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Table of contents

Of all hys love and grete unhappines. And many other bokes doubtles He dyd compyle, whose godly name In printed bokes doth remaync in fame. Anclj after him, my mayster Lydgate, The monke of Bury, dyd hym wel apply Both to contryve and eke to translate; And of vertue ever in especyally, For he dyd compyle than full nyally Of our blessed lady the conversacion, Saint Edmunde's life martred with treson.

Of the fall of prynces, ryght wofully Pie did endyte in all piteous wyse, Folowynge his auctoure Bocas rufully; A ryght greate boke he did truly compryse, A good ensample for us to dispyse This worlde, so ful of mutabilyte, In whiche no man can have a certente. And thre reasons ryght greatly profytable Under coloure he cloked craftely; And of the chorle he made the fable That shutte the byrde in a cage so closely, The pamflete sheweth it espressely; He fayned also the courte of Sapyence, And translated wyth al his dylygence The grete boke of the last destruccyon Of the cyte of Troye, whylome so famous, How for woman was the confusyon ; And betweue vertue and the lyfe vycyous Of goddes and goddes, a boke solacyous He did compyle, and the tyme to passe.

Of love he made the bryght temple of glasse. The synne of slouth they dyd from them dry ve, After theyr death for to abyde on lyve In worthy fame by many a nacyon, Their bokes theyr actes do make relacyon. O what losse is it of suche a one!

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It is to grete truely me for to tell; Sythen the tyme that his lyfe was gone, In al this realme his pere did not dwell; Above al other he did so excell, None sith his time in arte wolde succede, After their death to have fame for their mede. But many a one is ryght well experte In this connyng, but upon auctoryte. They fayne no fables pleasaunt and covert, But spende theyr time in vaynful vanyte, Makynge balades of fervent amyte. As gestes and tryfles wythout frutefulnes; Thus al in vayne they spende their besynes. I, lytell or nought expert in poetry, Of my mayster Lydgate wyll folowe the trace, As evermore so his name to magnyfy Wyth suche lytle bokes, by Goddes grace.

If in this worlde I may have the space; The lytell connyng that his grace me sente In tyme amonge in suche wyse shall be spente. And yet nothinge upon presumpcyon My mayster Lydgate I wyll not envy, But all onely is mine entencyon With suche labour my selfe to occupy; As whyte by blacke doth shyne more clerely, So shal theyr matters appeare more pleasaunt Besyde my draughtes rude and ignoraunt. Now in my boke ferder to precede; To a chambre I went, replete wyth rychesse.

Where sat Arysmatryke in a golden wede, Lyke a lady pure and of great worthynes.


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The walles about dyd full well expres, AVith golde depaynted, every perfyte nombre, To adde, detraye, and to devyde asonder. The rofc was paynted Avitli golden beames, The wyndowes cristall clerely claryfyde, The golden rayes and depured streames Of radyant Phebus that was puryfyde Right in the Bull, that tyme so domysyde, Through window es was resplendyshaunt About the chambre fayre and radyauut. I kneled downe I'ight soone on my kne, And to her I sayd: O lady raarveylous, I right humbly beseche your majeste Your arte to shewe me so facundyous, Whyche is defuse and right fallacyous; But I shall so apply myne exercyse, That the vary trouth I shall well devyse.

My scyence, said she, is right necessary, And in the myddes of the scyences all It is now sette right well and parfytely; For unto them it is so specyall, Nombrynge so theyr werkes in generall, Wythout me they had no parfytenes, I must them nombre alwayes doubteles. Without nombre is no maner of thynge. That in our sight we may well se; For God made all the begynnynge In nombre perfyte well in certaynte, Who knewe arsmetryke in every degre, All maner nombre in his minde were had, Bothe to detraye and to devyde and adde.

But wlio wyl knowe all the experience, It behoveth hym to have great lei-njnge In many thinges, wyth true intelligence, Or that he can have perfyte rekeuynge In every nombre by expert connynge. To reherse in Englysshe more of this science, It were foly and the great neclygence. I thought fuU longe, till I had a syght Of La Bell Pucell, the most fayi-e ladye; My minde upon her was bothe day and nyght, The fervent love so perst me inwardly, Wherfore I went anone right shortly Unto the toure swete and melodyous, Of dame Musyke so gaye and gloryous.

In this temple was great solempnyte, And of muche people there was great prease; I loked about whether I coude se La Bell Pucell, my langour to cease; I coude not se her; my payne dyd encrease, Tyl that I spyed her above, in a vaute, Whiche to my hert did make so sore assaute, Wyth her beaute clere and swete countenaunce. The stroke of love I coulde nothyuge resyste: And anone, wythout lenger cyrcumstaunce, To her I wente, or that her person wyste; Her thought I knewe not, she thought as she lyst; By her I stode, with herte sore and faynte, And dyd ray selfe wyth her sone acquaynt.

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The comyn wyt dyd full lytell regarde Of dame Musyke the dulcet armony; The eres herde not, for the mynde inwarde Venus had rapte and taken fervently: Imaginacion wrought full prively. The fantasy gave perfyte jugement Alway to her for to be obedyent. By estyraacion muche doubtfully I cast "Whether I should by long tyme and space Atteyne her, or els to love in wast. My herte sobbed and quaked in this case; I stode by her ryght nere in the place, Wyth many other fayre ladyes also, But so fayre as she 1 never sawe no mo.

