THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN
THE PROLOGE OF .IX. GOODE WIMMEN
A thousand tymes have I herd men telle, That ther is Ioye in heven, and peyne in helle; And I acorde wel that hit is so; But natheles, yit wot I wel also, That ther nis noon dwelling in this contree, That either hath in heven or helle y-be, Ne may of hit non other weyes witen, But as he hath herd seyd, or founde hit writen; For by assay ther may no man hit preve. 10 But god forbede but men should leve Wel more thing then men han seen with ye! Men shal nat wenen every-thing a lye But-if him-self hit seeth, or elles dooth; For, god wot, thing is never the lasse sooth, Thogh every wight ne may hit nat y-see. Bernard the monk ne saugh nat al, parde! 
Than mote we to bokes that we finde, Through which that olde thinges been in minde. And to the doctrine of these olde wyse, 20 Yeve credence, in every skilful wyse, That tellen of these olde appreved stories, Of holinesse, or regnes, of victories, Of love, of hate, of other sundry thinges, Of whiche I may not maken rehersinges. And if that olde bokes were a-weye, Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye. Wel oghte us than honouren and beleve These bokes, ther we han non other preve. 
And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte, 30 On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But hit be seldom, on the holyday; Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules singe, And that the floures ginnen for to springe, Farwel my book and my devocioun! 
40 Now have I than swich a condicioun, That, of alle the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun. To hem have I so great affeccioun, As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May, That in my bed ther daweth me no day That I nam up, and walking in the mede To seen this flour agein the sonne sprede, Whan hit upryseth erly by the morwe; 50 That blisful sighte softneth al my sorwe, So glad am I whan that I have presence Of hit, to doon al maner reverence, As she, that is of alle floures flour, Fulfilled of al vertu and honour, And ever y-lyke fair, and fresh of hewe; And I love hit, and ever y-lyke newe, And ever shal, til that myn herte dye; Al swete I nat, of this I wol nat lye, Ther loved no wight hotter in his lyve. 
60 And whan that hit is eve, I renne blyve, As sone as ever the sonne ginneth weste, To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste, For fere of night, so hateth she derknesse! Hir chere is pleynly sprad in the brightnesse Of the sonne, for ther hit wol unclose. Allas! that I ne had English, ryme or prose, Suffisant this flour to preyse aright! But helpeth, ye that han conning and might, Ye lovers, that can make of sentement; 70 In this cas oghte ye be diligent To forthren me somwhat in my labour, Whether ye ben with the leef or with the flour. For wel I wot, that ye han her-biforn Of making ropen, and lad awey the corn; And I come after, glening here and there, And am ful glad if I may finde an ere Of any goodly word that ye han left. And thogh it happen me rehercen eft That ye han in your fresshe songes sayd, 80 For-bereth me, and beth nat evel apayd, Sin that ye see I do hit in the honour Of love, and eek in service of the flour, Whom that I serve as I have wit or might. She is the clerness and the verray light, That in this derke worlde me wynt and ledeth, The herte in-with my sorowful brest yow dredeth, And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly The maistresse of my wit, and nothing I. My word, my werk, is knit so in your bonde, 90 That, as an harpe obeyeth to the honde And maketh hit soune after his fingeringe, Right so mowe ye out of myn herte bringe Swich vois, right as yow list, to laughte or pleyne. Be ye my gyde and lady sovereyne; As to myn erthly god, to yow I calle, Bothe in this werke and in my sorwes alle. 
But wherfor that I spak, to give credence To olde stories, and doon hem reverence, And that men mosten more thing beleve 100 Then men may seen at eye or elles preve? That shal I seyn, whan that I see my tyme; I may not al at ones speke in ryme. My besy gost, that thrusteth alwey newe To seen this flour so yong, so fresh of hewe, Constreyned me with so gledy desyr, That in my herte I fele yit the fyr, That made me to ryse er hit wer day -- And this was now the firste morwe of May -- With dredful herte and glad devocioun, 110 For to ben at the resureccioun Of this flour, whan that it shuld unclose Agayn the sonne, that roos as rede as rose, That in the brest was of the beste that day, That Agenores doghter ladde away. And doun on knees anon-right I me sette, And, as I coude, this fresshe flour I grette; Kneling alwey, til hit unclosed was, Upon the smale softe swote gras, That was with floures swote enbrouded al, 120 Of swich swetnesse and swich odour over-al, That, for to speke of gomme, or herbe, or tree, Comparisoun may noon y-maked be; For hit surmounteth pleynly alle odoures, And eek of riche beautee alle floures. Forgeten had the erthe his pore estat Of winter, that him naked made and mat, And with his swerd of cold so sore greved; Now hath the atempre sonne al that releved That naked was, and clad hit new agayn. 