Than wol I don hir this favour, that she
Shal han right him on whom hir herte is set,
And he hir that his herte hath on hir knet,
Thus juge I, Naturę, for I may not lye
To non estat, I have non other yë.
.' But as for conseyl for to chese a make,
If I were Resoun, certes than wolde I
Conseyle yow the royal tercel take,
As seyde the tercelet ful skylfully,
As for the gentilest and most worthy
Which I have wrought so wel to my plesaunce
That to yow oughte been a suffisaunce.'
With dredful vois the formel hir answerde:
'Myn rightful lady, goddesse of Nature,
Soth is that I am ever under your yerde,
Like as is everich other creäture,
And mot ben youres whil my lyf may dure;
And therfor graunteth me my firste bone,
And myn entent I wol yow seyn right sone.'
'I graunte it yow,' quod she, and right anon
This formel egle spak in this degre:
'Almyghty quene, unto this yer be gon
I aske respit for to avise me,
And after that to have my choys al fre;
This 's al and som that I wol speke and seye;
Ye getę no more although ye do me deye.
'I wol not serven Venus ne Cupide,
Forsothe as yet, by no manere weye.'
'Now, syn it may non otherwysę betyde,'
Quod tho Nature, 'here is no more to seye;
Than wolde I that these foules were aweye,
Ech with his makę, for tarying lenger here,' -
And seyde hem thus, as ye shul after here.
( Το you speke I, ye tercelets,' quod Nature,
'Beth of good herte and serveth, alle thre;
A yeer n'is nat so longe to endure,
And ech of yow peyne him in his degre
For to do wel; for, God wot, quit is she
Fro you this yeer, what after so befalle;
This entremes is dressed for you alle.'
And whan this werk al broght was to an ende,
To every foul Nature yaf his make
By even acorde, and on hir wey they wende;
And, Lord, the blisse and joye that they make !
For ech gan other in his wynges take,
And with hir nekkes ech gan other wynde,
Thankyng alwey the noble quene of kynde.
But first were chosen foules for to synge,
As, yeer be yerę, was alwey hir usance
To synge a roundel at hir departynge,
To don Nature honour and plesaunce.
The note, I trowe, y-maked was in Fraunce;
The wordęs were swiche as ye may here fynde
The nexte vers, as I now have in mynde.
'Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders overshake
And driven awey the longe nyghtes blake.
Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,
Thus syngen smale foules for thy sake
Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders overshake.
Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;
Ful blisful mowẹ they ben when they awake.
Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe,
That hast this wintres weders overshake
And driven awey the longe nyghtes blake.
And with the shoutyng whan the song was do
That foules maden at hir flight awey,
I wook, and other bokes tok me to,
To rede upon; and yet I rede alwey,
In hope y-wys to rede so sum day,
That I shall mete somthyng for to fare
The bet; and thus to rede I n'yl not spare.
A blisful lyf, a paisible and a swete,
Ledden the peples in the former age;
They helde hem paięd of fruites that they ete,
Which that the feldes yave hem by usage,
They ne were nat forpampred with outrage.
Unknowen was the querne and eek the melle,
They eten mast, hawes, and swych pounage,
And dronken water of the colde welle.
Yit n'as the ground nat wounded with the plough,
But corn up-sprong, unsowe of mannes hond,
The which they gniden and eetę nat half y-nough.
No man yit knew the forwes of his lond;
No man the fyr out of the flynt yit fonde;
Unkorven and ungrobbed lay the vyne;
No man yit in the morter spices gronde
To clarre, ne to sause of galentyne.
No mader, welde, or wood no litestere
Ne knew; the flees was of his former hewe;
No flesh ne wyste offence of egge or spere;
No coyn ne knew man which was fals or trewe;
No ship yit karf the wawes grene and blewe;
No marchaunt yit ne fette outlandish ware;
No trompes for the werres folk ne knewe,
Ne toures heye and walles rounde or square.
What sholde it han avayled to werreye?
Ther lay no profit, ther was no richesse;
But cursed was the tyme, I dar wel seye,
That men first dide hir swety besynesse
To grobbe up metal lurkynge in darknesse,
And in the ryveres fyrst gemmes soghte
Allas! than sprong up al the cursednesse
Of covetyse that fyrst our sorwe broughte!
Thisę tyraunts putte hem gladly nat in pres
No wyldnessę ne no busshes for to wynne
Ther poverte is, as seith Diogenes,
Theras vitaile is eek so skars and thinne,
That noght but mast or apples is therinne;
But theras bagges been and fat vitaile
Ther wol they gon and spare for no synne
With al hir ost the cyte for t' asayle.
Yit were no paleis-chaumbres, ne non halles ;
In caves and in wodes softe and swete,
Slepten this blissed folk withoute walles,
On gras or leves in parfit joye and quiete;
No down of fetheres, ne no bleched shete
Was kid to hem, but in seurtee they slepte.
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