Tuesday, Feb. 14, is St. Valentine’s Day, which is either a quasi-religious secular holiday dedicated to the expression of love or a nefarious commercial fabrication created by chocolate companies to sell heart-shaped boxes of confectionery.
Whatever the name, the event is a 2,700-year-old February tradition.
After the foundation of the Roman Republic in 753 B.C.E., the Romans observed Lupercalia, which was both a celebration of Lupa, the she-wolf who suckled Rome’s semi-mythical shepherd founders Romulus and Remus, and a licentious spring fertility festival dedicated to the pastoral god Faunus.
Lupercalia was traditionally celebrated from Feb. 13 to 15. At the festival of Juno Februata — Juno the Chaste — on Feb. 14, boys would draw the names of girls from a jar. They would then be partnered with the girls whose names they drew during the Lupercalia festival the next day on the ides of February — a practice similar to the modern exchange of valentines.
Early Roman Christians altered the practice after the late Roman Empire adopted Christianity as the state religion, replacing the girls’ names with those of martyred Christian saints — something that was much less fun for teenagers.
Pope Gelasius I finally banned Lupercalia and, by extension, the festival of Juno Februata in A.D. 494. By then, Lupercalia had become a feast day for St. Valentinus.
Advertisement
Historically, St. Valentinus was either a third-century priest in Rome, the bishop of Interamna in the Italian province of Umbria or an early Christian martyr in Roman-ruled North Africa.
In his papal canon, Gelasius listed St. Valentine among other semi-mythical, semi-historical figures such as St. George and St. Christopher, “whose names are justly reverenced among men, but whose acts are known only to God,” which is the religious equivalent of “We have absolutely no idea.”
The reuse of this particular date likely had little to do with the saint, but, as with most conversions of pagan rituals into Christian traditions, was made in order to supplant the old religion with the new.
While there is no direct connection between ancient Lupercalia and modern Valentine’s Day per se, remnants of the old Roman holiday persisted as folk traditions in Italy and other parts of the former empire for centuries afterward. Some of these traditions were noted by writers during the Renaissance, connecting declarations and acts of love with this specific date on the calendar.
The first direct reference to romantic love in connection with Feb. 14 was made by the English poet Geoffrey Chaucer in his poem “Parlement of Foules,” a humorous satire of courtly love written between 1381 and 1382 to honor the impending marriage of Chaucer’s patron, the 15-year-old King Richard II, and his future wife, 16-year-old Anne of Bohemia.
In the Middle English poem, the action of which is set on Feb. 14, Chaucer dreams of three high-ranking eagles vying for a female bird’s affections. Birds of various species, representing various aspects of English social classes, offer their opinions. In the third-to-last stanza, Chaucer specifically references “Saynt Valentyn,” connecting the date and the saint.
Although Anne and Richard both suffered tragic ends — the childless Anne died of plague at 28 and Richard II was deposed in 1399 and murdered in 1400, setting the stage for the decades-long Wars of the Roses — Valentine’s Day was later adopted as a romantic holiday, a reinvention that persists into the modern era.
Whatever you may do to celebrate Valentine’s Day, make the day an important one for your loved ones. Many Sedona and Verde Valley businesses are offering specials and restaurants are providing romantically-themed dinners on Feb. 14. Check out our newpaper’s ideas about how to celebrate those you care for most. Whether it be with a gift or a meal or just some time together, use the date to express how you feel about those you love.
