Sidor som bilder

“ That ye to Engelonde be trewe.

" Y deze, y ne may lyven na more;
Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newes
« For he is nest to buen y-core.



Ich biqueth myn herte aryht,

“ That hit be write at mi devys, « Over the see that Hue * be diht,

“ With fourscore knyhtes al of prys, • In werre that buen war ant wys,

• Azein the hethene for te fyhte, To wynne the croiz that lowe lys,

“ Myself ycholde zef that y myhte."



Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest · finne,"

That thou the counsail woldest fonde,
To latte the wille of Edward kyng’

To wende to the holy londe :
That oure kyng hede take on honde

All Engelond to zeme ant wyffe,
To wenden in to the holy londe

To wynnen us heveriche blisse,


The messager to the pope com,

And seyde that oure kyng wes ded:
Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,

Ywis his herte wes ful gret :


This is probably the name of some person, who was to preside over ibis business.

Ver. 33. funne. Ms. Ver, 35. kyng Edward. MS. Ver. 43. ys is probably a contraction of in hys or yn his.


The Pope him self the lettre redde,

Ant spec a word of gret honour. * Alas ! he seid, is Edward ded?

« Of Cristendome he ber the flour.”


The Pope to is chaumbre wende,

For dol ne mihte he speke na more; Ant after cardinals he sende,

That muche couthen of Cristes lore, Bothe the lasse, ant eke the more,

Bed hem bothe rede ant synge: Gæt deol me myhte fe thore,

Mony mon is honde wrynge.




The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse

With ful gret folempnete, Ther me con the foule bleffe:

Kyng Edward honoured thou be: 66 God love thi fone come after the,

Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne, “ The holy crois y-mad of tre,

" So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.


Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore

• The flour of al chivalrie 6 Now kyng Edward liveth na more :

“ Alas! that he zet fhulde deye!


" He

Ver. 55. Me, i. 6. M.n. So in Robert of Gloucester poffim.

“ He wolde ha rered


ful heyze
“ Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde ;
“ Wel! longe we mowe clepe and crie

70 “ Er we a such kyng han y-founde.”

Nou is Edward of Carnarvan

King of Engelond al aplyht,
God lete him ner be worse man

Then is fader, ne lasse of myht,
To holden is pore men to ryht,

And understonde good counfail,
Al Engelong for to wyffe ant dyht;

Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.



Thah mi tonge were mad of stel,

Ant min herte yzote of bras,
The godness myht y never telle,

That with kyng Edward was :
Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour,

In uch bataille thou hadeft prys;
God bringe thi foule to the honour,

That ever wes, ant ever ys.*


Here follow in the original three lines more, which, as evidently spurious, we chuse to throw to the bottom of the Page, viz.

That lasteth ay withouten ende,

Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke bliffe
Jesus us sende. Amen.



This little fonnet, which hath escaped all the editors of Chaucer's works, is now printed for the first time froin an ancient MS in the Persiaran library, that contains many other poems of its venerable author. The verfijicntion is of that species, which the French call Ronne AU, very narurally englished by our benejt ccuentrymen Round O. Tho' so early adopted by them, our ancestors had not the boncur of inventing it: Chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, among the neighbouring nations. A fondrejs for laborious trijles baih clways prevailed in the dawn of literature. The ancient Greek poets had their WINCS and AXES: the great father of English porsj may therefore be pardoned one poor Jolitary RONDEAU.-Dan Gecfruy Chaucer died Oet. 25. 1400. aged 72.

I. I.

OURE two eyn will fle me fodenly,
Y I may the beaute of them not sustene,
So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.


And but your words will helen hastely
My hertis wound, while that it is grene,
Youre two eyn will fle me fodenly.

Upon my trouth I fey yow feithfully,

ben of


liffe and deth the quene;
For with my dech the trouth shal be sene.
Youre two eyn &c.

JI. 1. So II. I.

So hath youre beaute fro your

herte chased Pitee, that me n' availeth not to pleyn ; For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.


Giltlefs my deth thus have ye purchased;
I fey yow foth, me nedeth not to fayn:
So hath

beaute fro


herte chased.

Alas, that nature hath in yow compassed
So grete beaute, that no man may atteyn

mercy, though he sterve for the peyn.
So hath youre beaute &c.


Syn I fro love escaped am fo fat,
I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.


He may answere, and sey this and that,
I do not fors, I speak ryght as I mene ;
Syn I fro love escaped am fo fat.

*Love hath my name i-strike out of his scłat,
And he is itrike out of my

bokes clene : For ever mo

* this is non other mene. Syn I fro love escaped &c.

# Ther.


« FöregåendeFortsätt »