Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  As long as in that swooning-fit I lay,

  Methought I wist right well what these birds meant,

  And had good knowing both of their intent,

  And of their speech, and all that they would say.

  XXIII

  The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:—

  Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake,

  And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here;

  For every wight eschews thy song to hear,

  Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.

  XXIV

  What! quoth she then, what is’t that ails thee now?

  It seems to me I sing as well as thou;

  For mine’s a song that is both true and plain,—

  Although I cannot quaver so in vain

  As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.

  XXV

  All men may understanding have of me,

  But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee;

  For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:—

  Thou say’st OSEE, OSEE, then how may I

  Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?

  XXVI

  Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is?

  Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis,

  Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain

  That shamefully they one and all were slain,

  Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.

  XXVII

  And also would I that they all were dead,

  Who do not think in love their life to lead;

  For who is loth the God of Love to obey,

  Is only fit to die, I dare well say,

  And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!

  XXVIII

  Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law,

  That all must love or die; but I withdraw,

  And take my leave of all such company,

  For mine intent it neither is to die,

  Nor ever while I live Love’s yoke to draw.

  XXIX

  For lovers of all folk that be alive,

  The most disquiet have and least do thrive;

  Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care,

  And the least welfare cometh to their share;

  What need is there against the truth to strive?

  XXX

  What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind,

  That in thy churlishness a cause canst find

  To speak of Love’s true Servants in this mood;

  For in this world no service is so good

  To every wight that gentle is of kind.

  XXXI

  For thereof comes all goodness and all worth;

  All gentiless and honour thence come forth;

  Thence worship comes, content and true heart’s pleasure,

  And full-assured trust, joy without measure,

  And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth;

  XXXII

  And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy,

  And seemliness, and faithful company,

  And dread of shame that will not do amiss;

  For he that faithfully Love’s servant is,

  Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die.

  XXXIII

  And that the very truth it is which I

  Now say—in such belief I’ll live and die;

  And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.

  Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss,

  If with that counsel I do e’er comply.

  XXXIV

  Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair,

  Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere;

  For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis:

  And Love in old folk a great dotage is;

  Who most it useth, him ‘twill most impair.

  XXXV

  For thereof come all contraries to gladness!

  Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness,

  Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,

  Dishonour, shame, envy importunate,

  Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.

  XXXVI

  Loving is aye an office of despair,

  And one thing is therein which is not fair;

  For whoso gets of love a little bliss,

  Unless it alway stay with him, I wis

  He may full soon go with an old man’s hair.

  XXXVII

  And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh,

  For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,

  If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,

  Thou’lt be as others that forsaken are;

  Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.

  XXXVIII

  Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen!

  The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,

  For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold;

  For many a one hath virtues manifold,

  Who had been nought, if Love had never been.

  XXXIX

  For evermore his servants Love amendeth,

  And he from every blemish them defendeth;

  And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,

  In loyalty, and worshipful desire,

  And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.

  XL

  Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,

  For Love no reason hath but his own will;—

  For to th’ untrue he oft gives ease and joy;

  True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,

  He lets them perish through that grievous ill.

  XLI

  With such a master would I never be;

  For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,

  And knows not when he hurts and when he heals;

  Within this court full seldom Truth avails,

  So diverse in his wilfulness is he.

  XLII

  Then of the Nightingale did I take note,

  How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,

  And said, Alas! that ever I was born,

  Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,—

  And with that word, she into tears burst out.

  XLIII

  Alas, alas! my very heart will break,

  Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak

  Of Love, and of his holy services;

  Now, God of Love; thou help me in some wise,

  That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.

  XLIV

  And so methought I started up anon,

  And to the brook I ran and got a stone,

  Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,

  And he for dread did fly away full fast;

  And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.

  XLV

  And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye,

  Kept crying “Farewell!—farewell, Popinjay!”

  As if in scornful mockery of me;

  And on I hunted him from tree to tree,

  Till he was far, all out of sight, away.

  XLVI

  Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,

  And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,

  That thou wert near to rescue me; and now,

  Unto the God of Love I make a vow,

  That all this May I will thy songstress be.

  XLVII

  Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,

  By this mishap no longer be dismayed,

  Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard’st me;

  Yet if I live it shall amended be,

  When next May comes, if I am not afraid.

  XLVIII

  And one thing will I counsel thee also,

  The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love’s saw;

  All that she said is an outrageous lie.

  Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I,

  For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.

  XLIX

  Yea, hath it? use, quo
th she, this medicine;

  This May-time, every day before thou dine,

  Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I,

  Although for pain thou may’st be like to die,

  Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.

  L

  And mind always that thou be good and true,

  And I will sing one song, of many new,

  For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;

  And then did she begin this song full high,

  “Beshrew all them that are in love untrue.”

  LI

  And soon as she had sung it to the end,

  Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend;

  And, God of Love, that can right well and may,

  Send unto thee as mickle joy this day,

  As ever he to Lover yet did send.

  LII

  Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me;

  I pray to God with her always to be,

  And joy of love to send her evermore;

  And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore,

  For there is not so false a bird as she.

  LIII

  Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale,

  To all the Birds that lodged within that dale,

  And gathered each and all into one place;

  And them besought to hear her doleful case,

  And thus it was that she began her tale.

  LIV

  The Cuckoo—’tis not well that I should hide

  How she and I did each the other chide,

  And without ceasing, since it was daylight;

  And now I pray you all to do me right

  Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.