130 The smale foules, of the seson fayn, That from the panter and the net ben scaped, Upon the fouler, that hem made a-whaped In winter, and distroyed had hir brood, In his despyt, hem thoughte hit did hem good To singe of him, and in hir song despyse The foule cherl that, for his covetyse, Had hem betrayed with his sophistrye. This was hir song -- "the fouler we defye, And al his craft!" And somme songen clere 140 Layes of love, and Ioye hit was to here, In worshipinge and preisinge of hir make. And, for the newe blisful somers sake, Upon the braunches ful of blosmes softe, In hir delyt, they turned hem ful ofte, And songen, "blessed be seynt Valentyn! For on his day I chees yow to be myn, Withouten repenting, myn herte swete!" And therwith-al hir bekes gonnen mete, Yelding honour and humble obeisaunces 150 love, and diden hir other observaunces That longeth unto love and to nature; Construeth that as yow list, I do no cure. 
And tho that hadde doon unkindenesse -- As dooth the tydif, for new-fangelnesse -- Besoghte mercy of hir trespassinge, And humblely songen hir repentinge, And sworen on the blosmes to be trewe, So that hir makes wolde upon hem rewe, And at the laste maden hir acord. 160 Al founde they Daunger for a tyme a lord, Yet Pitee, through his stronge gentil might, Forgaf, and made Mercy passen Right, Through innocence and ruled curtesye. But I ne clepe nat innocence folye, Ne fals pitee, for "vertu is the mene," As Etik saith, in swich maner I mene. And thus thise foules, voide of al malyce, Acordeden to love, and laften vyce Of hate, and songen alle of oon acord, 170 "Welcome, somer, our governour and lord!" 
And Zephirus and Flora gentilly Yaf to the floures, softe and tenderly, Hir swote breth, and made hem for to sprede, As god and goddesse of the floury mede; In which me thoghte I mighte, day by day, Dwellen alwey, the Ioly month of May, Withouten sleep, withouten mete or drinke. A-doun ful softely I gan to sinke; And, leninge on myn elbowe and my syde, 180 The longe day I shoop me for to abyde For nothing elles, and I shal nat lye, But for to loke upon the dayesye, That wel by reson men hit calle may The "dayesye" or elles the "ye of day", The emperice and flour of floures alle. I pray to god that faire mot she falle, And alle that loven floures, for hir sake! But natheles, ne wene nat that I make In preysing of the flour agayn the leef, 190 No more than of the corn agayn the sheef: For, as to me, nis lever noon ne lother; I nam with-holden yit with never nother. Ne I not who serveth leef, ne who the flour; Wel brouken they hir service or labour; For this thing is al of anther tonne, Of olde story, er swich thing was be-gonne. 
Whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste, And that this flour gan close and goon to reste For derknesse of the night, the which she dredde, 200 Hoom to myn hous ful swiftly I me spedde To goon to reste, and erly for to ryse, To seen this flour to sprede, as I devyse. And, in a litel herber that I have, That benched was on turves fresshe y-grave, I bad men sholde me my couche make; For deyntee of the newe someres sake, I bad hem strawen floures on my bed. Whan I was leyd, and had myn eyen hed, I fel on slepe in-with an houre or two; 210 Me mette how I lay in the medew tho, To seen this flour that I love so drede. And from a-fer com walking in the mede The god of love, and in his hande a quene; And she was clad in real habit grene. A fret of gold she hadde next hir heer, And upon that a whyt coroun she beer With florouns smale, and I shal nat lye; For al the world, ryght as a dayesye Y-corouned is with whyte leves lyte, 220 So were the florouns of hir coroun whyte; For of a perle fyne, oriental, Hir whyte coroun was y-maked al; For which the whyte coroun, above the grene, Made hir lyk a daysie for to sene, Considered eek hir feet of gold above. 
Y-clothed was this mighty god of love In silke, enbrouded ful of grene greves, In-with a fret of rede rose-leves, The fresshest sin the world was first bigonne. 230 His gilte heer was corouned with a sonne, In-stede of gold, for hevinesse and wighte; Therwith me thoughte his face shoon so brighte That wel unnethes mighte I him beholde; And in his hande me thoughte I saugh him holde Two fyry dartes, as the gledes rede; And aungellyke his winges suagh I sprede. And al be that men seyn that blind is he, Al-gate me thoughte that he mighte see; For sternly on me he gan biholde, 240 So that his loking doth myn herte colde. And by the hande he held this noble quene, Corouned with whyte, and clothed al in grene, So womanly, so benigne, and so meke, That in this world, thogh that men wolde seke, Half hir beautee shulde men nat finde In creature that formed is by kinde. And therfor may I seyn, as thinketh me, This song, in preysing of this lady fre. 
BALADE
Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
250   Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;
      Hyd, Ionathas, al thy frendly manere;
      Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun,
      Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;
      Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne,
      My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

      Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere,
      Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun,
      And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,
      And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,
260   Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun;
      And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne;
      My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

      Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere,
      And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophon,
      And Canace, espyed by thy chere,
      Ysiphile, betrayed with Jasoun,
      Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun;
      Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne;
      My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

270   This balade may ful wel y-songen be,
      As I have seyd erst, by my lady free;
      For certeynly, alle these now nat suffyse
      To apperen with my lady in no wyse.
      For as the sonne wol the fyr disteyne,
      So passeth al my lady sovereyne,
      That is so good, so fair, so debonaire;
      I prey to god that ever falle hir faire!
      For, nadde comfort been of hir presence,
      I had ben deed, withouten any defence,
280   For drede of Loves wordes and his chere;
      As, when tyme is, her-after ye shal here.

      Behind this god of love, upon the grene,
      I saugh cominge of ladyes nyntene
      In real habit, a ful esy paas;
      And after hem com of women swich a traas,
      That, sin that god Adam had mad of erthe,
      The thridde part of mankynd, or the ferthe,
      Ne wende I nat by possibilitee,
      Had ever in this wyde worlde y-be;
290   And trewe of love thise women were echoon.

      Now whether was that a wonder thing or noon,
      That, right anoon as that they gonne espye
      This flour, which that I clepe the dayesye,
      Ful sodeinly they stinten alle at ones,
      And kneled doun, as it were for the nones,
      And songen with o vois, "hele and honour
      To trouthe of womanhede, and to this flour
      That berth our alder prys in figuringe!
      Hir whyte coroun berth the witnessinge!"

300   And with that word, a compas enviroun,
      They setten hem ful softly adoun.
      First sat the god of love, and sith his quene
      With the whyte coroun, clad in grene;
      And sithen al the remenant by and by,
      As they were of estaat, ful curteisly;
      Ne nat a word was spoken in the place
      The mountance of a furlong-wey of space.