Christopher Fox Graham
Managing Editor
The Parliament of Fowls,
by Geoffrey Chaucer [circa 1340s–1400]
| Parlement of Foulys | The Parliament of Fowls |
| original Middle English text | modern English translation |
| THE PROEM The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering, The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne, Al this mene I by love, that my feling Astonyeth with his wonderful worching So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke, Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke. For al be that I knowe nat love in dede, Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre, Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede Of his miracles, and his cruel yre; Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre, I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore, But God save swich a lord! I can no more. Of usage, what for luste what for lore, On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde. But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore Agon, hit happed me for to beholde Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde; And ther-upon, a certeyn thing to lerne, The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne. For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere; And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere. But now to purpos as of this matere– To rede forth hit gan me so delyte, That al the day me thoughte but a lyte. This book of which I make of mencioun, Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle, ’Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun.’; Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and helle, And erthe, and soules that therinnr dwelle, Of whiche, as shortly as I can hit trete, Of his sentence I wol you seyn the grete. First telleth hit, whan Scipion was come In Afrik, how he mette Massinisse, That him for Ioye in armes hath y nome. Than telleth hit hir speche and al the blisse That was betwix hem, til the day gan misse; And how his auncestre, African so dere, Gan in his slepe that night to him appere. Than telleth hit that, fro a sterry place, How African hath him Cartage shewed, And warned him before of al his grace, And seyde him, what man, lered other lewed, That loveth comun profit, wel y-thewed, He shal unto a blisful place wende, Ther as Ioye is that last withouten ende. Than asked he, if folk that heer be dede Have lyf and dwelling in another place; And African seyde, ‘ye, withoute drede,’ And that our present worldes lyves space Nis but a maner deth, what wey we trace, And rightful folk shal go, after they dye, To heven; and shewed him the galaxye. Than shewed he him the litel erthe, that heer is, At regard of the hevenes quantite; And after shewed he him the nyne speres, And after that the melodye herde he That cometh of thilke speres thryes three, That welle is of musyk and melodye In this world heer, and cause of armonye. Than bad he him, sin erthe was so lyte, And ful of torment and of harde grace, That he ne shulde him in the world delyte. Than tolde he him, in certeyn yeres space, That every sterre shulde come into his place Ther hit was first; and al shulde out of minde That in this worlde is don of al mankinde. Than prayde him Scipioun to telle him al The wey to come un-to that hevene blisse; And he seyde, ‘know thy-self first immortal, And loke ay besily thou werke and wisse To comun profit, and thou shalt nat misse To comen swiftly to that place dere, That ful of blisse is and of soules clere. But brekers of the lawe, soth to seyne, And lecherous folk, after that they be dede, Shul alwey whirle aboute therthe in peyne, Til many a world be passed, out of drede, And than, for-yeven alle hir wikked dede, Than shul they come unto that blisful place, To which to comen god thee sende his grace!’– The day gan failen, and the derke night, That reveth bestes from her besinesse, Berafte me my book for lakke of light, And to my bedde I gan me for to dresse, Fulfild of thought and besy hevinesse; For bothe I hadde thing which that I nolde, And eek I ne hadde that thing that I wolde. But fynally my spirit, at the laste, For-wery of my labour al the day, Took rest, that made me to slepe faste, And in my slepe I mette, as I lay, How African, right in the selfe aray That Scipioun him saw before that tyde, Was comen and stood right at my bedes syde. The wery hunter, slepinge in his bed, To wode ayein his minde goth anoon; The Iuge dremeth how his plees ben sped; The carter dremeth how his cartes goon; The riche, of gold; the knight fight with his foon; The seke met he drinketh of the tonne; The lover met he hath his lady wonne. Can I nat seyn if that the cause were For I had red of African beforn, That made me to mete that he stood there; But thus seyde he, ‘thou hast thee so wel born In loking of myn olde book to-torn, Of which Macrobie roghte nat a lyte, That somdel of thy labour wolde I quyte!’