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Allas! How dorste I thenken that folye?

May I nought wel in other folk aspye 775

Hir dredful Ioye, hir constreynt, and hir peyne?

Ther loveth noon, that she nath why to pleyne.

`For love is yet the moste stormy lyf,

Right of him-self, that ever was bigonne;

For ever som mistrust, or nyce stryf, 780

Ther is in love, som cloud is over that sonne:

Ther-to we wrecched wommen no-thing conne,

Whan us is wo, but wepe and sitte and thinke;

Our wreche is this, our owene wo to drinke.

`Also these wikked tonges been so prest 785

To speke us harm, eek men be so untrewe,

That, right anoon as cessed is hir lest,

So cesseth love, and forth to love a newe:

But harm y-doon, is doon, who-so it rewe.

For though these men for love hem first to-rende, 790

Ful sharp biginning breketh ofte at ende.

`How ofte tyme hath it y-knowen be,

The treson, that to womman hath be do?

To what fyn is swich love, I can nat see,

Or wher bicometh it, whan it is ago; 795

Ther is no wight that woot, I trowe so,

Wher it bycomth; lo, no wight on it sporneth;

That erst was no-thing, in-to nought it torneth.

`How bisy, if I love, eek moste I be

To plesen hem that Iangle of love, and demen, 800

And coye hem, that they sey non harm of me?

For though ther be no cause, yet hem semen

Al be for harm that folk hir freendes quemen;

And who may stoppen every wikked tonge,

Or soun of belles whyl that they be ronge?' 805

And after that, hir thought bigan to clere,

And seyde, `He which that no-thing under-taketh,

No thing ne acheveth, be him looth or dere.'

And with an other thought hir herte quaketh;

Than slepeth hope, and after dreed awaketh; 810

Now hoot, now cold; but thus, bi-twixen tweye,

She rist hir up, and went hir for to pleye.

Adoun the steyre anoon-right tho she wente

In-to the gardin, with hir neces three,

And up and doun ther made many a wente, 815

Flexippe, she, Tharbe, and Antigone,

To pleyen, that it Ioye was to see;

And othere of hir wommen, a gret route,

hir folwede in the gardin al aboute.

This yerd was large, and rayled alle the aleyes, 820

And shadwed wel with blosmy bowes grene,

And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes,

In which she walketh arm in arm bi-twene;

Til at the laste Antigone the shene

Gan on a Troian song to singe clere, 825

That it an heven was hir voys to here. —

She seyde, `O love, to whom I have and shal

Ben humble subgit, trewe in myn entente,

As I best can, to yow, lord, yeve ich al

For ever-more, myn hertes lust to rente. 830

For never yet thy grace no wight sente

So blisful cause as me, my lyf to lede

In alle Ioye and seurtee, out of drede.

`Ye, blisful god, han me so wel beset

In love, y-wis, that al that bereth lyf 835

Imaginen ne cowde how to ben bet;

For, lord, with-outen Ialousye or stryf,

I love oon which that is most ententyf

To serven wel, unwery or unfeyned,

That ever was, and leest with harm distreyned. 840

`As he that is the welle of worthinesse,

Of trouthe ground, mirour of goodliheed,

Of wit Appollo, stoon of sikernesse,

Of vertu rote, of lust findere and heed,

Thurgh which is alle sorwe fro me deed, 845

Y-wis, I love him best, so doth he me;

Now good thrift have he, wher-so that he be!

`Whom sholde I thanke but yow, god of love,

Of al this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne?

And thanked be ye, lord, for that I love! 850

This is the righte lyf that I am inne,

To flemen alle manere vyce and sinne:

This doth me so to vertu for to entende,

That day by day I in my wil amende.

`And who-so seyth that for to love is vyce, 855

Or thraldom, though he fele in it distresse,

He outher is envyous, or right nyce,

Or is unmighty, for his shrewednesse,

To loven; for swich maner folk, I gesse,

Defamen love, as no-thing of him knowe; 860

Thei speken, but they bente never his bowe.

`What is the sonne wers, of kinde righte,

Though that a man, for feblesse of his yen,

May nought endure on it to see for brighte?

Or love the wers, though wrecches on it cryen? 865

No wele is worth, that may no sorwe dryen.

And for-thy,