      I kneling by this flour, in good entente
      Abood, to knowen what this peple mente,
310   As stille as any stoon; til at the laste,
      This god of love on me his eyen caste,
      And seyde, "who kneleth ther?" and I answerde
      Unto his asking, whan that I hit herde,
      And seyde, "sir, hit am I"; and com him neer,
      And salued him.  Quod he, "what dostow heer
      So nigh myn owne flour, so boldely?
      For it were better worthy, trewely,
      A worm to neghen neer my flour than thou."
      "And why, sir," quod I, "and hit lyke yow?"
320   "For thou," quod he, "art ther-to nothing able.
      Hit is my relik, digne and delytable,
      And thou my fo, and al my folk werreyest,
      And of myn olde servaunts thou misseyest,
      And hindrest hem, with thy translacioun,
      And lettest folk from hir devocioun
      To serve me, and holdest hit folye
      To serve Love.  Thou mayest hit nat denye;
      For in pleyn text, with-outen nede of glose,
      Thou hast translated the Romaunce of the Rose,
330   That is an heresye ageyns my lawe,
      And makest wyse folk fro me withdrawe.
      And of Criseyde thou hast seyd as thee liste,
      That maketh men to wommen lasse triste,
      That ben as trewe as ever was any steel.
      Of thyn answere avyse thee right weel;
      For, thogh that thou reneyed hast my lay,
      As other wrecches han doon many a day,
      By seynt Venus, that my moder is,
      If that thou live, thou shalt repenten this
340   So cruelly, that hit shal wel be sene!"

      Tho spak this lady, clothed al in grene,
      And seyde, "god, right of your curtesye,
      Ye moten herknen if he can replye
      Agayns al this that ye han to him meved;
      A god ne sholde nat be thus agreved,
      But of his deitee he shal be stable,
      And therto gracious and merciable.
      And if ye nere a god, that knowen al,
      Than mighte hit be, as I yow tellen shal;
350   This man to you may falsly been accused,
      Ther as by right him oghte been excused.
      For in your court is many a losengeour,
      And many a queynte totelere accusour,
      That tabouren in your eres many a soun,
      Right after hir imaginacioun,
      To have your daliance, and for envye;
      These been the causes, and I shall nat lye.
      Envye is lavender of the court alway;
      For she ne parteth, neither night ne day,
360   Out of the hous of Cesar; thus seith Dante;
      Who-so that goth, algate she wol nat wante.
      And eek, paraunter, for this man is nyce,
      He mighte doon hit, gessing no malyce,
      But for he useth thinges for to make;
      Him rekketh noght of what matere he take;

      Or him was boden maken thilke tweye
      Of som persone, and durste hit nat with-seye;
      Or him repenteth utterly of this.
      He ne hath nat doon so grevously amis
370   To translaten that olde clerkes wryten,
      As thogh that he of malice wolde endyten
      Despyt of love, and had him-self hit wroght.
      This shulde a rightwys lord have in his thoght,
      And nat be lyk tiraunts of Lumbardye,
      That han no reward but at tirannye.
      For he that king or lord is naturel,
      Him oghte nat be tiraunt ne cruel,
      As is a fermour, to doon the harm he can.
      He moste thinke hit is his lige man,
380   And is his tresour, and his gold in cofre.
      This is the sentence of the philosophre:
      A king to kepe his liges in Iustyce;
      With-outen doute, that is his offyce.
      Al wole he kepe his lordes hir degree,
      As hit is right and skilful that they be
      Enhaunced and honoured, and most dere --
      For they ben half-goddes in this world here --
      Yit mot he doon bothe right, to pore and riche,
      Al be that hir estat be nay y-liche,
390   And han of pore folk compassioun,
      For lo, the gentil kynd of the leoun!
      For whan a flye offendeth him or byteth,
      He with his tayl awey the flye smyteth
      Al esily; for, of his genterye,
      Him deyneth nat to wreke him on a flye,
      As doth a curre or elles another beste.
      In noble corage oghte been areste,
      And weyen every thing by equitee,
      And ever han reward to his owen degree.
400   For, sir, hit is no maystrie for a lord
      To dampne a man with-oute answere of word;
      And, for a lord, that is ful foul to use.
      And if so be he may him nat excuse,
      But asketh mercy with a dredful herte,
      And profreth him, right in his bare sherte,
      To been right at your owne Iugement,
      Than oghte a god, by short avysement,
      Considre his owne honour and his trespas.
      For sith no cause of deeth lyth in his cas,
410   Yow oghte been the lighter merciable;
      Leteth your yre, and beth somwhat tretable!
      The man hath served yow of his conning,
      And forthred wel your lawe in his making.