– Citherea! thou blisful lady swete, That with thy fyr-brand dauntest whom thee lest, And madest me this sweven for to mete, Be thou my help in this, for thou mayst best; As wisly as I saw thee north-north-west, When I began my sweven for to wryte, So yif me might to ryme and endyte! THE STORY This forseid African me hente anoon, And forth with him unto a gate broghte Right of a parke, walled of grene stoon; And over the gate, with lettres large y-wroghte, Ther weren vers y-writen, as me thoghte, On eyther halfe, of ful gret difference, Of which I shal yow sey the pleyn sentence. ’Thorgh me men goon in-to that blisful place Of hertes hele and dedly woundes cure; Thorgh me men goon unto the welle of Grace, Ther grene and lusty May shal ever endure; This is the wey to al good aventure; Be glad, thou reder, and thy sorwe of-caste, Al open am I; passe in, and by the faste!’ ’Thorgh me men goon,’ than spak that other syde, ’Unto the mortal strokes of the spere, Of which Disdayn and Daunger is the gyde, Ther tre shal never fruyt ne leves bere. This streem yow ledeth to the sorwful were, Ther as the fish in prison is al drye; Theschewing is only the remedye.’ Thise vers of gold and blak y-writen were, Of whiche I gan a stounde to beholde, For with that oon encresed ay my fere, And with that other gan myn herte bolde; That oon me hette, that other did me colde, No wit had I, for errour, for to chese To entre or flee, or me to save or lese. Right as, betwixen adamauntes two Of even might, a pece of iren y-set, That hath no might to meve to ne fro – For what that on may hale, that other let – Ferde I; that niste whether me was bet, To entre or leve, til African my gyde Me hente, and shoof in at the gates wyde, And seyde, ‘hit stondeth writen in thy face, Thyn errour, though thou telle it not to me; But dred the nat to come in-to this place, For this wryting is no-thing ment by thee, Ne by noon, but he Loves servant be; For thou of love hast lost thy tast, I gesse, As seek man hath of swete and bitternesse. But natheles, al-though that thou be dulle, Yit that thou canst not do, yit mayst thou see; For many a man that may not stonde a pulle, Yit lyketh him at the wrastling for to be, And demeth yit wher he do bet or he; And if thou haddest cunning for tendyte, I shal thee shewen mater of to wryte.’ With that my hond in his he took anoon, Of which I comfort caughte, and went in faste; But, lord! so I was glad and wel begoon! For over-al, wher that I myn eyen caste, Were trees clad with leves that ay shal laste, Eche in his kinde, of colour fresh and grene As emeraude, that Ioye was to sene. The bilder ook, and eek the hardy asshe; The piler elm, the cofre unto careyne; The boxtree piper; holm to whippes lasshe; The sayling firr; the cipres, deth to pleyne; The sheter ew, the asp for shaftes pleyne; The olyve of pees, and eek the drunken vyne, The victor palm, the laurer to devyne. A gardyn saw I, ful of blosmy bowes, Upon a river, in a grene mede, Ther as swetnesse evermore y-now is, With floures whyte, blewe, yelowe, and rede; And colde welle-stremes, no-thing dede, That swommen ful of smale fisshes lighte, With finnes rede and scales silver-brighte. On every bough the briddes herde I singe, With voys of aungel in hir armonye, Som besyed hem hir briddes forth to bringe; The litel conyes to hir pley gunne hye. And further al aboute I gan espye The dredful roo, the buk, the hert and hinde, Squerels, and bestes smale of gentil kinde. Of instruments of strenges in acord Herde I so pleye a ravisshing swetnesse, That god, that maker is of al and lord, Ne herde never better, as I gesse; Therwith a wind, unnethe hit might be lesse, Made in the leves grene a noise softe Acordaunt to the foules songe on-lofte. The air of that place so attempre was That never was grevaunce of hoot ne cold; Ther wex eek every holsum spyce and gras, Ne no man may ther wexe seek ne old; Yet was ther Ioye more a thousand fold Then man can telle; ne never wolde it nighte, But ay cleer day to any mannes sighte. Under a tree, besyde a welle, I say Cupyde our lord his arwes forge and fyle; And at his fete his bowe al redy lay, And wel his doghter tempred al this whyle The hedes in the welle, and with hir wyle She couched hem after as they shulde serve, Some for to slee, and some to wounde and kerve. Tho was I war of Plesaunce anon-right, And of Aray, and Lust, and Curtesye, And of the Craft that