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A THOUSAND AND ONE GEMS OF

ENGLISH

POETRY.

[GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 1328-1400.]

PRAISE OF WOMEN.

FOF, this ye know well, tho' I wouldin lie,

In women is all truth and steadfastness; For, in good faith, I never of them sie But much worship, bounty, and gentle

ness,

Right coming, fair, and full of meekéness;
Good, and glad, and lowly, I you ensure,
Is this goodly and àngelic creature.

And if it hap a man be in disease,
She doth her business and her full pain
With all her might him to comfort and
please,

If fro his disease him she might restrain:
In word ne deed, I wis, she woll not faine;
With all her might she doth her business
To bringen him out of his heaviness.

Lo, here what gentleness these women have,

If we could know it for our rudéness!
How busy they be us to keep and save
Both in hele and also in sickness,
And alway right sorry for our distress!
In every manère thus shew they ruth,
That in them is all goodness and all
truth.

THE YOUNG SQUIRE.

WITH him there was his son, a youngé
Squire,

A lover and a lusty bacholer,
With lockés crull, as they were laid in
press.

Of twenty year of age he was I guess.

Of his stature he was of even length, And wonderly deliver and great of strength;

And he had been some time in chevachie In Flandres, in Artois, and in Picardy, And borne him well, as of so little space, In hope to standen in his lady's grace

Embroidered was he, as it were a mead All full of freshé flowers white and red. Singing he was or fluting all the day: the month of May. He was as fresh as Short was his gown, with sleevés long and wide;

Well could he sit on horse, and fairé ride. He couldé songés well make, and indite, Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray

and write.

So hot he loved, that by nightertale He slept no more than doth the nightin. gale.

Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, And carved before his father at the table.

ARCITA'S DYING ADDRESS. "ALAS the wo! alas, the painés strong That I for you have suffered, and so long!

Alas, the death!-alas mine Emelie !
Alas, departing of our company!

Alas, mine herté's queen !-alas, my wife,
Mine herté's lady-ender of my life!
What is this world? What axen men to
have?

Now with his love, now in his coldé grave

Alone! withouten any company, Farewell, my sweet! - farewell, mine Emelie !"

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[The EARL OF SURREY. 1506-1547.] GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. GIVE place, ye lovers, here before

That spent your boasts and brags in vain;

My lady's beauty passeth more

The best of yours, I dare well sayen, Than doth the sun the candlelight, Or brightest day the darkest night;

And thereto hath a troth as just

As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were ;-
And virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show,

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The young man eake that feles his bones with paines opprest

How he would be a riche old man, to

live and lye at rest;

The riche olde man that sees his end draw on so sore,

How he would be a boy againe to live so much the more.

Whereat full oft I smylde, to see how all those three

Uncertainty. From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change degree.

11 Spirit.

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And musing thus, I think, the case is COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE
very strange,

That man from wealth, to live in wo,
loth ever seke to change.

Thus thoughtfull as I lay, I sawe my
withered skyn,

How it doth shew my dented chewes, the
flesh was worn so thin,

And eke my totheless chaps, the gates of

my right way,

That opes and shuttes, as I do speak, do

thus unto me say:

The white and horish heres, the mes

sengers of age,

That shew like lines of true belief, that

this life doth assuage,
Biddes the lay hand, and feele them
hanging on thy chin.

The whiche doth write to ages past, the
third now coming in;

Hang up therefore the bitte, of thy yong
wanton tyme,

And thou that therein beaten art, the

happiest life defyne.
Whereat sighed, and sayde, farewell

my wonted toye,

Trusse up thy packe, and trudge from me,

to every little boy,

And tell them thus from me, their time
most happy is,

If to theyr time they reason had, to know
the truth of this.

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OF HIS LOVE.

SOE feeble is the thred that doth the
burden stay,

Of my poor life in heavy plight that falleth
in decay,

That but it have elsewhere some ayde or

some succours,

The running spindle of my fate anon shall end his course.

For since the unhappy houre that dyd me to depart,

From my sweet weale one only hoape hath stayed my life apart,

Which doth perswade such words unto my sored mynde,

Maintaine thy selfe, Ó wofull wight, some better luck to find.

For though thou be deprived from thy desired sight

Who can thee tell, if thy returne before thy more delight;

Or who can tell thy loss if thou mayst

once recover,

Some pleasant houres thy wo may wrap,
and thee defend and cover.
Thus in this trust, as yet it hath my life
sustained,

But now (alas) I see it faint, and I by
trust am trayned.

The tyme doth flete, and I see how the hours do bende,

So fast that I have scant the space to marke my coming end.

Westward the sunn from out the east scant

shewd his lite,

When in the west he hies him straite within the dark of night

And comes as fast, where he began his path awry,

From east to west, from west to east, so doth his journey lye.

Thy lyfe so short, so frayle, that mortall men lyve here,

Soe great a weight, so heavy charge the bodyes that we bere,

That when I think upon the distance and the space,

That doth so farre divide me from thy dere desired face,

I

know not how t'attaine the winges that I require,

To lyft me up that I might fly to follow my desyre.

