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And home they goon in joy and in solas.

Save only wreched Aurelius, alas

They goon and play hem all the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morrwe of May,

For veray woe out of his wit he braide.

He niste what he spake, but thus he saide

He to his house is goon with sorrweful herte.

He seeth he may not from his deeth asterte

In which that they had made hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille, and of other purveyaunce

With pitous hert his plant hath he begonne

Unto the goddes, and first unto the sunne

Of swich a parfit wise God and a stable,

Why han ye wrought this werk unresonable

Than seemed it ye had a greet chiertee

Toward mankind. But how than may it be

That fresher was and jollier of array,

As to my doom, than is the month of May

For by this werk south, north, ne west ne est

There nis y-fostred man ne brid ne beest:

Which mankind is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest like to thine own merk

He singeth, daunceth, passing any man

That is or was sith that the world began

And shortly, if the sooth I tellen shall,

Unwitting of this Dorigen at all

And shopen for to playen somewhere elles.

They leden hir by riners and by welles

As keep my lord! This my conclusioun.

To clerkes let I all disputisoun

Though I ne can the causes not y-knowe.

But thilke God that made wind to blowe

This lusty squier, servant to Venus –

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius

In which that they had made hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille, and of other purveyaunce

They goon and play hem all the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morrwe of May

But no thing wiste she of his entente.

Natheless, it happed ere they thennes wente

The odour of flowres and the freshe sighte

Wold han maked any herte lighte

That never was there garden of swich pris

But if it were the veray paradis

By cause that he was hire neighebour

And was a man of worship and honour

And singe also, save Dorigen alone,

Which made alway hir complaint and hir mone

I wold that day that your Arveragus

Went over the see that I, Aurelius

That fresher was and jollier of array,

As to my doom, than is the month of May

For she ne saw him on the daunce go

That was hir husband and hir love also

He singeth, daunceth, passing any man

That is or was sith that the world began

Yet wold I graunte you to been your love, Sin I you see so pitously complaine:

Look what day that endelong Britaine

This lusty squier, servant to Venus –

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius

And shortly, if the sooth I tellen shall,

Unwitting of this Dorigen at all

His woe, as in a general complaining.

He said he loved, and was beloved no thing

He was despaired – no thing dorst he saye,

Save in his songes somewhat wold he wraye

Ye remove all the rockes, stone be stone,

That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon

In other manner than ye heer me saye

Ne dorst he not to hir his woe biwraye

And die he most, he said, as did Echo

For Narcissus that dorst not telle his woe

For well I wot that it shall never bitide.

Let swich follies out of your herte slide!

But no thing wiste she of his entente.

Natheless, it happed ere they thennes wente

By cause that he was hire neighebour

And was a man of worship and honour

I wold that day that your Arveragus

Went over the see that I, Aurelius,

Wol bringen home my lord?

Than were mine herte

All warished of his bitter paines amerte

Another time there wold she sit and thinke

And cast hir eyen downward fro the brinke –

For with a word ye may me sleen or save!

Here at your feet God wold that I were grave

I ne have as now no leiser more to saye –

Have mercy, sweet, or ye wol do me deye!”

Yet wold I graunte you to been your love, Sin I you see so pitously complaine:

Look what day that endelong Britaine

Ne shall I never been untrewe wif

In word ne werk as far as I have wit.

And pitously into the see biholde,

And sayn right thus, with sorrweful sikes colde

Ye remove all the rockes, stone be stone,

That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon.

Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveyance

Ledest the world by certain governance,

And home they goon in joy and in solas.

Save only wreched Aurelius, alas

For well I wot that it shall never bitide.

Let swich follies out of your herte slide!

He to his house is goon with sorrweful herte.

He seeth he may not from his deeth asterte

Woe was Aurelie whan that he this herde,

And with a sorrweful hert he thus answerde

“Madame,” quod he, “this were an impossible!

Than mot I die of sudden deeth horrible!”

Is there no ship of so many as I see

Wol bringen home my lord?