The feste done, dame Musyke dyd go; She folowed after, and she wolde not tary. Fare well, she sayde, for I must parte you fro. Whan she was gone, inwardly than wrought Upon her beaute my mynde retentyfe; Her goodly fygure I graved in my thought; Except her selfe all were expulcyfe; My mynde to her was so ententyfe, That I folowed her into a temple ferre, Replete wyth joy, as bryght as any sterre; Where dulcet Flora her aromatyke dewe In the ftiyre temple adowne dyd dystyll. All abrode the fayre dropes dyd shewe, Encensynge out all the vapours yll; With suche a swetenes Flora dyd fulfyll All the temple, that my gowne Avell shewed The lycoure swete of the droppes endewed.

With cloth of tyssue in the rychest maner The walles were hanged hye and cyrculer. There sat dame Musyke, with all her mynstrasy; As tabours, trumpettes, with pipes melodious, Sakbuttes, organs, and the recorder swetely, Harpes, lutes, and crouddes ryght delycyous; Cymphans, doussemers, wyth claricimbales glorious. Rebeckes, clarycordes, eche in theyr degre, Dyd sytte aboute theyr ladyes mageste.

Before dame Musike I dyd knele adowne, Saying to her : fayre lady plesaunt, Your prudence reyneth most hye in renowne. For you be ever ryght concordant With perfyte reason, whiche is not variaunt; I beseche your grace, with all my diligence, To instructe me in your noble science. It is, she sayde, right gretely profRtable; For musike doth sette in all unyte The discorde thynges whiche are variable And devoydeth myschiefe and greate iniquite.

Where lacketh musyke there is no pleynte; For musyke is Concorde and also peace, Nothyng without musyke may well encrcace. The vii. All perfite reason they do so comprehende, That theyr waye and perfite doctryne To the joye above, whiche is celestine. And yet also the perfite physyke, Which appertayneth well to the body, Doth well resemble unto the musyke, Whan the inwarde intrayles tourneth contrary.

That nature can not worke dyrectly; Then doth physike the partes interiall In ordre set to their originall. But yet physyke can not be lyberall As the vii. And because phisyke is appendaunt Unto the body by helpe of medecyne. And to the soule nothing approtenaunt, To cause the body for to enclyne In eternal helth so the soule to domyne.

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For to the body the science seven Doth teche to lede the soule to heven. She commaunded her mynstrelles right anone to play Mamours the swete and the gentill daunce; With La Bell Pucell, that was fayre and gaye, She me recommaunded, with all pleasaunce, To daunce true mesures without varyaunce. Lorde God! By her propre hande, soft as any sylke, With due obeysaunce I dyd her then take; Her skynne was white as whales bone or mylke. The outwarde countenaunce I made glad and light.

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And for fere myne eyes should my hert bewray, I toke my leva and to a temple wente, And all alone I to my selfe dyd saye: Alas! O lady, how cruell arte thou, Of pyteous doloure for to buylde a nest In my true hert, as thou dost ryght nowe! Yet of all ladyes I must love the best; Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest. Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please, Thou mayest cease my care and my payhe sone ease. That sodaynly my herte was in a trap By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap, That through the greate stroke did perse: Alas for wo I could not reverse!

Farewel all joye and al perfyte pleasure! Fare wel my luste and my lykynge! For wo is comen wyth me to endure; Now must I lede my lyfe in mornynge; I may not lute, or yet daunce or synge! La Bel Pucel, my lady glorious; You are the cause that I am so dolorous. I wretche and yet unhappy peke Into suche trouble, misery, and thought: With sight of you I am into it brought. And to my selfe as I made complainte, I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne, "Wliyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt. Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne, "Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne. Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne How of one soroAve ye do now make twayne.

Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double; Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde. Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble, And of my wo be nothynge afrayde. Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde: Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde, It may me happe a remedy to fyndc. Let me alone, the most vinhappy wretche Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge. Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng; Go on your waye, you are nothyng the better To me to speke to make the sorowe gretur.

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Forsoth, he sayd, remembre thynges thre; The fyrst is, that ye may sorowe longe Unto your selfe or that ye ayeded be: And secondly, in great paynes stronge, To muse alone it myght turne you to wronge: The thyrde is, it myght you wel ease truely To tel your mynde to a frende ryght trusty. It is a jewel of a frende of trust, As at your nede to tell your secretenes Of all your payne and fervent lust. His counseyle soone may helpe and redres Your payneful wo and mortall heavynes; Alone is nought for to thynke and muse, Therfore, good sonne,do me not refuse.

And syth that you are plunged all in thought. Beware the pyt of dolorus dispayre; So to complayne it vayleth you ryght nought. It may so fortune ye love a lady fayre, Whych to love you wyl nothyng repayre; Or els ye have lost great londe or substaunce, By fatall chaunge of fortunes ordinaunce.

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The love is dredefuU, but nevertheles There is no sore nor yet no sykenes, But there is a salve and remedy therfore; So for your payne and your sorowe great Councell is medicine, which may you restore Unto your desyre wythout any let, Yf ye wyll tell me where your herte is set. A physycyen, truely, can lyttel descerne Ony maner sekenes wythout syght of uryne; No more can I by good councell you lerne All suche wofull trouble for to determyne. But yf you mekely wyl to rae enclyne, To tell the cause of your gi'eat hevynesse, Of your inwarde trouble and woful sadnes.

Than I began with all my diligence To here him speke so grounded on reason.