Thus of that hope that doth my lyfe some-
thyng susteyne,
[remaine.
Alas I fear, and partly feel full little doth
Eche place doth bring me griefe where I
doe not behold,

Those lively eyes which of my thoughts,
were wont the keys to hold.
Those thoughts were pleasant sweet whilst
I enjoy'd that grace,

My pleasure past, my present pain, when
I might well embrace.

And for because my want should more my woe increase,

In watch and sleep both day and night my will doth never cease. That thing to wishe whereof synce I did lose the sight,

Was never thing that mought in ought iny wofull hart delight.

Th' ancasy life I lead doth teach me for to mete,

The floods, the seas, the land, the hills, that doth them intermete, Twene me and those shene lights that wonted for to clere,

My darked pangs of cloudy thoughts as bright as Phebus sphere;

It teacheth me also, what was my pleasant state,

The more to feele by such record how that my welth doth bate.

If such record (alas) provoke the inflamed mynde,

Which sprung that day that I dyd leave the best of me behynde,

If love forgeat himselfe by length of absence let,

Who doth me guid (O wofull wretch)

unto this baited net :

Where doth encrease my care, much better were for me,

As dumm as stone all things forgott, still

absent for to be.

Alas the clear christall, the bright transplendant glasse,

Doth not bewray the colours hid which underneath it hase.

As doth the accumbred sprite the thoughtfull throwes discover, Of teares delyte of fervent love that in our hartes we cover,

Out by these eyes, it sheweth that ever more delight;

In plaint and teares to seek redress, and eke both day and night. Those kindes of pleasures most wherein men soe rejoice,

To me they do redouble still of stormy sighes the voice.

For, I am one of them, whom plaint doth well content,

It fits me well my absent wealth me semes for to lament,

And with my teares t'assy to charge myne eyes twayne,

Like as my hart above the brink is fraughted full of payne.

And for because thereto, that these fair eyes do treate,

Do me provoke, I will returne, my plaint thus to repeate; [within, For there is nothing els, so toucheth me Where they rule all, and I alone, nought

but the case or skin.

Wherefore I shall returne to them as well or spring,

From whom descends my mortall wo, above all other thing.

So shall myne eyes in paine accompany my heart,

That were the guides, that did it lead of love to feel the smart.

The crisped gold that doth surmount Appolloe's pride,

The lively streames of pleasant starrs that under it doth glyde,

Wherein the beames of love doe still increase theire heate,

Which yet so far touch me to near in cold to make me sweat,

The wise and pleasant take, so rare or else alone,

That gave to me the curties gyft, that earst had never none.

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My comfort scant, my large desire in doubtful trust renews.

And yet with more delight to move my wofull case,

I must complaine these hands, those armes, that firmly do embrace, Me from myself, and rule the sterne of my poor life,

The sweet disdaynes, the pleasant wrathes, and eke the holy strife,

That wonted well to tune in temper just and mete,

The rage, that oft did make me err by furour undiscrete.

All this is hid from me with sharp and

ragged hills,

Wherefore come death and let me dye.
The shorter life, less count I finde,
The less account the sooner made,
The account soon made, the merier mind,
The merier mynd doth thought evade;
Short life in truth this thing doth trye,
Wherefore come death and let me dye.

Come gentle death, the ebbe of care,
The ebbe of care, the flood of life,
The flood of life, the joyful fare,
The joyful fare, the end of strife,
The end of strife, that thing wish I,
Wherefore come death and let me die.

At others will my long abode, my depe THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH

dyspayr fulfills.

And of my hope sometime ryse up by some redresse,

It stumbleth straite for feable faint my fear hath such excesse.

Such is the sort of hoape, the less for more desyre,

And yet I trust e're that I dye, to see that I require.

The resting-place of love, where virtue dwells and growes,

There I desire my weary life sometime may take repose,

My song thou shalt attaine, to find the pleasant place,

Where she doth live by whom I live, may chance to have this grace. When she hath read and seen, the griefe wherein I serve,

Between her brests she shall thee put, there shall she thee reserve. Then tell her, that I come, she shall me shortly see,

And if for waight the body fayl, the soul shall to her flee.

LOVE.

I LOTHE that I dyd love,
In youth that I thought swete,
As time requires for my behove,
Methinks they are not mete.

My lustes they do me leave,
My fancies all are fled,
And tract of time begynnes to weave
Gray heares upon my hed.

For age with stealing steppes
Hath clawde me with his crouche,
And lusty lyfe away she leapes
As there had been none such.

My muse doth not delight
Me as she dyd before,
My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have been of yore.

For reason me denyes
This youthly ydle ryme,
And day by day to me cryes,
Leave of these toyes in tyme.

The wrinkles in my browe,
The furrows in my face,

Say lymping age will lodge hym now, Where youth must geve him place. The harbinger of death,

To me I see him ride,

THE LONGER LIFE THE MORE The cough, the cold, the gasping breath

OFFENCE.

THE longer life the more offence The more offence the greater paine, The greater paine the lesse defence, The lesse defence the lesser gaine; The loss of gaine long yll doth trye,

Doth byd me to provyde

A pickax and a spade And eke a shrowding shete, A house of clay for to be made For such a geaste most mete.

Methirkes I hear the clarke That knoles the carefull knell,

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