwelt in Telassar: In this pleasant soil His far more pleasant garden God ordained; Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste; And all amid them stood the tree of life, High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit Of vegetable gold; and next to life, Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by, Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill. Southward through Eden went a river large, Nor changed his course, but through the shaggy hill Passed underneath ingulfed; for God had thrown That mountain as his garden-mould high raised Upon the rapid current, which, through veins Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill Watered the garden; thence united fell Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, Which from his darksome passage now appears, And now, divided into four main streams, Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm And country, whereof here needs no account; But rather to tell how, if Art could tell, How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, With mazy errour under pendant shades Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, Both where the morning sun first warmly smote The open field, and where the unpierced shade Imbrowned the noontide bowers: Thus was this place A happy rural seat of various view; Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm, Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true, If true, here only, and of delicious taste: Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks Grazing the tender herb, were interposed, Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap Of some irriguous valley spread her store, Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose: Another side, umbrageous grots and caves Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps Luxuriant; mean while murmuring waters fall Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned Her crystal mirrour holds, unite their streams. The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, Led on the eternal Spring. Not that fair field Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired Castalian spring, might with this Paradise Of Eden strive; nor that Nyseian isle Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham, Whom Gentiles Ammon call and Libyan Jove, Hid Amalthea, and her florid son Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye; Nor where Abassin kings their issue guard, Mount Amara, though this by some supposed True Paradise under the Ethiop line By Nilus' head, enclosed with shining rock, A whole day's journey high, but wide remote From this Assyrian garden, where the Fiend Saw, undelighted, all delight, all kind Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, Godlike erect, with native honour clad In naked majesty seemed lords of all: And worthy seemed; for in their looks divine The image of their glorious Maker shone, Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, (Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,) Whence true authority in men; though both Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed; For contemplation he and valour formed; For softness she and sweet attractive grace; He for God only, she for God in him: His fair large front and eye sublime declared Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks Round from his parted forelock manly hung Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad: She, as a veil, down to the slender waist Her unadorned golden tresses wore Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied Subjection, but required with gentle sway, And by her yielded, by him best received, Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay. Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed; Then was not guilty shame, dishonest shame Of nature's works, honour dishonourable, Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind With shows instead, mere shows of seeming pure, And banished from man's life his happiest life, Simplicity and spotless innocence! So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill: So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair, That ever since in love's embraces met; Adam the goodliest man of men since born His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve. Under a tuft of shade that on a green Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain side They sat them down; and, after no more toil Of their sweet gardening labour than sufficed To recommend cool Zephyr, and made ease More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite More grateful, to their supper-fruits they fell, Nectarine fruits which the compliant boughs Yielded them, side-long as they sat recline On the soft downy bank damasked with flowers: The savoury pulp they chew, and in the rind, Still as they thirsted, scoop the brimming stream; Nor gentle purpose, nor endearing smiles Wanted, nor youthful dalliance, as beseems Fair couple, linked in happy nuptial league, Alone as they. About them frisking played All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase In wood or wilderness, forest or den; Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards, Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant, To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed His lithe proboscis; close the serpent sly, Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine His braided train, and of his fatal guile Gave proof unheeded; others on the grass Couched, and now filled with pasture gazing sat, Or bedward ruminating; for the sun, Declined, was hasting now with prone career To the ocean isles, and in the ascending scale Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose: When Satan still in gaze, as first he stood, Scarce thus at length failed speech recovered sad. O Hell! what do mine eyes with grief behold! Into our room of bliss thus high advanced Creatures of other mould, earth-born perhaps, Not Spirits, yet to heavenly Spirits bright Little inferiour; whom my thoughts pursue With wonder, and could love, so lively shines In them divine resemblance, and such grace The hand that formed them on their shape hath poured. Ah! gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish, and deliver ye to woe; More woe, the more your taste is now of joy; Happy, but for so happy ill secured Long to continue, and this high seat your Heaven Ill fenced for Heaven to keep out such a foe As now is entered; yet no purposed foe To you, whom I could pity thus forlorn, Though I unpitied: League with you I seek, And mutual amity, so strait, so close, That I with you must dwell, or you with me Henceforth; my dwelling haply may not please, Like this fair Paradise, your sense; yet such Accept your Maker's work; he gave it me, Which I as freely give: Hell shall unfold, To entertain you two, her widest gates, And send forth all her kings; there will be room, Not like these narrow limits, to receive Your numerous offspring; if no better place, Thank him who puts me loth to this revenge On you who wrong me not for him who wronged. And should I at your harmless innocence Melt, as I do, yet publick reason just, Honour and empire with revenge enlarged, By conquering this new world, compels me now To do what else, though damned, I should abhor. So spake the Fiend, and with necessity, The tyrant's plea, excused his devilish deeds. Then from his lofty stand on that high tree Down he alights among the sportful herd Of those four-footed kinds, himself now one, Now other, as their shape served best his end Nearer to view his prey, and, unespied, To mark what of their state he more might learn, By word or action marked. About them round A lion now he stalks with fiery glare; Then as a tiger, who by chance hath spied In some purlieu two gentle fawns at play, Straight couches close, then, rising, changes oft His couchant watch, as one who chose his ground, Whence rushing, he might surest seize them both, Griped in each paw: when, Adam first of men To first of women Eve thus moving speech, Turned him, all ear to hear new utterance flow. Sole partner, and sole part, of all these joys, Dearer thyself than all; needs must the Power That made us, and for us this ample world, Be infinitely good, and of his good As liberal and free as infinite; That raised us from the dust, and placed us here In all this happiness, who at his hand Have nothing merited, nor can perform Aught whereof he hath need; he who requires From us no other service than to keep This one, this easy charge, of all the trees In Paradise that bear delicious fruit So various, not to taste that only tree Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life; So near grows death to life, whate'er death is, Some dreadful thing no doubt; for well thou knowest God hath pronounced it death to taste that tree, The only sign of our obedience left, Among so many signs of power and rule Conferred upon us, and dominion given Over all other creatures that possess Earth, air, and sea. Then let us not think hard One easy prohibition, who enjoy Free leave so large to all things else, and choice Unlimited of manifold delights: But let us ever praise him, and extol His bounty, following our delightful task, To prune these growing plants, and tend these flowers, Which were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet. To whom thus Eve replied. O thou for whom And from whom I was formed, flesh of thy flesh, And without whom am to no end, my guide And head! what thou hast said is just and right. For we to him indeed all praises owe, And daily thanks; I chiefly, who enjoy So far the happier lot, enjoying thee Pre-eminent by so much odds, while thou Like consort to thyself canst no where find. That day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound Of waters issued from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved Pure as the expanse of Heaven; I thither went With unexperienced thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite A shape within the watery gleam appeared, Bending to look on me: I started back, It started back; but pleased I soon returned, Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks Of sympathy and love: There I had fixed Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, Had not a voice thus warned me; 'What thou seest, 'What there thou seest, fair Creature, is thyself; 'With thee it came and goes: but follow me, 'And I will bring thee where no shadow stays 'Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he 'Whose image thou art; him thou shalt enjoy 'Inseparably thine, to him shalt bear 'Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called 'Mother of human race.' What could I do, But follow straight, invisibly thus led? Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, Under a platane; yet methought less fair, Less winning soft, less amiably mild, Than that smooth watery image: Back I turned; Thou following cryedst aloud, 'Return, fair Eve; 'Whom flyest thou? whom thou flyest, of him thou art, 'His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent 'Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, 'Substantial life, to have thee by my side 'Henceforth an individual solace dear; 'Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim 'My other half:' With that thy gentle hand Seised mine: I yielded;and from that time see How beauty is excelled by manly grace, And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. So spake our general mother, and with eyes Of conjugal attraction unreproved, And meek surrender, half-embracing leaned On our first father; half her swelling breast Naked met his, under the flowing gold Of her loose tresses hid: he in delight Both of her beauty, and submissive charms, Smiled with superiour love, as Jupiter On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds That shed Mayflowers; and pressed her matron lip With kisses pure: Aside the Devil turned For envy; yet with jealous leer malign Eyed them askance, and to himself thus plained. Sight hateful, sight tormenting! thus these two, Imparadised in one another's arms, The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill Of bliss on bliss; while I to Hell am thrust, Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire, Among our other torments not the least, Still unfulfilled with pain of longing pines. Yet let me not forget what I have gained From their own mouths: All is not theirs, it seems; One fatal tree there stands, of knowledge called, Forbidden them to taste: Knowledge forbidden Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord Envy them that? Can it be sin to know? Can it be death? And do they only stand By ignorance? Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith? O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin! hence I will excite their minds With more desire to know, and to reject Envious commands, invented with design To keep them low, whom knowledge might exalt Equal with Gods: aspiring to be such, They taste and die: What likelier can ensue But first with narrow search I must walk round This garden, and no corner leave unspied; A chance but chance may lead where I may meet Some wandering Spirit of Heaven by fountain side, Or in thick shade retired, from him to draw What further would be learned. Live while ye may, Yet happy pair; enjoy, till I return, Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed! So saying, his proud step he scornful turned, But with sly circumspection, and began Through wood, through waste, o'er hill, o'er dale, his roam Mean while in utmost longitude, where Heaven With earth and ocean meets, the setting sun Slowly descended, and with right aspect Against the eastern gate of Paradise Levelled his evening rays: It was a rock Of alabaster, piled up to the clouds, Conspicuous far, winding with one ascent Accessible from earth, one entrance high; The rest was craggy cliff, that overhung Still as it rose, impossible to climb. Betwixt these rocky pillars Gabriel sat, Chief of the angelick guards, awaiting night; About him exercised heroick games The unarmed youth of Heaven, but nigh at hand Celestial armoury, shields, helms, and spears, Hung high with diamond flaming, and with gold. Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even On a sun-beam, swift as a shooting star In autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired Impress the air, and shows the mariner From what point of his compass to beware Impetuous winds: He thus began in haste. Gabriel, to thee thy course by lot hath given Charge and strict watch, that to this happy place No evil thing approach or enter in. This day at highth of noon came to my sphere A Spirit, zealous, as he seemed, to know More of the Almighty's works, and chiefly Man, God's latest image: I described his way Bent all on speed, and marked his aery gait; But in the mount that lies from Eden north, Where he first lighted, soon discerned his looks Alien from Heaven, with passions foul obscured: Mine eye pursued him still, but under shade Lost sight of him: One of the banished crew, I fear, hath ventured from the deep, to raise New troubles; him thy care must be to find. To whom the winged warriour thus returned. Uriel, no wonder if thy perfect sight, Amid the sun's bright circle where thou sitst, See far and wide: In at this gate none pass The vigilance here placed, but such as come Well known from Heaven; and since meridian hour No creature thence: If Spirit of other sort, So minded, have o'er-leaped these earthly bounds On purpose, hard thou knowest it to exclude Spiritual substance with corporeal bar. But if within the circuit of these walks, In whatsoever shape he lurk, of whom Thou tellest, by morrow dawning I shall know. So promised he; and Uriel to his charge Returned on that bright beam, whose point now raised Bore him slope downward to the sun now fallen Beneath the Azores; whether the prime orb, Incredible how swift, had thither rolled Diurnal, or this less volubil earth, By shorter flight to the east, had left him there Arraying with reflected purple and gold The clouds that on his western throne attend. Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleased: Now glowed the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve. Fair Consort, the hour Of night, and all things now retired to rest, Mind us of like repose; since God hath set Labour and rest, as day and night, to men Successive; and the timely dew of sleep, Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines Our eye-lids: Other creatures all day long Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest; Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity, And the regard of Heaven on all his ways; While other animals unactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour, to reform Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth: Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease; Mean while, as Nature wills, night bids us rest. To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned My Author and Disposer, what thou bidst Unargued I obey: So God ordains; God is thy law, thou mine: To know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. With thee conversing I forget all time; All seasons, and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train: But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers; Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night, With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet. But wherefore all night long shine these? for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes? To whom our general ancestor replied. Daughter of God and Man, accomplished Eve, These have their course to finish round the earth, By morrow evening, and from land to land In order, though to nations yet unborn, Ministring light prepared, they set and rise; Lest total Darkness should by night regain Her old possession, and extinguish life In Nature and all things; which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat Of various influence foment and warm, Temper or nourish, or in part shed down Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain; nor think, though men were none, That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise: Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep: All these with ceaseless praise his works behold Both day and night: How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to others note, Singing their great Creator? oft in bands While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonick number joined, their songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed On to their blissful bower: it was a place Chosen by the sovran Planter, when he framed All things to Man's delightful use; the roof Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, Iris all hues, roses, and jessamin, Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought Mosaick; underfoot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay Broidered the ground, more coloured than with stone Of costliest emblem: Other creature here, Bird, beast, insect, or worm, durst enter none, Such was their awe of Man. In shadier bower More sacred and sequestered, though but feigned, Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess, With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs, Espoused Eve decked first her nuptial bed; And heavenly quires the hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorned, More lovely, than Pandora, whom the Gods Endowed with all their gifts, and O! too like In sad event, when to the unwiser son Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged On him who had stole Jove's authentick fire. Thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, Both turned, and under open sky adored The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, And starry pole: Thou also madest the night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, Which we, in our appointed work employed, Have finished, happy in our mutual help And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss Ordained by thee; and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promised from us two a race To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into their inmost bower Handed they went; and, eased the putting off These troublesome disguises which we wear, Straight side by side were laid; nor turned, I ween, Adam from his fair spouse, nor Eve the rites Mysterious of connubial love refused: Whatever hypocrites austerely talk Of purity, and place, and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids encrease; who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Hail, wedded Love, mysterious law, true source Of human offspring, sole propriety In Paradise of all things common else! By thee adulterous Lust was driven from men Among the bestial herds to range; by thee Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure, Relations dear, and all the charities Of father, son, and brother, first were known. Far be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual fountain of domestick sweets, Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced, Present, or past, as saints and patriarchs used. Here Love his golden shafts employs, here lights His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of harlots, loveless, joyless, unendeared, Casual fruition; nor in court-amours, Mixed dance, or wanton mask, or midnight ball, Or serenate, which the starved lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These, lulled by nightingales, embracing slept, And on their naked limbs the flowery roof Showered roses, which the morn repaired. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O!yet happiest, if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measured with her shadowy cone Half way up hill this vast sublunar vault, And from their ivory port the Cherubim, Forth issuing at the accustomed hour, stood armed To their night watches in warlike parade; When Gabriel to his next in power thus spake. Uzziel, half these draw off, and coast the south With strictest watch; these other wheel the north; Our circuit meets full west. As flame they part, Half wheeling to the shield, half to the spear. From these, two strong and subtle Spirits he called That near him stood, and gave them thus in charge. Ithuriel and Zephon, with winged speed Search through this garden, leave unsearched no nook; But chiefly where those two fair creatures lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep, secure of harm. This evening from the sun's decline arrived, Who tells of some infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escaped The bars of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such, where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant files, Dazzling the moon; these to the bower direct In search of whom they sought: Him there they found Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, Assaying by his devilish art to reach The organs of her fancy, and with them forge Illusions, as he list, phantasms and dreams; Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint The animal spirits, that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from rivers pure, thence raise At least distempered, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires, Blown up with high conceits ingendering pride. Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear Touched lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: Up he starts Discovered and surprised. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous powder, laid Fit for the tun some magazine to store Against a rumoured war, the smutty grain, With sudden blaze diffused, inflames the air; So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels, half amazed So sudden to behold the grisly king; Yet thus, unmoved with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebel Spirits adjudged to Hell Comest thou, escaped thy prison? and, transformed, Why sat'st thou like an enemy in wait, Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said Satan, filled with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar: Not to know me argues yourselves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or, if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminished brightness to be known, As when thou stoodest in Heaven upright and pure; That glory then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee; and thou resemblest now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foul. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherub; and his grave rebuke, Severe in youthful beauty, added grace Invincible: Abashed the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined His loss; but chiefly to find here observed His lustre visibly impaired; yet seemed Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the sender, not the sent, Or all at once; more glory will be won, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said Zephon bold, Will save us trial what the least can do Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend replied not, overcome with rage; But, like a proud steed reined, went haughty on, Champing his iron curb: To strive or fly He held it vain; awe from above had quelled His heart, not else dismayed. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, and closing stood in squadron joined, A waiting next command. To whom their Chief, Gabriel, from the front thus called aloud. O friends! I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimpse discern Ithuriel and Zephon through the shade; And with them comes a third of regal port, But faded splendour wan; who by his gait And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approached, And brief related whom they brought, where found, How busied, in what form and posture couched. To whom with stern regard thus Gabriel spake. Why hast thou, Satan, broke the bounds prescribed To thy transgressions, and disturbed the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Employed, it seems, to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss! To whom thus Satan with contemptuous brow. Gabriel? thou hadst in Heaven the esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question asked Puts me in doubt. Lives there who loves his pain! Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomed! Thou wouldst thyself, no doubt And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, and soonest recompense Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason, who knowest only good, But evil hast not tried: and wilt object His will who bounds us! Let him surer bar His iron gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: Thus much what was asked. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harm. Thus he in scorn. The warlike Angel moved, Disdainfully half smiling, thus replied. O loss of one in Heaven to judge of wise Since Satan fell, whom folly overthrew, And now returns him from his prison 'scaped, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicensed from his bounds in Hell prescribed; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to 'scape his punishment! So judge thou still, presumptuous! till the wrath, Which thou incurrest by flying, meet thy flight Sevenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provoked. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all hell broke loose? or thou than they Less hardy to endure? Courageous Chief! The first in flight from pain! hadst thou alleged To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answered, frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel! well thou knowest I stood Thy fiercest, when in battle to thy aid The blasting vollied thunder made all speed, And seconded thy else not dreaded spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behoves From hard assays and ill successes past A faithful leader, not to hazard all Through ways of danger by himself untried: I, therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate abyss, and spy This new created world, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on earth, or in mid air; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve their Lord High up in Heaven, with songs to hymn his throne, And practised distances to cringe, not fight, To whom the warriour Angel soon replied. To say and straight unsay, pretending first Wise to fly pain, professing next the spy, Argues no leader but a liear traced, Satan, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profaned! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Army of Fiends, fit body to fit head. Was this your discipline and faith engaged, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegiance to the acknowledged Power supreme? And thou, sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more than thou Once fawned, and cringed, and servily adored Heaven's awful Monarch? wherefore, but in hope To dispossess him, and thyself to reign? But mark what I arreed thee now, Avant; Fly neither whence thou fledst! If from this hour Within these hallowed limits thou appear, Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chained, And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn The facile gates of Hell too slightly barred. So threatened he; but Satan to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage replied. Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, Proud limitary Cherub! but ere then Far heavier load thyself expect to feel From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, Us'd to the yoke, drawest his triumphant wheels In progress through the road of Heaven star-paved. While thus he spake, the angelick squadron bright Turned fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns Their phalanx, and began to hem him round With ported spears, as thick as when a field Of Ceres ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind Sways them; the careful plowman doubting stands, Left on the threshing floor his hopeless sheaves Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarmed, Collecting all his might, dilated stood, Like Teneriff or Atlas, unremoved: His stature reached the sky, and on his crest Sat Horrour plumed; nor wanted in his grasp What seemed both spear and shield: Now dreadful deeds Might have ensued, nor only Paradise In this commotion, but the starry cope Of Heaven perhaps, or all the elements At least had gone to wrack, disturbed and torn With violence of this conflict, had not soon The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign, Wherein all things created first he weighed, The pendulous round earth with balanced air In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battles and realms: In these he put two weights, The sequel each of parting and of fight: The latter quick up flew, and kicked the beam, Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the Fiend. Satan, I know thy strength, and thou knowest mine; Neither our own, but given: What folly then To boast what arms can do? since thine no more Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now To trample thee as mire: For proof look up, And read thy lot in yon celestial sign; Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend looked up, and knew His mounted scale aloft: Nor more;but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night.
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child;--
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:--
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine
Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,
"Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
A higher summons:--still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won
A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit's wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray:--nor can I now--so on
I move to the end in lowliness of heart.----
"Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air--let me but die at home."
Endymion to heaven's airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.
"Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet
That I may worship them? No eyelids meet
To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes
Redemption sparkles!--I am sad and lost."
Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air,
Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear
A woman's sigh alone and in distress?
See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless?
Phoebe is fairer far--O gaze no more:--
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store,
Behold her panting in the forest grass!
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass
For tenderness the arms so idly lain
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain,
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search
After some warm delight, that seems to perch
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond
Their upper lids?--Hist! "O for Hermes' wand
To touch this flower into human shape!
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape
From his green prison, and here kneeling down
Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown!
Ah me, how I could love!--My soul doth melt
For the unhappy youth--Love! I have felt
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender,
That but for tears my life had fled away!--
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,
There is no lightning, no authentic dew
But in the eye of love: there's not a sound,
Melodious howsoever, can confound
The heavens and earth in one to such a death
As doth the voice of love: there's not a breath
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
Of passion from the heart!"--
Upon a bough
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now
Thirst for another love: O impious,
That he can even dream upon it thus!--
Thought he, "Why am I not as are the dead,
Since to a woe like this I have been led
Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea?
Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee
By Juno's smile I turn not--no, no, no--
While the great waters are at ebb and flow.--
I have a triple soul! O fond pretence--
For both, for both my love is so immense,
I feel my heart is cut in twain for them."
And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain.
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously.
He sprang from his green covert: there she lay,
Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries.
"Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity!
O pardon me, for I am full of grief--
Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief!
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith
I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith
Thou art my executioner, and I feel
Loving and hatred, misery and weal,
Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,
And all my story that much passion slew me;
Do smile upon the evening of my days:
And, for my tortur'd brain begins to craze,
Be thou my nurse; and let me understand
How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.--
Dost weep for me? Then should I be content.
Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament
Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth
Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth
Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst
To meet oblivion."--As her heart would burst
The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied:
"Why must such desolation betide
As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks
Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks
Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush,
Schooling its half-fledg'd little ones to brush
About the dewy forest, whisper tales?--
Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails
Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt,
Methinks 'twould be a guilt--a very guilt--
Not to companion thee, and sigh away
The light--the dusk--the dark--till break of day!"
"Dear lady," said Endymion, "'tis past:
I love thee! and my days can never last.
That I may pass in patience still speak:
Let me have music dying, and I seek
No more delight--I bid adieu to all.
Didst thou not after other climates call,
And murmur about Indian streams?"--Then she,
Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,
For pity sang this roundelay------
"O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?--
To give maiden blushes
To the white rose bushes?
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
"O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?--
To give the glow-worm light?
Or, on a moonless night,
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?
"O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?--
To give at evening pale
Unto the nightingale,
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?
"O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?--
A lover would not tread
A cowslip on the head,
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day--
Nor any drooping flower
Held sacred for thy bower,
Wherever he may sport himself and play.
"To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly;
She is so constant to me, and so kind:
I would deceive her
And so leave her,
But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
"Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
I sat a weeping: in the whole world wide
There was no one to ask me why I wept,--
And so I kept
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
Cold as my fears.
"Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
I sat a weeping: what enamour'd bride,
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,
But hides and shrouds
Beneath dark palm trees by a river side?
"And as I sat, over the light blue hills
There came a noise of revellers: the rills
Into the wide stream came of purple hue--
'Twas Bacchus and his crew!
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
From kissing cymbals made a merry din--
'Twas Bacchus and his kin!
Like to a moving vintage down they came,
Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame;
All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,
To scare thee, Melancholy!
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly
By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,
Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon:--
I rush'd into the folly!
"Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,
With sidelong laughing;
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white
For Venus' pearly bite;
And near him rode Silenus on his ass,
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass
Tipsily quaffing.
"Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye!
So many, and so many, and such glee?
Why have ye left your bowers desolate,
Your lutes, and gentler fate?--
‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing?
A conquering!
Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:--
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
To our wild minstrelsy!'
"Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye!
So many, and so many, and such glee?
Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left
Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?--
‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,
And cold mushrooms;
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;
Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth!--
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
To our mad minstrelsy!'
"Over wide streams and mountains great we went,
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,
With Asian elephants:
Onward these myriads--with song and dance,
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance,
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil:
With toying oars and silken sails they glide,
Nor care for wind and tide.
"Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes,
From rear to van they scour about the plains;
A three days' journey in a moment done:
And always, at the rising of the sun,
About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,
On spleenful unicorn.
"I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown
Before the vine-wreath crown!
I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing
To the silver cymbals' ring!
I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce
Old Tartary the fierce!
The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail,
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,
And all his priesthood moans;
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale.--
Into these regions came I following him,
Sick hearted, weary--so I took a whim
To stray away into these forests drear
Alone, without a peer:
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.
"Young stranger!
I've been a ranger
In search of pleasure throughout every clime:
Alas! 'tis not for me!
Bewitch'd I sure must be,
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.
"Come then, Sorrow!
Sweetest Sorrow!
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:
I thought to leave thee
And deceive thee,
But now of all the world I love thee best.
"There is not one,
No, no, not one
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
Thou art her mother,
And her brother,
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."
O what a sigh she gave in finishing,
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her;
And listened to the wind that now did stir
About the crisped oaks full drearily,
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be
Remember'd from its velvet summer song.
At last he said: "Poor lady, how thus long
Have I been able to endure that voice?
Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice;
I must be thy sad servant evermore:
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.
Alas, I must not think--by Phoebe, no!
Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?
O thou could'st foster me beyond the brink
Of recollection! make my watchful care
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair!
Do gently murder half my soul, and I
Shall feel the other half so utterly!--
I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth;
O let it blush so ever! let it soothe
My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm
With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.--
This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;
And this is sure thine other softling--this
Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!
Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear!
And whisper one sweet word that I may know
This is this world--sweet dewy blossom!"--Woe!
Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?--
Even these words went echoing dismally
Through the wide forest--a most fearful tone,
Like one repenting in his latest moan;
And while it died away a shade pass'd by,
As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly
Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth
Their timid necks and tremble; so these both
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so
Waiting for some destruction--when lo,
Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime
Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt
Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt
One moment from his home: only the sward
He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward
Swifter than sight was gone--even before
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear
Above the crystal circlings white and clear;
And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise,
How they can dive in sight and unseen rise--
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,
Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.
The youth of Caria plac'd the lovely dame
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame
The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew,
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew
Exhal'd to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone,
Far from the earth away--unseen, alone,
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,
The buoyant life of song can floating be
Above their heads, and follow them untir'd.--
Muse of my native land, am I inspir'd?