can and hath the might To doon by force a wight to do folye – Disfigurat was she, I nil not lye; And by him-self, under an oke, I gesse, Saw I Delyt, that stood with Gentilnesse. I saw Beautee, withouten any atyr, And Youthe, ful of game and Iolyte, Fool-hardinesse, Flatery, and Desyr, Messagerye, and Mede, and other three – Hir names shul noght here be told for me – And upon pilers grete of Iasper longe I saw a temple of bras y-founded stronge. Aboute the temple daunceden alway Wommen y-nowe, of whiche some ther were Faire of hem-self, and somme of hem were gay; In kirtels, al disshevele, wente they there – That was hir office alway, yeer by yere – And on the temple, of doves whyte and faire Saw I sittinge many a hunderede paire. Before the temple-dore ful soberly Dame Pees sat, with a curteyn in hir hond: And hir besyde, wonder discretly, Dame Pacience sitting ther I fond With face pale, upon an hille of sond; And alder-next, within and eek with-oute, Behest and Art, and of hir folke a route. Within the temple, of syghes hote as fyr I herde a swogh that gan aboute renne; Which syghes were engendred with desyr, That maden every auter for to brenne Of newe flaume; and wel aspyed I thenne That al the cause of sorwes that they drye Com of the bitter goddesse Ialousye. The god Priapus saw I, as I wente, Within the temple, in soverayn place stonde, In swich aray as whan the asse him shente With crye by night, and with ceptre in honde; Ful besily men gunne assaye and fonde Upon his hede to sette, of sondry hewe, Garlondes ful of fresshe floures newe. And in a privee corner, in disporte, Fond I Venus and hir porter Richesse, That was ful noble and hauteyn of hir porte; Derk was that place, but afterward lightnesse I saw a lyte, unnethe hit might be lesse, And on a bed of golde she lay to reste, Til that the hote sonne gan to weste. Hir gilte heres with a golden threde Y-bounden were, untressed as she lay, And naked fro the breste unto the hede Men might hir see; and, sothly for to say, The remenant wel kevered to my pay Right with a subtil kerchef of Valence, Ther was no thikker cloth of no defence. The place yaf a thousand savours swote, And Bachus, god of wyn, sat hir besyde, And Ceres next, that doth of hunger bote; And, as I seide, amiddes lay Cipryde, To whom on knees two yonge folkes cryde To ben hir help; but thus I leet hir lye, And ferther in the temple I gan espye That, in dispyte of Diane the chaste, Ful many a bowe y-broke heng on the wal Of maydens, suche as gunne hir tymes waste In hir servyse; and peynted over al Of many a story, of which I touche shal A fewe, as of Calixte and Athalaunte, And many a mayde, of which the name I wante; Semyramus, Candace, and Ercules, Biblis, Dido, Thisbe, and Piramus, Tristram, Isoude, Paris, and Achilles, Eleyne, Cleopatre, and Troilus, Silla, and eek the moder of Romulus – Alle these were peynted on that other syde, And al hir love, and in what plyte they dyde. Whan I was come ayen unto the place That I of spak, that was so swote and grene, Forth welk I tho, my-selven to solace. Tho was I war wher that ther sat a quene That, as of light the somer-sonne shene Passeth the sterre, right so over mesure She fairer was than any creature. And in a launde, upon an hille of floures, Was set this noble goddesse Nature; Of braunches were hir halles and hir boures, Y-wrought after hir craft and hir mesure; Ne ther nas foul that cometh of engendrure, That they ne were prest in hir presence, To take hir doom and yeve hir audience. For this was on seynt Valentynes day, Whan every foul cometh ther to chese his make, Of every kinde, that men thenke may; And that so huge a noyse gan they make, That erthe and see, and tree, and every lake So ful was, that unnethe was ther space For me to stonde, so ful was al the place. And right as Aleyn, in the Pleynt of Kinde, Devyseth Nature of aray and face, In swich aray men mighten hir ther finde. This noble emperesse, ful of grace, Bad every foul to take his owne place, As they were wont alwey fro yeer to yere, Seynt Valentynes day, to stonden there. That is to sey, the foules of ravyne Were hyest set; and than the foules smale, That eten as hem nature wolde enclyne, As worm or thing of whiche I telle no tale; And water-foul sat loweste in the dale; But foul that liveth by seed sat on the grene, And that so fele, that wonder was to sene. There mighte men the royal egle finde, That with his sharpe look perceth the sonne; And other egles of a lower kinde, Of which that clerkes wel devysen conne. Ther was the tyraunt with his fethres done And greye, I mene the goshauk, that doth pyne To briddes for his outrageous ravyne. The gentil faucoun, that