And also in other places delightful;
They danced, and they played at chess and backgammon.
So on a day, right in the morning,
Unto a garden that was there beside,
In which they had made their arrangements
For food and other supplies,
They went and played all the long day.
And this was on the sixth morning of May,
Which May had painted with his soft showers
This garden full of leaves and flowers;
And craft of man’s hand had so skillfully
Adorned this garden truly,
That never was there a garden so priceless,
Unless it was itself the true Paradise.
The odor of flowers and the fresh sight
Would have made any heart light
That ever was born, unless too great sickness
Or too great sorrow held it in distress,
So full it was of beauty with delight.
In afternoon they began to dance,
And sing also, save Dorigen alone,
Who made always her complaint and her moan,
For she saw him not on the dance go,
Who was her husband and her love also.
But nevertheless she must a time abide,
And with good hope let her sorrow slide.
In this dance, among other men,
Danced a squire before Dorigen,
Who fresher was and jollier of dress,
In my judgement, than is the month of May.
He sang, he danced, surpassing any man
That is, or was, since that the world began.
He was, if men should him describe,
One of the handsomest men alive:
Young, strong, right virtuous, and rich and wise,
And well beloved, and held in great esteem.
And shortly, if the truth I shall tell,
Unknown to this Dorigen at all,
This lusty squyer, servant to Venus,
Which that y-cleped was Aurelius,
Had loved hir best of any creature
Two yeer and more, as was his aventure,
But never dorste he telle hir his grevaunce;
With-outen coppe he drank al his penaunce.
He was despeyred, no-thing dorste he seye,
Save in his songes somwhat wolde he wreye
His wo, as in a general compleyning;
He seyde he lovede, and was biloved no-thing.
Of swiche matere made he manye layes,
Songes, compleintes, roundels, virelayes,
How that he dorste nat his sorwe telle,
But languissheth, as a furie dooth in helle;
And dye he moste, he seyde, as dide Ekko
For Narcisus, that dorste nat telle hir wo.
In other manere than ye here me seye,
Ne dorste he nat to hir his wo biwreye;
Save that, paraventure, som-tyme at daunces,
Ther yonge folk kepen hir observaunces,
It may wel be he loked on hir face
In swich a wyse, as man that asketh grace;
But no-thing wiste she of his entente.
Nathelees, it happed, er they thennes wente,
By-cause that he was hir neighebour,
And was a man of worship and honour,
And hadde y-knowen him of tyme yore,
They fille in speche; and forth more and more
Un-to his purpos drough Aurelius,
And whan he saugh his tyme, he seyde thus:
“Madame,” quod he, “by god that this world made,
So that I wiste it mighte your herte glade,
I wolde, that day that your Arveragus
Wente over the see, that I, Aurelius,
Had went ther never I sholde have come agayn;
For wel I woot my service is in vayn.
My guerdon is but bresting of myn herte;
Madame, reweth upon my peynes smerte;
For with a word ye may me sleen or save,
This joyful squire, servant to Venus,
Who was called Aurelius,
Had loved her best of any creature
Two years or more, as was his lot,
But never dared he tell her his sorrow:
Drinking his penance straight from the bottle.
He was in despair; nothing dared he say,
Save in his songs somewhat would he reveal
His woe, as in a general lamentation;
He said he loved, and was beloved not at all.
Of such matter made he many ballads,
Songs, complaints, roundels, lays,
How that he dared not his sorrow tell,
But languished as a fury does in hell;
And die he must, he said, as did Echo
For Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe.
In other manner than you hear me say,
He dared not to her his woe betray,
Save that, perchance, sometimes at dances,
Where young folk may speak in glances,
It may well be he looked on her face
In such a way as a man who asks for grace,
But nothing knew she of his intention.
Nevertheless, it happened, before they departed,
Because that he was her neighbor,
And was a man of worship and honor,
And she had known him for a long time,
They fell into conversation; and forth more and more
Unto his purpose drew Aurelius,
And when he saw his time, he said thus:
“Madam,” said he, “by God that this world made,
If only I knew that it might your heart gladden,
I would that when your Averagus
Went over the sea, that I, Aurelius,
Had gone there and never again returned.
For well I know my service is in vain:
My reward is but a breaking of my heart.
Madame, take pity on my pains sharp,
For with a word you may me slay or save.
Heer at your feet god wolde that I were grave!
I ne have as now no leyser more to seye;
Have mercy, swete, or ye wol do me deye!”
She gan to loke up-on Aurelius:
“Is this your wil,” quod she, “and sey ye thus?
Never erst,” quod she, “ne wiste I what ye mente
But now, Aurelie, I knowe your entente,
By thilke god that yaf me soule and lyf,
Ne shal I never been untrewe wyf
In word ne werk, as fer as I have wit:
I wol ben his to whom that I am knit;
Tak this for fynal answer as of me.”
