Classic Poem

Noght fer passit the state of innocence,
Bot nere about the nowmer of yeris thre,
Were it causit throu hevinly influence
Off Goddis will, or othir casualtee,
Can I noght say; bot out of my contree,
By thair avis that had of me the cure,
Be see to pas tuke I myn aventure.

Purvait of all that was us necessarye,
With wynd at will, up airly by the morowe,
Streight unto schip, no longer wold we tarye,
The way we tuke, the tyme I tald to-forowe;
With mony " fare wele" and " Sanct Johne to borowe"
Off falowe and frende; and thus with one assent
We pullit up saile, and furth oure wayis went.

Upon the wavis weltering to and fro,
So infortunate was us that fremyt day,
That maugre, playnly, quhethir we wold or no,
With strong hand, by fors, schortly to say,
Off inymyis takin and led away
We weren all, and broght in thair contree;
Fortune it schupe non othir wayis to be.

Quhare as in strayte ward and in strong prisoun,
So fer forth of my lyf the hevy lyne,
Without confort, in sorowe abandoun,
The secund sister lukit hath to twyne,
Nere by the space of yeris twis nyne;
Till Jupiter his merci list advert,
And send confort in relesche of my smert.

Quhare as in ward full oft I wold bewaille
My dedely lyf, full of peyne and penance,
Saing ryght thus, quhat have I gilt to faille
My fredome in this warld and my plesance?
Sen every wight has thereof suffisance,
That I behold, and I a creature
Put from all this — hard is myn aventure!

The bird, the beste, the fisch eke in the see,
They lyve in fredome everich in his kynd;
And I a man, and lakkith libertee;
Quhat schall I seyne, quhat resoun may I fynd,
That fortune suld do so? thus in my mynd
My folk I wold argewe, bot all for noght:
Was non that myght, that on my peynes rought.

Than wold I say, " Gif God me had devisit
To lyve my lyf in thraldome thus and pyne,
Quhat was the caus that he me more comprisit
Than othir folk to lyve in swich ruyne?
I suffer allone amang the figuris nyne,
Ane wofull wrecche that to no wight may spede,
And yit of every lyvis help hath nede."

The long dayes and the nyghtis eke
I wold bewaille my fortune in this wis,
For quhich, agane distress confort to seke,
My custum was on mornis for to rys
Airly as day; o happy exercis!
By thee come I to joye out of turment.
Bot now to purpos of my first entent:

Bewailing in my chamber thus allone,
Despeired of all joye and remedye,
Fortirit of my thoght and wo begone,
Unto the wyndow gan I walk in hye,
To se the warld and folk that went forby;
As for the tyme, though I of mirthis fude
Myght have no more, to luke it did me gude.

Now was there maid fast by the touris wall
A gardyn fair, and in the corneris set
Ane herber grene with wandis long and small
Railit about; and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet,
That lyf was non walking there forby,
That myght within scars ony wight aspye.

So thik the bewis and the leves grene
Beschadit all the aleyes that there were,
And myddis every herber myght be sene
The scharp grene suete jenepere,
Growing so fair with branchis here and there,
That, as it semyt to a lyf without,
The bewis spred the herber all about;

And on the small grene twistis sat
The lytill swete nyghtingale, and song
So loud and clere the ympnis consecrat
Off lufis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the gardyng and the wallis rong
Ryght of thair song, and on the copill next
Off thair suete armony, and lo the text:

Cantus

" Worschippe, ye that loveris bene, this May,
For of your bliss the kalendis ar begonne,
And sing with us, away, winter, away!
Cum, somer, cum, the swete sesoun and sonne!
Awake for schame that have your hevynnis wonne,
And amorously lift up your hedis all,
Thank lufe that list you to his merci call."

Quhen thai this song had song a lytill thrawe,
Thai stent a quhile, and therewith unaffraid,
As I beheld and kest myn eyne alawe,
From beugh to beugh thay hippit and thai plaid,
And freschly in thair birdis kynd arraid
Thair fetheris new, and fret thame in the sonne,
And thankit lufe, that had thair makis wonne.

This was the plane ditee of thair note,
And therewithall unto myself I thoght,
" Quhat lyf is this, that makis birdis dote?
Quhat may this be, how cummyth it of ought?
Quhat nedith it to be so dere ybought?
It is nothing, trowe I, bot feynit chere,
And that men list to counterfeten chere."

Eft wald I think; " O Lord, quhat may this be?
That lufe is of so noble myght and kynde,
Lufing his folk, and swich prosperitee
Is it of him, as we in bukis fynd?
May he oure hertes setten and unbynd?
Hath he upon oure hertis swich maistrye?
Or all this is bot feynyt fantasye!

For gif he be of so grete excellence,
That he of every wight hath cure and charge,
Quhat have I gilt to him or doon offens,
That I am thrall, and birdis gone at large,
Sen him to serve he myght set my corage?
And gif he be noght so, than may I seyne,
Quhat makis folk to jangill of him in veyne?

Can I noght elles fynd, bot gif that he
Be Lord, and as a God may lyve and regne,
To bynd and lous, and maken thrallis free,
Than wold I pray his blisfull grace benigne,
To hable me unto his service digne;
And evermore for to be one of tho
Him trewly for to serve in wele and wo."

And therewith kest I doun myn eye ageyne,
Quhare as I sawe, walking under the tour,
Full secretly new cummyn hir to pleyne,
The fairest or the freschest yong floure
That ever I sawe, me thoght, before that houre,
For quhich sodayn abate, anon astert,
The blude of all my body to my hert.

And though I stude abaisit tho a lyte
No wonder was, forquhy my wittis all
Were so overcom with plesance and delyte,
Onely throu latting of myn eyen fall,
That sudaynly my hert become hir thrall
For ever of free wyll; for of manace
There was no takyn in hir suete face.

And in my hede I drewe ryght hastily,
And eftsones I lent it forth ageyne,
And sawe hir walk, that verray womanly,
With no wight mo bot onely women tweyne.
Than gan I studye in myself and seyne,
" A! swete, ar ye a warldly creature,
Or hevinly thing in likeness of nature?

Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse,
And cummyn ar to lous me out of band?
Or ar ye verray Nature the goddess,
That have depaynted with your hevinly hand
This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand?
Quhat sall I think, allace! quhat reverence
Sall I minster to your excellence?

Gif ye a goddess be, and that ye like
To do me payne, I may it noght astert;
Gif ye be warldly wight, that dooth me sike,
Quhy lest God mak you so, my derrest hert,
To do a sely prisoner thus smert,
That lufis you all, and wote of noght bot wo?
And therefore, merci, swete! sen it is so."