| |
| IN winter’s just return, when Boreas gan his reign, | |
| And every tree unclothed fast, as nature taught them plain: | |
| In misty morning dark, as sheep are then in hold, | |
| I hied me fast, it sat me on, my sheep for to unfold. | |
| And as it is a thing that lovers have by fits, | 5 |
| Under a palm I heard one cry as he had lost his wits. | |
| Whose voice did ring so shrill in uttering of his plaint, | |
| That I amazed was to hear how love could him attaint. | |
| ‘Ah! wretched man,’ quoth he; ‘come, death, and rid this woe; | |
| A just reward, a happy end, if it may chance thee so. | 10 |
| Thy pleasures past have wrought thy woe without redress; | |
| If thou hadst never felt no joy, thy smart had been the less.’ | |
| And rechless of his life, he gan both sigh and groan: | |
| A rueful thing me thought it was, to hear him make such moan. | |
| ‘Thou cursed pen,’ said he, ‘woe-worth the bird thee bare; | 15 |
| The man, the knife, and all that made thee, woe be to their share: | |
| Woe-worth the time and place where I so could indite; | |
| And woe be it yet once again, the pen that so can write. | |
| Unhappy hand! it had been happy time for me, | |
| If when to write thou learned first, unjointed hadst thou be.’ | 20 |
| Thus cursed he himself, and every other wight, | |
| Save her alone whom love him bound to serve both day and night. | |
| Which when I heard, and saw how he himself fordid; 1 | |
| Against the ground with bloody strokes, himself e’en there to rid; | |
| Had been my heart of flint, it must have melted tho’; | 25 |
| For in my life I never saw a man so full of woe. | |
| With tears for his redress I rashly to him ran, | |
| And in my arms I caught him fast, and thus I spake him than: | |
| ‘What woful wight art thou, that in such heavy case | |
| Torments thyself with such despite, here in this desart place?’ | 30 |
| Wherewith as all aghast, fulfill’d with ire and dread, | |
| He cast on me a staring look, with colour pale and dead: | |
| ‘Nay what art thou,’ quoth he, ‘that in this heavy plight | |
| Dost find me here, most woful wretch, that life hath in despite?’ | |
| ‘I am,’ quoth I, ‘but poor, and simple in degree; | 35 |
| A shepherd’s charge I have in hand, unworthy though I be.’ | |
| With that he gave a sigh, as though the sky should fall, | |
| And loud, alas! he shrieked oft, and, ‘Shepherd,’ ’gan he call, | |
| ‘Come, hie thee fast at once, and print it in thy heart, | |
| So thou shalt know, and I shall tell thee, guiltless how I smart.’ | 40 |
| His back against the tree sore feebled all with faint, | |
| With weary sprite he stretcht him up, and thus he told his plaint: | |
| ‘Once in my heart,’ quoth he, ‘it chanced me to love | |
| Such one, in whom hath Nature wrought, her cunning for to prove. | |
| And sure I cannot say, but many years were spent, | 45 |
| With such good will so recompens’d, as both we were content. | |
| Whereto then I me bound, and she likewise also, | |
| The sun should run his course awry, ere we this faith forego. | |
| Who joyed then but I? who had this worldès bliss? | |
| Who might compare a life to mine, that never thought on this? | 50 |
| But dwelling in this truth, amid my greatest joy, | |
| Is me befallen a greater loss than Priam had of Troy | |
| She is reversed clean, and beareth me in hand, | |
| That my deserts have given cause to break this faithful band: | |
| And for my just excuse availeth no defence. | 55 |
| Now knowest thou all; I can no more; but, Shepherd, hie thee hence, | |
| And give him leave to die, that may no longer live: | |
| Whose record, lo! I claim to have, my death I do forgive. | |
| And eke when I am gone, be bold to speak it plain, | |
| Thou hast seen die the truest man that ever love did pain.’ | 60 |
| Wherewith he turned him round, and gasping oft for breath, | |
| Into his arms a tree he raught, and said: ‘Welcome my death! | |
| Welcome a thousand fold, now dearer unto me | |
| Than should, without her love to live, an emperor to be.’ | |
| Thus in this woful state he yielded up the ghost; | 65 |
| And little knoweth his lady, what a lover she hath lost. | |
| Whose death when I beheld, no marvel was it, right | |
| For pity though my heart did bleed, to see so piteous sight. | |
| My blood from heat to cold oft changed wonders sore; | |
| A thousand troubles there I found I never knew before; | 70 |
| ’Tween dread and dolour so my sprites were brought in fear, | |
| That long it was ere I could call to mind what I did there. | |
| But as each thing hath end, so had these pains of mine: | |
| The furies past, and I my wits restor’d by length of time. | |
| Then as I could devise, to seek I thought it best | 75 |
| Where I might find some worthy place for such a corse to rest. | |
| And in my mind it came, from thence not far away, | |
| Where Cressid’s love, king Priam’s son, the worthy Troilus lay. | |
| By him I made his tomb, in token he was true, | |
| And as to him belonged well, I covered it with blue. | 80 |
| Whose soul by angels’ power departed not so soon, | |
| But to the heavens, lo! it fled, for to receive his doom. | |