      "Al be hit that he can nat wel endyte,
      Yet hath he maked lewed folk delyte
      To serve you, in preysing of your name.
      He made of the book that hight the Hous of Fame,
      And eek the Deeth of Blaunche the Duchesse,
      And the Parlement of Foules, and I gesse,
420   And al the love of Palamon and Arcyte
      Of Thebes, thogh the story is knowen lyte;
      And many an ympne for your halydayes,
      That highten Balades, Roundels, Virelayes;
      And, for to speke of other holynesse,
      He hath in prose translated Boece,
      And mad the Lyf also of seynt Cecyle;
      He made also, goon sithen a greet whyl,
      Origenes upon the Maudeleyne;
      Him oghte now to have the lesse peyne;
430   He hath mad many a lay and many a thing.

      "Now as ye been a god, and eek a king,
      I, your Alceste, whylom quene of Trace,
      I aske yow this man, right of your grace,
      That ye him never hurte in al his lyve;
      And he shal sweren yow, and that as blyve,
      He shal no more agilten in this wyse;
      But he shal maken, as ye wil devyse,
      Of wommen trewe in lovinge al hir lyve,
      Wher-so ye wil, of maiden or of wyve,
440   And forthren yow, as muche as he misseyde
      Or in the Rose or elles in Creseyde."

      The god of love answerde hir thus anoon,
      "Madame," quod he, "hit is so long agoon
      That I yow knew so charitable and trewe,
      That never yit, sith that the world was newe,
      To me ne fond I better noon than ye.
      If that I wolde save my degree,
      I may ne wol nat werne your requeste;
      Al lyth in yow, doth with him as yow leste.
450   I al foryeve, with-outen lenger space;
      For who-so yeveth a yift, or doth a grace,
      Do hit by tyme, his thank is wel the more;
      And demeth ye what he shal do therfore.
      Go thanke now my lady heer," quod he.

      I roos, and doun I sette me on my knee,
      And seyde thus: "madame, the god above
      Foryelde yow, that ye the god of love
      Han maked me his wrathe to foryive;
      And yeve me grace so long for to live,
460   That I may knowe soothly what ye be
      That han me holpe and put in this degree.
      But truly I wende, as in this cas,
      Naught have agilt, ne doon to love trespas.
      Forwhy a trewe man, with-outen drede,
      Hath not to parten with a theves dede;
      Ne a trewe lover oghte me nat blame,
      Thogh that I speke a fals lover som shame.
      They oghte rather with me for to holde,
      For that I of Creseyde wroot or tolde,
470   Or of the Rose; what-so myn auctour mente,
      Algate, god wot, hit was myn entente
      To forthren trouthe in love and hit cheryce;
      And to be war fro falsnesse and fro vyce
      By swich ensample; this was my meninge."

      And she answerde, "lat be thyn arguinge;
      For Love ne wol nat countrepleted be
      In right ne wrong; and lerne that of me!
      Thou hast thy grace, and hold thee right ther-to.
      Now wol I seyn what penance thou shald do
480   For thy trespas, and understond hit here:
      Thou shalt, whyl that thou livest, yeer by yere,
      The moste party of thy tyme spende
      In making of a glorious Legende
      Of Gode Wommen, maidenes and wyves,
      That weren trewe in lovinge al hir lyves;
      And telle of false men that hem bitrayen,
      That al hir lyf ne doon nat but assayen
      How many wommen they may doon a shame;
      For in your world that is now holde a game.
490   And thogh thee lyke nat a lover be,
      Spek wel of love; this penance yive I thee.
      And to the god of love I shal so preye,
      That he shal charge his servants, by any weye,
      To forthren thee, and wel thy labour quyte;
      Go now thy wey, this penance is but lyte.
      And whan this book is maad, yive hit the quene
      On my behalfe, at Eltham, or at Shene."

