The Canterbury Tales [296]
down among the faire flow'rs, And saw the birdes trip out of their bow'rs, There as they rested them alle the night; They were so joyful of the daye's light, They began of May for to do honours.
They coud* that service all by rote; *knew There was many a lovely note! Some sange loud as they had plain'd, And some in other manner voice feign'd, And some all out with the full throat.
They proined* them, and made them right gay, *preened their feathers And danc'd and leapt upon the spray; And evermore two and two in fere,* *together Right so as they had chosen them to-year* *this year In Feverere* upon Saint Valentine's Day. *February
And the river that I sat upon,* *beside It made such a noise as it ran, Accordant* with the birde's harmony, *keeping time with Me thought it was the beste melody That might be heard of any man.
And for delight, I wote never how, I fell in such a slumber and a swow, -- *swoon Not all asleep, nor fully waking, -- And in that swow me thought I hearde sing The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow;
And that was on a tree right faste by. But who was then *evil apaid* but I? *dissatisfied "Now God," quoth I, "that died on the crois,* *cross Give sorrow on thee, and on thy lewed voice! Full little joy have I now of thy cry."
And as I with the cuckoo thus gan chide, I heard, in the next bush beside, A nightingale so lustily sing, That her clear voice she made ring Through all the greenwood wide.
"Ah, good Nightingale," quoth I then, "A little hast thou been too long hen;* *hence, absent For here hath been the lewd cuckow, And sung songs rather* than hast thou: *sooner I pray to God that evil fire her bren!"* *burn
But now I will you tell a wondrous thing: As long as I lay in that swooning, Me thought I wist what the birds meant, And what they said, and what was their intent And of their speech I hadde good knowing.
There heard I the nightingale say: "Now, good Cuckoo, go somewhere away, And let us that can singe dwelle here; For ev'ry wight escheweth* thee to hear, *shuns Thy songes be so elenge,* in good fay."** *strange **faith
"What," quoth she, "what may thee all now It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou, For my song is both true and plain, Although I cannot crakel* so in vain, *sing tremulously As thou dost in thy throat, I wot ne'er how.
"And ev'ry wight may understande me, But, Nightingale, so may they not do thee, For thou hast many a nice quaint* cry; *foolish I have thee heard say, 'ocy, ocy;' <3> How might I know what that should be?"
"Ah fool," quoth she, "wost thou not what it is? When that I say, 'ocy, ocy,' y-wis, Then mean I that I woulde wonder fain That all they were shamefully slain, *die That meanen aught againe love amiss.
"And also I would that all those were dead, That thinke not in love their life to lead, For who so will the god of Love not serve, I dare well say he is worthy to sterve,* *die And for that skill,* 'ocy, ocy,' I grede."** *reason **cry
"Ey!" quoth the cuckoo, "this is a quaint* law, *strange That every wight shall love or be to-draw!* *torn to pieces But I forsake alle such company; For mine intent is not for to die, Nor ever, while I live, *on Love's yoke to draw.* *to put on love's yoke* "For lovers be the folk that be alive, That most disease have, and most unthrive,* *misfortune And most endure sorrow, woe, and care, And leaste feelen of welfare: What needeth it against the truth to strive?"
"What?" quoth she, "thou art all out of thy mind! How mightest thou in thy churlishness
They coud* that service all by rote; *knew There was many a lovely note! Some sange loud as they had plain'd, And some in other manner voice feign'd, And some all out with the full throat.
They proined* them, and made them right gay, *preened their feathers And danc'd and leapt upon the spray; And evermore two and two in fere,* *together Right so as they had chosen them to-year* *this year In Feverere* upon Saint Valentine's Day. *February
And the river that I sat upon,* *beside It made such a noise as it ran, Accordant* with the birde's harmony, *keeping time with Me thought it was the beste melody That might be heard of any man.
And for delight, I wote never how, I fell in such a slumber and a swow, -- *swoon Not all asleep, nor fully waking, -- And in that swow me thought I hearde sing The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow;
And that was on a tree right faste by. But who was then *evil apaid* but I? *dissatisfied "Now God," quoth I, "that died on the crois,* *cross Give sorrow on thee, and on thy lewed voice! Full little joy have I now of thy cry."
And as I with the cuckoo thus gan chide, I heard, in the next bush beside, A nightingale so lustily sing, That her clear voice she made ring Through all the greenwood wide.
"Ah, good Nightingale," quoth I then, "A little hast thou been too long hen;* *hence, absent For here hath been the lewd cuckow, And sung songs rather* than hast thou: *sooner I pray to God that evil fire her bren!"* *burn
But now I will you tell a wondrous thing: As long as I lay in that swooning, Me thought I wist what the birds meant, And what they said, and what was their intent And of their speech I hadde good knowing.
There heard I the nightingale say: "Now, good Cuckoo, go somewhere away, And let us that can singe dwelle here; For ev'ry wight escheweth* thee to hear, *shuns Thy songes be so elenge,* in good fay."** *strange **faith
"What," quoth she, "what may thee all now It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou, For my song is both true and plain, Although I cannot crakel* so in vain, *sing tremulously As thou dost in thy throat, I wot ne'er how.
"And ev'ry wight may understande me, But, Nightingale, so may they not do thee, For thou hast many a nice quaint* cry; *foolish I have thee heard say, 'ocy, ocy;' <3> How might I know what that should be?"
"Ah fool," quoth she, "wost thou not what it is? When that I say, 'ocy, ocy,' y-wis, Then mean I that I woulde wonder fain That all they were shamefully slain, *die That meanen aught againe love amiss.
"And also I would that all those were dead, That thinke not in love their life to lead, For who so will the god of Love not serve, I dare well say he is worthy to sterve,* *die And for that skill,* 'ocy, ocy,' I grede."** *reason **cry
"Ey!" quoth the cuckoo, "this is a quaint* law, *strange That every wight shall love or be to-draw!* *torn to pieces But I forsake alle such company; For mine intent is not for to die, Nor ever, while I live, *on Love's yoke to draw.* *to put on love's yoke* "For lovers be the folk that be alive, That most disease have, and most unthrive,* *misfortune And most endure sorrow, woe, and care, And leaste feelen of welfare: What needeth it against the truth to strive?"
"What?" quoth she, "thou art all out of thy mind! How mightest thou in thy churlishness