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  The folk yet haldande his fete, the fysch hym tyd hentes;

  Withouten towche of any tothe he tult in his throte.

  Thenne he swenges and swayves to the se bothem,

  10

  Bi mony rokkes ful roghe and rydelande strondes,

  Wyth the mon in his mawe, malskred in drede –

  As lyttel wonder hit was yif he wo dreyed,

  For nade the hyghe Heven-Kyng, thurgh his honde myght,

  Warded this wrech man in warlowes guttes,

  What lede moght leve bi lawe of any kynde

  That any lyf myght be lent so longe hym withinne?

  Bot he was sokored by that Syre that syttes so highe,

  Thagh were wanles of wele in wombe of that fissche,

  And also dryven thurgh the depe and in derk walteres.

  20

  Lorde! colde was his cumfort and his care huge

  For he knew uche a cace and kark that hym lymped,

  How fro the bot into the blober was with a best lached

  And thrwe in at hit throte withouten thret more,

  As mote in at a munster-dor, so mukel wern his chawles.

  25

  He glydes in by the giles thugh glaym ande glette,

  Relande in by a rop, a rode that hym thoght,

  Ay hele over hed hourlande aboute,

  Til he blunt in a blok as brod as a halle;

  And ther he festnes the fete and fathmes aboute

  30

  And stod up in his stomak that stank as the devel.

  Ther in saym and in sorwe that savoured as helle

  Ther was bylded his bour that wyl no bale suffer.

  And thenne he lurkkes and laytes where was le best

  In uche a nok of his navel, bot nowhere he fyndes

  35

  No rest ne recoverer bot ramel ande myre

  In wych gut so-ever he gos – bot ever is God swete!

  And ther he lenged at the last and to the lede called:

  ‘Now, Prynce, of thy prophete pite thou have!

  Thagh I be fol and fykel and falce of my hert,

  40

  Devoyde now thy vengaunce, thurgh vertu of rauthe;

  Thagh I be gulty of gyle, as gaule of prophetes,

  Thou art God, and alle gowdes ar graythely thyn owen.

  Haf now mercy of thy man and his mysdedes

  And preve the lyghtly a Lorde in londe and in water.’

  45

  With that he hitte to a hyrne and helde hym therinne,

  Ther no defoule of no fylthe was fest hym abute;

  Ther he sete also sounde, saf for merk one,

  As in the bulk of the bote ther he byfore sleped.

  So in a bouel of that best he bides on lyve

  50

  Thre dayes and thre nyght, ay thenkande on Dryghtyn,

  His myght and his merci, his mesure thenne:

  Now he knawes hym in care that couthe not in sele.

  Ande ever walteres this whal bi wyldren depe

  Thurgh mony a regioun ful roghe, thurgh ronk of his wylle;

  55

  For that mote in his mawe mad hym, I trowe,

  Thagh hit lyttel were hym wyth, to wamel at his hert;

  Ande as sayled the segge, ay sykerly he herde

  The bygge borne on his bak and bete on his sydes.

  (1864)

  ANONYMOUS from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

  [Gawain Journeys North]

  Now rides this renk thurgh the ryalme of Logres,

  Sir Gawayn, on Godes halve, thagh him no game thoght.

  Oft ledeles alone he lenges on nightes

  There he fonde noght him before the fare that he liked.

  5

  Had he no fere bot his fole by frythes and downes,

  Ne no gome bot God by gate with to carp,

  Til that he neghed ful negh into the North Wales.

  All the iles of Anglesay on lyft half he holdes

  And fares over the fordes by the forlondes,

  10

  Over at the Holy Hede, til he had eft bonk

  In the wyldrenesse of Wyrale: woned there bot lyte

  That auther God auther gome with good hert lovied.

  And ay he frayned as he ferde at frekes that he met

  If thay had herd any carp of a knight grene,

  15

  In any grounde theraboute of the Grene Chapel;

  And all nikked him with nay, that never in her live

  Thay seye never no segge that was of such hewes

  Of grene.

  The knight toke gates straunge

  20

  In mony a bonk unbene;

  His chere ful oft con chaunge

  That chapel ere he myght sene.

