Cap. XVII. Howe Graunde Amoure Was Enamoured of la Bell Pucell in the Tower of Musike, and Met with Counsayle in a Temple

And for fere myne eyes should my hert bewray, I toke my leve and to a temple wente, And all alone I to my selfe dyd saye: Alas! what fortune hath me hyther sente, To devoyde my joye and my hert torment; No man can tell howe great payne it is, But yf he wyll fele it, as I do ywys.

Alas! O lady, how cruell arte thou, Of pyteous doloure for to buylde a nest In my true hert, as thou dost ryght nowe! Yet of all ladyes I must love the best; Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest. Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please, Thou mayest cease my care and my payne sone ease.

Alas! how sore maye I nowe bewayle The pyteous chaunce whyche did me happe; My ladyes lokes dyd me so assayle, That sodaynly my herte was in a trap By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap, That through the greate stroke did perse: Alas for wo I could not reverse!

Farewel all joye and al perfyte pleasure! Fare wel my luste and my lykynge! For wo is comen wyth me to endure; Now must I lede my lyfe in mornynge; I may not lute, or yet daunce or synge! O! La Bel Pucel, my lady glorious; You are the cause that I am so dolorous.

Alas! fayre lady, and myne owne swete herte, Wyth my servyce I yelde me to your wyll, You have me fettered; I may not asterte; At your pleasure ye may me save or kyll; Bicause I love you, wyl you me spyl? Alas! it were a pyteous case in dede, That you wyth deth should rewarde my mede.

A, a! that I am ryght wo bygone, For I of love dare not to you speke, For feare of nay, that may encrease my mone; A nay of you myght cause my herte to breke. Alas! I wretche and yet unhappy peke Into suche trouble, misery, and thought: With sight of you I am into it brought.

And to my selfe as I made complainte, I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne, Whyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt. Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne, Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne. Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne How of one sorowe ye do now make twayne.

Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double; Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde. Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble, And of my wo be nothynge afrayde. Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde: Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde, It may me happe a remedy to fynde.

A, a! quod I, it vayleth not your speche, I wyll wyth you never have medlynge. Let me alone, the most unhappy wretche Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge. Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng; Go on your waye, you are nothyng the better To me to speke to make the sorowe gretur.

Forsoth, he sayd, remembre thynges thre; The fyrst is, that ye may sorowe longe Unto your selfe or that ye ayeded be: And secondly, in great paynes stronge, To muse alone it myght turne you to wronge: The thyrde is, it myght you wel ease truely To tel your mynde to a frende ryght trusty.

It is a jewel of a frende of trust, As at your nede to tell your secretenes Of all your payne and fervent lust. His counseyle soone may helpe and redres Your payneful wo and mortall heavynes; Alone is nought for to thynke and muse, Therfore, good sonne, do me not refuse.

And syth that you are plunged all in thought, Beware the pyt of dolorus dispayre; So to complayne it vayleth you ryght nought. It may so fortune ye love a lady fayre, Whych to love you wyl nothyng repayre; Or els ye have lost great londe or substaunce, By fatall chaunge of fortunes ordinaunce.

Tell me the cause, though that it be so, In cause you love I knowe it by experience, It is a payne engendryng great wo, And hard it is for to make resystence Agaynst suche love of fervent vyolence. The love is dredefull, but nevertheles There is no sore nor yet no sykenes,

But there is a salve and remedy therfore; So for your payne and your sorowe great Councell is medicine, which may you restore Unto your desyre wythout any let, Yf ye wyll tell me where your herte is set. In the chayre of sorowe no great doubt it is To fynde a remedy for your payne, ywys.

A physycyen, truely, can lyttel descerne Ony maner sekenes wythout syght of uryne; No more can I by good councell you lerne All suche wofull trouble for to determyne. But yf you mekely wyl to me enclyne, To tell the cause of your great hevynesse, Of your inwarde trouble and woful sadnes.

Than I began with all my diligence To here him speke so grounded on reason, And in my minde did make advertence. Howe it was holsome, in tribulation, To save a good and a trewe companion; For to know my sorow and woful grefe, It myght me comforte and ryght wel relefe.

And of him, than, I asked this question: What was his name I prayd him to tel? Counseyl, quod he; the which solucion In my woful mynde whiche I like ryght wel. And pryvely I did his lesson spel, Sayeng to him, my chance and desteny Of al other is the moste unhappy.

Why so? quod he; though fortune be straunge, To you a whyle turnyng of her face, Her louring chere she may ryght sone chaunge, And you excepte and cal unto her grace. Dyspayre you not, for in good tyme and space Nothynge there is but wysdom may it wynne, To tell your mynde I praye you to begynne.