  LV

  Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave;

  This matter asketh counsel good as grave,

  For birds we are—all here together brought;

  And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not;

  And therefore we a Parliament will have.

  LVI

  And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,

  And other Peers whose names are on record;

  A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,

  And judgment there be given; or that intent

  Failing, we finally shall make accord.

  LVII

  And all this shall be done, without a nay,

  The morrow after Saint Valentine’s day,

  Under a maple that is well beseen,

  Before the chamber-window of the Queen,

  At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.

  LVIII

  She thanked them; and then her leave she took,

  And flew into a hawthorn by that brook;

  And there she sate and sung—upon that tree—

  “For term of life Love shall have hold of me”—

  So loudly, that I with that song awoke.

  Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,

  For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,

  Who did on thee the hardiness bestow

  To appear before my Lady? but a sense

  Thou surely hast of her benevolence,

  Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;

  For of all good she is the best alive.

  Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness,

  To show to her some pleasant meanings writ

  In winning words, since through her gentiless,

  Thee she accepts as for her service fit!

  Oh! it repents me I have neither wit

  Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;

  For of all good she is the best alive.

  Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,

  Though I be far from her I reverence,

  To think upon my truth and stedfastness,

  And to abridge my sorrow’s violence,

  Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,

  She of her liking proof to me would give;

  For of all good she is the best alive.

  L’ENVOY

  Pleasure’s Aurora, Day of gladsomeness!

  Luna by night, with heavenly influence

  Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse,

  Write, and allay, by your beneficence,

  My sighs breathed forth in silence,—comfort give!

  Since of all good, you are the best alive.

  EXPLICIT

  TROILUS AND CRESIDA

  FROM CUAUCER

  NEXT morning Troilus began to clear

  His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day,

  And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear,

  For love of God, full piteously did say,

  We must the Palace see of Cresida;

  For since we yet may have no other feast,

  Let us behold her Palace at the least!

  And therewithal to cover his intent

  A cause he found into the Town to go,

  And they right forth to Cresid’s Palace went; 10

  But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe,

  Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two;

  For when he saw her doors fast bolted all,

  Well nigh for sorrow down he ‘gan to fall.

  Therewith when this true Lover ‘gan behold,

  How shut was every window of the place,

  Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold;

  For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face,

  Without word uttered, forth he ‘gan to pace;

  And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, 20

  That no wight his continuance espied.

  Then said he thus,—O Palace desolate!

  O house of houses, once so richly dight!

  O Palace empty and disconsolate!

  Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light;

  O Palace whilom day that now art night,

  Thou ought’st to fall and I to die; since she

  Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.

  O, of all houses once the crowned boast!

  Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; 30

  O ring of which the ruby now is lost,

  O cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss:

  Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss

  Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout;

  Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out.

  Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye,

  With changed face, and piteous to behold;

  And when he might his time aright espy,

  Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told

  Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, 40

  So piteously, and with so dead a hue,

  That every wight might on his sorrow rue.

  Forth from the spot he rideth up and down,

  And everything to his rememberance

  Came as he rode by places of the town

  Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once.

  Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance,

  And in that Temple she with her bright eyes,

  My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.

  And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 50

  Heard my own Cresid’s laugh; and once at play

  I yonder saw her eke full blissfully;

  And yonder once she unto me ‘gan say—

  Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray!

  And there so graciously did me behold,

  That hers unto the death my heart I hold.

  And at the corner of that self-same house

  Heard I my most beloved Lady dear,

  So womanly, with voice melodious

  Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, 60

  That in my soul methinks I yet do hear

  The blissful sound; and in that very place

  My Lady first me took unto her grace.

  O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried,

  When I the process have in memory,

  How thou hast wearied me on every
side,

  Men thence a book might make, a history;

  What need to seek a conquest over me,

  Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy

  Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? 70

  Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire

  Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief.

  Now mercy, Lord! thou know’st well I desire

  Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief;

  And live and die I will in thy belief;

  For which I ask for guerdon but one boon,

  That Cresida again thou send me soon.

  Constrain her heart as quickly to return,

  As thou dost mine with longing her to see,

  Then know I well that she would not sojourn. 80

  Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be

  Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee,

  As Juno was unto the Theban blood,

  From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.

  And after this he to the gate did go,

  Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was;

  And up and down there went, and to and fro,

  And to himself full oft he said, alas!

  From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass.

  O would the blissful God now for his joy, 90

  I might her see again coming to Troy!

  And up to yonder hill was I her guide;

  Alas, and there I took of her my leave;

  Yonder I saw her to her Father ride,

  For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;—

  And hither home I came when it was eve;

  And here I dwell an outcast from all joy,

  And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.

  And of himself did he imagine oft,

  That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less 100

  Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft

  Men said, what may it be, can no one guess

  Why Troilus hath all this heaviness?

  All which he of himself conceited wholly

  Out of his weakness and his melancholy.

  Another time he took into his head,

  That every wight, who in the way passed by,

  Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said,

  I am right sorry Troilus will die:

  And thus a day or two drove wearily; 110

  As ye have heard; such life ‘gan he to lead

  As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.

  For which it pleased him in his songs to show

  The occasion of his woe, as best he might;

  And made a fitting song, of words but few,

  Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light;

  And when he was removed from all men’s sight,

  With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear,

  That absent was, ‘gan sing as ye may hear.

  O star, of which I lost have all the light, 120

  With a sore heart well ought I to bewail,

  That ever dark in torment, night by night,