Classic Poem

The gardin was, by mesuring,
Right evene and square in compassing;
It as long was as it was large.
Of fruit hadde every tree his charge,
But it were any hidous tree,
Of which ther were two or three.
There were, and that wot I full well,
Of pome-garnettis a full gret dell;
That is a fruit full well to like,
Namely to folk whanne they ben sike.
And trees there were, gret foisoun,
That baren notes in her sesoun,
Such as men notemigges calle,
That swote of savour ben withalle.
And alemandres gret plente,
Figes, and many a date-tree
There wexen, if men hadde nede,
Thorough the gardin in length and brede.
Ther was eke wexing many a spice,
As clowe-gelofre, and licorice,
Gingevre, and grein de paris,
Canell, and setewale of pris,
And many a spice delitable
To eten whan men rise fro table.
And many homly trees ther were
That peches, coines, and apples beere,
Medlers, ploumes, peris, chesteines,
Cherys, of which many oon fain is,
Notes, aleys, and bolas,
That for to seen it was solas.
With many high lorer and pin
Was renged clene all that gardin,
With cipres and with oliveres,
Of which that nigh no plete heere is.
There were elmes grete and stronge,
Maples, assh, ok, asp, planes longe,
Fin ew, popler, and lindes faire,
And othere trees full many a paire.
What shulde I tel you more of it?
There were so many trees yit,
That I shulde al encombred be
Er I had rekened every tree.
These trees were set, that I devise,
Oon from another, in assise,
Five fadome or sixe, I trowe so;
But they were hye and great also,
And for to kepe out wel the sonne,
The croppes were so thicke yronne,
And every braunche in other knet,
And ful of grene leves set,
That sonne might there non discende,
Lest it the tender grasses shende.
There might men does and roes yse,
And of squirels ful great plente
From bowe to bowe alway lepinge.
Conies there were also playinge,
That comin out of her clapers,
Of sondrye colours and manners,
And maden many a tourneying
Upon the fresshe grass springing.
In places saw I welles there,
In whiche there no frogges were,
And fair in shadowe was every welle.
But I ne can the nombre telle
Of stemis smal that by devis
Mirthe had don come through condis,
Of whiche the water, in renning,
Gan make a noise ful liking.
About the brinkes of these welles,
And by the stremes overal elles,
Sprang up the grass, as thicke yset
And softe as any veluët,
On which men might his lemman leye,
As on a fetherbed, to pleye;
For the erthe was ful softe and swete.
Through moisture of the welle wete
Sprong up the sote grene gras
As faire, as thicke, as mister was.
But moche amended it the place,
That th'erthe was of such a grace
That it of flowres hath plente,
That bothe in somer and winter be.
Ther sprang the violet al newe,
And fressh pervinke, riche of hewe,
And flowres yelowe, white, and rede;
Such plente grew there never in mede.
Ful gay was al the ground, and queint,
And powdred, as men had it peint,
With many a fressh and sondry flowr,
That casten up ful good savour.
I wol nat longe holde you in fable
Of al this garden dilectable.
I mot my tonge stinten nede,
For I ne may, withouten drede,
Naught tellen you the beaute al,
Ne half the bounte therewithal.
I went on right hond and on left
About the place; it was nat left,
Til I had in al the garden ben,
In the estres that men mighte sen.
And thus while I wente in my play,
The God of Love me folowed ay,
Right as an hunter can abide
The beest, til he seeth his tide
To shoten at good mes to the der,
Whan that him nedeth go no ner.
And so befil, I rested me
Besides a wel, under a tree,
Which tree in Fraunce men cal a pin.
But sithe the time of king Pepin,
Ne grew there tree in mannes sighte
So fair, ne so wel woxe in highte;
In al that yard so high was non.
And springing in a marble ston
Had Nature set, the sothe to telle,
Under that pin-tree a welle.
And on the border, al withoute,
Was written in the ston aboute,
Letters smal, that saiden thus,
"Here starf the faire Narcisus."