This is the giddy air, and I must spread
Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread
Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance
Precipitous: I have beneath my glance
Those towering horses and their mournful freight.
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?--
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade
From some approaching wonder, and behold
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold
Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,
Dying to embers from their native fire!
There curl'd a purple mist around them; soon,
It seem'd as when around the pale new moon
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow:
'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.
For the first time, since he came nigh dead born
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn
Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,
He felt aloof the day and morning's prime--
Because into his depth Cimmerian
There came a dream, shewing how a young man,
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin,
Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win
An immortality, and how espouse
Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house.
Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate,
That he might at the threshold one hour wait
To hear the marriage melodies, and then
Sink downward to his dusky cave again.
His litter of smooth semilucent mist,
Diversely ting'd with rose and amethyst,
Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;
And scarcely for one moment could be caught
His sluggish form reposing motionless.
Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress
Of vision search'd for him, as one would look
Athwart the sallows of a river nook
To catch a glance at silver throated eels,--
Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals
His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale
Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.
These raven horses, though they foster'd are
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop
Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,--
And on those pinions, level in mid air,
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle
Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks
On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks
To divine powers: from his hand full fain
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain:
He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow,
And asketh where the golden apples grow:
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield,
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield
A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings
And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks,
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.
He blows a bugle,--an ethereal band
Are visible above: the Seasons four,--
Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store
In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar,
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,
In swells unmitigated, still doth last
To sway their floating morris. "Whose is this?
Whose bugle?" he inquires: they smile--"O Dis!
Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know
Its mistress' lips? Not thou?--'Tis Dian's: lo!
She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she,
His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea,
And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;
Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring
Towards her, and awakes--and, strange, o'erhead,
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods;
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,
Too well awake, he feels the panting side
Of his delicious lady. He who died
For soaring too audacious in the sun,
Where that same treacherous wax began to run,
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
To that fair shadow'd passion puls'd its way--
Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,
He could not help but kiss her: then he grew
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save
Young Phoebe's, golden hair'd; and so 'gan crave
Forgiveness: yet he turn'd once more to look
At the sweet sleeper,--all his soul was shook,--
She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more
He could not help but kiss her and adore.
At this the shadow wept, melting away.
The Latmian started up: "Bright goddess, stay!
Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue,
I have no dædale heart: why is it wrung
To desperation? Is there nought for me,
Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?"
These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses:
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses
With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath.
"Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe
This murky phantasm! thou contented seem'st
Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st
What horrors may discomfort thee and me.
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery!--
Yet did she merely weep--her gentle soul
Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole
In tenderness, would I were whole in love!
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above,
Even when I feel as true as innocence?
I do, I do.--What is this soul then? Whence
Came it? It does not seem my own, and I
Have no self-passion or identity.
Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?
By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit
Alone about the dark--Forgive me, sweet:
Shall we away?" He rous'd the steeds: they beat
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air,
Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair.
The good-night blush of eve was waning slow,
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange--
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof,
So witless of their doom, that verily
'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts to see;
Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or griev'd, or toy'd--
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd.
Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak,
The moon put forth a little diamond peak,
No bigger than an unobserved star,
Or tiny point of fairy scymetar;
Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously
She bow'd into the heavens her timid head.
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,
While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd,
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd
This beauty in its birth--Despair! despair!
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz'd her wrist;
It melted from his grasp: her hand he kiss'd,
And, horror! kiss'd his own--he was alone.
Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then
Dropt hawkwise to the earth. There lies a den,
Beyond the seeming confines of the space
Made for the soul to wander in and trace
Its own existence, of remotest glooms.
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart:
And in these regions many a venom'd dart
At random flies; they are the proper home
Of every ill: the man is yet to come
Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear
No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won.
Just when the sufferer begins to burn,
Then it is free to him; and from an urn,
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught--
Young Semele such richness never quaft
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom!
Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom
Of health by due; where silence dreariest
Is most articulate; where hopes infest;
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.
O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul!
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian!
For, never since thy griefs and woes began,
Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud
Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude.
Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne
With dangerous speed: and so he did not mourn
Because he knew not whither he was going.
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast.
They stung the feather'd horse: with fierce alarm
He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no charm
Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd
A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude,--
And silvery was its passing: voices sweet
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they,
While past the vision went in bright array.
"Who, who from Dian's feast would be away?
For all the golden bowers of the day
Are empty left? Who, who away would be
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity?
Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings
He leans away for highest heaven and sings,
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily!--
Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too!
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill
Your baskets high
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme;
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,
All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie
Away! fly, fly!--
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven,
Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings,
Two fan-like fountains,--thine illuminings
For Dian play:
Dissolve the frozen purity of air;
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare
Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night:
Haste, haste away!--
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery:
A third is in the race! who is the third,
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?
The ramping Centaur!
The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how fierce!
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce
Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent
Into the blue of heaven. He'll be shent,
Pale unrelentor,
When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing.--
Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying
So timidly among the stars: come hither!
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither
They all are going.
Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd,
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud.
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral:
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all
Thy tears are flowing.--
By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo!--"
More
Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore,
Prone to the green head of a misty hill.
His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill.
"Alas!" said he, "were I but always borne
Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn
A path in hell, for ever would I bless
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness
For my own sullen conquering: to him
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim,
Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see
The grass; I feel the solid ground--Ah, me!
It is thy voice--divinest! Where?--who? who
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?
Behold upon this happy earth we are;
Let us ay love each other; let us fare
On forest-fruits, and never, never go
Among the abodes of mortals here below,
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny!
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly,
But with thy beauty will I deaden it.
Where didst thou melt too? By thee will I sit
For ever: let our fate stop here--a kid
I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid
Us live in peace, in love and peace among
His forest wildernesses. I have clung
To nothing, lov'd a nothing, nothing seen
Or felt but a great dream! O I have been
Presumptuous against love, against the sky,
Against all elements, against the tie
Of mortals each to each, against the blooms
Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs
Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory
Has my own soul conspired: so my story
Will I to children utter, and repent.
There never liv'd a mortal man, who bent
His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
But starv'd and died. My sweetest Indian, here,
Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast
My life from too thin breathing: gone and past
Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewel!
And air of visions, and the monstrous swell
Of visionary seas! No, never more
Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore
Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast.
Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast
My love is still for thee. The hour may come
When we shall meet in pure elysium.
On earth I may not love thee; and therefore
Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store
All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine
On me, and on this damsel fair of mine,
And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss!
My river-lily bud! one human kiss!
One sigh of real breath--one gentle squeeze,
Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees,
And warm with dew at ooze from living blood!
Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that!--all good
We'll talk about--no more of dreaming.--Now,
Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow
Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun
Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none;
And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through,
Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew?
O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place;
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin'd:
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find,
And by another, in deep dell below,
See, through the trees, a little river go
All in its mid-day gold and glimmering.
Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring,
And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,--
Cresses that grow where no man may them see,
And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag:
Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,
That thou mayst always know whither I roam,
When it shall please thee in our quiet home
To listen and think of love. Still let me speak;
Still let me dive into the joy I seek,--
For yet the past doth prison me. The rill,
Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill
With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn,
And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn.
Its bottom will I strew with amber shells,
And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells.
Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,
And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine.
I will entice this crystal rill to trace
Love's silver name upon the meadow's face.
I'll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire;
And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre;
To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear;
To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear,
That I may see thy beauty through the night;
To Flora, and a nightingale shall light
Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods,
And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods
Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright tress.
Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness!
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be
'Fore which I'll bend, bending, dear love, to thee:
Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak
Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek,
Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice,
And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice:
And that affectionate light, those diamond things,
Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs,
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure.
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure?
O that I could not doubt?"
The mountaineer
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear
His briar'd path to some tranquillity.
It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye,
And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow;
Answering thus, just as the golden morrow
Beam'd upward from the vallies of the east:
"O that the flutter of this heart had ceas'd,
Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away.
Young feather'd tyrant! by a swift decay
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth:
And I do think that at my very birth
I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly;
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee,
With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven.
Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do!
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew
Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave
To the void air, bidding them find out love:
But when I came to feel how far above
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
All earthly pleasure, all imagin'd good,
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss,--
Even then, that moment, at the thought of this,
Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers,
And languish'd there three days. Ye milder powers,
Am I not cruelly wrong'd? Believe, believe
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave
With my own fancies garlands of sweet life,
Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife!
I may not be thy love: I am forbidden--
Indeed I am--thwarted, affrighted, chidden,
By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath.
Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went: henceforth
Ask me no more! I may not utter it,
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit
Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might die;
We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought!
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I'm caught
In trammels of perverse deliciousness.
No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless,
And bid a long adieu."
The Carian
No word return'd: both lovelorn, silent, wan,
Into the vallies green together went.
Far wandering, they were perforce content
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree;
Nor at each other gaz'd, but heavily
Por'd on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves.
Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme:
Ensky'd ere this, but truly that I deem
Truth the best music in a first-born song.
Thy lute-voic'd brother will I sing ere long,
And thou shalt aid--hast thou not aided me?
Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity
Has been thy meed for many thousand years;
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,
Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester,--
Forgetting the old tale.
He did not stir
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays
Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.
A little onward ran the very stream
By which he took his first soft poppy dream;
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant
A crescent he had carv'd, and round it spent
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree
Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery,
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope
Up which he had not fear'd the antelope;
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd.
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,
Fly in the air where his had never been--
And yet he knew it not.
O treachery!
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye
With all his sorrowing? He sees her not.
But who so stares on him? His sister sure!
Peona of the woods!--Can she endure--
Impossible--how dearly they embrace!
His lady smiles; delight is in her face;
It is no treachery.
"Dear brother mine!
Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine
When all great Latmos so exalt wilt be?
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly;
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more.
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again.
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain,
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.
Be happy both of you! for I will pull
The flowers of autumn for your coronals.
Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls;
And when he is restor'd, thou, fairest dame,
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame
To see ye thus,--not very, very sad?
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad:
O feel as if it were a common day;
Free-voic'd as one who never was away.
No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall
Be gods of your own rest imperial.
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry
Into the hours that have pass'd us by,
Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.
O Hermes! on this very night will be
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light;
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight
Good visions in the air,--whence will befal,
As say these sages, health perpetual
To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore,
In Dian's face they read the gentle lore:
Therefore for her these vesper-carols are.
Our friends will all be there from nigh and far.
Many upon thy death have ditties made;
And many, even now, their foreheads shade
With cypress, on a day of sacrifice.
New singing for our maids shalt thou devise,
And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows.
Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse
This wayward brother to his rightful joys!
His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise
His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray,
To lure--Endymion, dear brother, say
What ails thee?" He could bear no more, and so
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,
And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said:
"I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!
My only visitor! not ignorant though,
That those deceptions which for pleasure go
'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be:
But there are higher ones I may not see,
If impiously an earthly realm I take.
Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake
Night after night, and day by day, until
Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.
Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me
More happy than betides mortality.
A hermit young, I'll live in mossy cave,
Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave
Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.
Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well;
For to thy tongue will I all health confide.
And, for my sake, let this young maid abide
With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,
Peona, mayst return to me. I own
This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl,
Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl
Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair!
Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share
This sister's love with me?" Like one resign'd
And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind
In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown:
"Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown,
Of jubilee to Dian:--truth I heard!
Well then, I see there is no little bird,
Tender soever, but is Jove's own care.
Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware,
Behold I find it! so exalted too!
So after my own heart! I knew, I knew
There was a place untenanted in it:
In that same void white Chastity shall sit,
And monitor me nightly to lone slumber.
With sanest lips I vow me to the number
Of Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady,
With thy good help, this very night shall see
My future days to her fane consecrate."
As feels a dreamer what doth most create
His own particular fright, so these three felt:
Or like one who, in after ages, knelt
To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine
After a little sleep: or when in mine
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends
Who know him not. Each diligently bends
Towards common thoughts and things for very fear;
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer,
By thinking it a thing of yes and no,
That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last
Endymion said: "Are not our fates all cast?
Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair!
Adieu!" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare,
Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot
His eyes went after them, until they got
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw,
In one swift moment, would what then he saw
Engulph for ever. "Stay!" he cried, "ah, stay!
Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say.
Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again.
It is a thing I dote on: so I'd fain,
Peona, ye should hand in hand repair
Into those holy groves, that silent are
Behind great Dian's temple. I'll be yon,
At vesper's earliest twinkle--they are gone--
But once, once, once again--" At this he press'd
His hands against his face, and then did rest
His head upon a mossy hillock green,
And so remain'd as he a corpse had been
All the long day; save when he scantly lifted
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted
With the slow move of time,--sluggish and weary
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary,
Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose,
And, slowly as that very river flows,
Walk'd towards the temple grove with this lament:
"Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent
Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall
Before the serene father of them all
Bows down his summer head below the west.
Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest,
But at the setting I must bid adieu
To her for the last time. Night will strew
On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves,
And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves
To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.
Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses;
My kingdom's at its death, and just it is
That I should die with it: so in all this
We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe,
What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe
I am but rightly serv'd." So saying, he
Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee;
Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun,
As though they jests had been: nor had he done
His laugh at nature's holy countenance,
Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance,
And then his tongue with sober seemlihed
Gave utterance as he entered: "Ha!" I said,
"King of the butterflies; but by this gloom,
And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom,
This dusk religion, pomp of solitude,
And the Promethean clay by thief endued,
By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed
Myself to things of light from infancy;
And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die,
Is sure enough to make a mortal man
Grow impious." So he inwardly began
On things for which no wording can be found;
Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd
Beyond the reach of music: for the choir
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar
Nor muffling thicket interpos'd to dull
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,
Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight
By chilly finger'd spring. "Unhappy wight!
Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here!
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?"
Then he embrac'd her, and his lady's hand
Press'd, saying:" Sister, I would have command,
If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate."
At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate
And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love,
To Endymion's amaze: "By Cupid's dove,
And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!"
And as she spake, into her face there came
Light, as reflected from a silver flame:
Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display
Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day
Dawn'd blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld
Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld
Her lucid bow, continuing thus; "Drear, drear
Has our delaying been; but foolish fear
Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate;
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd for change
Be spiritualiz'd. Peona, we shall range
These forests, and to thee they safe shall be
As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee
To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright
Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night:
Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,
Before three swiftest kisses he had told,
They vanish'd far away!--Peona went
Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.
Out of these blake wawes for to sayle, O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth clere; For in this see the boot hath swich travayle, Of my conning, that unnethe I it stere: This see clepe I the tempestous matere Of desespeyr that Troilus was inne: But now of hope the calendes biginne. O lady myn, that called art Cleo, Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse, To ryme wel this book, til I have do; Me nedeth here noon other art to use. For-why to every lovere I me excuse, That of no sentement I this endyte, But out of Latin in my tonge it wryte. Wherfore I nil have neither thank ne blame Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely, Disblameth me if any word be lame, For as myn auctor seyde, so seye I. Eek though I speke of love unfelingly, No wondre is, for it no-thing of newe is; A blind man can nat Iuggen wel in hewis. Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge With-inne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so, And spedde as wel in love as men now do; Eek for to winne love in sondry ages, In sondry londes, sondry ben usages. And for-thy if it happe in any wyse, That here be any lovere in this place That herkneth, as the storie wol devyse, How Troilus com to his lady grace, And thenketh, so nolde I nat love purchace, Or wondreth on his speche or his doinge, I noot; but it is me no wonderinge; For every wight which that to Rome went, Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere; Eek in som lond were al the gamen shent, If that they ferde in love as men don here, As thus, in open doing or in chere, In visitinge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes; For-thy men seyn, ech contree hath his lawes. Eek scarsly been ther in this place three That han in love seid lyk and doon in al; For to thy purpos this may lyken thee, And thee right nought, yet al is seyd or shal; Eek som men grave in tree, som in stoon wal, As it bitit; but sin I have begonne, Myn auctor shal I folwen, if I conne. Exclipit prohemium Secundi Libri. Incipit Liber Secundus. In May, that moder is of monthes glade, That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede, Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made, And ful of bawme is fleting every mede; Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde, That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche, Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene, That, coude he never so wel of loving preche, It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene; So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente, And made, er it was day, ful many a wente. The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay, Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge, Why she forshapen was; and ever lay Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe, Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe How Tereus gan forth hir suster take, That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake; And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse, Remembringe him his erand was to done From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse; And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde; Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde! Whan he was come un-to his neces place, `Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he; And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace, And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she, With-inne a paved parlour; and they three Herden a mayden reden hem the geste Of the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste. Quod Pandarus, `Ma dame, god yow see, With al your book and al the companye!' `Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she, And up she roos, and by the hond in hye She took him faste, and seyde, `This night thrye, To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!' And with that word she doun on bench him sette. `Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet, If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus; `But I am sory that I have yow let To herknen of your book ye preysen thus; For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us. Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!' `Uncle,' quod she, `your maistresse is not here!' With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde, `This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede; And we han herd how that king Laius deyde Thurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede; And here we stenten at these lettres rede, How the bisshop, as the book can telle, Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.' Quod Pandarus, `Al this knowe I my-selve, And al the assege of Thebes and the care; For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: -- But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare; Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare; Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce, And lat us don to May som observaunce.' `A! God forbede!' quod she. `Be ye mad? Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save? By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad, Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave! It sete me wel bet ay in a cave To bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves; Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.' `As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus, `Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.' `Now, uncle dere,' quod she, `tel it us For goddes love; is than the assege aweye? I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.' `Nay, nay,' quod he, `as ever mote I thryve! It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.' `Ye, holy god,' quod she, `what thing is that? What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis! For al this world ne can I reden what It sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this; And but your-selven telle us what it is, My wit is for to arede it al to lene; As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.' `And I your borow, ne never shal, for me, This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!' `And why so, uncle myn? Why so?' quod she. `By god,' quod he, `that wole I telle as blyve; For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve, And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye; I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!' Tho gan she wondren more than biforn A thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste; For never, sith the tyme that she was born, To knowe thing desired she so faste; And with a syk she seyde him at the laste, `Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese, Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.' So after this, with many wordes glade, And freendly tales, and with mery chere, Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade In many an unkouth glad and deep matere, As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere; Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde, That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde. `Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus, `Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde; And eek his fresshe brother Troilus, The wyse worthy Ector the secounde, In whom that ever vertu list abounde, As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse, Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.' `In good feith, eem,' quod she, `that lyketh me; They faren wel, god save hem bothe two! For trewely I holde it greet deyntee A kinges sone in armes wel to do, And been of good condiciouns ther-to; For greet power and moral vertu here Is selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.' `In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus; `But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye, That is to mene, Ector and Troilus, That certainly, though that I sholde deye, They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye, As any men that liveth under the sonne, Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne. `Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle: In al this world ther nis a bettre knight Than he, that is of worthinesse welle; And he wel more vertu hath than might. This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight. The same prys of Troilus I seye, God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.' `By god,' quod she, `of Ector that is sooth; Of Troilus the same thing trowe I; For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth In armes day by day so worthily, And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly To every wight, that al the prys hath he Of hem that me were levest preysed be.' `Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus; `For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been, He might have wondred up-on Troilus; For never yet so thikke a swarm of been Ne fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen; And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere, Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!" `Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste, Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus, Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste; Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus: He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us; That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde, Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde. `Therto he is the freendlieste man Of grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve; And wher him list, best felawshipe can To suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.' And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve, He took his leve, and seyde, `I wol go henne.' `Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne. `What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone, And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so? Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to done With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.' And every wight that was a-boute hem tho, That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde, Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde. Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende, Of hire estat and of hir governaunce, Quod Pandarus, `Now is it tyme I wende; But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce, And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce: What list yow thus your-self to disfigure, Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?' `A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she, `Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?' `No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he, `And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis, If I it tolde, and ye it toke amis. Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille. `For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve, And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe, And by the blisful Venus that I serve, Ye been the womman in this world livinge, With-oute paramours, to my wittinge, That I best love, and lothest am to greve, And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.' `Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, `grant mercy; Your freendship have I founden ever yit; I am to no man holden trewely, So muche as yow, and have so litel quit; And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit, As in my gilt I shal you never offende; And if I have er this, I wol amende. `But, for the love of god, I yow beseche, As ye ben he that I love most and triste, Lat be to me your fremde manere speche, And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:' And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste, And seyde, `Gladly, leve nece dere, Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.' With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste, And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte, And seyde, `Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste, How-so it be that som men hem delyte With subtil art hir tales for to endyte, Yet for al that, in hir entencioun Hir tale is al for som conclusioun. `And sithen thende is every tales strengthe, And this matere is so bihovely, What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe To yow, that been my freend so feithfully?' And with that word he gan right inwardly Biholden hir, and loken on hir face, And seyde, `On suche a mirour goode grace!' Than thoughte he thus: `If I my tale endyte Ought hard, or make a proces any whyle, She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte, And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle. For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle Ther-as they can nat pleynly understonde; For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde --' And loked on hir in a besy wyse, And she was war that he byheld hir so, And seyde, `Lord! So faste ye me avyse! Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?' `Yes, yes,' quod he, `and bet wole er I go; But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye Be fortunat, for now men shal it see. `For to every wight som goodly aventure Som tyme is shape, if he it can receyven; And if that he wol take of it no cure, Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven, Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven, But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse; And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse. `Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye Ful lightly founden, and ye conne it take; And, for the love of god, and eek of me, Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake. What sholde I lenger proces of it make? Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon, If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon. `And sith I speke of good entencioun, As I to yow have told wel here-biforn, And love as wel your honour and renoun As creature in al this world y-born; By alle the othes that I have yow sworn, And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye, Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye. `Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to? Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe; For hardely the werste of this is do; And though my tale as now be to yow newe, Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe; And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge, To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.' `Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,' Quod she, `com of, and tel me what it is; For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye, And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis. For whether it be wel or be amis, Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:' `So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle: `Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone, The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free, Which alwey for to do wel is his wone, The noble Troilus, so loveth thee, That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be. Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye? Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye. `But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve; Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen; Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve --' With that the teres braste out of his yen, And seyde, `If that ye doon us bothe dyen, Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire; What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre? `Allas! He which that is my lord so dere, That trewe man, that noble gentil knight, That nought desireth but your freendly chere, I see him deye, ther he goth up-right, And hasteth him, with al his fulle might, For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente; Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente! `If it be so that ye so cruel be, That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche, That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see, No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche, If ye be swich, your beautee may not strecche To make amendes of so cruel a dede; Avysement is good bifore the nede. `Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees! Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote! Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees! Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote! And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote, If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe, Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe! `And also thenk wel that this is no gaude; For me were lever, thou and I and he Were hanged, than I sholde been his baude, As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see: I am thyn eem, the shame were to me, As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente, Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente. `Now understond, for I yow nought requere, To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste, But only that ye make him bettre chere Than ye han doon er this, and more feste, So that his lyf be saved, at the leste; This al and som, and playnly our entente; God help me so, I never other mente. `Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis, Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon. I sette the worste that ye dredden this, Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon: Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon, That every wight, but he be fool of kinde, Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde. `What? Who wol deme, though he see a man To temple go, that he the images eteth? Thenk eek how wel and wysly that he can Governe him-self, that he no-thing foryeteth, That, wher he cometh, he prys and thank him geteth; And eek ther-to, he shal come here so selde, What fors were it though al the toun behelde? `Swich love of freendes regneth al this toun; And wrye yow in that mantel ever-mo; And god so wis be my savacioun, As I have seyd, your beste is to do so. But alwey, goode nece, to stinte his wo, So lat your daunger sucred ben a lyte, That of his deeth ye be nought for to wyte.' Criseyde, which that herde him in this wyse, Thoughte, `I shal fele what he meneth, y-wis.' `Now, eem,' quod she, `what wolde ye devyse? What is your reed I sholde doon of this?' `That is wel seyd,' quod be. `certayn, best is That ye him love ayein for his lovinge, As love for love is skilful guerdoninge. `Thenk eek, how elde wasteth every houre In eche of yow a party of beautee; And therfore, er that age thee devoure, Go love, for, olde, ther wol no wight of thee. Lat this proverbe a lore un-to yow be; "To late y-war, quod Beautee, whan it paste;" And elde daunteth daunger at the laste. `The kinges fool is woned to cryen loude, Whan that him thinketh a womman bereth hir hye, "So longe mote ye live, and alle proude, Til crowes feet be growe under your ye, And sende yow thanne a mirour in to prye In whiche that ye may see your face a-morwe!" Nece, I bidde wisshe yow no more sorwe.' With this he stente, and caste adoun the heed, And she bigan to breste a-wepe anoon, And seyde, `Allas, for wo! Why nere I deed? For of this world the feith is al agoon! Allas! What sholden straunge to me doon, Whan he, that for my beste freend I wende, Ret me to love, and sholde it me defende? `Allas! I wolde han trusted, doutelees, That if that I, thurgh my disaventure, Had loved other him or Achilles, Ector, or any mannes creature, Ye nolde han had no mercy ne mesure On me, but alwey had me in repreve; This false world, allas! Who may it leve? `What? Is this al the Ioye and al the feste? Is this your reed, is this my blisful cas? Is this the verray mede of your beheste? Is al this peynted proces seyd, allas! Right for this fyn? O lady myn, Pallas! Thou in this dredful cas for me purveye; For so astonied am I that I deye!' With that she gan ful sorwfully to syke; `A! May it be no bet?' quod Pandarus; `By god, I shal no-more come here this wyke, And god to-forn, that am mistrusted thus; I see ful wel that ye sette lyte of us, Or of our deeth! Allas! I woful wrecche! Mighte he yet live, of me is nought to recche. `O cruel god, O dispitouse Marte, O Furies three of helle, on yow I crye! So lat me never out of this hous departe, If that I mente harm or vilanye! But sith I see my lord mot nedes dye, And I with him, here I me shryve, and seye That wikkedly ye doon us bothe deye. `But sith it lyketh yow that I be deed, By Neptunus, that god is of the see, Fro this forth shal I never eten breed Til I myn owene herte blood may see; For certayn, I wole deye as sone as he --' And up he sterte, and on his wey he raughte, Til she agayn him by the lappe caughte. Criseyde, which that wel neigh starf for fere, So as she was the ferfulleste wight That mighte be, and herde eek with hir ere, And saw the sorwful ernest of the knight, And in his preyere eek saw noon unright, And for the harm that mighte eek fallen more, She gan to rewe and dredde hir wonder sore; And thoughte thus, `Unhappes fallen thikke Alday for love, and in swich maner cas, As men ben cruel in hem-self and wikke; And if this man slee here him-self, allas! In my presence, it wol be no solas. What men wolde of hit deme I can nat seye; It nedeth me ful sleyly for to pleye.' And with a sorwful syk she seyde thrye, `A! Lord! What me is tid a sory chaunce! For myn estat lyth in Iupartye, And eek myn emes lyf lyth in balaunce; But nathelees, with goddes governaunce, I shal so doon, myn honour shal I kepe, And eek his lyf;' and stinte for to wepe. `Of harmes two, the lesse is for to chese; Yet have I lever maken him good chere In honour, than myn emes lyf to lese; Ye seyn, ye no-thing elles me requere?' `No, wis,' quod he, `myn owene nece dere.' `Now wel,' quod she, `and I wol doon my peyne; I shal myn herte ayeins my lust constreyne. `But that I nil not holden him in honde, Ne love a man, ne can I not, ne may Ayeins my wil; but elles wol I fonde, Myn honour sauf, plese him fro day to day; Ther-to nolde I nought ones have seyd nay, But that I dredde, as in my fantasye; But cesse cause, ay cesseth maladye. `And here I make a protestacioun, That in this proces if ye depper go, That certaynly, for no savacioun Of yow, though that ye sterve bothe two, Though al the world on o day be my fo, Ne shal I never on him han other routhe. --' `I graunte wel,' quod Pandare, `by my trouthe. `But may I truste wel ther-to,' quod he, `That of this thing that ye han hight me here, Ye wol it holden trewly un-to me?' `Ye, doutelees,' quod she, `myn uncle dere.' `Ne that I shal han cause in this matere,' Quod he, `to pleyne, or after yow to preche?' `Why, no, parde; what nedeth more speche?' Tho fillen they in othere tales glade, Til at the laste, `O good eem,' quod she tho, `For love of god, which that us bothe made, Tel me how first ye wisten of his wo: Wot noon of hit but ye?' He seyde, `No.' `Can he wel speke of love?' quod she, `I preye, Tel me, for I the bet me shal purveye.' Tho Pandarus a litel gan to smyle, And seyde, `By my trouthe, I shal yow telle. This other day, nought gon ful longe whyle, In-with the paleys-gardyn, by a welle, Gan he and I wel half a day to dwelle, Right for to speken of an ordenaunce, How we the Grekes myghte disavaunce. `Sone after that bigonne we to lepe, And casten with our dartes to and fro, Til at the laste he seyde he wolde slepe, And on the gres a-doun he leyde him tho; And I after gan rome to and fro Til that I herde, as that I welk allone, How he bigan ful wofully to grone. `Tho gan I stalke him softely bihinde, And sikerly, the sothe for to seyne, As I can clepe ayein now to my minde, Right thus to Love he gan him for to pleyne; He seyde, "Lord! Have routhe up-on my peyne, Al have I been rebel in myn entente; Now, MEA CULPA, lord! I me repente. `"O god, that at thy disposicioun Ledest the fyn by Iuste purveyaunce, Of every wight, my lowe confessioun Accepte in gree, and send me swich penaunce As lyketh thee, but from desesperaunce, That may my goost departe awey fro thee, Thou be my sheld, for thy benignitee. `"For certes, lord, so soore hath she me wounded, That stod in blak, with loking of hir yen, That to myn hertes botme it is y-sounded, Thorugh which I woot that I mot nedes dyen; This is the worste, I dar me not bi-wryen; And wel the hotter been the gledes rede, That men hem wryen with asshen pale and dede." `With that he smoot his heed adoun anoon, And gan to motre, I noot what, trewely. And I with that gan stille awey to goon, And leet ther-of as no-thing wist hadde I, And come ayein anoon and stood him by, And seyde, "A-wake, ye slepen al to longe; It semeth nat that love dooth yow longe, `"That slepen so that no man may yow wake. Who sey ever or this so dul a man?" "Ye, freend," quod he, "do ye your hedes ake For love, and lat me liven as I can." But though that he for wo was pale and wan, Yet made he tho as freshe a countenaunce As though he shulde have led the newe daunce. `This passed forth, til now, this other day, It fel that I com roming al allone Into his chaumbre, and fond how that he lay Up-on his bed; but man so sore grone Ne herde I never, and what that was his mone, Ne wist I nought; for, as I was cominge, Al sodeynly he lefte his compleyninge. `Of which I took somwat suspecioun, And neer I com, and fond he wepte sore; And god so wis be my savacioun, As never of thing hadde I no routhe more. For neither with engyn, ne with no lore, Unethes mighte I fro the deeth him kepe; That yet fele I myn herte for him wepe. `And god wot, never, sith that I was born, Was I so bisy no man for to preche, Ne never was to wight so depe y-sworn, Or he me tolde who mighte been his leche. But now to yow rehersen al his speche, Or alle his woful wordes for to soune, Ne bid me not, but ye wol see me swowne. `But for to save his lyf, and elles nought, And to non harm of yow, thus am I driven; And for the love of god that us hath wrought, Swich chere him dooth, that he and I may liven. Now have I plat to yow myn herte shriven; And sin ye woot that myn entente is clene, Tak hede ther-of, for I non yvel mene. `And right good thrift, I prey to god, have ye, That han swich oon y-caught with-oute net; And be ye wys, as ye ben fair to see, Wel in the ring than is the ruby set. Ther were never two so wel y-met, Whan ye ben his al hool, as he is youre: Ther mighty god yet graunte us see that houre!' `Nay, therof spak I not, a, ha!' quod she, `As helpe me god, ye shenden every deel!' `O mercy, dere nece,' anoon quod he, `What-so I spak, I mente nought but weel, By Mars the god, that helmed is of steel; Now beth nought wrooth, my blood, my nece dere.' `Now wel,' quod she, `foryeven be it here!' With this he took his leve, and hoom he wente; And lord, he was glad and wel bigoon! Criseyde aroos, no lenger she ne stente, But straught in-to hir closet wente anoon, And sette here doun as stille as any stoon, And every word gan up and doun to winde, That he hadde seyd, as it com hir to minde; And wex somdel astonied in hir thought, Right for the newe cas; but whan that she Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought Of peril, why she oughte afered be. For man may love, of possibilitee, A womman so, his herte may to-breste, And she nought love ayein, but-if hir leste. But as she sat allone and thoughte thus, Thascry aroos at skarmish al with-oute, And men cryde in the strete, `See, Troilus Hath right now put to flight the Grekes route!' With that gan al hir meynee for to shoute, `A! Go we see, caste up the latis wyde; For thurgh this strete he moot to palays ryde; `For other wey is fro the yate noon Of Dardanus, ther open is the cheyne.' With that com he and al his folk anoon An esy pas rydinge, in routes tweyne, Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne, For which, men say, may nought disturbed be That shal bityden of necessitee. This Troilus sat on his baye stede, Al armed, save his heed, ful richely, And wounded was his hors, and gan to blede, On whiche he rood a pas, ful softely; But swych a knightly sighte, trewely, As was on him, was nought, with-outen faile, To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle. So lyk a man of armes and a knight He was to seen, fulfild of heigh prowesse; For bothe he hadde a body and a might To doon that thing, as wel as hardinesse; And eek to seen him in his gere him dresse, So fresh, so yong, so weldy semed he, It was an heven up-on him for to see. His helm to-hewen was in twenty places, That by a tissew heng, his bak bihinde, His sheld to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces, In which men mighte many an arwe finde That thirled hadde horn and nerf and rinde; And ay the peple cryde, `Here cometh our Ioye, And, next his brother, holdere up of Troye!' For which he wex a litel reed for shame, Whan he the peple