Confessio Amantis; Or, Tales of the Seven Deadly Sins. John Gower

Bot as the whiel aboute went 50

       He yifth his graces undeserved,

       And fro that man which hath him served

       Fulofte he takth aweye his fees,

       As he that pleieth ate Dees,

       And therupon what schal befalle

       He not, til that the chance falle,

       Wher he schal lese or he schal winne.

       And thus fulofte men beginne,

       That if thei wisten what it mente,

       Thei wolde change al here entente. 60

       And forto proven it is so,

       I am miselven on of tho,

       Which to this Scole am underfonge.

       For it is siththe go noght longe,

       As forto speke of this matiere,

       I may you telle, if ye woll hiere,

       A wonder hap which me befell,

       That was to me bothe hard and fell,

       Touchende of love and his fortune,

       The which me liketh to comune 70

       And pleinly forto telle it oute.

       To hem that ben lovers aboute

       Fro point to point I wol declare

       And wryten of my woful care,

       Mi wofull day, my wofull chance,

       That men mowe take remembrance

       Of that thei schall hierafter rede:

       For in good feith this wolde I rede,

       That every man ensample take

       Of wisdom which him is betake, 80

       And that he wot of good aprise

       To teche it forth, for such emprise

       Is forto preise; and therfore I

       Woll wryte and schewe al openly

       How love and I togedre mette,

       Wherof the world ensample fette

       Mai after this, whan I am go,

       Of thilke unsely jolif wo,

       Whos reule stant out of the weie,

       Nou glad and nou gladnesse aweie, 90

       And yet it may noght be withstonde

       For oght that men may understonde.

       Upon the point that is befalle

       Of love, in which that I am falle,

       I thenke telle my matiere:

       Now herkne, who that wol it hiere,

       Of my fortune how that it ferde.

       This enderday, as I forthferde

       To walke, as I yow telle may,-

       And that was in the Monthe of Maii, 100

       Whan every brid hath chose his make

       And thenkth his merthes forto make

       Of love that he hath achieved;

       Bot so was I nothing relieved,

       For I was further fro my love

       Than Erthe is fro the hevene above,

       As forto speke of eny sped:

       So wiste I me non other red,

       Bot as it were a man forfare

       Unto the wode I gan to fare, 110

       Noght forto singe with the briddes,

       For whanne I was the wode amiddes,

       I fond a swote grene pleine,

       And ther I gan my wo compleigne

       Wisshinge and wepinge al myn one,

       For other merthes made I none.

       So hard me was that ilke throwe,

       That ofte sithes overthrowe

       To grounde I was withoute breth;

       And evere I wisshide after deth, 120

       Whanne I out of my peine awok,

       And caste up many a pitous lok

       Unto the hevene, and seide thus:

       "O thou Cupide, O thou Venus,

       Thou god of love and thou goddesse,

       Wher is pite? wher is meknesse?

       Now doth me pleinly live or dye,

       For certes such a maladie

       As I now have and longe have hadd,

       It myhte make a wisman madd, 130

       If that it scholde longe endure.

       O Venus, queene of loves cure,

       Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele,

       Behold my cause and my querele,

       And yif me som part of thi grace,

       So that I may finde in this place

       If thou be gracious or non."

       And with that word I sawh anon

       The kyng of love and qweene bothe;

       Bot he that kyng with yhen wrothe 140

       His chiere aweiward fro me caste,

       And forth he passede ate laste.

       Bot natheles er he forth wente

       A firy Dart me thoghte he hente

       And threw it thurgh myn herte rote:

       In him fond I non other bote,

       For lenger list him noght to duelle.

       Bot sche that is the Source and Welle

       Of wel or wo, that schal betide

       To hem that loven, at that tide 150

       Abod, bot forto tellen hiere

       Sche cast on me no goodly chiere:

       Thus natheles to me sche seide,

       "What art thou, Sone?" and I abreide

       Riht as a man doth out of slep,

       And therof tok sche riht good kep

       And bad me nothing ben adrad:

       Bot for al that I was noght glad,

       For I ne sawh no cause why.

       And eft scheo asketh, what was I: 160

       I seide, "A Caitif that lith hiere:

       What wolde ye, my Ladi diere?

       Schal I ben hol or elles dye?"

       Sche seide, "Tell thi maladie:

       What is thi Sor of which thou pleignest?

       Ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest,

       I can do the no medicine."

       "Ma dame, I am a man of thyne,

       That in thi Court have longe served,

       And aske that I have deserved, 170

       Some wele after my longe wo."

       And sche began to loure tho,

       And seide, "Ther is manye of yow

       Faitours, and so may be that thow

       Art riht such on, and be feintise

       Seist that thou hast me do servise."

       And natheles sche wiste wel,

       Mi world stod on an other whiel

       Withouten eny faiterie:

       Bot algate of my maladie 180

       Sche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe.