Cap. XXXI. the Copy of the Letter That Venus Sent to la Bell Pucell

Right gentyll herte of grene flouring age, The sterre of beute and of famous porte, Consyder well that your lusty courage Age of his cours must at the last transporte: Now trouth of his right dooth our selfe exhorte That you your youth in ydelnes wyll spende, Wythouten pleasure to bryng it to an ende.

What was the cause of your creacion, But man to love, the world to multeply? As to sow the sede of generacion, Wyth fervent love so well conveniently, The cause of love engendreth perfytely, Upon an entent of dame Nature, Which you have made so fayre a creature.

Than of dame Nature what is the entent But to accomplyshe her fayre sede to sow? In such a place as is convenient, To Gods pleasure, for to increase and grow. The kinde of her ye may not overthrow: Say what ye lyst, ye can nothing deny, But otherwhyle ye thinke full prively

What the man is, and what he can do Of chambre werke, as nature can agre, Though by experience ye know nothing therto, Yet oft ye muse, and thinke what it may be. Nature provoketh of her strong degre, You so to as hath bene her olde guyse; Why wyll you than the true love dispyse?

In our court there is a byll presented By Graund Amour, whose hert in dures You fast have fettered, not to be absented Frome your person with mortall hevynes: His hert and service, with all gentylnes, He to you oweth, as to be obedient For to fulfyll your swete commaundement.

What you avayleth your beaute so fayre, Your lusty youth and your gentill countenaunce, Without that you in your minde will repayre It for to spend in joye and plesaunce? To folow the trace of dame Natures daunce; And thus in doing you shall your servaunt hele, Of his disease and hurte you never a dele.

One must you love, it can not be denied, For harde it is to voyde you of the chaunce Than to love him best that you have so arayed Wyth fyry chaynes fettered in penaunce; For he is redy without doubtaunce In every thing for to fulfyll your wyll, And as ye lyst ye may him save or spyll.

Alas! what payne and mortall wo Were it to you and you were in lyke cace, Wyth him dismayde which you have rayed so; Wold you not than thinke it a longe space In his swete herte to have a dwellyng place? Than in your minde you may revolve that he Moost longe do thinke that joyfull day to se.

Is not he yonge, both wyse and lusty, And eke descended of the gentyll lyne? What wyll you have more of him truely, Than you to serve as true love wyll inclyne? But, as I thinke, you do now determine To fyxe your minde for worldly treasure, Though in your youth ye lese your pleasure.

Alas! remember first your beaute, Your youth, your courage, and your tender herte; What payne hereafter it may to you be Whan you lacke that which is true lovers deserte; I tell you this your selfe to converte, For lytle know ye of this payne ywys, To lyve with him in whome no pleasure is.

Where that is love, there can be no lacke; Fye on that love for the land or substaunce, For it must nedes right soone abacke Whan that youth hath no joye nor pleasaunce In the party with natures suffisaunce; Than wyll you, for the sinne of averiche, Unto your youth do such a prejudice?

Thus, sithen Nature hath you well indued With so much beaute; and dame Grace also Your vertuous maner hath so well renued; Exyle Disdayne and let her from you go, And also Straungenes, and to love the fo; And let no covetous your true herte subdue, But that in joye you may your youth ensue.

For of I love the goddes dame Venus, Right well to know that in the world is none That unto you shall be more joyous Than Graund Amour, that loveth you alone; Sith he so did, it is many dayes agone. Who ever saw a fayre yong hart so harde, Which for her sake wolde se her true love mard?

And so shall he, without ye take good hede, If it so be ye be cause of the same, For love with deth wyll ye reward his mede? And if ye do ye be to muche to blame. To love unloved ye know it is no game: Wherfore, me thinke, ye can do no lesse But with your love his paynes to redres.

If ye do not, this may be his songe; Wo worth the time that ever he you met; Wo worth your hert so doing him wrong; Wo worth the houre that his true herte was set; Wo worth dysdayne that wold his purpose let; Wo worth the flour that can do no bote; Wo worth you that perst him at the route.

Wo worth my love, the cause of my sorow; Wo worth my lady that wyll not it releace; Wo worth fortune both even and morow; Wo worth trouble that shall have no peace; Wo worth cruelte that may never cease; Wo worth youth that wyll not pitie have; Wo worth her that wyll not her love save;

Wo worth the trust without assuraunce; Wo worth love rewarded with hate; Wo worth love replete with variaunce; Wo worth love without a frendly mate; Wo worth the herte with love at debate; Wo worth the beaute which toke me in snare; Wo worth the hert that wyll not cease my care;

Wo worth her maners and her goodlynes; Wo worth her eyes so clere and amyable; Wo worth such cause of my great sicknes; Wo worth pite on her not tendable; Wo worth her minde in disdayne so stable; Wo worth her that hath me fettered fast; And wo worth love that I do spend in wast.

Wherefore of right I pray you to remembre All that I wryte unto you right now: How your true love is of age but tendre, His umble service we pray you alow: And he him selfe evermore emprowe, You for to please and give the soveraynte, How can you have a more true love than he?

And fare ye well: there is no more to say; Under our signet, in our court ryall, Of September the two and twenty day. She closed the letter, and to her did call Cupyde her sonne, so dere and speciall, Commaunding him, as fast as he myght, To La Belle Pucell for to take his flyght.

So did Cupyde with the letter flye Unto La Belle Pucelles dominacion, There that he spedde full well and wonderly, As I shall after make relacion. But to my matter with brevyacion: A turtle I offred for to magnefy Dame Venus hye estate to glorify.

She me exhorted for to be right hardy, Forth on travayle, and to drede nothing; I toke my leve of her full humbly, And on my way as I was riding This Godfrey Gobelyve came rennyng, Wyth his little nagge, and cryed: tary! tary! For I wyll come and bere you company.