Narcisus was a bacheler,
That Love had caught in his danger,
And in his net gan him so straine,
And did him so to wepe and plaine,
That nede him must his lif forgo.
For a fair lady, that hight Echo,
Him loved over any creature,
And gan for him such paine endure
That on a time she him tolde
That if he her loven nolde,
That her behoved nedes die,
There laye non other remedye.
But natheles, for his beaute,
So feirs and daungerous was he,
That he nolde graunten hir asking,
For weping ne for fair praying;
And whanne she herde him werne her soo,
She hadde in herte so gret woo,
And took it in so gret dispit,
That she, withoute more respit,
Was deed anoon. But er she deide,
Full pitously to God she preyde
That proude-hertid Narcisus,
That was in love so daungerous,
Might on a day ben hampred so
For love, and ben so hoot for woo,
That never he might to joye atteine;
Than shulde he feele in every veine
What sorowe trewe lovers maken,
That ben so vilainsly forsaken.
This prayer was but resonable;
Therfore God held it ferme and stable.
For Narcisus, shortly to telle,
By aventure com to that welle
To reste him in the shadowing
A day whanne he com fro hunting.
This Narcisus hadde suffred paines
For renning alday in the plaines,
And was for thrust in gret distresse
Of heet, and of his werinesse
That hadde his breth almost binomen.
Whanne he was to that welle ycomen,
That shadowid was with braunches grene,
He thoughte of thilke water shene
To drinke, and fresshe him wel withalle;
And down on knees he gan to falle,
And forth his heed and necke out-straughte
To drinken of that welle a draugthe.
And in the water anoon was seene
His nose, his mouth, his ÿen sheene,
And he therof was all abasshed;
His owne shadowe had him bitrasshed.
For well wende he the forme see
Of a child of gret beaute.
Well couthe Love him wreke thoo
Of daunger and of pride also,
That Narcisus somtime him beer.
He quitte him well his guerdoun ther;
For he musede so in the welle
That, shortly all the sothe to telle,
He lovede his owne shadowe soo,
That atte laste he starf for woo.
For whanne he saugh that he his wille
Might in no maner wey fulfille,
And that he was so faste caught
That he him couthe comfort nought,
He loste his wit right in that place,
And diede withinne a litel space.
And thus his warisoun he took
For the lady that he forsook.
Ladies, I preye ensample takith,
Ye that ageins youre love mistakith;
For if her deth be you to wite,
God can ful well youre while quite.
Whanne that this lettre, of which I telle,
Hadde taught me that it was the welle
Of Narcisus in his beaute,
I gan anoon withdrawe me,
Whanne it fel in my remembraunce
That him bitidde such mischaunce.
But at the laste thanne thought I
That scatheles, full sikerly,
I might unto the welle goo.
Wherof shulde I abasshen soo?
Unto the welle than wente I me,
And down I loutede for to see
The clere water in the stoon,
And eke the gravell, which that shoon
Down in the botme as silver fin;
For of the well this is the fin,
In world is noon so cler of hewe.
The water is evere fresh and newe,
That welmeth up with wawis brighte
The mountance of two finger highte.
Abouten it is gras springing,
For moiste so thikke and wel liking,
That it ne may in winter die,
No more than may the see be drye.
Down at the botme set saw I
Two cristall stonis craftely
In thilke freshe and faire welle.
But o thing sothly dar I telle,
That ye wole holde a gret mervaile
Whanne it is told, withouten faile.
For whanne the sonne, cler in sighte,
Cast in that well his bemis brighte,
And that the heete descendid is,
Thanne taketh the cristall stoon, ywis,
Again the sonne and hundrid hewis,
Blew, yelow, and red, that fresh and newe is.
Yitt hath the merveilous cristall
Such strengthe that the place overall,
Bothe flowr, and tree, and leves grene,
And all the yerd in it is seene.
And for to don you to undirstonde,
To make ensample wole I fonde.
