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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 this your will?” quod she, “and say ye thus

My guerdon is but bresting of mine herte.

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

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

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

That hath hir body whan so that him liketh!”Aurelius full ofte sore siketh;

Woe was Aurelie whan that he this herde,

And with a sorrweful hert he thus answerde

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.

Up to the heven his handes he gan holde

For th’orisont hath reft the sun his light –

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

And home they goon in joy and in solas.

Save only wreched Aurelius, alas –

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

Than mot I die of sudden deeth horrible!”

And with that word he turned him anon.

Tho come hir other freendes many oon

Another time there wold she sit and thinke

And cast hir eyen downward fro the brinke –

Which mankind is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest like to thine own merk

Wol bringen home my lord?

Than were mine herte

All warished of his bitter paines amerte

Than seemed it ye had a greet chiertee

Toward mankind. But how than may it be

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

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.

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,

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

“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

wis, 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

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

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.

Up to the heven his handes he gan holde

And on his knowes bare he set him down 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

With pitous hert his plant hath he begonne

Unto the goddes, and first unto the sunne.

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,

An hundred thousand bodies of mankinde

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 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.

See ye not, Lord, how mankind it destroyeth

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,

One of the beste faring man on live

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

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

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 –

This lusty squier, servant to Venus –

Which that y-cleped was Aurelius –

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

In which that they had made hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille, and of other purveyaunce

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

And craft of mannes hand so curiously

Arrayed had this garden trewely

That never was there garden of swich pris

But if it were the veray paradis

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

Unto his purpuse drow Aurelius,

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

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

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

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 –

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

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

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

Of rockes that there nis no stone y-seene

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

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

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

How that he dorste not his sorrow telle,

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

Wol bringen home my lord?

Than were mine herte

All warished of his bitter paines amerte

I ne have as now no leiser more to saye –

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

My guerdon is but bresting of mine herte.

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 wold that day that your Arveragus

Went over the see that I, Aurelius,

Had went ther never I shold have come again!

For well I wot my servise is in vain

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

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

Look what day that endelong Britaine

Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveyance

Ledest the world by certain governance,

Ne shall I never been untrewe wif

In word ne werk as far as I have wit

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

Of rockes that there nis no stone y-seene

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

Than mot I die of sudden deeth horrible!”

That hath hir body whan so that him liketh!”Aurelius full ofte sore siketh;

Woe was Aurelie whan that he this herde,

And with a sorrweful hert he thus answerde

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

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.

Up to the heven his handes he gan holde