Read an Excerpt
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
1340? — 1400
Balade
Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte, tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse, al a-doun;
Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;
Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun,
Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;
Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne,
Alceste is here, that al that may desteyne.
Thy faire bodye lat bit nat appere,
Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun,
And Polixene, that boghte love so dere,
Eek Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,
Hyde ye your trouthe in love and your renoun;
And thou, Tisbe, that hast for love swich peyne:
Alceste is here, that al that may desteyne.
Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle in-fere,
Eek Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun,
And Canace, espyed by thy chere,
Ysiphile, betrayed with Jasoun,
Mak of your trouthe in love no bost ne soun;
Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ne pleyne;
Alceste, is here, that al that may desteyne.
The Complaint of Chaucer to His Purse
To you, my purse, and to non other wight
Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!
I am so sory, now that ye been light;
For certes, but ye make me hevy chere,
Me were as leaf be layd upon my bere;
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye:
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moote I dye!
Now voucheth sauf this day, or hit be night,
That I of you the blisful soun may here,
Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere,
Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere,
Quene of comfort and of good companye:
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moote I dye!
Now purse, that be to me my lyves light,
And saveour, as doun in this world here,
Out of this toune help me through your might,
Sin that ye wole nat been my tresorere,
For I am shave as nye as any frere,
But yet I pray unto your curtesye:
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moote I dye!
L'ENVOY DE CHAUCER
O conquerour of Brutes Albyon,
Which that by lyne and free eleccion
Ben verray king, this song to you I send;
And ye, that mowen al our harmes amend,
Have mind upon my supplicacioun!
JOHN SKELTON
1460? — 1529
Lullay, Lullay
With, Lullay, lullay, like a childe
Thou slepist to long, thou art begilde.
"My darling dere, my daisy flowre.
Let me," quod he, "ly in your lap."
"Ly still," quod she, "my paramoure,
Ly still hardely, and take a nap."
His hed was hevy, such was his hap,
All drowsy dreming, drownd in slepe,
That of his love he toke no kepe,
With, Hey, lullay, etc.
With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas,
She cherished him both cheke and chin,
That he wist never where he was;
He had forgotten all dedely sin,
He wantid wit her love to win:
He trusted her payment, and lost all his pay:
She left him sleeping, and stale away.
The river routh, the waters wan,
She sparid not to wete here fete;
She wadid over, she found a man
That halsid her hartely and kist her swete:
Thus after her cold she cought a hete.
"My lefe," she said, "routith in his bed;
Ywis he had an hevy hed."
What dremist thou, drunchard, drousy pate!
Thy lust and liking is from thee gone,
Thou blinkerd blowboll, thou wakist to late,
Behold, thou lieste, luggard, alone!
Well may thou sigh, well may thou grone,
To dele with her so cowardly:
Ywis, poule-hachet, she blerid thine i.
ANONYMOUS: SONGS & BALLADS
Sumer Is Icumen In
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhudè sing cuccu;
Groweth sod and bloweth med
And springth the wudè nu.
Sing cuccu!
Awè bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calvè cu;
Bulluc sterteth, buckè verteth;
Murie sing cuccu.
Cuccu, cuccu,
Wel singès thu, cuccu,
Ne swik thu naver nu.
Sing cuccu nu! Sing cuccu!
Sing cuccu! Sing cuccu nu!
I Sing of a Maiden
I sing of a maiden
That is makeles;
King of all kings
To her son she ches.
He came al so still
There his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.
He came al so still
To his mothers bour,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flour.
He came al so still
There his mother lay,
As dew in April,
That falleth on the spray.
Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
Goddes mother be.
The Falcon
Lully, lulley! lully, lulley!
The faucon hath borne my make away!
He bare him up, he bare him down,
He bare him into an orchard brown.
In that orchard there was an halle,
That was hangéd with purple and pall.
And in that hall there was a bed,
It was hangéd with gold sa red.
And in that bed there li'th a knight,
His woundés bleeding day and night.
At that bed's foot there li'th a hound,
Licking the blood as it runs down.
By that bed-side kneeleth a may,
And she weepeth both night and day.
And at that bed's bead standeth a stone,
Corpus Christi written thereon.
Lully, lulley! lully, lulley!
The faucon hath borne my make away.
My Love in Her Attire
My love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.
No beauty she doth miss,
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is,
When all her robes are gone.
O western wind, when wilt thou blow,
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
Love Not Me
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.
There Is a Lady Sweet and Kind
There is a Lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit her voice my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.
Cupid Is wingèd and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change:
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.
Copyright © 1952 by Simon & Schuster Inc.
