Classic Poem

Now is the burgays to the king coome
With the golde and his garysone,
And hath take the king to wolde
The selver and the coupe of golde.
They lete make in a chirche
As swithe feire grave wyrche,
And lete ley thereuppone
A new feire peynted stone,
With letters al aboute wryte
With ful muche worshippe.
Whoso couth the letters rede,
Thus they spoken and thus they seide:
‘Here lyth swete Blaunchefloure
That Florys lovyd paramoure.’
Now Florys hath undernome,
And to his fader he is coome.
In his fader halle he is lyght;
His fader him grette anoone ryght,
And his moder, the queen, also,
But unnethes myght he that doo,
That he ne asked where his lemman bee;
Nonskyns answere chargeth hee.
So longe he is forth noome,
Into chamber he is coome.
The maydenys moder he asked ryght,
‘Where is Blauncheflour, my swete wyght?’
‘Sir,’ he seide, ‘forsothe ywys,
I ne woot where she is.’
She bithought hur on that lesyng
That was ordeyned byfoore the king.
‘Thou gabbest me,’ he seyde thoo,
‘Thy gabbyng doth me muche woo.
Tel me where my leman be.’
Al wepyng seide thenne shee:
‘Sir,’ shee seide, ‘deede.’ ‘Deede!’ seide he.
‘Sir,’ sche seide, ‘for sothe, yee.’
‘Allas, when died that swete wyght?’
‘Sir, withynne this fourtenyght
The erth was leide hur aboute,
And deed she was for thy love.’
Flores, that was so feire and gent,
Sownyd there verament.
The cristen woman began to crye
To Jhesu Crist and Seynt Marye.
The king and the queene herde that crye;
Into the chamber they ronne on hye,
And the queene herde her byforne
On sowne the childe that she had borne.
The kinges hert was al in care,
That sawe his sone for love so fare.
When he awooke and speke moght,
Sore he wept and sore he syght,
And seide to his moder ywis,
‘Lede me there that mayde is.’
Theder they brought him on hyghe;
For care and sorow he wolde dyghe.
As sone as he to the grave com,
Sone there behelde he then,
And the letters began to rede
That thus spake and thus seide:
‘Here lyth swete Blauncheflour,
That Florys lovyd paramoure.’
Thre sithes Florys sownydde nouth:
Ne speke he myght not with mouth.
As sone as he awoke and speke myght,
Sore he wept and sore he syght.
‘Blauncheflour!’ he seide, ‘Blauncheflour!
So swete a thing was never in boure.
Of Blauncheflour is that Y meene,
For she was come of good kyne.
Lytel and muche loveden the
For thy goodnesse and thy beauté.
Yif deth were dalt aryght,
We shuld be deed both on oo nyght.
On oo day borne we were;
We shul be ded both in feere.’
‘Deeth,’ he seide, ‘ful of envye,
And of alle trechorye,
Refte thou hast me my lemman.
For sothe,’ he seide, ‘thou art to blame.
She wolde have levyd, and thu noldest,
And fayne wolde Y dye, and thu woldest.
[With there me wolde that thou were,
Nul tu no wight come there,
And ther me wolde that thou … ne come,
Ther thou wolt come ilome.
Thilke that buste best to libbe,
Hem thou stikest under the ribbe,
And yif ther is eni forlived wrecche
That of is live nought ne recche,
That fawe wolde deie for sorewe and elde,
On hem neltou nought bi helde.
No lengore Ich nelle mi life bileve,
I chulle be mid hyre ere eve.]
After deeth clepe nomore Y nylle,
But slee my self now Y wille.’
‘And Babilloine, Ihc understonde,
Dureth abute furtennight gonde.
Abute the walle ther buth ate,
Sevesithe tuenti gates.
And ine the buregh amidde right
Beoth twe tures ipight.
Eche day in al the yere
The feire is ther iliche plenere.
Seve hundred tures and two
Beoth in the burgh, bithute mo.
And ine the burgh amidde right
Beoth twe ture ipight,
Of lym and of marbleston;
In the world nis swiche tur non.
In the tur ther is a welle,
Suthe cler hit is with alle.
He urneth in o pipe of bras,
Whider so hit ned was.
Fram flore into flore
The strimes urneth store,
Fram bure into halle,
The strimes of this welle.
In the tur is o kernel
Of selver and of crestel.
On the tur anovenon
Is a charbugleston
That yiveth leme day and night,
Ne bi hit nevre so derk night.
In the buregh ne darfe me berne
Lampe ne torche ne lanterne,
That he ne yiveth light and leme,
As doth a day the sunne beme.
The porter is prud withalle;
Eche day he goth on the walle,
And ef ther cometh eni man
Bithinne thilke barbecan,
Bute he him yeve leve,
He wule him bothe bete and reve.
The porter is culvart and felun:
He wule him sette areisun.
Ther buth in the highe tur
Forti maidenes and four.
Wel were that ilke mon
That mighte winne with that on.
Ne thorte he never ful iwis
Wilne more of paradis.
Ther buth serjauns in the stage
That serveth the maidenes of parage;
Ac ne mot ther non ben inne
That one the breche bereth the ginne,
Nother bi daie ne bi night,
Bute he also capun beo idight.
And the Admiral is such a gume,
In al the world nis such a sune.
Ne bu his wife nevre so schene,
Bute o yer ne schal heo beon his quene,
Thegh heo luve him ase hire lif,
That he nele habbe another wif.
And, Floriz, I mai the telle fore,
Heo schal beon his quene icore.
Alle the maidenes of parage
Me schal bringe adun of the stage,
And leden hem in to on orchard,
The faireste of al the middelerd.
Abute the orchard is a wal;
The ethelikeste ston is cristal.
Ho so wonede a moneth in that spray
Nolde him nevre longen away.
So merie is therinne the fogheles song
That joie and blisse is evre among.
In the orchard is a welle
That is suthe cler with alle.
Ihc mai seggen iwis,
The strimes cometh fram paradis.
For in the strimes, the smale stones,
Hi beoth ther funden evrech one,
Bothe saphire and sardoines,
And suthe riche cassidoines,
And jacinctes and topaces,
And onicle of muchel grace,
And mani on other direwerthe ston
That Ich nu nempne ne can.
Above the walle stent a treo,
That faireste that mighte in erthe beo.
Hit is ihote the treo of luve,
For lef and blosme beoth ther buve.
So sone so the olde beoth idon,
Ther springeth niwe right anon.
Alle thilke that clene maidenes beo
Schulle sitte arewe under that treo;
And which falleth on that furste flur
Schal beo quene and fonge thonur.
Yef ther is eni maide forleie,
The wal is of so muchel eie,
And heo stepe to the grunde
For to wassche hire honde,
Ha bulmeth up so he were wod,
And chaungeth fram water into blod.
On wuche the welle fareth so,’
Also suithe he wurth fordo.