But after that in pley thus seyde she:
“Aurelie,” quod she, “by heighte god above,
Yet wolde I graunte yow to been your love,
Sin I yow see so pitously complayne;
Loke what day that, endelong Britayne,
Ye remoeve alle the rokkes, stoon by stoon,
That they ne lette ship ne boot to goon—
I seye, whan ye han maad the coost so clene
Of rokkes, that ther nis no stoon y-sene,
Than wol I love yow best of any man;
Have heer my trouthe in al that ever I can.”
“Is ther non other grace in yow?” quod he.
“No, by that lord,” quod she, “that maked me!
For wel I woot that it shal never bityde.
Lat swiche folies out of your herte slyde.
What deyntee sholde a man han in his lyf
For to go love another mannes wyf,
That hath hir body whan so that him lyketh?”
Aurelius ful ofte sore syketh;
Wo was Aurelie, whan that he this herde,
And with a sorweful herte he thus answerde:
“Madame,” quod he, “this were an impossible!
Than moot I dye of sodein deth horrible.”
And
with that word he turned him anoon.
Tho com hir othere freendes many oon,
And in the aleyes romeden up and doun,
And no-thing wiste of this conclusioun,
Here at your feet would that I were in my grave!
I have no chance any more to say:
Have mercy, sweet, or you will make me die!”
She stared upon Aurelius:
“Is this your will,” said she, “and say you thus?
Never before,” said she, “Knew I what you meant.
But now, Aurelius, I know your intent,
By that same God who gave me soul and life,
Never shall I be an untrue wife,
In word or deed, as far as I have wit.
I will be his to whom that I am knit:
Take this for final answer as of me.”
But after that in play thus said she:
“Aurelius, by high god above,
Yet would I grant you to be your love,
Since I see you so piteously complain;
On whatever day that, Brittany all along,
You remove all the rocks, stone by stone,
That they no ship prevent from going—
I say, when you have made the coast so clean
Of rocks, that there is no stone seen—
Then will I love you best of any man;
Have here my pledge, in all that ever I can.”
“Is there no other mercy in you?” said he.
“No, by that Lord,” said she, “who made me!
For well I know that it shall happen never.
Let such follies out of your heart slide.
What delight should a man have in his life
To go love another man’s wife,
Who has her body when he likes?”
Aurelius full sore painfully sighed;
Woe was him, when he this heard,
And with a sorrowful heart he thus answered:
“Madame,” said he, “this is an impossibility!
Then must I die a horrible, sudden death.”
And with that word he turned away anon.
Then came to her other friends many a one,
And in the garden paths roamed up and down,
And none knew of this outcome;
But sodeinly bigonne revel newe
Til that the brighte sonne loste his hewe;
For th‘orisonte hath reft the sonne his light;
This is as muche to seye as it was night.
And hoom they goon in joye and in solas,
Save only wrecche Aurelius, alias!
He to his hous is goon with sorweful herte;
He seeth he may nat fro his deeth asterte.
Him semed that he felte his herte colde;
Up to the hevene his handes he gan holde,
And on his knowes bare he sette him doun,
And in his raving seyde his orisoun.
For verray wo out of his wit he breyde.
He niste what he spak, but thus he seyde;
With pitous herte his pleynt hath he bigonne
Un-to the goddes, and first un-to the sonne:
He seyde, “Appollo, god and governour
Of every plaunte, herbe, tree and flour,
That yevest, after thy declinacioun,
To ech of hem his tyme and his sesoun,
As thyn herberwe chaungeth lowe or hye,
Lord Phebus, cast thy merciable ye
On wrecche Aurelie, which that am but lorn.
Lo, Lord! my lady hath my deeth y-sworn
With-oute gilt, but thy benignitee
Upon my dedly herte have som pitee!
For wel I woot, lord Phebus, if yow lest,
Ye may me helpen, save my lady, best.
Now voucheth sauf that I may yow devyse
How that I may been holpe and in what wyse.
Your blisful suster, Lucina the shene,
That of the see is chief goddesse and quene,
Though Neptunus have deitee in the see,
Yet emperesse aboven him is she:
Ye knowen wel, lord, that right as hir desyr
Is to be quiked and lightned of your fyr,
For which she folweth yow ful bisily,
Right so the see desyreth naturelly
To folwen hir, as she that is goddesse
But suddenly began revelry anew
Until the bright sun lost his hue,
For the horizon had taken from the sun his light—
This is as much to say as it was night—
And home they went in joy and solace,
Save only wretched Aurelius, alas!
He to his house is gone with sorrowful heart.