Unto you, quod I, wyth al my hole assent I wyl tell you trouth, and you wyl not bewray Unto none other my mater and entent. Nay, nay, quod he, you shall not se that day; Your hole affyaunce and trust ye well ye may Into me put, for I shall not vary, But kepe your counsell as a secretary.

And than to hym, in the maner folowynge, I did complayne, wyth syghing teres depe: Alas! quod I, you shall have knowledgyng Of my hevy chaunce that causeth me to wepe; So wo I am, that I can never slepe, But walowe and tumble in the trappe of care; My heart was caught or that I was ware.

It happened so that in a temple olde, By the toure of Musyke at great solemnyte, La Bell Pucell I dyd ryght well beholde, Whose beaute clere and great humilite To my heart dyd cast the darte of amyte; After whyche stroke so harde and farvent, To her excellence I came incontinent.

Beholdyng her chere and lovely countenaunce, Her garmentes ryche and her propre stature, I regestered well in my remembraunce That I never sawe so fayre a creature, So well favoured create by nature; That harde it is for to wryte wyth yncke All the beaute, or any hert to thynke.

Fayrer she was than was quene Elyne, Proserpyne, Cresyde, or yet Ypolyte, Medea, Dydo, or yonge Polexyne, Alcumena, or quene Menelape; Or yet dame Rosamunde; in certaynte, None of all these can have the premynence.

Durynge the feest I stode her nere by, But than hir beaute encreased my payne; I coude nothyng resyst the contrary; She wrapt my herte in a brennyng chayne. To the musycall toure she went than agayne; I wente after, I roude not behynde. The chayne she haled whych my heart dyd bynde,

Tyl that we came into a chamber gaye, Where that Musyke, wyth all her minstralsy, Dyvers base daunces moost swetely dyd playe, That them to here it was great melody; And dame Musyke commaunded curteysly La Bell Pucell wyth me than to daunce, Whome that I toke wyth all my pleasaunce

By her swete honde, begynnyng the trace, And longe dyd daunce tyl that I myght not hyde The paynfull love whyche dyd my heart embrace; Bycause wherof I toke my leve that tyde, And to thys temple where I do abyde Forthe than I went, alone to bewayle My mortall sorowe wythout any fayle.

Now have I tolde you all the veray trouthe Of my wofull chaunce and great unhappynesse. I praye you nothyng wyth me to be wrothe, Whyche am drouned in carefull wrethchednesse, By fortune plunged ful of doublenes. A, a! said Counseyle, doubte ye never a dele, But your disease I shal by wysdome hele.

Remember yet, that never yet was he, That in this worlde dyd lede all his lyfe In joye and pleasure, wythout adversyte; No worldely thyng can be wythout stryfe, For unto pleasure payne is affyrmatyfe. Who wyll have pleasure he must fyrst apply To take the payne wyth hys cure besely.

To serve the joye whych after death ensue, Rewardyng payne for the great businesse, No doubte your lady wyl upon you rue, Seing you apply all your gentylnes To do her pleasure and servyce doubtles. Harde is the heart that no love hath felt. Nor for to love wyl than encline and melt.

Remember ye that in olde antiquyte Howe worthy Troylus, that mighty champion, What paine he suffered by great extremyte Of fervent love, by a great longe ceason, For his lady Cresyde, by great tribulacyon. After his sorowe had not he great joye Of hys lady, the fayrest of all Troye?

And the famous knyght yclepped Ponthus, Whych loved Sydoyne so muche entyerly, What payne had he and what care dolorus For his lady wyth love so marvaylously, Was not her heart wounded ryght wofully? After hys payne his ladie dyd her cure, To do him joye, honoure, and pleasure.

Who was wyth love more wofully arayed, Than were these twayne, and many other mo? The power of love hath them so asayde, That, and I lyst, I coude now reherse also To whom true love hath wrought mykel wo, And at the ende have had their desyre, Of al their sorow for to quenche the fyre.

Languysshe no more, but plucke up thyne herte, Exyle dyspayre, and live a whyle in hope; And kepe your love all close and coverte; It may so fortune that your lady grope Somwhat of love for to drynke a slope; Though outwardly she dare not let you know, But at the last, as I beleve and trowe,

She can not kepe it so prively and close, But that somwhat to you it shal appere, By countenaunce, how that her love arose. If that she love you, the love is so dere, Whan you come to her she wyl make you chere With countenaunce, accordyng unto love, Full pryvely for to come to her above.