Than were mine herte

All warished of his bitter paines amerte

Hir freendes saw hir sorrwe gan to slacke

And prayed hir on knees, for Goddes sake,

To come and romen hir in compagnye

Hath sent hir letters home of his welfare

And that he wol come hastily again,

Or elles had this sorrwe hir herte slain

Than seemed it ye had a greet chiertee

Toward mankind. But how than may it be

That ye swich meenes make it to destroyen

Han rockes slain, al be they not in minde,

Which mankind is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest like to thine own merk

Another time there wold she sit and thinke

And cast hir eyen downward fro the brinke –

But whan she seigh the grisly rockes blacke

By arguments that all is for the beste,

Though I ne can the causes not y-knowe.

But thilke God that made wind to blowe

Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveyance

Ledest the world by certain governance,

In idle, as men sayn, ye nothing make

For well she saw that it was for the beste.

Now stood hir castel faste by the see,

And often with hir freendes walketh she

Hir to disport upon the bank

on heigh

As keep my lord! This my conclusioun.

To clerkes let I all disputisoun –

But wolde God that all thise rockes blacke

And pitously into the see biholde,

And sayn right thus, with sorrweful sikes colde

Sailing hir course where as hem liste go.

But than was that a parcel of hir woe,

That on hir feet she might

And in his raving said his orisoun.

For veray woe out of his wit he braide.

He niste what he spake, but thus he saide

They goon and play hem all the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morrwe of May,

Which May had painted with his softe showres

This is as much to say as, it was night –

And home they goon in joy and in solas.

Save only wreched Aurelius, alas

He to his house is goon with sorrweful herte.

He seeth he may not from his deeth asterte:

Him seemed that he felt his herte colde

Unto a garden that was there beside

In which that they had made hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille, and of other purveyaunce

With pitous hert his plant hath he begonne

Unto the goddes, and first unto the sunne.

Arveragus with hele and greet honour

Han rockes slain, al be they not in minde,

Which mankind is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest like to thine own merk

Than seemed it ye had a greet chiertee

Toward mankind. But how than may it be

That ye swich meenes make it to destroyen

Daunced a squier before Dorigen

That fresher was and jollier of array,

As to my doom, than is the month of May

For by this werk south, north, ne west ne est

There nis y-fostred man ne brid ne beest:

It doth no good, to my wit, but annoyeth

Of werk, than any fair creacioun

Of swich a parfit wise God and a stable,

Why han ye wrought this werk unresonable

He singeth, daunceth, passing any man

That is or was sith that the world began.

Therewith he was, if men him shold descrive

By arguments that all is for the beste,

Though I ne can the causes not y-knowe.

But thilke God that made wind to blowe

This lusty squier, servant to Venus –

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius –

Had loved hir best of any creature

And well-beloved, and holden in greet pris. And shortly, if the sooth I tellen shall,

Unwitting of this Dorigen at all

As keep my lord! This my conclusioun.

To clerkes let I all disputisoun –

But wolde God that all thise rockes blacke

And shopen for to playen somewhere elles.

They leden hir by riners and by welles

And eek in other places delitables

Unto a garden that was there beside

In which that they had made hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille, and of other purveyaunce

The odour of flowres and the freshe sighte

Wold han maked any herte lighte

That ever was born, but if too greet sicknesse

In swich a wise as man that asketh grace –

But no thing wiste she of his entente.

Natheless, it happed ere they thennes wente

They goon and play hem all the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morrwe of May,

Which May had painted with his softe showres

Arrayed had this garden trewely

That never was there garden of swich pris

But if it were the veray paradis

By cause that he was hire neighebour

And was a man of worship and honour,

And had y-known him of time yore

And whan he saw his time he saide thus:

“Madame,” quod he, “by God that this world made, So that I wist it might your herte glade

I wold that day that your Arveragus

Went over the see that I, Aurelius,

Had went ther never I shold have come again

Daunced a squier before Dorigen

That fresher was and jollier of array,

As to my doom, than is the month of May

For she ne saw him on the daunce go

That was hir husband and hir love also.