He sees he may not from his death escape:
He thought he felt his heart grow cold.
Up to the heavens his hands he held,
And on his knees bare he set him down,
And in his raving said his prayer,
For sheer grief out of his mind gone.
He knew not what he spoke, but this he said;
With piteous heart his complaint did he begin
Unto the gods, and first unto the sun:
He said, “Apollo,3 god and governor
Of every plant, herb, tree and flower,
Who gives, according to your distance from the equator,
To each of them his time and season,
As your lodging changes low or high,
Lord Phoebus, cast your merciful eye
On wretched Aurelius, who is lost.
Look, lord! My lady has my death sworn
Without guilt, unless your kindness
Upon my dying heart has some pity!
For well I know, lord Phoebus, if you it pleases,
You may help me, except for my lady, best.
Now vouchsafe that I may you describe
How I may be helped and in what way.
Your blissful sister, Lucina the bright,
Who of the sea is chief goddess and queen—
Though Neptune has deity in the sea,
Yet empress above him is she—
You know well, lord, that right as her desire
Is to be quickened and lighted by your fire,
For which she follows you full busily,
Just so the sea desires naturally
To follow her, as she who is goddess
Bothe in the see and riveres more and lesse.
Wherfore, lord Phebus, this is my requeste—
Do this miracle, or do myn herte breste—
That now, next at this opposicioun,
Which in the signe shal be of the Leoun,
As preyeth hir so greet a flood to bringe,
That fyve fadme at the leeste it overspringe
The hyeste rokke in Armorik Briteyne;
And lat this flood endure yeres tweyne;
Than certes to my lady may I seye:
‘Holdeth your heste, the rokkes been aweye.’
Lord Phebus, dooth this miracle for me;
Preye hir she go no faster cours than ye;
I seye, preyeth your suster that she go
No faster cours than ye thise yeres two.
Than shal she been evene atte fulle alway,
And spring-flood laste bothe night and day.
And, but she vouche-sauf in swiche manere
To graunte me my sovereyn lady dere,
Prey hir to sinken every rok adoun
In-to hir owene derke regioun
Under the ground, ther Pluto dwelleth inne,
Or never-mo shal I my lady winne.
Thy temple in Delphos wol I barefoot seke;
Lord Phebus, see the teres on my cheke,
And of my peyne have som compassioun.”
And with that word in swowne he fil adoun,
And longe tyme he lay forth in a traunce.
His brother, which that knew of his penaunce,
Up caughte him and to bedde he hath him broght.
Dispeyred
in this torment and this thoght
Lete I this woful creature lye;
Chese he, for me, whether he wol live or dye.
Arveragus, with hele and greet honour,
As he that was of chivalrye the flour,
Is comen hoom, and othere worthy men.
O blisful artow now, thou Dorigen,
That hast thy lusty housbonde in thyne armes,
The fresshe knight, the worthy man of armes,
Both of the sea and rivers more and less.
Wherefore, lord Phoebus, this is my request:
Do this miracle—or make my heart burst—
That at the next opposition of moon and sun,
Which in the sign shall be of the Lion,
Pray her so great a flood to bring
That by five fathoms at least it covers
The highest rock in Brittany;
And let this flood endure years two.
Then certainly to my lady may I say:
‘Keep your promise, the rocks be away.’
Lord Phoebus, do this miracle for me!
Pray her that she go no faster course than you;
I say, pray your sister that she go
No faster course than you these years two.
Then shall she be at full always,
And spring-flood last both night and day.
And unless she agrees in such manner
To grant me my sovereign lady dear,
Pray her to sink every rock down
Into her own dark region
Under the ground, where Pluto dwells in,
Or never more shall I my lady win.
The temple in Delphi will I barefoot seek.
Lord Phoebus, see the tears on my cheek,
And of my pain have some compassion.”
And with that word in swoon he fell down,
And long time he lay thereafter in a trance.
His brother, who knew of his suffering,
Picked him up and to bed he brought him.
Despairing in this torment and this thought
Let I—the storyteller—let this woeful creature lie:
Let Aurelius choose—for all I care—if he lives or dies.
Averagus, with health and great honor,
As that he was of chivalry the flower,
Came home, and other worthy men.
Oh blissful are you now, Dorigen,
Who have your lusty husband in your arms,
The lively knight, the worthy man of arms,
That loveth thee, as his owene hertes lyf.
No-thing list him to been imaginatyf
If any wight had spoke, whyl he was oute,
To hire of love; he hadde of it no doute.
He noght entendeth to no swich matere,
But daunceth, justeth, maketh hir good chere;
And thus in joye and blisse I lete hem dwelle,
And of the syke Aurelius wol I telle.
In langour and in torment furious
Two yeer and more lay wrecche Aurelius,
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 52