      The god of love gan smyle, and than he seyde,
      "Wostow," quod he, "wher this be wyf or mayde,
500   Or quene, or countesse, or of what degree,
      That hath so litel penance yiven thee,
      That hast deserved sorer for to smerte?
      But pitee renneth sone in gentil herte;
      That maystow seen, she kytheth what she is."
      And I answerde, "nay, sir, so have I blis,
      No more but that I see wel she is good."

      "That is a trewe tale, by myn hood,"
      Quod Love, "and that thou knowest wel, pardee,
      If hit be so that thou avyse thee.
510   Hastow nat in a book, lyth in thy cheste,
      The grete goodnesse of the quene Alceste,
      That turned was into a dayesye:
      She that for hir husbande chees to dye,
      And eek to goon to helle, rather than he,
      And Ercules rescowed hir, pardee,
      And broghte hir out of helle agayn to blis?"

      "And I answerde ageyn, and seyde, "yis,
      Now knowe I hir!  And is this good Alceste,
      The dayesye, and myn owne hertes reste?
520   Now fele I wel the goodnesse of this wyf,
      That bothe after hir deeth, and in hir lyf,
      Hir grete bountee doubleth hir renoun!
      Wel hath she quit me myn affeccioun
      That I have to hir flour, the dayesye!
      No wonder is thogh Iove hir stellifye,
      As telleth Agaton, for hir goodnesse!
      Hir whyte coroun berth of hit witnesse;
      For also many vertues hadde she,
      As smale floures in hir coroun be.
530   In remembraunce of hir and in honour,
      Cibella made the dayesy and the flour
      Y-coroned al with whyt, as men may see;
      And Mars yaf to hir coroun reed, pardee,
      In stede of rubies, set among the whyte."

      Therwith this quene wex reed for shame a lyte,
      Whan she was preysed so in hir presence.
      Than seyde Love, "a ful gret negligence
      Was hit to thee, that ilke tyme thou made
      `Hyd, Absolon, thy tresses,' in balade,
540   That thou forgete hir in thy song to sette,
      Sin that thou art so gretly in hir dette,
      And wost so wel, that kalender is she
      To any woman that wol lover be.
      For she taughte al the craft of fyn lovinge,
      And namely of wyfhood the livinge,
      And alle the boundes that she oghte kepe;
      Thy litel wit was thilke tyme a-slepe.
      But now I charge thee, upon thy lyf,
      That in thy Legend thou make of this wyf,
550   Whan thou hast other smale y-maad before;
      And fare now wel, I charge thee no more.

      "But er I go, thus muche I wol thee telle,
      Ne shal no trewe lover come in helle.
      Thise other ladies sittinge here arowe
      Ben in thy balade, if thou canst hem knowe,
      And in thy bokes alle thou shalt hem finde;
      Have hem now in thy Legend alle in minde,
      I mene of hem that been in thy knowinge.
      For heer ben twenty thousand mo sittinge
560   That thou knowest, that been good wommen alle
      And trewe of love, for aught that may befalle;
      Make the metres of hem as thee leste.
      I mot gon hoom, the sonne draweth weste,
      To Paradys, with al this companye;
      And serve alwey the fresshe dayesye.

      "At Cleopatre I wol that thou beginne;
      And so forth; and my love so shalt thou winne.
      For lat see now what man that lover be,
      Wol doon so strong a peyne for love as she.
570   I wot wel that thou mayest nat al hit ryme,
      That swiche lovers diden in hir tyme;
      It were so long to reden and to here;
      Suffyceth me, thou make in this manere,
      That thou reherce of al hir lyf the grete,
      After thise olde auctours listen to trete.
      For who-so shal so many a storie telle,
      Sey shortly, or he shal to longe dwelle."
      And with that word my bokes gan I take,
      And right thus on my Legend gan I make.