But natheless she most a time abide

At after-dinner gonne they to daunce

And singe also, save Dorigen alone,

Which made alway hir complaint and hir mone

He singeth, daunceth, passing any man

That is or was sith that the world began.

Therewith he was, if men him shold descrive

But never dorst he tellen hir his grevaunce.

He was despaired – no thing dorst he saye,

Save in his songes somewhat wold he wraye

This lusty squier, servant to Venus –

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius –

Had loved hir best of any creature

And well-beloved, and holden in greet pris. And shortly, if the sooth I tellen shall,

Unwitting of this Dorigen at all

His woe, as in a general complaining.

He said he loved, and was beloved no thing,

Of which mattere made he many layes

“Aurelie”, quod she, “by heighe God above, Yet wold I graunte you to been your love, Sin I you see so pitously complaine:

Look what day that endelong Britaine

Ye remove all the rockes, stone be stone,

That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon.

I say, whan ye han made the coost so cleene

By cause that he was hire neighebour

And was a man of worship and honour,

And had y-known him of time yore

In swich a wise as man that asketh grace –

But no thing wiste she of his entente.

Natheless, it happed ere they thennes wente

In other manner than ye heer me saye

Ne dorst he not to hir his woe biwraye,

Save that paraventure some time at daunces

But languisheth as a fury doth in helle.

And die he most, he said, as did Echo

For Narcissus that dorst not telle his woe

For well I wot that it shall never bitide.

Let swich follies out of your herte slide!

What daintee shold a man han in his lif

And whan he saw his time he saide thus:

“Madame,” quod he, “by God that this world made, So that I wist it might your herte glade

Another time there wold she sit and thinke

And cast hir eyen downward fro the brinke –

But whan she seigh the grisly rockes blacke

Madame, reweth upon my paines smerte,

For with a word ye may me sleen or save!

Here at your feet God wold that I were grave

I ne have as now no leiser more to saye –

Have mercy, sweet, or ye wol do me deye!”

She gan to look upon Aurelius

Is there no ship of so many as I see

Wol bringen home my lord?

Than were mine herte

All warished of his bitter paines amerte

I wold that day that your Arveragus

Went over the see that I, Aurelius,

Had went ther never I shold have come again

Than wold she sit adown upon the greene

And pitously into the see biholde,

And sayn right thus, with sorrweful sikes colde

Ye remove all the rockes, stone be stone,

That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon.

I say, whan ye han made the coost so cleene

“Aurelie”, quod she, “by heighe God above, Yet wold I graunte you to been your love, Sin I you see so pitously complaine:

Look what day that endelong Britaine

Ne shall I never been untrewe wif

In word ne werk as far as I have wit.

I wol be his to whom that I am knit

Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveyance

Ledest the world by certain governance,

In idle, as men sayn, ye nothing make

This is as much to say as, it was night –

And home they goon in joy and in solas.

Save only wreched Aurelius, alas

For well I wot that it shall never bitide.

Let swich follies out of your herte slide!

What daintee shold a man han in his lif

Aurelius full ofte sore siketh;

Woe was Aurelie whan that he this herde,

And with a sorrweful hert he thus answered

“Madame,” quod he, “this were an impossible!

Than mot I die of sudden deeth horrible!”

And with that word he turned him anon

He to his house is goon with sorrweful herte.

He seeth he may not from his deeth asterte:

Him seemed that he felt his herte colde

And that he wol come hastily again,

Or elles had this sorrwe hir herte slain

Hir freendes saw hir sorrwe gan to slacke

And prayed hir on knees, for Goddes sake,

To come and romen hir in compagnye

Away to drive hir derke fantasye

Which mankind is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest like to thine own merk

Than seemed it ye had a greet chiertee

Toward mankind. But how than may it be

That ye swich meenes make it to destroyen,

Which meenes do no good but ever annoyen

Wol bringen home my lord?