up-on him herde cryen, That to biholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. Cryseyda gan al his chere aspyen, And leet so softe it in hir herte sinke, That to hir-self she seyde, `Who yaf me drinke?' For of hir owene thought she wex al reed, Remembringe hir right thus, `Lo, this is he Which that myn uncle swereth he moot be deed, But I on him have mercy and pitee;' And with that thought, for pure a-shamed, she Gan in hir heed to pulle, and that as faste, Whyl he and al the peple for-by paste, And gan to caste and rollen up and doun With-inne hir thought his excellent prowesse, And his estat, and also his renoun, His wit, his shap, and eek his gentillesse; But most hir favour was, for his distresse Was al for hir, and thoughte it was a routhe To sleen swich oon, if that he mente trouthe. Now mighte som envyous Iangle thus, `This was a sodeyn love; how mighte it be That she so lightly lovede Troilus Right for the firste sighte; ye, pardee?' Now who-so seyth so, mote he never thee! For every thing, a ginning hath it nede Er al be wrought, with-outen any drede. For I sey nought that she so sodeynly Yaf him hir love, but that she gan enclyne To lyke him first, and I have told yow why; And after that, his manhod and his pyne Made love with-inne hir for to myne, For which, by proces and by good servyse, He gat hir love, and in no sodeyn wyse. And also blisful Venus, wel arayed, Sat in hir seventhe hous of hevene tho, Disposed wel, and with aspectes payed, To helpen sely Troilus of his wo. And, sooth to seyn, she nas not al a fo To Troilus in his nativitee; God woot that wel the soner spedde he. Now lat us stinte of Troilus a throwe, That rydeth forth, and lat us tourne faste Un-to Criseyde, that heng hir heed ful lowe, Ther-as she sat allone, and gan to caste Wher-on she wolde apoynte hir at the laste, If it so were hir eem ne wolde cesse, For Troilus, up-on hir for to presse. And, lord! So she gan in hir thought argue In this matere of which I have yow told, And what to doon best were, and what eschue, That plyted she ful ofte in many fold. Now was hir herte warm, now was it cold, And what she thoughte somwhat shal I wryte, As to myn auctor listeth for to endyte. She thoughte wel that Troilus persone She knew by sighte and eek his gentillesse, And thus she seyde, `Al were it nought to done, To graunte him love, yet, for his worthinesse, It were honour, with pley and with gladnesse, In honestee, with swich a lord to dele, For myn estat, and also for his hele. `Eek, wel wot I my kinges sone is he; And sith he hath to see me swich delyt, If I wolde utterly his sighte flee, Peraunter he mighte have me in dispyt, Thurgh which I mighte stonde in worse plyt; Now were I wys, me hate to purchace, With-outen nede, ther I may stonde in grace? `In every thing, I woot, ther lyth mesure. For though a man forbede dronkenesse, He nought for-bet that every creature Be drinkelees for alwey, as I gesse; Eek sith I woot for me is his distresse, I ne oughte not for that thing him despyse, Sith it is so, he meneth in good wyse. `And eek I knowe, of longe tyme agoon, His thewes goode, and that he is not nyce. Ne avauntour, seyth men, certein, he is noon; To wys is he to do so gret a vyce; Ne als I nel him never so cheryce, That he may make avaunt, by Iuste cause; He shal me never binde in swiche a clause. `Now set a cas, the hardest is, y-wis, Men mighten deme that he loveth me; What dishonour were it un-to me, this? May I him lette of that? Why nay, pardee! I knowe also, and alday here and see, Men loven wommen al this toun aboute; Be they the wers? Why, nay, with-outen doute. `I thenk eek how he able is for to have Of al this noble toun the thriftieste, To been his love, so she hir honour save; For out and out he is the worthieste, Save only Ector, which that is the beste. And yet his lyf al lyth now in my cure, But swich is love, and eek myn aventure. `Ne me to love, a wonder is it nought; For wel wot I my-self, so god me spede, Al wolde I that noon wiste of this thought, I am oon the fayreste, out of drede, And goodlieste, who-so taketh hede; And so men seyn in al the toun of Troye. What wonder is it though he of me have Ioye? `I am myn owene woman, wel at ese, I thank it god, as after myn estat; Right yong, and stonde unteyd in lusty lese, With-outen Ialousye or swich debat; Shal noon housbonde seyn to me "Chekmat!" For either they ben ful of Ialousye, Or maisterful, or loven novelrye. `What shal I doon? To what fyn live I thus? Shal I nat loven, in cas if that me leste? What, par dieux! I am nought religious! And though that I myn herte sette at reste Upon this knight, that is the worthieste, And kepe alwey myn honour and my name, By alle right, it may do me no shame.' But right as whan the sonne shyneth brighte, In March, that chaungeth ofte tyme his face, And that a cloud is put with wind to flighte Which over-sprat the sonne as for a space, A cloudy thought gan thorugh hir soule pace, That over-spradde hir brighte thoughtes alle, So that for fere almost she gan to falle. That thought was this: `Allas! Sin I am free, Sholde I now love, and putte in Iupartye My sikernesse, and thrallen libertee? Allas! How dorste I thenken that folye? May I nought wel in other folk aspye Hir dredful Ioye, hir constreynt, and hir peyne? Ther loveth noon, that she nath why to pleyne. `For love is yet the moste stormy lyf, Right of him-self, that ever was bigonne; For ever som mistrust, or nyce stryf, Ther is in love, som cloud is over that sonne: Ther-to we wrecched wommen no-thing conne, Whan us is wo, but wepe and sitte and thinke; Our wreche is this, our owene wo to drinke. `Also these wikked tonges been so prest To speke us harm, eek men be so untrewe, That, right anoon as cessed is hir lest, So cesseth love, and forth to love a newe: But harm y-doon, is doon, who-so it rewe. For though these men for love hem first to-rende, Ful sharp biginning breketh ofte at ende. `How ofte tyme hath it y-knowen be, The treson, that to womman hath be do? To what fyn is swich love, I can nat see, Or wher bicometh it, whan it is ago; Ther is no wight that woot, I trowe so, Wher it bycomth; lo, no wight on it sporneth; That erst was no-thing, in-to nought it torneth. `How bisy, if I love, eek moste I be To plesen hem that Iangle of love, and demen, And coye hem, that they sey non harm of me? For though ther be no cause, yet hem semen Al be for harm that folk hir freendes quemen; And who may stoppen every wikked tonge, Or soun of belles whyl that they be ronge?' And after that, hir thought bigan to clere, And seyde, `He which that no-thing under-taketh, No thing ne acheveth, be him looth or dere.' And with an other thought hir herte quaketh; Than slepeth hope, and after dreed awaketh; Now hoot, now cold; but thus, bi-twixen tweye, She rist hir up, and went hir for to pleye. Adoun the steyre anoon-right tho she wente In-to the gardin, with hir neces three, And up and doun ther made many a wente, Flexippe, she, Tharbe, and Antigone, To pleyen, that it Ioye was to see; And othere of hir wommen, a gret route, hir folwede in the gardin al aboute. This yerd was large, and rayled alle the aleyes, And shadwed wel with blosmy bowes grene, And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes, In which she walketh arm in arm bi-twene; Til at the laste Antigone the shene Gan on a Troian song to singe clere, That it an heven was hir voys to here. -- She seyde, `O love, to whom I have and shal Ben humble subgit, trewe in myn entente, As I best can, to yow, lord, yeve ich al For ever-more, myn hertes lust to rente. For never yet thy grace no wight sente So blisful cause as me, my lyf to lede In alle Ioye and seurtee, out of drede. `Ye, blisful god, han me so wel beset In love, y-wis, that al that bereth lyf Imaginen ne cowde how to ben bet; For, lord, with-outen Ialousye or stryf, I love oon which that is most ententyf To serven wel, unwery or unfeyned, That ever was, and leest with harm distreyned. `As he that is the welle of worthinesse, Of trouthe ground, mirour of goodliheed, Of wit Appollo, stoon of sikernesse, Of vertu rote, of lust findere and heed, Thurgh which is alle sorwe fro me deed, Y-wis, I love him best, so doth he me; Now good thrift have he, wher-so that he be! `Whom sholde I thanke but yow, god of love, Of al this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne? And thanked be ye, lord, for that I love! This is the righte lyf that I am inne, To flemen alle manere vyce and sinne: This doth me so to vertu for to entende, That day by day I in my wil amende. `And who-so seyth that for to love is vyce, Or thraldom, though he fele in it distresse, He outher is envyous, or right nyce, Or is unmighty, for his shrewednesse, To loven; for swich maner folk, I gesse, Defamen love, as no-thing of him knowe; Thei speken, but they bente never his bowe. `What is the sonne wers, of kinde righte, Though that a man, for feblesse of his yen, May nought endure on it to see for brighte? Or love the wers, though wrecches on it cryen? No wele is worth, that may no sorwe dryen. And for-thy, who that hath an heed of verre, Fro cast of stones war him in the werre! `But I with al myn herte and al my might, As I have seyd, wol love, un-to my laste, My dere herte, and al myn owene knight, In which myn herte growen is so faste, And his in me, that it shal ever laste. Al dredde I first to love him to biginne, Now woot I wel, ther is no peril inne.' And of hir song right with that word she stente, And therwith-al, `Now, nece,' quod Criseyde, `Who made this song with so good entente?' Antigone answerde anoon, and seyde, `Ma dame, y-wis, the goodlieste mayde Of greet estat in al the toun of Troye; And let hir lyf in most honour and Ioye.' `Forsothe, so it semeth by hir song,' Quod tho Criseyde, and gan ther-with to syke, And seyde, `Lord, is there swich blisse among These lovers, as they conne faire endyte?' `Ye, wis,' quod freshe Antigone the whyte, `For alle the folk that han or been on lyve Ne conne wel the blisse of love discryve. `But wene ye that every wrecche woot The parfit blisse of love? Why, nay, y-wis; They wenen al be love, if oon be hoot; Do wey, do wey, they woot no-thing of this! Men mosten axe at seyntes if it is Aught fair in hevene; Why? For they conne telle; And axen fendes, is it foul in helle.' Criseyde un-to that purpos nought answerde, But seyde, `Y-wis, it wol be night as faste.' But every word which that she of hir herde, She gan to prenten in hir herte faste; And ay gan love hir lasse for to agaste Than it dide erst, and sinken in hir herte, That she wex somwhat able to converte. The dayes honour, and the hevenes ye, The nightes fo, al this clepe I the sonne, Gan westren faste, and dounward for to wrye, As he that hadde his dayes cours y-ronne; And whyte thinges wexen dimme and donne For lak of light, and sterres for to appere, That she and al hir folk in wente y-fere. So whan it lyked hir to goon to reste, And voyded weren they that voyden oughte, She seyde, that to slepe wel hir leste. Hir wommen sone til hir bed hir broughte. Whan al was hust, than lay she stille, and thoughte Of al this thing the manere and the wyse. Reherce it nedeth nought, for ye ben wyse. A nightingale, upon a cedre grene, Under the chambre-wal ther as she lay, Ful loude sang ayein the mone shene, Paraunter, in his briddes wyse, a lay Of love, that made hir herte fresh and gay. That herkned she so longe in good entente, Til at the laste the dede sleep hir hente. And as she sleep, anoon-right tho hir mette, How that an egle, fethered whyt as boon, Under hir brest his longe clawes sette, And out hir herte he rente, and that a-noon, And dide his herte in-to hir brest to goon, Of which she nought agroos, ne no-thing smerte, And forth he fleigh, with herte left for herte. Now lat hir slepe, and we our tales holde Of Troilus, that is to paleys riden, Fro the scarmuch, of the whiche I tolde, And in his chaumbre sit, and hath abiden Til two or three of his messages yeden For Pandarus, and soughten him ful faste, Til they him founde and broughte him at the laste. This Pandarus com leping in at ones, And seiyde thus: `Who hath ben wel y-bete To-day with swerdes, and with slinge-stones, But Troilus, that hath caught him an hete?' And gan to Iape, and seyde, `Lord, so ye swete! But rys, and lat us soupe and go to reste;' And he answerde him, `Do we as thee leste.' With al the haste goodly that they mighte, They spedde hem fro the souper un-to bedde; And every wight out at the dore him dighte, And wher him liste upon his wey him spedde; But Troilus, that thoughte his herte bledde For wo, til that he herde som tydinge, He seyde, `Freend, shal I now wepe or singe?' Quod Pandarus, `Ly stille and lat me slepe, And don thyn hood, thy nedes spedde be; And chese, if thou wolt singe or daunce or lepe; At shorte wordes, thow shal trowe me. -- Sire, my nece wol do wel by thee, And love thee best, by god and by my trouthe, But lak of pursuit make it in thy slouthe. `For thus ferforth I have thy work bigonne, Fro day to day, til this day, by the morwe, Hir love of freendship have I to thee wonne, And also hath she leyd hir feyth to borwe. Algate a foot is hameled of thy sorwe.' What sholde I lenger sermon of it holde? As ye han herd bifore, al he him tolde. But right as floures, thorugh the colde of night Y-closed, stoupen on hir stalke lowe, Redressen hem a-yein the sonne bright, And spreden on hir kinde cours by rowe, Right so gan tho his eyen up to throwe This Troilus, and seyde, `O Venus dere, Thy might, thy grace, y-heried be it here!' And to Pandare he held up bothe his hondes, And seyde, `Lord, al thyn be that I have; For I am hool, al brosten been my bondes; A thousand Troians who so that me yave, Eche after other, god so wis me save, Ne mighte me so gladen; lo, myn herte, It spredeth so for Ioye, it wol to-sterte! `But Lord, how shal I doon, how shal I liven? Whan shal I next my dere herte see? How shal this longe tyme a-wey be driven, Til that thou be ayein at hir fro me? Thou mayst answere, "A-byd, a-byd," but he That hangeth by the nekke, sooth to seyne, In grete disese abydeth for the peyne.' `Al esily, now, for the love of Marte,' Quod Pandarus, `for every thing hath tyme; So longe abyd til that the night departe; For al so siker as thow lyst here by me, And god toforn, I wol be there at pryme, And for thy werk somwhat as I shal seye, Or on som other wight this charge leye. `For pardee, god wot, I have ever yit Ben redy thee to serve, and to this night Have I nought fayned, but emforth my wit Don al thy lust, and shal with al my might. Do now as I shal seye, and fare a-right; And if thou nilt, wyte al thy-self thy care, On me is nought along thyn yvel fare. `I woot wel that thow wyser art than I A thousand fold, but if I were as thou, God help me so, as I wolde outrely, Right of myn owene hond, wryte hir right now A lettre, in which I wolde hir tellen how I ferde amis, and hir beseche of routhe; Now help thy-self, and leve it not for slouthe. `And I my-self shal ther-with to hir goon; And whan thou wost that I am with hir there, Worth thou up-on a courser right anoon, Ye, hardily, right in thy beste gere, And ryd forth by the place, as nought ne were, And thou shalt finde us, if I may, sittinge At som windowe, in-to the strete lokinge. `And if thee list, than maystow us saluwe, And up-on me make thy contenaunce; But, by thy lyf, be war and faste eschuwe To tarien ought, god shilde us fro mischaunce! Ryd forth thy wey, and hold thy governaunce; And we shal speke of thee som-what, I trowe, Whan Thou art goon, to do thyne eres glowe! `Touching thy lettre, thou art wys y-nough, I woot thow nilt it digneliche endyte; As make it with thise argumentes tough; Ne scrivenish or craftily thou it wryte; Beblotte it with thy teres eek a lyte; And if thou wryte a goodly word al softe, Though it be good, reherce it not to ofte. `For though the beste harpour upon lyve Wolde on the beste souned Ioly harpe That ever was, with alle his fingres fyve, Touche ay o streng, or ay o werbul harpe, Were his nayles poynted never so sharpe, It shulde maken every wight to dulle, To here his glee, and of his strokes fulle. `Ne Iompre eek no discordaunt thing y-fere, As thus, to usen termes of phisyk; In loves termes, hold of thy matere The forme alwey, and do that it be lyk; For if a peyntour wolde peynte a pyk With asses feet, and hede it as an ape, It cordeth nought; so nere it but a Iape.' This counseyl lyked wel to Troilus; But, as a dreedful lover, he seyde this: -- `Allas, my dere brother Pandarus, I am ashamed for to wryte, y-wis, Lest of myn innocence I seyde a-mis, Or that she nolde it for despyt receyve; Thanne were I deed, ther mighte it no-thing weyve.' 