The Flour of Curtesye

In Fevrier, whan the frosty mone Was horned, ful of Phebus fyry light, And that she gan to reyse her stremes sone, Saint Valentyne! upon thy blisful night Of duëtee, whan glad is every wight, And foules chese (to voyde hir olde sorowe) Everich his make, upon the nexte morowe;

The same tyme, I herde a larke singe Ful lustely, agayn the morowe gray— 'Awake, ye lovers, out of your slombringe, This gladde morowe, in al the haste ye may; Some óbservaunce doth unto this day, Your choise ayen of herte to renewe In cónfirming, for ever to be trewe!

And ye that be, of chesing, at your large, This lusty day, by custome of nature, Take upon you the blisful holy charge To serve lovë, whyl your lyf may dure, With herte, body, and al your besy cure, For evermore, as Venus and Cipryde For you disposeth, and the god Cupyde.

For joye owe we playnly to obeye Unto this lordes mighty ordinaunce, And, mercilesse, rather for to deye Than ever in you be founden variaunce; And, though your lyf be medled with grevaunce, And, at your herte, closed be your wounde, Beth alway one, ther-as ye are bounde!'

Thát whan I had herd, and listed longe, With devout herte, the lusty melodye Of this hevenly comfortable songe So ágreable, as by harmonye, I roos anon, and faste gan me hye Toward a grove, and the way [gan] take Foules to sene, everich chese his make.

And yet I was ful thursty in languisshing; Myn ague was so fervent in his hete, Whan Aurora, for drery complayning, Can distille her cristal teres wete Upon the soile, with silver dewe so swete; For she [ne] durste, for shame, not apere Under the light of Phebus bemes clere.

And so, for anguisshe of my paynes kene, And for constraynte of my sighes sore, I sette me doun under a laurer grene Ful pitously; and alway more and more, As I beheld into the holtes hore, I gan complayne myn inward deedly smerte, That ay so sore †crampisshed myn herte.

And whyl that I, in my drery payne, Sat, and beheld aboute on every tree The foules sitten, alway twayne and twayne, Than thoughte I thus: 'alas! what may this be, That every foul hath his libertee Frely to chesen after his desyre Everich his make thus, fro yeer to yere?

The sely wrenne, the titmose also, The litel redbrest, have free eleccioun To flyen y-ferë and †togider go Wher-as hem liste, abouten enviroun, As they of kynde have inclinacoun, And as Nature, emperesse and gyde, Of every thing, liste to provyde;

But man aloon, alas! the harde stounde! Ful cruelly, by kyndes ordinaunce, Constrayned is, and by statut bounde, And debarred from alle such plesaunce. What meneth this? What is this purveyaunce Of god above, agayn al right of kynde, Withoute cause, so narowe man to bynde?'

Thus may I [soothly] seen, and playne, alas! My woful houre and my disaventure, That dolefully stonde in the same cas So fer behyndë, from al helth and cure. My wounde abydeth lyk a sursanure; For me Fortune so felly list dispose, My harm is hid, that I dar not disclose.

For I my herte have set in suche a place Wher I am never lykly for to spede; So fer I am hindred from her grace That, save daunger, I have non other mede. And thus, alas! I not who shal me rede Ne for myn helpe shape remedye, For Male-bouche, and for false Envye:

The whiche twayne ay stondeth in my wey Maliciously; and Fals Suspeccioun Is very causë also that I dey, Ginning and rote of my distruccioun; So that I fele, [as] in conclusioun, With hir traynes that they wol me shende, Of my labour that deth mot make an ende!

Yet, or I dye, with herte, wil, and thought To god of lovë this avowe I make, (As I best can, how dere that it be bought, Wher-so it be, that I slepe or wake, Whyl Boreas doth the leves shake) As I have hight, playnly, til I sterve, For wele or wo, that I shal [ay] her serve.

And, for her sake, now this holy tyme, Saint Valentyne! somwhat shal I wryte Al-though so be that I can not ryme, Nor curiously by no crafte endyte, Yet lever I have, that she putte the wyte In unconning than in negligence, What-ever I sayë of her excellence.

What-ever I saye, it is of duëtee, In sothfastnesse and no presumpcioun; This I ensure to you that shal it see, That it is al under correccioun; What I reherce in commendacioun Of herë that I shal to you, as blyve, So as I can, her vertues here discryve.—

¶ Right by example as the somer-sonne Passeth the sterre with his bemes shene, And Lucifer among the skyës donne A-morowe sheweth to voyde nightes tene, So verily, withouten any wene, My lady passeth (who-so taketh hede) Al tho alyve, to speke of womanhede.

And as the ruby hath the soveraintè Of riche stones and the regalyë; And [as] the rose, of swetnesse and beautè, Of fresshe floures, withouten any lyë; Right so, in sothe, with her goodly yë, She passeth al in bountee and fairnesse, Of maner ekë, and of gentilnesse.

For she is bothe the fairest and the beste, To reken al in very sothfastnesse; For every vertue is in her at reste; And furthermore, to speke of stedfastnesse, She is the rotë; and of seemlinesse The very mirrour; and of governaunce To al example, withouten variaunce.

Of port benigne, and wonder glad of chere, Having evermore her trewe advertence Alway to reson; so that her desyre Is brydeled ay by witte and providence; Thereto, of wittë and of hy prudence She is the wellë, ay devoide of pryde, That unto vertue her-selven is the gyde!

And over this, in her daliaunce Lowly she is, discret, wyse, [and secree], And goodly gladde by attemperaunce, That every wight, of high and low degree, Are gladde in herte with her for to be; Só that, shortly, if I shal not lye, She named is 'The Flour of Curtesye.'

And there, to speke of femininitee, The leste mannish in comparisoun, Goodly abasshed, having ay pitee Of hem that been in tribulacioun; For she aloon is consolacioun To al that arn in mischeef and in nede, To comforte hem, of her womanhede.

And ay in vertue is her besy charge, Sadde and demure, and but of wordes fewe; Dredful also of tonges that ben large, Eschewing ay hem that listen to hewe Above hir heed, hir wordes for to shewe, Dishonestly to speke of any wight; She deedly hateth of hem to have a sight.

The herte of whom so honest is and clene, And her entent so faithful and entere That she ne may, for al the world, sustene To suffre her eres any word to here, Of frend nor fo, neither fer ne nere, Amis resowning, that hinder shulde his name; And if she do, she wexeth reed for shame.

So trewëly in mening she is set, Without chaunging or any doublenesse; For bountee and beautee ar togider knet In her personë, under faithfulnesse; For void she is of newëfangelnesse; In herte ay oon, for ever to perséver Ther she is set, and never to dissever.

I am to rude her vertues everichoon Cunningly [for] to discryve and wryte; For wel ye wot, colour[es] have I noon Lyk her discrecioun craftely t'endyte; For what I sayë, al it is to lyte. Whérfor to you thus I me excuse, That I aqueynted am not with no muse!

By rethoryke my style to governe, In her preyse and commendacioun, I am to blind, so hyly to discerne, Of her goodnesse to make discripcioun, Save thus I sayë, in conclusioun, If that I shal shortly [her] commende, In her is naught that Nature can amende.

For good she is, lyk to Policene, And, in fairnesse, to the quene Helayne; Stedfast of herte, as was Dorigene, And wyfly trouthë, if I shal not fayne: In constaunce eke and faith, she may attayne To Cleopatre; and therto as †secree As was of Troye the whyte Antigone;

As Hester meke; lyk Judith of prudence; Kynde as Alceste or Marcia Catoun; And to Grisilde lyk in pacience, And Ariadne, of discrecioun; And to Lucrece, that was of Rome toun, She may be lykned, as for honestè; And, for her faith, unto Penelope.

To faire Phyllis and to Hipsiphilee, For innocencë and for womanhede; For seemlinessë, unto Canacee; And over this, to speke of goodlihede, She passeth alle that I can of rede; For worde and dede, that she naught ne falle, Acorde in vertue, and her werkes alle.

For though that Dydo, with [her] witte sage, Was in her tyme stedfast to Enee, Of hastinesse yet she did outrage; And so for Jason did also Medee. But my lady is so avisee That, bountee and beautee bothe in her demeyne, She maketh bountee alway soverayne.

This is to mene, bountee goth afore, Lad by prudence, and hath the soveraintee; And beautee folweth, ruled by her lore, That she †n'offendë her in no degree; So that, in one, this goodly fresshe free Surmounting al, withouten any were, Is good and fair, in oon persone y-fere.

And though that I, for very ignoraunce, Ne may discryve her vertues by and by, Yet on this day, for a rémembraunce, Only supported under her mercy, With quaking hondë, I shal ful humbly To her hynesse, my rudenes for to quyte, A litel balade here bineth endyte,

Ever as I can suppryse in my herte, Alway with fere, betwixe drede and shame, Lest out of lose any word asterte In this metre, to make it seme lame; Chaucer is deed, that hadde suche a name Of fair making, that [was], withoute wene, Fairest in our tonge, as the laurer grene.

We may assaye for to counterfete His gaye style, but it wil not be; The welle is drye, with the licour swete, Bothe of Clio and of Caliopè; And first of al, I wol excuse me To her, that is [the] ground of goodlihede; And thus I saye until hir womanhede:—

Balade simple.

¶ 'With al my mightë, and my beste entente, With al the faith that mighty god of kynde Me yaf, sith he me soule and knowing sente, I chese, and to this bonde ever I me bynde, To love you best, whyl I have lyf and mynde':— Thus herde I foules in the dawëninge Upon the day of saint Valentyne singe.

'Yet chese I, at the ginning, in this entente, To love you, though I no mercy fynde; And if you liste I dyed, I wolde assente, As ever twinne I quik out of this lynde! Suffyseth me to seen your fetheres ynde':— Thus herde I foules in the morweninge Upon the day of saint Valentyne singe.

'And over this, myn hertes lust to-bente, In honour only of the wodëbynde, Hoolly I yeve, never to repente In joye or wo, wher-so that I wynde Tofore Cupyde, with his eyën blynde':— The foules alle, whan Tytan did springe, With dévout herte, me thoughte I herde singe!

Lenvoy.

¶ Princesse of beautee, to you I represente This simple dytè, rude as in makinge, Of herte and wil faithful in myn entente, Lyk as, this day, [the] foules herde I singe.

Here endeth the Flour of Curtesye.