Read Ebook: Bulchevy's Book of English Verse by Quiller Couch Arthur Editor

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Ebook has 4968 lines and 230574 words, and 100 pages

HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere; Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun; Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere; Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun, Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun; Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne; My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere, Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun, And Polixene, that boghten love so dere, And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun, Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun; And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne; My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere, And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun, And Canace, espyed by thy chere, Ysiphile, betraysed with Jasoun, Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun; Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne; My lady cometh, that al this may distevne.

Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340?-1400

A TRIPLE ROUNDEL

YOUR eyen two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beaute of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene, Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beaute of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully, That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene; For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene. Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beaute of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced; I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne; So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed So greet beaute, that no man may atteyne To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this or that; I do no fors, I speke right as I mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, And he is strike out of my bokes clene For ever-mo; ther is non other mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

Thomas Hoccleve. 1368-9?-1450?

ALLAS! my worthi maister honorable, This landes verray tresor and richesse! Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable Unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse Of rethorik; for unto Tullius Was never man so lyk amonges us.

Also who was hier in philosophie To Aristotle in our tonge but thou? The steppes of Virgile in poesie Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow. Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow-- Wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf...

She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while Til that sum man had egal to the be; Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this y1e May never man forth brynge lyk to the, And hir office needes do mot she: God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste; O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!

John Lydgate. 1370?-1450?

TARYE no lenger; toward thyn heritage Hast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere. Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage; Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here. Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere, Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse. Come on, my frend, my brother most entere! For the I offered my blood in sacryfice.

King James I of Scotland. 1394-1437

WORSCHIPPE ye that loveris bene this May, For of your blisse the Kalendis are begonne, And sing with us, Away, Winter, away! Cum, Somer, cum, the suete sesoun and sonne! Awake for schame! that have your hevynnis wonne, And amorously lift up your hedis all, Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call!

Robert Henryson. 1425-1500

ROBIN sat on gude green hill, Kepand a flock of fe: Mirry Makyne said him till 'Robin, thou rew on me: I haif thee luvit, loud and still, Thir yeiris twa or thre; My dule in dern bot gif thou dill, Doutless but dreid I de.'

'At luvis lair gif thou will leir Tak thair ane A B C; Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir, Wyse, hardy, and free: So that no danger do thee deir Quhat dule in dern thou dre; Preiss thee with pain at all poweir Be patient and previe.'

Robin answerit hir agane, 'I wat nocht quhat is lufe; But I haif mervel in certaine Quhat makis thee this wanrufe: The weddir is fair, and I am fain; My scheip gois haill aboif; And we wald prey us in this plane, They wald us baith reproif.'

'Robin, tak tent unto my tale, And wirk all as I reid, And thou sall haif my heart all haill, Eik and my maiden-heid: Sen God sendis bute for baill, And for murnyng remeid, In dern with thee bot gif I daill Dowtles I am bot deid.'

'Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde And ye will meit me heir, Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde, Quhyle we haif liggit full neir; But mawgre haif I, and I byde, Fra they begin to steir; Quhat lyis on heart I will nocht hyd; Makyn, then mak gude cheir.'

'Robin, thou reivis me roiff and rest; I luve bot thee allane.' 'Makyne, adieu! the sone gois west, The day is neir-hand gane.' 'Robin, in dule I am so drest That luve will be my bane.' 'Ga luve, Makyne, quhair-evir thow list, For lemman I luve nane.'

'Robin, I stand in sic a styll, I sicht and that full sair.' 'Makyne, I haif been here this quhyle; At hame God gif I wair.' 'My huny, Robin, talk ane quhyll, Gif thow will do na mair.' 'Makyn, sum uthir man begyle, For hamewart I will fair.'

Robin on his wayis went As light as leif of tre; Makyne murnit in hir intent, And trowd him nevir to se. Robin brayd attour the bent: Then Makyne cryit on hie, 'Now may thow sing, for I am schent! Quhat alis lufe at me?'

Makyne went hame withowttin fail, Full wery eftir cowth weip; Then Robin in a ful fair daill Assemblit all his scheip. Be that sum part of Makynis aill Out-throw his hairt cowd creip; He fallowit hir fast thair till assaill, And till her tuke gude keip.