1050 To that Pandare answerde, `If thee lest, Do that I seye, and lat me therwith goon; For by that lord that formed est and west, I hope of it to bringe answere anoon Right of hir hond, and if that thou nilt noon, Lat be; and sory mote he been his lyve, Ayeins thy lust that helpeth thee to thryve.' Quod Troilus, `Depardieux, I assente; Sin that thee list, I will aryse and wryte; And blisful god preye ich, with good entente, The vyage, and the lettre I shal endyte, So spede it; and thou, Minerva, the whyte, Yif thou me wit my lettre to devyse:' And sette him doun, and wroot right in this wyse. -- First he gan hir his righte lady calle, His hertes lyf, his lust, his sorwes leche, His blisse, and eek these othere termes alle, That in swich cas these loveres alle seche; And in ful humble wyse, as in his speche, He gan him recomaunde un-to hir grace; To telle al how, it axeth muchel space. And after this, ful lowly he hir prayde To be nought wrooth, though he, of his folye, So hardy was to hir to wryte, and seyde, That love it made, or elles moste he dye, And pitously gan mercy for to crye; And after that he seyde, and ley ful loude, Him-self was litel worth, and lesse he coude; And that she sholde han his conning excused, That litel was, and eek he dredde hir so, And his unworthinesse he ay acused; And after that, than gan he telle his woo; But that was endeles, with-outen ho; And seyde, he wolde in trouthe alwey him holde; -- And radde it over, and gan the lettre folde. And with his salte teres gan he bathe The ruby in his signet, and it sette Upon the wex deliverliche and rathe; Ther-with a thousand tymes, er he lette, He kiste tho the lettre that he shette, And seyde, `Lettre, a blisful destenee Thee shapen is, my lady shal thee see.' This Pandare took the lettre, and that by tyme A-morwe, and to his neces paleys sterte, And faste he swoor, that it was passed pryme, And gan to Iape, and seyde, `Y-wis, myn herte, So fresh it is, al-though it sore smerte, I may not slepe never a Mayes morwe; I have a Ioly wo, a lusty sorwe.' Criseyde, whan that she hir uncle herde, With dreedful herte, and desirous to here The cause of his cominge, thus answerde: `Now by your feyth, myn uncle,' quod she, `dere, What maner windes gydeth yow now here? Tel us your Ioly wo and your penaunce, How ferforth be ye put in loves daunce.' `By god,' quod he, `I hoppe alwey bihinde!' And she to-laugh, it thoughte hir herte breste. Quod Pandarus, `Loke alwey that ye finde Game in myn hood, but herkneth, if yow leste; Ther is right now come in-to toune a geste, A Greek espye, and telleth newe thinges, For which I come to telle yow tydinges. `Into the gardin go we, and we shal here, Al prevely, of this a long sermoun.' With that they wenten arm in arm y-fere In-to the gardin from the chaumbre doun. And whan that he so fer was that the soun Of that he speke, no man here mighte, He seyde hir thus, and out the lettre plighte, `Lo, he that is al hoolly youres free Him recomaundeth lowly to your grace, And sent to you this lettre here by me; Avyseth you on it, whan ye han space, And of som goodly answere yow purchace; Or, helpe me god, so pleynly for to seyne, He may not longe liven for his peyne.' Ful dredfully tho gan she stonde stille, And took it nought, but al hir humble chere Gan for to chaunge, and seyde, `Scrit ne bille, For love of god, that toucheth swich matere, Ne bring me noon; and also, uncle dere, To myn estat have more reward, I preye, Than to his lust; what sholde I more seye? `And loketh now if this be resonable, And letteth nought, for favour ne for slouthe, To seyn a sooth; now were it covenable To myn estat, by god, and by your trouthe, To taken it, or to han of him routhe, In harming of my-self or in repreve? Ber it a-yein, for him that ye on leve!' This Pandarus gan on hir for to stare, And seyde, `Now is this the grettest wonder That ever I sey! Lat be this nyce fare! To deethe mote I smiten be with thonder, If, for the citee which that stondeth yonder, Wolde I a lettre un-to yow bringe or take To harm of yow; what list yow thus it make? `But thus ye faren, wel neigh alle and some, That he that most desireth yow to serve, Of him ye recche leest wher he bicome, And whether that he live or elles sterve. But for al that that ever I may deserve, Refuse it nought,' quod he, and hente hir faste, And in hir bosom the lettre doun he thraste, And seyde hire, `Now cast it awey anoon, That folk may seen and gauren on us tweye.' Quod she, `I can abyde til they be goon,' And gan to smyle, and seyde hym, `Eem, I preye, Swich answere as yow list, your-self purveye, For trewely I nil no lettre wryte.' `No? than wol I,' quod he, `so ye endyte.' Therwith she lough, and seyde, `Go we dyne.' And he gan at him-self to iape faste, And seyde, `Nece, I have so greet a pyne For love, that every other day I faste' -- And gan his beste Iapes forth to caste; And made hir so to laughe at his folye, That she for laughter wende for to dye. And whan that she was comen in-to halle, `Now, eem,' quod she, `we wol go dine anoon;' And gan some of hir women to hir calle, And streyght in-to hir chaumbre gan she goon; But of hir besinesses, this was oon A-monges othere thinges, out of drede, Ful prively this lettre for to rede; Avysed word by word in every lyne, And fond no lak, she thoughte he coude good; And up it putte, and went hir in to dyne. But Pandarus, that in a study stood, Er he was war, she took him by the hood, And seyde, `Ye were caught er that ye wiste;' `I vouche sauf,' quod he. `do what yow liste.' Tho wesshen they, and sette hem doun and ete; And after noon ful sleyly Pandarus Gan drawe him to the window next the strete, And seyde, `Nece, who hath arayed thus The yonder hous, that stant afor-yeyn us?' `Which hous?' quod she, and gan for to biholde, And knew it wel, and whos it was him tolde, And fillen forth in speche of thinges smale, And seten in the window bothe tweye. Whan Pandarus saw tyme un-to his tale, And saw wel that hir folk were alle aweye, `Now, nece myn, tel on,' quod he; `I seye, How liketh yow the lettre that ye woot? Can he ther-on? For, by my trouthe, I noot.' Therwith al rosy hewed tho wex she, And gan to humme, and seyde, `So I trowe.' `Aquyte him wel, for goddes love,' quod he; `My-self to medes wol the lettre sowe.' And held his hondes up, and sat on knowe, `Now, goode nece, be it never so lyte, Yif me the labour, it to sowe and plyte.' `Ye, for I can so wryte,' quod she tho; `And eek I noot what I sholde to him seye.' `Nay, nece,' quod Pandare, `sey nat so; Yet at the leste thanketh him, I preye, Of his good wil, and doth him not to deye. Now for the love of me, my nece dere, Refuseth not at this tyme my preyere.' `Depar-dieux,' quod she, `God leve al be wel! God help me so, this is the firste lettre That ever I wroot, ye, al or any del.' And in-to a closet, for to avyse hir bettre, She wente allone, and gan hir herte unfettre Out of disdaynes prison but a lyte; And sette hir doun, and gan a lettre wryte, Of which to telle in short is myn entente Theffect, as fer as I can understonde: -- She thonked him of al that he wel mente Towardes hir, but holden him in honde She nolde nought, ne make hir-selven bonde In love, but as his suster, him to plese, She wolde fayn to doon his herte an ese. She shette it, and to Pandarus in gan goon, There as he sat and loked in-to the strete, And doun she sette hir by him on a stoon Of Iaspre, up-on a quisshin gold y-bete, And seyde, `As wisly helpe me god the grete, I never dide a thing with more peyne Than wryte this, to which ye me constreyne;' And took it him: He thonked hir and seyde, `God woot, of thing ful ofte looth bigonne Cometh ende good; and nece myn, Criseyde, That ye to him of hard now ben y-wonne Oughte he be glad, by god and yonder sonne! For-why men seyth, "Impressiounes lighte Ful lightly been ay redy to the flighte.' `But ye han pleyed tyraunt neigh to longe, And hard was it your herte for to grave; Now stint, that ye no longer on it honge, Al wolde ye the forme of daunger save. But hasteth yow to doon him Ioye have; For trusteth wel, to longe y-doon hardnesse Causeth despyt ful often, for destresse.' And right as they declamed this matere, Lo, Troilus, right at the stretes ende, Com ryding with his tenthe some y-fere, Al softely, and thiderward gan bende Ther-as they sete, as was his way to wende To paleys-ward; and Pandare him aspyde, And seyde, `Nece, y-see who cometh here ryde! `O flee not in, he seeth us, I suppose; Lest he may thinke that ye him eschuwe.' `Nay, nay,' quod she, and wex as reed as rose. With that he gan hir humbly to saluwe With dreedful chere, and oft his hewes muwe; And up his look debonairly he caste, And bekked on Pandare, and forth he paste. God woot if he sat on his hors a-right, Or goodly was beseyn, that ilke day! God woot wher he was lyk a manly knight! What sholde I drecche, or telle of his aray? Criseyde, which that alle these thinges say, To telle in short, hir lyked al y-fere, His persone, his aray, his look, his chere, His goodly manere, and his gentillesse, So wel, that never, sith that she was born, Ne hadde she swich routhe of his distresse; And how-so she hath hard ben her-biforn, To god hope I, she hath now caught a thorn, She shal not pulle it out this nexte wyke; God sende mo swich thornes on to pyke! Pandare, which that stood hir faste by, Felte iren hoot, and he bigan to smyte, And seyde, `Nece, I pray yow hertely, Tel me that I shal axen yow a lyte: A womman, that were of his deeth to wyte, With-outen his gilt, but for hir lakked routhe, Were it wel doon?' Quod she, `Nay, by my trouthe!' `God help me so,' quod he, `ye sey me sooth. Ye felen wel your-self that I not lye; Lo, yond he rit!' Quod she, `Ye, so he dooth!' `Wel,' quod Pandare, `as I have told yow thrye, Lat be youre nyce shame and youre folye, And spek with him in esing of his herte; Lat nycetee not do yow bothe smerte.' But ther-on was to heven and to done; Considered al thing, it may not be; And why, for shame; and it were eek to sone To graunten him so greet a libertee. `For playnly hir entente,' as seyde she, `Was for to love him unwist, if she mighte, And guerdon him with no-thing but with sighte.' But Pandarus thoughte, `It shal not be so, If that I may; this nyce opinioun Shal not be holden fully yeres two.' What sholde I make of this a long sermoun? He moste assente on that conclusioun, As for the tyme; and whan that it was eve, And al was wel, he roos and took his leve. And on his wey ful faste homward he spedde, And right for Ioye he felte his herte daunce; And Troilus he fond alone a-bedde, That lay as dooth these loveres, in a traunce, Bitwixen hope and derk desesperaunce. But Pandarus, right at his in-cominge, He song, as who seyth, `Lo! Sumwhat I bringe,' And seyde, `Who is in his bed so sone Y-buried thus?' `It am I, freend,' quod he. `Who, Troilus? Nay, helpe me so the mone,' Quod Pandarus, `Thou shalt aryse and see A charme that was sent right now to thee, The which can helen thee of thyn accesse, If thou do forth-with al thy besinesse.' `Ye, through the might of god!' quod Troilus. And Pandarus gan him the lettre take, And seyde, `Pardee, god hath holpen us; Have here a light, and loke on al this blake.' But ofte gan the herte glade and quake Of Troilus, whyl that he gan it rede, So as the wordes yave him hope or drede. But fynally, he took al for the beste That she him wroot, for somwhat he biheld On which, him thoughte, he mighte his herte reste, Al covered she the wordes under sheld. Thus to the more worthy part he held, That, what for hope and Pandarus biheste, His grete wo for-yede he at the leste. But as we may alday our-selven see, Through more wode or col, the more fyr; Right so encrees hope, of what it be, Therwith ful ofte encreseth eek desyr; Or, as an ook cometh of a litel spyr, So through this lettre, which that she him sente, Encresen gan desyr, of which he brente. Wherfore I seye alwey, that day and night This Troilus gan to desiren more Than he dide erst, thurgh hope, and dide his might To pressen on, as by Pandarus lore, And wryten to hir of his sorwes sore Fro day to day; he leet it not refreyde, That by Pandare he wroot somwhat or seyde; And dide also his othere observaunces That to a lovere longeth in this cas; And, after that these dees turnede on chaunces, So was he outher glad or seyde `Allas!' And held after his gestes ay his pas; And aftir swiche answeres as he hadde, So were his dayes sory outher gladde. But to Pandare alwey was his recours, And pitously gan ay til him to pleyne, And him bisoughte of rede and som socours; And Pandarus, that sey his wode peyne, Wex wel neigh deed for routhe, sooth to seyne, And bisily with al his herte caste Som of his wo to sleen, and that as faste; And seyde, `Lord, and freend, and brother dere, God woot that thy disese dooth me wo. But woltow stinten al this woful chere, And, by my trouthe, or it be dayes two, And god to-forn, yet shal I shape it so, That thou shalt come in-to a certayn place, Ther-as thou mayst thy-self hir preye of grace. `And certainly, I noot if thou it wost, But tho that been expert in love it seye, It is oon of the thinges that furthereth most, A man to have a leyser for to preye, And siker place his wo for to biwreye; For in good herte it moot som routhe impresse, To here and see the giltles in distresse. `Paraunter thenkestow: though it be so That kinde wolde doon hir to biginne To han a maner routhe up-on my wo, Seyth Daunger, "Nay, thou shalt me never winne; So reuleth hir hir hertes goost with-inne, That, though she bende, yet she stant on rote; What in effect is this un-to my bote?" `Thenk here-ayeins, whan that the sturdy ook, On which men hakketh ofte, for the nones, Receyved hath the happy falling strook, The grete sweigh doth it come al at ones, As doon these rokkes or these milne-stones. For swifter cours cometh thing that is of