Than were mine herte

All warished of his bitter paines amerte

Another time there wold she sit and thinke

And cast hir eyen downward fro the brinke –

But whan she seigh the grisly rockes blacke

For veray fere so wold hir herte quake

Now stood hir castel faste by the see,

And often with hir freendes walketh she

Hir to disport upon the bank

on heigh

Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveyance

Ledest the world by certain governance,

In idle, as men sayn, ye nothing make.

But Lord, thise grisly freendly rockes blacke

I wot well clerkes wol sayn as hem leste

By arguments that all is for the beste,

Though I ne can the causes not y-knowe.

But thilke God that made wind to blowe

As keep my lord! This my conclusioun.

To clerkes let I all disputisoun –

But wolde God that all thise rockes blacke

Were sunken into helle for his sake

And pitously into the see biholde,

And sayn right thus, with sorrweful sikes colde

Where as she many a ship and barge seigh

Sailing hir course where as hem liste go.

But than was that a parcel of hir woe,

That on hir feet she might

For by this werk south, north, ne west ne est

There nis y-fostred man ne brid ne beest:

It doth no good, to my wit, but annoyeth.

See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth

That seemen rather a foul confusioun

Of werk, than any fair creacioun

Of swich a parfit wise God and a stable,

Why han ye wrought this werk unresonable

And shopen for to playen somewhere elles.

They leden hir by riners and by welles

And eek in other places delitables;

They dauncen and they playen at chess and tables

Yong, strong, right vertuous, and rich, and wis, And well-beloved, and holden in greet pris. And shortly, if the sooth I tellen shall,

Unwitting of this Dorigen at all

This lusty squier, servant to Venus –

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius –

Had loved hir best of any creature

Two yeer and more, as was his aventure

It may well be he looked on hir face

In swich a wise as man that asketh grace –

But no thing wiste she of his entente.

Natheless, it happed ere they thennes wente

By cause that he was hire neighebour

And was a man of worship and honour,

And had y-known him of time yore,

They fill in speeche, and forth more and more

So on a day, right in the morrwetide,

Unto a garden that was there beside

In which that they had made hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille, and of other purveyaunce

They goon and play hem all the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morrwe of May,

Which May had painted with his softe showres

This garden full of leves and of flowres

Upon this daunce, amonges other men,

Daunced a squier before Dorigen

That fresher was and jollier of array,

As to my doom, than is the month of May

So full it was of beautee with plesaunce.

At after-dinner gonne they to daunce

And singe also, save Dorigen alone,

Which made alway hir complaint and hir mone

He singeth, daunceth, passing any man

That is or was sith that the world began.

Therewith he was, if men him shold descrive,

One of the beste faring man on live

For she ne saw him on the daunce go

That was hir husband and hir love also.

But natheless she most a time abide,

And with good hope let hir sorrow slide

But after that in play thus saide she:

“Aurelie”, quod she, “by heighe God above, Yet wold I graunte you to been your love, Sin I you see so pitously complaine:

Look what day that endelong Britaine

His woe, as in a general complaining.

He said he loved, and was beloved no thing,

Of which mattere made he many layes,

Songes, complaintes, roundels, virelayes

But never dorst he tellen hir his grevaunce.

Withouten cup he drank all his penance.

He was despaired – no thing dorst he saye,

Save in his songes somewhat wold he wraye

Ye remove all the rockes, stone be stone,

That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon.

I say, whan ye han made the coost so cleene

Of rockes that there nis no stone y-seene

By cause that he was hire neighebour

And was a man of worship and honour,

And had y-known him of time yore,

They fill in speeche, and forth more and more

It may well be he looked on hir face

In swich a wise as man that asketh grace –

But no thing wiste she of his entente.

Natheless, it happed ere they thennes wente

Than wol I love you best of any man –

Have here my trouth – in all that ever I can.”“Is there noon other grace in you?” quod he.“No, by that Lord,” quod she, “that maked me

For well I wot that it shall never bitide.

Let swich follies out of your herte slide!

What daintee shold a man han in his lif

For to go love another mannes wif