| |
| TO-BROKEN been the statuts hye in hevene | |
| That creat were eternally to dure, | |
| Sith that I see the brighte goddes sevene | |
| Mow wepe and wayle, and passioun endure, | |
| As may in erthe a mortal creature. | 5 |
| Allas, fro whennes may this thing procede? | |
| Of whiche errour I deye almost for drede. | |
| |
| By worde eterne whylom was hit shape | |
| That fro the fifte cercle, in no manere, | |
| Ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape. | 10 |
| But now so wepeth Venus in hir spere, | |
| That with hir teres she wol drenche us here. | |
| Allas, Scogan! this is for thyn offence! | |
| Thou causest this deluge of pestilence. | |
| |
| Hast thou not seyd, in blaspheme of this goddes, | 15 |
| Through pryde, or through thy grete rakelnesse, | |
| Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is? | |
| That, for thy lady saw nat thy distresse, | |
| Therfor thou yave hir up at Michelmesse! | |
| Allas, Scogan! of olde folk ne yonge | 20 |
| Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tonge! | |
| |
| Thou drowe in scorn Cupyde eek to record | |
| Of thilke rebel word that thou hast spoken, | |
| For which he wol no lenger be thy lord. | |
| And, Scogan, thogh his bowe be nat broken, | 25 |
| He wol nat with his arwes been y-wroken | |
| On thee, ne me, ne noon of our figure; | |
| We shul of him have neyther hurt ne cure. | |
| |
| Now certes, frend, I drede of thyn unhappe, | |
| Lest for thy gilt the wreche of Love procede | 30 |
| On alle hem that ben hore and rounde of shape, | |
| That ben so lykly folk in love to spede. | |
| Than shul we for our labour han no mede; | |
| But wel I wot, thou wilt answere and seye: | |
| ‘Lo! olde Grisel list to ryme and pleye!’ | 35 |
| |
| Nay, Scogan, sey not so, for I mexcuse, | |
| God help me so! in no rym, doutelees, | |
| Ne thinke I never of slepe wak my muse, | |
| That rusteth in my shethe stille in pees. | |
| Whyl I was yong, I putte hir forth in prees, | 40 |
| But al shal passe that men prose or ryme; | |
| Take every man his turn, as for his tyme. | |
| |
Envoy.
Scogan, that knelest at the stremes heed | |
| Of grace, of alle honour and worthinesse, | |
| In thende of which streme I am dul as deed, | 45 |
| Forgete in solitarie wildernesse; | |
| Yet, Scogan, thenke on Tullius kindenesse, | |
| Minne thy frend, ther it may fructifye! | |
| Far-wel, and lok thou never eft Love defye! | |
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