Merciles Beaute

 

Geoffrey Chaucer, 1343 - 1400

A Triple Roundel


I. Captivity

Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
     Your yën two wol sle me sodenly; 
     may the beaute of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouthe shal be sene.
     Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
     I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
     So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.



II. Rejection. 

So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to feyne;
     So hath your beaute fro your herle chaced
     Pilee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So gret beaute, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
     So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
     Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
     For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.



III. Escape. 

Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
     Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
     I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; [ther] is non other mene.
     Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
     I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
     Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
               Explicit.

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The Love Unfeigned

 

Geoffrey Chaucer, 1343 - 1400

O Yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with your age, Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee, And of your herte up-casteth the visage To thilke god that after his image Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre. And loveth him, the which that right for love Upon a cros, our soules for to beye, First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove; For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye. And sin he best to love is, and most meke, What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?

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To Rosemounde

 

Geoffrey Chaucer, 1343 - 1400

A Balade. Ma dame, ye ben of al beaute shryne As fer as cercled is the mapamonde; For as the cristall glorious ye shyne, And lyke ruby ben your chekys rounde. Therwyth ye ben so mery and so iocunde That at a reuell whan that I se you dance, It is an oynement vnto my wounde, Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance. For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde; Your semy voys that ye so small out twyne Makyth my thoght in ioy and blys habounde. So curtaysly I go, wyth loue bounde, That to my self I sey, in my penaunce, Suffyseth me to loue you, Rosemounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne As I in loue am walwed and iwounde; For whych ful ofte I of my self deuyne That I am trew Tristam the secunde. My loue may not refreyde nor affounde; I brenne ay in an amorouse plesaunce. Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.

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