Right as a mirrour openly
Shewith all thing that stondith therby,
As well the colour as the figure,
Withouten ony coverture;
Right so the cristall stoon, shining,
Withouten ony disseiving,
The estrees of the yerd accusith
To him that in the water musith.
For evere, in which half that he be,
He may well half the gardin se;
And if he turne, he may right well
Sen the remenaunt everydell.
For ther is noon so litil thing
So hid, ne closid with shitting,
That it ne is sene, as though it were
Peintid in the cristall there.
This is the mirrour perilous,
In which the proude Narcisus
Saw all his face fair and bright,
That made him sithe to ligge upright.
For whoso loketh in that mirrour,
Ther may nothing ben his socour
That he ne shall there sen somthing
That shal him lede into loving.
Full many a worthy man hath it
Yblent, for folk of grettist wit
Ben soone caught heere and awaited,
Withouten respit ben they baited.
Heere comth to folk of-newe rage;
Heere chaungith many wight corage;
Heere lith no red ne wit therto;
For Venus sone, daun Cupido,
Hath sowen there of love the seed,
That help ne lith there noon, ne red,
So cerclith it the welle aboute.
His ginnes hath he sette withoute,
Right for to cacche in his panters
These damoisels and bachelers.
Love will noon other briddes cacche,
Though he sette oither net or lacche.
And for the seed that heere was sowen,
This welle is clepid, as well is knowen,
The Welle of Love, of verray right,
Of which ther hath ful many a wight
Spoken in bookis diversely.
But they shull never so verily
Descripcioun of the welle heere,
Ne eke the sothe of this matere,
As ye shull, whanne I have undo
The craft that hir bilongith too.
Allway me liked for to dwelle,
To sen the cristall in the welle,
That shewide me full openly
A thousand thinges faste by.
But I may say, in sory houre
Stode I to loken or to poure;
For sithen have I sore siked;
That mirrour hath me now entriked.
But hadde I first knowen in my wit
The vertu and the strengthe of it,
I nolde not have mused there.
Me hadde bet ben elliswhere;
For is the snare I fell anoon,
That hath bitrasshed many oon.
In thilke mirrour saw I tho,
Among a thousand thinges mo,
A roser chargid full of rosis,
That with an hegge aboute enclos is.
Tho had I sich lust and envye,
That for Paris ne for Pavie
Nolde I have left to goon and see
There grettist hep of roses be.
Whanne I was with this rage hent,
That caught hath many a man and shent,
Toward the roser gan I go;
And whanne I was not fer therfro,
The savour of the roses swote
Me smot right to the herte-rote,
As I hadde all embaumed be.
And if I ne hadde endouted me
To have ben hatid or assailed,
My thankis, wolde I not have failed
To pulle a rose of all that route
To beren in min hond aboute,
And smellen to it where I wente;
But ever I dredde me to repente,
And lest it grevede or forthoughte
The lord that thilke gardin wroughte.
Of roses ther were gret won;
So faire waxe never in ron.
Of knoppes clos some sawe I there;
And some wel beter woxen were;
And some ther ben of other moisoun,
That drowe nigh to her sesoun,
And spedde hem faste for to sprede.
I love well sich roses rede,
For brode roses and open also
Ben passed in a day or two;
But knoppes wille al freshe be
Two dayes, atte leest, or thre.
The knoppes gretly liked me,
For fairer may ther no man se.
Whoso might have oon of alle,
It ought him ben full lief withalle.
Might I a gerlond of hem geten,
For no richesse I wolde it leten.
Among the knoppes I ches oon
So fair, that of the remenaunt noon
Ne preise I half so well as it,
Whanne I avise it in my wit.
For it so well was enlumined
With colour reed, and as well fined
As nature couthe it make faire.
And it hath leves wel foure paire,
That Kinde hath sett, thorough his knowing,
Aboute the rede Rose springing.
The stalke was as rishe right,
And theron stod the knoppe upright,
That it ne bowide upon no side.
The swote smelle sprong so wide
That it dide all the place aboute--