wighte, Whan it descendeth, than don thinges lighte. `And reed that boweth doun for every blast, Ful lightly, cesse wind, it wol aryse; But so nil not an ook whan it is cast; It nedeth me nought thee longe to forbyse. Men shal reioysen of a greet empryse Acheved wel, and stant with-outen doute, Al han men been the lenger ther-aboute. `But, Troilus, yet tel me, if thee lest, A thing now which that I shal axen thee; Which is thy brother that thou lovest best As in thy verray hertes privetee?' `Y-wis, my brother Deiphebus,' quod he. `Now,' quod Pandare, `er houres twyes twelve, He shal thee ese, unwist of it him-selve. `Now lat me allone, and werken as I may,' Quod he; and to Deiphebus wente he tho Which hadde his lord and grete freend ben ay; Save Troilus, no man he lovede so. To telle in short, with-outen wordes mo, Quod Pandarus, `I pray yow that ye be Freend to a cause which that toucheth me.' `Yis, pardee,' quod Deiphebus, `wel thow wost, In al that ever I may, and god to-fore, Al nere it but for man I love most, My brother Troilus; but sey wherfore It is; for sith that day that I was bore, I nas, ne never-mo to been I thinke, Ayeins a thing that mighte thee for-thinke.' Pandare gan him thonke, and to him seyde, `Lo, sire, I have a lady in this toun, That is my nece, and called is Criseyde, Which some men wolden doon oppressioun, And wrongfully have hir possessioun: Wherfor I of your lordship yow biseche To been our freend, with-oute more speche.' Deiphebus him answerde, `O, is not this, That thow spekest of to me thus straungely, Criseyda, my freend?' He seyde, `Yis.' `Than nedeth,' quod Deiphebus, `hardely, Na-more to speke, for trusteth wel, that I Wol be hir champioun with spore and yerde; I roughte nought though alle hir foos it herde. `But tel me how, thou that woost al this matere, How I might best avaylen? Now lat see.' Quod Pandarus; `If ye, my lord so dere, Wolden as now don this honour to me, To preyen hir to-morwe, lo, that she Come un-to yow hir pleyntes to devyse, Hir adversaries wolde of it agryse. `And if I more dorste preye as now, And chargen yow to have so greet travayle, To han som of your bretheren here with yow, That mighten to hir cause bet avayle, Than, woot I wel, she mighte never fayle For to be holpen, what at your instaunce, What with hir othere freendes governaunce.' Deiphebus, which that comen was, of kinde, To al honour and bountee to consente, Answerde, `It shal be doon; and I can finde Yet gretter help to this in myn entente. What wolt thow seyn, if I for Eleyne sente To speke of this? I trowe it be the beste; For she may leden Paris as hir leste. `Of Ector, which that is my lord, my brother, It nedeth nought to preye him freend to be; For I have herd him, o tyme and eek other, Speke of Criseyde swich honour, that he May seyn no bet, swich hap to him hath she. It nedeth nought his helpes for to crave; He shal be swich, right as we wole him have. `Spek thou thy-self also to Troilus On my bihalve, and pray him with us dyne.' `Sire, al this shal be doon,' quod Pandarus; And took his leve, and never gan to fyne, But to his neces hous, as streyt as lyne, He com; and fond hir fro the mete aryse; And sette him doun, and spak right in this wyse. He seyde, `O veray god, so have I ronne! Lo, nece myn, see ye nought how I swete? I noot whether ye the more thank me conne. Be ye nought war how that fals Poliphete Is now aboute eft-sones for to plete, And bringe on yow advocacyes newe?' `I? No,' quod she, and chaunged al hir hewe. `What is he more aboute, me to drecche And doon me wrong? What shal I do, allas? Yet of him-self no-thing ne wolde I recche, Nere it for Antenor and Eneas, That been his freendes in swich maner cas; But, for the love of god, myn uncle dere, No fors of that; lat him have al y-fere; `With-outen that I have ynough for us.' `Nay,' quod Pandare, `it shal no-thing be so. For I have been right now at Deiphebus, And Ector, and myne othere lordes mo, And shortly maked eche of hem his fo; That, by my thrift, he shal it never winne For ought he can, whan that so he biginne.' And as they casten what was best to done, Deiphebus, of his owene curtasye, Com hir to preye, in his propre persone, To holde him on the morwe companye At diner, which she nolde not denye, But goodly gan to his preyere obeye. He thonked hir, and wente up-on his weye. Whanne this was doon, this Pandare up a-noon, To telle in short, and forth gan for to wende To Troilus, as stille as any stoon; And al this thing he tolde him, word and ende; And how that he Deiphebus gan to blende; And seyde him, `Now is tyme, if that thou conne, To bere thee wel to-morwe, and al is wonne. `Now spek, now prey, now pitously compleyne; Lat not for nyce shame, or drede, or slouthe; Som-tyme a man mot telle his owene peyne; Bileve it, and she shal han on thee routhe; Thou shalt be saved by thy feyth, in trouthe. But wel wot I, thou art now in a drede; And what it is, I leye, I can arede. `Thow thinkest now, "How sholde I doon al this? For by my cheres mosten folk aspye, That for hir love is that I fare a-mis; Yet hadde I lever unwist for sorwe dye." Now thenk not so, for thou dost greet folye. For I right now have founden o manere Of sleighte, for to coveren al thy chere. `Thow shalt gon over night, and that as blyve, Un-to Deiphebus hous, as thee to pleye, Thy maladye a-wey the bet to dryve, For-why thou semest syk, soth for to seye. Sone after that, doun in thy bed thee leye, And sey, thow mayst no lenger up endure, And ly right there, and byde thyn aventure. `Sey that thy fever is wont thee for to take The same tyme, and lasten til a-morwe; And lat see now how wel thou canst it make, For, par-dee, syk is he that is in sorwe. Go now, farwel! And, Venus here to borwe, I hope, and thou this purpos holde ferme, Thy grace she shal fully ther conferme.' Quod Troilus, `Y-wis, thou nedelees Conseylest me, that sykliche I me feyne, For I am syk in ernest, doutelees, So that wel neigh I sterve for the peyne.' Quod Pandarus, `Thou shalt the bettre pleyne, And hast the lasse need to countrefete; For him men demen hoot that men seen swete. `Lo, holde thee at thy triste cloos, and I Shal wel the deer un-to thy bowe dryve.' Therwith he took his leve al softely, And Troilus to paleys wente blyve. So glad ne was he never in al his lyve; And to Pandarus reed gan al assente, And to Deiphebus hous at night he wente. What nedeth yow to tellen al the chere That Deiphebus un-to his brother made, Or his accesse, or his siklych manere, How men gan him with clothes for to lade, Whan he was leyd, and how men wolde him glade? But al for nought; he held forth ay the wyse That ye han herd Pandare er this devyse. But certeyn is, er Troilus him leyde, Deiphebus had him prayed, over night, To been a freend and helping to Criseyde. God woot, that he it grauntede anon-right, To been hir fulle freend with al his might. But swich a nede was to preye him thenne, As for to bidde a wood man for to renne. The morwen com, and neighen gan the tyme Of meel-tyd, that the faire quene Eleyne Shoop hir to been, an houre after the pryme, With Deiphebus, to whom she nolde feyne; But as his suster, hoomly, sooth to seyne, She com to diner in hir playn entente. But god and Pandare wiste al what this mente. Com eek Criseyde, al innocent of this, Antigone, hir sister Tarbe also; But flee we now prolixitee best is, For love of god, and lat us faste go Right to the effect, with-oute tales mo, Why al this folk assembled in this place; And lat us of hir saluinges pace. Gret honour dide hem Deiphebus, certeyn, And fedde hem wel with al that mighte lyke. But ever-more, `Allas!' was his refreyn, `My goode brother Troilus, the syke, Lyth yet"--and therwith-al he gan to syke; And after that, he peyned him to glade Hem as he mighte, and chere good he made. Compleyned eek Eleyne of his syknesse So feithfully, that pitee was to here, And every wight gan waxen for accesse A leche anoon, and seyde, `In this manere Men curen folk; this charme I wol yow lere.' But ther sat oon, al list hir nought to teche, That thoughte, best coude I yet been his leche. After compleynt, him gonnen they to preyse, As folk don yet, whan som wight hath bigonne To preyse a man, and up with prys him reyse A thousand fold yet hyer than the sonne: -- `He is, he can, that fewe lordes conne.' And Pandarus, of that they wolde afferme, He not for-gat hir preysing to conferme. Herde al this thing Criseyde wel y-nough, And every word gan for to notifye; For which with sobre chere hir herte lough; For who is that ne wolde hir glorifye, To mowen swich a knight don live or dye? But al passe I, lest ye to longe dwelle; For for o fyn is al that ever I telle. The tyme com, fro diner for to ryse, And, as hem oughte, arisen everychoon, And gonne a while of this and that devyse. But Pandarus brak al this speche anoon, And seyde to Deiphebus, `Wole ye goon, If youre wille be, as I yow preyde, To speke here of the nedes of Criseyde?' Eleyne, which that by the hond hir held, Took first the tale, and seyde, `Go we blyve;' And goodly on Criseyde she biheld, And seyde, `Ioves lat him never thryve, That dooth yow harm, and bringe him sone of lyve! And yeve me sorwe, but he shal it rewe, If that I may, and alle folk be trewe.' `Tel thou thy neces cas,' quod Deiphebus To Pandarus, `for thou canst best it telle.' -- `My lordes and my ladyes, it stant thus; What sholde I lenger,' quod he, `do yow dwelle?' He rong hem out a proces lyk a belle, Up-on hir fo, that highte Poliphete, So heynous, that men mighte on it spete. Answerde of this ech worse of hem than other, And Poliphete they gonnen thus to warien, `An-honged be swich oon, were he my brother; And so he shal, for it ne may not varien.' What sholde I lenger in this tale tarien? Pleynly, alle at ones, they hir highten To been hir helpe in al that ever they mighten. Spak than Eleyne, and seyde, `Pandarus, Woot ought my lord, my brother, this matere, I mene, Ector? Or woot it Troilus?' He seyde, `Ye, but wole ye now me here? Me thinketh this, sith Troilus is here, It were good, if that ye wolde assente, She tolde hir-self him al this, er she wente. `For he wole have the more hir grief at herte, By cause, lo, that she a lady is; And, by your leve, I wol but right in sterte, And do yow wite, and that anoon, y-wis, If that he slepe, or wole ought here of this.' And in he lepte, and seyde him in his ere, `God have thy soule, y-brought have I thy bere!' To smylen of this gan tho Troilus, And Pandarus, with-oute rekeninge, Out wente anoon to Eleyne and Deiphebus, And seyde hem, `So there be no taryinge, Ne more pres, he wol wel that ye bringe Criseyda, my lady, that is here; And as he may enduren, he wole here. `But wel ye woot, the chaumbre is but lyte, And fewe folk may lightly make it warm; Now loketh ye, (for I wol have no wyte, To bringe in prees that mighte doon him harm Or him disesen, for my bettre arm), Wher it be bet she byde til eft-sones; Now loketh ye, that knowen what to doon is. `I sey for me, best is, as I can knowe, That no wight in ne wente but ye tweye, But it were I, for I can, in a throwe, Reherce hir cas unlyk that she can seye; And after this, she may him ones preye To ben good lord, in short, and take hir leve; This may not muchel of his ese him reve. `And eek, for she is straunge, he wol forbere His ese, which that him thar nought for yow; Eek other thing that toucheth not to here, He wol me telle, I woot it wel right now, That secret is, and for the tounes prow.' And they, that no-thing knewe of his entente, With-oute more, to Troilus in they wente. Eleyne, in al hir goodly softe wyse, Gan him saluwe, and womanly to pleye, And seyde, `Ywis, ye moste alweyes aryse! Now fayre brother, beth al hool, I preye!' And gan hir arm right over his sholder leye, And him with al hir wit to recomforte; As she best coude, she gan him to disporte. So after this quod she, `We yow biseke, My dere brother, Deiphebus and I, For love of god, and so doth Pandare eke, To been good lord and freend, right hertely, Un-to Criseyde, which that certeinly Receyveth wrong, as woot wel here Pandare, That can hir cas wel bet than I declare.' This Pandarus gan newe his tunge affyle, And al hir cas reherce, and that anoon; Whan it was seyd, sone after, in a whyle, Quod Troilus, `As sone as I may goon, I wol right fayn with al my might ben oon, Have god my trouthe, hir cause to sustene.' `Good thrift have ye,' quod Eleyne the quene. Quod Pandarus, `And it your wille be That she may take hir leve, er that she go?' `O, elles god for-bede,' tho quod he, `If that she vouche sauf for to do so.' And with that word quod Troilus, `Ye two, Deiphebus, and my suster leef and dere, To yow have I to speke of o matere, `To been avysed by your reed the bettre': -- And fond, as hap was, at his beddes heed, The copie of a tretis and a lettre, That Ector hadde him sent to axen reed, If swich a man was worthy to ben deed, Woot I nought who; but in a grisly wyse He preyede hem anoon on it avyse. Deiphebus gan this lettre to unfolde In ernest greet; so did Eleyne the quene; And rominge outward, fast it gan biholde, Downward a steyre, in-to an herber grene. This ilke thing they redden hem bi-twene; And largely, the mountaunce of an houre, Thei gonne on it to reden and to poure. Now lat hem rede, and turne we anoon To Pandarus, that gan ful faste prye That al was wel, and out he gan to goon In-to the grete chambre, and that in hye, And seyde, `God save al this companye! Com, nece myn; my lady quene Eleyne Abydeth yow, and eek my lordes tweyne. `Rys, take with yow your nece Antigone, Or whom yow list, or no fors, hardily; The lesse prees, the bet; com forth with me, And loke that ye thonke humblely Hem alle three, and, whan ye may goodly Your tyme y-see, taketh of hem your leve, Lest we to longe his restes him bireve.' Al innocent of Pandarus entente, Quod tho Criseyde, `Go we, uncle dere'; And arm in arm inward with him she wente, Avysed wel hir wordes and hir chere; And Pandarus, in ernestful manere, Seyde, `Alle folk, for goddes love, I preye, Stinteth right here, and softely yow pleye. `Aviseth yow what folk ben here with-inne, And in what plyt oon is, god him amende! And inward thus ful softely biginne; Nece, I conjure and heighly yow defende, On his half, which that sowle us alle sende, And in the vertue of corounes tweyne, Slee nought this man, that hath for yow this peyne! `Fy on the devel! Thenk which oon he is, And in what plyt he lyth; com of anoon; Thenk al swich taried tyd, but lost it nis! That wol ye bothe seyn, whan ye ben oon. Secoundelich, ther yet devyneth noon Up-on yow two; come of now, if ye conne; Whyl folk is blent, lo, al the tyme is wonne! `In titering, and pursuite, and delayes, The folk devyne at wagginge of a stree; And though ye wolde han after merye dayes, Than dar ye nought, and why? For she, and she Spak swich a word; thus loked he, and he; Lest tyme I loste, I dar not with yow dele; Com of therfore, and bringeth him to hele.' But now to yow, ye lovers that ben here, Was Troilus nought in a cankedort, That lay, and mighte whispringe of hem here, And thoughte, `O lord, right now renneth my sort Fully to dye, or han anoon comfort'; And was the firste tyme he shulde hir preye Of love; O mighty god, what shal he seye?
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