  Mony clyff he overclambe in contrayes straunge,

  Fer floten fro his frendes fremedly he rides.

  25

  At uch warthe auther water there the wye passed

  He fonde a foo him before, bot ferly hit were,

  And that so foule and so felle that fyght him behoved.

  So mony mervayl by mount there the mon findes

  Hit were to tor for to telle of the tenthe dole.

  30

  Sumwhyle with wormes he werres and with wolves als,

  Sumwhyle with wodwos that woned in the knarres,

  Both with bulles and beres, and bores otherwhyle,

  And etaynes that him anelede of the high felle.

  Nad he bene doghty and drye and Dryghtyn had served,

  35

  Douteles he had bene ded and dreped ful oft;

  For werre wrathed him not so much that wynter nas wors,

  When the colde clere water fro the cloudes schadde

  And fres ere hit falle myght to the fale erthe.

  Nere slayn with the slete he slepte in his yrnes

  40

  Mo nightes then innogh in naked rokkes,

  There as claterande fro the crest the colde borne rennes

  And henged high over his hede in hard iisse-ikkles.

  Thus in peryl and payne and plytes ful hard

  By contray cayres this knight til Cristmasse even

  45

  All one.

  The knight wel that tyde

  To Mary made his mone

  That ho him rede to ride

  And wysse him to sum wone.

  50

  By a mount on the morn meryly he rides

  Into a forest ful depe that ferly was wylde,

  High hilles on uch a half and holtwodes under,

  Of hore okes ful huge a hundreth togeder.

  The hasel and the hawthorne were harled all samen,

  55

  With rogh raged mosse rayled aywhere,

  With mony bryddes unblythe upon bare twyges,

  That pitosly there piped for pine of the colde.

  The gome upon Gryngolet glydes hem under

  Thurgh mony misy and myre, mon all him one,

  60

  Carande for his costes lest he ne kever schulde

  To se the servyce of that syre that on that self night

  Of a burde was born oure baret to quelle.

  And therfore sykyng he sayd, ‘I beseche the, Lord,

  And Mary, that is myldest moder so dere,

  65

  Of sum herber there highly I myght here masse

  And thy matynes tomorn, mekely I ask,

  And therto prestly I pray my pater and ave

  And crede.’

  He rode in his prayere

  70

  And cryed for his mysdede;

  He sayned him in sythes sere

  And sayd, ‘Cros Cryst me spede!’

  (1839)

  GEOFFREY CHAUCER Envoy to Scogan

  Tobroken been the statutz hye in hevene

  That creat were eternally to dure,

  Syth that I see the bryghte goddis sevene

  Mowe wepe and wayle, and passioun endure,

  5

  As may in erth
e a mortal creature.

  Alias, fro whennes may thys thing procede,

  Of which errour I deye almost for drede?

  By word eterne whilom was it shape

  That fro the fyfte sercle, in no manere,

  10

  Ne myght a drope of teeres doun escape.

  But now so wepith Venus in hir spere

  That with hir teeres she wol drenche us here.

  Alias! Scogan, this is for thyn offence;

  Thow causest this diluge of pestilence.

  15

  Hastow not seyd, in blaspheme of the goddis,

  Thurgh pride, or thrugh thy grete rekelnesse,

  Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is,

  That, for thy lady sawgh nat thy distresse,

  Therfore thow yave hir up at Michelmesse?

  20

  Allas! Scogan, of olde folk ne yonge

  Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tonge.

  Thow drowe in skorn Cupide eke to record

  Of thilke rebel word that thow hast spoken,

  For which he wol no lenger be thy lord.

  25

  And, Scogan, though his bowe be nat broken,

  He wol nat with his arwes been ywroken

  On the, ne me, ne noon of oure figure;

  We shul of him have neyther hurt ne cure.

  Now certes, frend, I dreed of thyn unhap,

  30

  Lest for thy gilt the wreche of Love procede

  On alle hem that ben hoor and rounde of shap,

  That ben so lykly folk in love to spede.

  Than shal we for oure labour have no mede;

  But wel I wot, thow wolt answere and saye,

  35

  ‘Lo, olde Grisel lyst to ryme and playe!’