Sendyng of love the messanger before, Which is her eyes, with lovely lokes swete, For to beholde you than ever more and more, After the tyme that you together mete. With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete. Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde That at the last she wyl be good and kynd.

Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre, Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce: I fere to sore I shal disdayned be, The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce. Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce: I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches, To wynne the favour of her noblenes.

What thoughe? quod he, draw you not abacke, For she hath inough in her possession For you both; for you shal never lacke If that ye order it by good reason; And so, in perfite consyderacyon, She wyll wyth love her grene flouryng age Passe forth in joye, pleasure, and courage.

Youth is alway of the course ryght lyght, Hote, and moyste, and full of lustines, Moost of the ayre it is ruled by ryght, And her complexion hath chefe intres Upon sanguyn, the ayres holsomnes. She is not yet in al above xviii. yere; Of tender age, to pleasure most dere.

Golde, or sylver, in any maner of wyse, For sanguyne youth it is al contrary; So for to coveyte for it, doth aryse Onely engendred upon the melancoly, Whych is drye, colde, and also erthely, In which the golde is truely nutryfyde, Ferre frome the ayre so clerely purifyed.

Thus covetyse shal nothyng surmount Your yonge ladyes herte; but onely nature Shal in her mynde make her to account The great losse of youth, her specyal treasure. She knoweth she is a ryght fayre creature, No doubte it is but ye pryvely amonge, So hye is nature wyth his werkes stronge.

That she of force the mannes company Must well conveyte; for she may not resyste Dame natures werke, which is so secretely. Thoughe she be mayde, let her say what she lyst, She wolde have man, though do man it wyst To make her joye whan nature doth agre, Her thought is hers, it is unto her fre.

Who spareth to speke he spareth to spede; I shall provyde for you convenyent A gentyl tyme for to attayne your mede, That you shall go to your lady excellent; And ryght before take good advysement Of all the matter that ye wyl her shewe, Upon good reason and in wordes fewe.

Thus past we tyme in communicacyon, The after none wyth many a sentement, And what for love was best conclusyon We demed oft and gave judgement; Tyll that in the even was refulgent Fayre golden Mercury, wyth hys bemes bryght, About the ayre castinge his pured lyght.

Then to a chambre swete and precyous, Councell me ledde, for to take my reste. The night was wete, and also tenebrous; But I my selfe, with sorowe opprest, Dyd often muse what was for me best Unto my fayre lady for to tell or saye, And all my drede was for fere of a naye.

Though that my bedde was easy and softe, Yet dyd I tomble, I myght not lye styll; On every syde I tourned me ful ofte, Upon the love I had so set my wyll, Longynge ryght sore my mynde to fulfyll, I called Counseyle, and prayed hym to awake To gyve me counseyle what were best to take.

Ha, ha! quod he, love doth you so prycke, That yet your heart will nothynge be eased, But evermore be feble and sycke, Tyll that your lady hath it well appesed; Thoughe ye thynke longe, yet ye shall be plesed. I wolde, quod I, that it were as ye say. Fye, fye, quod he, dryve suche dyspayre away,

And lyve in hope, whych shall do you good. Joy cometh after, whan the payne is past. Be ye pacyent and sobre in mode; To wepe and wayle all is for you in wast: Was never payne, but it had joye at last. In the fayre morrow, ryse and make you redy, At ix. at the clocke, the time is necessary

For us to walke unto your lady gent; The bodyes above be than well domysyde To helpe us forwarde without ympediment. Loke what ye saye; loke it be deryfyde Frome perfyt reason well exemplyfyde; Forsake her not, thoughe that she say naye, A womans guyse is evermore to delaye.

No castell can be of so great a strength, If that there be a sure syege to it layde, It must yelde up or els be wonne at length, Though that tofore it hath bene longe delayde. So continuance may you ryght wel ayde. Some womans herte can not so harded be, But besy labour may make it agre.

Labour and dylygence is full mervaylus, Whych bryngeth a lover to his promocyon. Nothyng to love, is more desyrous Than instant labour and delectacyon: The harded harte it geveth occasyon For to consider how that her servaunt To obtayne her love is so attendaunt.

Thus al in comonyng we the nyght did passe, Tyll in the ayre wyth clowdes fayre and red Rysyn was Phebus, shynyng in the glasse, In the chamber his golden rayes were spred, And Dyane derlyng pale as any leade, Whan the lytle byrdes swetely dyd syng With tunes musicall in the fayre mornyng.