'Abyd, abyd, thow fair Makyne, A word for ony thing; For all my luve, it sall be thyne, Withowttin departing. All haill thy hairt for till haif myne Is all my cuvating; My scheip to-morn, quhyle houris nyne, Will neid of no keping.'

'Robin, thow hes hard soung and say, In gestis and storeis auld, The man that will nocht quhen he may Sall haif nocht quhen he wald. I pray to Jesu every day, Mot eik thair cairis cauld That first preissis with thee to play Be firth, forrest, or fauld.'

'Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, The weddir is warme and fair, And the grene woid rycht neir us by To walk attour all quhair: Thair ma na janglour us espy, That is to lufe contrair; Thairin, Makyne, baith ye and I, Unsene we ma repair.'

'Robin, that warld is all away, And quyt brocht till ane end: And nevir agane thereto, perfay, Sall it be as thow wend; For of my pane thow maid it play; And all in vane I spend: As thow hes done, sa sall I say, "Murne on, I think to mend."'

'Makyne, the howp of all my heill, My hairt on thee is sett; And evirmair to thee be leill Quhill I may leif but lett; Never to faill as utheris feill, Quhat grace that evir I gett.' 'Robin, with thee I will nocht deill; Adieu! for thus we mett.'

Makyne went hame blyth anneuche Attour the holttis hair; Robin murnit, and Makyne leuche; Scho sang, he sichit sair: And so left him baith wo and wreuch, In dolour and in cair, Kepand his hird under a huche Amangis the holttis hair.

Robert Henryson. 1425-1500

THIS hinder yeir I hard be tald Thair was a worthy King; Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald, He had at his bidding. The Lord was ancean and ald, And sexty yeiris cowth ring; He had a dochter fair to fald, A lusty Lady ying.

Off all fairheid scho bur the flour, And eik hir faderis air; Off lusty laitis and he honour, Meik bot and debonair: Scho wynnit in a bigly bour, On fold wes nane so fair, Princis luvit hir paramour In cuntreis our allquhair.

Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King A foull Gyand of ane; Stollin he has the Lady ying, Away with hir is gane, And kest her in his dungering Quhair licht scho micht se nane; Hungir and cauld and grit thristing Scho fand into hir waine.

He wes the laithliest on to luk That on the grund mycht gang: His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk, Thairwith fyve quarteris lang; Thair wes nane that he ourtuk, In rycht or yit in wrang, Bot all in schondir he thame schuk, The Gyand wes so strang.

He held the Lady day and nycht Within his deip dungeoun, He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht For gold nor yit ransoun-- Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht, To fecht with his persoun, To fecht with him beth day and nycht, Quhill ane wer dungin doun.

The King gart seik baith fer and neir, Beth be se and land, Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir Wald fecht with that Gyand: A worthy Prince, that had no peir, Hes tane the deid on hand For the luve of the Lady cleir, And held full trew cunnand.

That Prince come prowdly to the toun Of that Gyand to heir, And fawcht with him, his awin persoun, And tuke him presoneir, And kest him in his awin dungeoun Allane withouten feir, With hungir, cauld, and confusioun, As full weill worthy weir.

Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht Unto her fadir fre. Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht That he behuvit to de; Unlusum was his likame dicht, His sark was all bludy; In all the world was thair a wicht So peteouss for to se?

The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane, With all her mekill mycht-- 'I luvit nevir lufe bot ane, That dulfully now is dicht; God sen my lyfe were fra me tane Or I had seen yone sicht, Or ellis in begging evir to gane Furth with yone curtass knycht.'

He said 'Fair lady, now mone I De, trestly ye me trow; Take ye my serk that is bludy, And hing it forrow yow; First think on it, and syne on me, Quhen men cumis yow to wow.' The Lady said 'Be Mary fre, Thairto I mak a vow.'

Quhen that scho lukit to the sark Scho thocht on the persoun, And prayit for him with all hir hart That lowsit hir of bandoun, Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk Into that deip dungeoun; And evir quhill scho wes in quert, That was hir a lessoun.

Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht That no man wald scho tak: Sa suld we do our God of micht That did all for us mak; Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht, For sinfull manis sak, Sa suld we do beth day and nycht, With prayaris to him mak.

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