  Nay, Scogan, say not so, for I m’excuse –

  God helpe me so! – in no rym, dowteles,

  Ne thynke I never of slep to wake my muse,

  That rusteth in my shethe stille in pees.

  40

  While I was yong, I put hir forth in prees;

  But al shal passe that men prose or ryme;

  Take every man hys turn, as for his tyme.

  [Envoy]

  Scogan, that knelest at the stremes hed

  Of grace, of alle honour and worthynesse,

  45

  In th’ende of which strem I am dul as ded,

  Forgete in solytarie wildernesse –

  Yet, Scogan, thenke on Tullius kyndenesse;

  Mynne thy frend, there it may fructyfye!

  Far-wel, and loke thow never eft Love dyffye.

  (1478)

  JOHN GOWER from Confessio Amantis

  [Pygmaleon]

  I finde hou whilom ther was on,

  Whos name was Pymaleon,

  Which was a lusti man of yowthe:

  The werkes of entaile he cowthe

  Above alle othre men as tho;

  And thurgh fortune it fell him so,

  As he whom love schal travaile,

  He made an ymage of entaile

  Lich to a womman in semblance

  10

  Of feture and of contienance,

  So fair yit nevere was figure.

  Riht as a lyves creature

  Sche semeth, for of yvor whyt

  He hath hire wroght of such delit,

  15

  That sche was rody on the cheke

  And red on bothe hire lippes eke;

  Wherof that he himself beguileth.

  For with a goodly lok sche smyleth,

  So that thurgh pure impression

  20

  Of his ymaginacion

  With al the herte of his corage

  His love upon this faire ymage

  He sette, and hire of love preide;

  Bot sche no word ayeinward seide.

  25

  The longe day, what thing he dede,

  This ymage in the same stede

  Was evere bi, that ate mete

  He wolde hire serve and preide hire ete,

  And putte unto hire mowth the cuppe;

  30

  And whan the bord was taken uppe,

  He hath hire into chambre nome,

  And after, whan the nyht was come,

  He leide hire in his bed al nakid.

  He was forwept, he was forwakid,

  35

  He keste hire colde lippes ofte,

  And wissheth that thei weren softe,

  And ofte he rouneth in hire Ere,

  And ofte his arm now hier now there

  He leide, as he hir wolde embrace,

  40

  And evere among he axeth grace,

  As thogh sche wiste what he mente:

  And thus himself he gan tormente

  With such desese of loves peine,

  That noman mihte him more peine.

  45

  Bot how it were, of his penance

  He made such continuance

  Fro dai to nyht, and preith so longe,

  That his preiere is underfonge,

  Which Venus of hire grace herde;

  50

  Be nyhte and whan that he worst ferde,

  And it lay in his nakede arm,

  The colde ymage he fieleth warm

  Of fleissh and bon and full of lif.

  [The Rape of Lucrece]

  Sche broghte him to his chambre tho

  And tok hire leve, and forth is go

  Into hire oghne chambre by,

  As sche that wende certeinly

  5

  Have had a frend, and hadde a fo,

  Wherof fel after mochel wo.

  This tirant, thogh he lyhe softe,

  Out of his bed aros fulofte,

  And goth aboute, and leide his Ere

  10

  To herkne, til that alle were

  To bedde gon and slepten faste.

  And thanne upon himself he caste

  A mantell, and his swerd al naked

  He tok in honde; and sche unwaked

  15

  Abedde lay, but what sche mette,

  God wot; for he the Dore unschette

  So prively that non it herde,

  The softe pas and forth he ferde

  Unto the bed wher that sche slepte,

  20

  Al sodeinliche and in he crepte,

  And hire in bothe his Armes tok.

  With that this worthi wif awok,

  Which thurgh tendresce of wommanhiede

  Hire vois hath lost for pure drede,

  That o word speke sche ne dar:

  And ek he bad hir to be war,

  For if sche made noise or cry,

  He seide, his swerd lay faste by

  To slen hire and hire fold aboute.

  30

  And thus he broghte hire herte in doute,

  That lich a Lomb whanne it is sesed

  In wolves mouth, so was desesed