OF

[GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 1328-1400.]

PRAISE OF WOMEN.

FOR, this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie,

In women is all truth and steadfastness; For, in good faith, I never of them sie But much worship, bounty, and gentle

ness,

Right coming, fair, and full of meekéness;
Good, and glad, and lowly, I you ensure,
Is this goodly and àngelic creature.

And if it hap a man be in disease,
She doth her business and her full pain
With all her might him to comfort and
please,

If fro his disease him she might restrain:
In word ne deed, I wis, she woll not faine;
With all her might she doth her business
To bringen him out of his heaviness.

Lo, here what gentleness these women have,

If we could know it for our rudéness!
How busy they be us to keep and save
Both in hele and also in sickness,
And alway right sorry for our distress!
In every manère thus shew they ruth,
That in them is all goodness and all
truth.

THE YOUNG SQUIRE.

WITH him there was his son, a youngé Squire,

A lover and a lusty bacholer, With lockés crull, as they were laid in press.

Of twenty year of age he was I guess.

Of his stature he was of even length, And wonderly deliver and great of strength;

And he had been some time in chevachie In Flandres, in Artois, and in Picardy, And borne him well, as of so little space, In hope to standen in his lady's grace

Embroidered was he, as it were a mead All full of freshé flowers white and red. Singing he was or fluting all the day: He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his gown, with sleevés long and wide;

Well could he sit on horse, and fairé ride. He couldé songés well make, and indite, Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.

So hot he loved, that by nightertale He slept no more than doth the nightin gale.

Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, And carved before his father at the table.

GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER.

FLY from the press,* and dwell with soothfastness;

Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,

For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness;+

Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o'er all.

Savor no more than thee behoven shall,

Rede ¶ well thy self that other folk can'st rede,

And Truth thee shalt deliver- 'tis no drede.**

That thee is sent receive in buxomness: The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.

Here is no home, here is but wilderness. Forth, pilgrim, forth-on, best out of thy stall,

Look up on high, and thank the God of all !

Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost ++ thee lead, And Truth thee shalt deliver- 'tis no drede.

[The EARL OF SURREY. 1506-1547.]
GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS.

GIVE place, ye lovers, here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain;

My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candlelight,
Or brightest day the darkest night;

And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were ;-
And virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.

That now I sight, and then I smilde, as cause of thoughts did ryse.

I saw the little boy, in thought how oft that he

Did wishe of God, to scape the red, a tall young man to be,

The young man eake that feles his bones with paines opprest

How he would be a riche old man, to live and lye at rest;

The riche olde man that sees his end draw on so sore,

How he would be a boy againe to live so much the more.

Whereat full oft I smylde, to see how all those three

From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.

That man from wealth, to live in wo, doth ever seke to change.

Thus thoughtfull as I lay, I sawe my withered skyn,

How it doth shew my dented chewes, the flesh was worn so thin,

And eke my totheless chaps, the gates of my right way,

That opes and shuttes, as I do speak, do

SOE feeble is the thred that doth the burden stay,

Of my poor life in heavy plight that falleth in decay,

That but it haye elsewhere some ayde or

some succours,

The running spindle of my fate anon shall end his course.

For since the unhappy houre that dyd me to depart,

From my sweet weale one only hoape hath stayed my life apart, Which doth perswade such words unto my sored mynde,

Maintaine thy selfe, O wofull wight, some I better luck to find.

For though thou be deprived from thy desired sight

Who can thee tell, if thy returne before thy more delight;

Or who can tell thy loss if thou mayst once recover,

Some pleasant houres thy wo may wrap, and thee defend and cover. Thus in this trust, as yet hath my life sustained, But now (alas)

see it faint, and I by trust am trayned. The tyme doth flete, and I see how the

hours do bende,

So fast that I have scant the space to marke my coming end.

Westward the sunn from out the east scant shewd his lite,

When in the west he hies him straite within the dark of night

And comes as fast, where he began his path awry,

From east to west, from west to east, so doth his journey lye.

Thy lyfe so short, so frayle, that mortall men lyve here,

Soe great a weight, so heavy charge the bodyes that we bere,

That when I think upon the distance and

To lyft me up that I might fly to follow my desyre.

Thus of that hope that doth my lyfe some-
thyng susteyne,
[remaine.
Alas I fear, and partly feel full little doth
Eche place doth bring me griefe where I
doe not behold,

Those lively eyes which of my thoughts,
were wont the keys to hold.
Those thoughts were pleasant sweet whilst
I enjoy'd that grace,

My pleasure past, my present pain, when
I might well embrace.

And for because my want should more my woe increase,

In watch and sleep both day and night my will doth never cease. That thing to wishe whereof synce I did lose the sight,

Was never thing that mought in ought iny wofull hart delight.

Th' uncasy life I lead doth teach me for to mete,

The floods, the seas, the land, the hills,

that doth them intermete, Twene me and those shene lights that wonted for to clere,

My darked pangs of cloudy thoughts as

bright as Phebus sphere;

It teacheth me also, what was my pleasant state,

The more to feele by such record how that my welth doth bate.

If such record (alas) provoke the inflamed mynde,

Which sprung that day that I dyd leave the best of me behynde,

If love forgeat himselfe by length of absence let,

Who doth me guid (O wofull wretch)

unto this baited net :

Where doth encrease my care, much better were for me,

As dumm as stone all things forgott, still

absent for to be.

Alas the clear christall, the bright transplendant glasse,

Doth not bewray the colours hid which underneath it hase.

As doth the accumbred sprite the thoughtfull throwes discover,

Of teares delyte of fervent love that in our hartes we cover,

Out by these eyes, it sheweth that ever more delight;

In plaint and teares to seek redress, and eke both day and night.

Those kindes of pleasures most wherein men soe rejoice,

To me they do redouble still of stormy sighes the voice.

For, I am one of them, whom plaint doth well content,

It fits me well my absent wealth me semes for to lament,

And with my teares t' assy to charge

myne eyes twayne,

Like as my hart above the brink is fraughted full of payne.

And for because thereto, that these fair eyes do treate,

Do me provoke, I will returne, my plaint thus to repeate; [within, For there is nothing els, so toucheth me Where they rule all, and I alone, nought but the case or skin.

Wherefore I shall returne to them as well or spring,

From whom descends my mortall wo, above all other thing.

So shall myne eyes in paine accompany my heart,

That were the guides, that did it lead of love to feel the smart.

The crisped gold that doth surmount Appolloe's pride,

The lively streames of pleasant starrs that under it doth glyde,

Wherein the beames of love doe still increase theire heate,

Which yet so far touch me to near in cold to make me sweat,

The wise and pleasant take, so rare or else alone,

That gave to me the curties gyft, that earst had never none.