with his feet distreyneth The kinges hond; the hardy sperhauk eke, The quayles foo; the merlion that payneth Him-self ful ofte, the larke for to seke; Ther was the douve, with hir eyen meke; The Ialous swan, ayens his deth that singeth; The oule eek, that of dethe the bode bringeth; The crane the geaunt, with his trompes soune; The theef, the chogh; and eek the Iangling pye; The scorning Iay; the eles foo, heroune; The false lapwing, ful of trecherye; The stare, that the counseyl can bewrye; The tame ruddok; and the coward kyte; The cok, that orloge is of thorpes lyte; The sparow, Venus sone; the nightingale, That clepeth forth the fresshe leves newe; The swalow, mordrer of the flyes smale That maken hony of floures fresshe of hewe; The wedded turtel, with hir herte trewe; The pecok, with his aungels fethres brighte; The fesaunt, scorner of the cok by nighte; The waker goos; the cukkow ever unkinde; The popiniay, ful of delicasye; The drake, stroyer of his owne kinde; The stork, the wreker of avouterye; The hote cormeraunt of glotonye; The raven wys, the crow with vois of care; The throstel olde; the frosty feldefare. What shulde I seyn? of foules every kinde That in this world han fethres and stature, Men mighten in that place assembled finde Before the noble goddesse Nature, And everich of hem did his besy cure Benignely to chese or for to take, By hir acord, his formel or his make. But to the poynt – Nature held on hir honde A formel egle, of shap the gentileste That ever she among hir werkes fonde, The moste benigne and the goodlieste; In hir was every vertu at his reste, So ferforth, that Nature hir-self had blisse To loke on hir, and ofte hir bek to kisse. Nature, the vicaire of thalmighty lorde, That hoot, cold, hevy, light, and moist and dreye Hath knit by even noumbre of acorde, In esy vois began to speke and seye, ’Foules, tak hede of my sentence, I preye, And, for your ese, in furthering of your nede, As faste as I may speke, I wol me spede. Ye knowe wel how, seynt Valentynes day, By my statut and through my governaunce, Ye come for to chese – and flee your way – Your makes, as I prik yow with plesaunce. But natheles, my rightful ordenaunce May I not lete, for al this world to winne, That he that most is worthy shal beginne. The tercel egle, as that ye knowen wel, The foul royal above yow in degree, The wyse and worthy, secree, trewe as stel, The which I formed have, as ye may see, In every part as hit best lyketh me, Hit nedeth noght his shap yow to devyse, He shal first chese and speken in his gyse. And after him, by order shul ye chese, After your kinde, everich as yow lyketh, And, as your hap is, shul ye winne or lese; But which of yow that love most entryketh, God sende him hir that sorest for him syketh.’ And therwith-al the tercel gan she calle, And seyde, ‘my sone, the choys is to thee falle. But natheles, in this condicioun Mot be the choys of everich that is here, That she agree to his eleccioun, What-so he be that shulde be hir fere; This is our usage alwey, fro yeer to yere; And who so may at this time have his grace, In blisful tyme he com in-to this place.’ With hed enclyned and with ful humble chere This royal tercel spak and taried nought: ’Unto my sovereyn lady, and noght my fere, I chese, and chese with wille and herte and thought, The formel on your hond so wel y-wrought, Whos I am al and ever wol hir serve, Do what hir list, to do me live or sterve. Beseching hir of mercy and of grace, As she that is my lady sovereyne; Or let me dye present in this place. For certes, long may I not live in peyne; For in myn herte is corven every veyne; Having reward only to my trouthe, My dere herte, have on my wo som routhe. And if that I to hir be founde untrewe, Disobeysaunt, or wilful negligent, Avauntour, or in proces love a newe, I pray to you this be my Iugement, That with these foules I be al to-rent, That ilke day that ever she me finde To hir untrewe, or in my gilte unkinde. And sin that noon loveth hir so wel as I, Al be she never of love me behette, Than oghte she be myn thourgh hir mercy, For other bond can I noon on hir knette. For never, for no wo, ne shal I lette To serven hir, how fer so that she wende; Sey what yow list, my tale is at an ende.’ Right as the fresshe, rede rose newe Ayen the somer-sonne coloured is, Right so for shame al wexen gan the hewe Of this formel, whan she herde al this; She neyther answerde ‘Wel’, ne seyde amis, So sore abasshed was she, til that Nature Seyde, ‘doghter, drede yow noght, I yow assure.’ Another tercel egle spak anoon Of lower kinde, and seyde, ‘that shal nat be; I love hir bet than ye do, by seynt Iohn, Or atte leste I love hir as wel as ye; And lenger have served hir, in my degree, And if she shulde have loved for long loving, To me allone had been the guerdoninge. I dar eek seye, if she me finde fals, Unkinde, Iangler, or rebel in any wyse, Or Ialous, do me hongen by the hals! And but I bere me in hir servyse As wel as that my wit can me suffyse, From poynt to poynt, hir honour for to save, Tak she my lyf, and al the good I have.’ The thridde tercel egle answerde tho, ’Now, sirs, ye seen the litel leyser here; For every foul cryeth out to been a-go Forth with his make, or with his lady dere; And eek Nature hir-self ne wol nought here, For tarying here, noght half that I wolde seye; And but I speke, I mot for sorwe deye. Of long servyse avaunte I me no-thing, But as possible is me to dye to-day For wo, as he that hath ben languisshing Thise twenty winter, and wel happen may A man may serven bet and more to pay In half a yere, al-though hit were no more, Than som man doth that hath served ful yore. I ne sey not this by me, for I ne can Do no servyse that may my lady plese; But I dar seyn, I am hir trewest man As to my dome, and feynest wolde hir ese; At shorte wordes, til that deth me sese, I wol ben hires, whether I wake or winke, And trewe in al that herte may bethinke.’ Of al my lyf, sin that day I was born, So gentil plee in love or other thing Ne herde never no man me beforn, Who-so that hadde leyser and cunning For to reherse hir chere and hir speking; And from the morwe gan this speche laste Til dounward drow the sonne wonder faste. The noyse of foules for to ben delivered So loude rong, ‘have doon and let us wende!’ That wel wende I the wode had al to-shivered. ’Come of!’ they cryde, ‘allas! ye wil us shende! Whan shal your cursed pleding have an ende? How shulde a Iuge eyther party leve, For yee or nay, with-outen any preve?’ The goos, the cokkow, and the doke also So cryden, ‘kek, kek!’ ‘kukkow!’ ‘quek, quek!’ hye, That thorgh myn eres the noyse wente tho. The goos seyde, ‘al this nis not worth a flye! But I can shape hereof a remedye, And I wol sey my verdit faire and swythe For water-foul, who-so be wrooth or blythe.’ ’And I for worm-foul,’ seyde the fool cukkow, ’For I wol, of myn owne auctorite, For comune spede, take the charge now, For to delivere us is gret charite.’ ’Ye may abyde a whyle yet, parde!’ Seide the turtel, ‘if hit be your wille A wight may speke, him were as good be stille. I am a seed-foul, oon the unworthieste, That wot I wel, and litel of kunninge; But bet is that a wightes tonge reste Than entermeten him of such doinge Of which he neyther rede can nor singe. And who-so doth, ful foule himself acloyeth, For office uncommitted ofte anoyeth.’ Nature, which that alway had an ere To murmour of the lewednes behinde, With facound voys seide, ‘hold your tonges there! And I shal sone, I hope, a counseyl finde You to delivere, and fro this noyse unbinde; I Iuge, of every folk men shal oon calle To seyn the verdit for you foules alle.’ Assented were to this conclusioun The briddes alle; and foules of ravyne Han chosen first, by pleyn eleccioun, The tercelet of the faucon, to diffyne Al hir sentence, and as him list, termyne; And to Nature him gonnen to presente, And she accepteth him with glad entente. The tercelet seide than in this manere: ’Ful hard were it to preve hit by resoun Who loveth best this gentil formel here; For everich hath swich replicacioun, That noon by skilles may be broght a-doun; I can not seen that argumentes avayle; Than semeth hit ther moste be batayle.’ ’Al redy!’ quod these egles tercels tho. ’Nay, sirs!’ quod he, ‘if that I dorste it seye, Ye doon me wrong, my tale is not y-do! For sirs, ne taketh noght a-gref, I preye, It may noght gon, as ye wolde, in this weye; Oure is the voys that han the charge in honde, And to the Iuges dome ye moten stonde; ’And therfor, pees! I seye, as to my wit, Me wolde thinke how that the worthieste Of knighthode, and lengest hath used hit, Moste of estat, of blode the gentileste, Were sittingest for hir, if that hir leste; And of these three she wot hir-self, I trowe, Which that he be, for hit is light to knowe.’ The water-foules han her hedes leyd Togeder, and of short avysement, Whan everich had his large golee seyd, They seyden sothly, al by oon assent, How that ‘the goos, with hir facounde gent, That so desyreth to pronounce our nede, Shal telle our tale,’ and preyde ‘god hir spede.’ And for these water-foules tho began The goos to speke, and in hir cakelinge She seyde, ‘pees! now tak kepe every man, And herkeneth which a reson I shal bringe; My wit is sharp, I love no taryinge; I seye, I rede him, though he were my brother, But she wol love him, lat him love another!’ ’Lo here! a parfit reson of a goos!’ Quod the sperhauk; ‘never mot she thee! Lo, swich hit is to have a tonge loos! Now parde, fool, yet were hit bet for thee Have holde thy pees, than shewed thy nycete! Hit lyth not in his wit nor in his wille, But sooth is seyd, “a fool can noght be stille.”’ The laughter aroos of gentil foules alle, And right anoon the seed-foul chosen hadde The turtel trewe, and gunne hir to hem calle, And preyden hir to seye the sothe sadde Of this matere, and asked what she radde; And she answerde, that pleynly hir entente She wolde shewe, and sothly what she mente. ’Nay, god forbede a lover shulde chaunge!’ The turtle seyde, and wex for shame al reed; ’Thogh that his lady ever-more be straunge, Yet let him serve hir ever, til he be deed; For sothe, I preyse noght the gooses reed; For thogh she deyed, I wolde non other make, I wol ben hires, til that the deth me take.’ ’Wel bourded!’ quod the doke, ‘by my hat! That men shulde alwey loven, causeles, Who can a reson finde or wit in that? Daunceth he mury that is mirtheles? Who shulde recche of that is reccheles? Ye, quek!’ yit quod the doke, ful wel and faire, ’There been mo sterres, god wot, than a paire!’ ’Now fy, cherl!’ quod the gentil tercelet, ’Out of the dunghil com that word ful right, Thou canst noght see which thing is wel be-set: Thou farest by love as oules doon by light, The day hem blent, ful wel they see by night; Thy kind is of so lowe a wrechednesse, That what love is, thou canst nat see ne gesse.’ Tho gan the cukkow putte him forth in prees For foul that eteth worm, and seide blyve, ’So I,’ quod he, ‘may have my make in pees, I recche not how longe that ye stryve; Lat ech of hem be soleyn al hir lyve, This is my reed, sin they may not acorde; This shorte lesson nedeth noght recorde.’ ’Ye! have the glotoun fild ynogh his paunche, Than are we wel!’ seyde the merlioun; ’Thou mordrer of the heysugge on the braunche That broghte thee forth, thou rewthelees glotoun! Live thou soleyn, wormes corrupcioun! For no fors is of lakke of thy nature; Go, lewed be thou, whyl the world may dure!’ ’Now pees,’ quod Nature, ‘I comaunde here; For I have herd al your opinioun, And in effect yet be we never the nere; But fynally, this is my conclusioun, That she hir-self shal han the eleccioun Of whom hir list, who-so be wrooth or blythe, Him that she cheest, he shal hir have as swythe. For sith hit may not here discussed be Who loveth hir best, as seide the tercelet, Than wol I doon hir this favour, that she Shal have right him on whom hir herte is set, And he hir that his herte hath on hir knet. Thus Iuge I, Nature, for I may not lye; To noon estat I have non other ye. But as for counseyl for to chese a make, If hit were reson, certes, than wolde I Counseyle yow the royal tercel take, As seide the tercelet ful skilfully, As for the gentilest and most worthy, Which I have wroght so wel to my plesaunce; That to yow oghte been a suffisaunce.’ With dredful vois the formel hir answerde, ’My rightful lady, goddesse of Nature, Soth is that I am ever under your yerde, Lyk as is everiche other creature, And moot be youres whyl that my lyf may dure; And therfor graunteth me my firste bone, And myn entente I wol yow sey right sone.’ ’I graunte it you,’ quod she; and right anoon This formel egle spak in this degree, ’Almighty quene, unto this yeer be doon I aske respit for to avysen me. And after that to have my choys al free; This al and sum, that I wolde speke and seye; Ye gete no more, al-though ye do me deye. I wol noght serven Venus ne Cupyde For sothe as yet, by no manere wey.’ ’Now sin it may non other wyse betyde,’ Quod tho Nature, ‘here is no more to sey; Than wolde I that these foules were a-wey Ech with his make, for tarying lenger here’ – And seyde hem thus, as ye shul after here. ’To you speke I, ye tercelets,’ quod Nature, ’Beth of good herte and serveth, alle three; A yeer is not so longe to endure, And ech of yow peyne him, in his degree, For to do wel; for, god wot, quit is she Fro yow this yeer; what after so befalle, This entremes is dressed for you alle.’ And whan this werk al broght was to an ende, To every foule Nature yaf his make By even acorde, and on hir wey they wende. A! lord! the blisse and Ioye that they make! For ech of hem gan other in winges take, And with hir nekkes ech gan other winde, Thanking alwey the noble goddesse of kinde. But first were chosen foules for to singe, As yeer by yere was alwey hir usaunce To singe a roundel at hir departinge, To do to Nature honour and plesaunce. The note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce; The wordes wer swich as ye may heer finde, The nexte vers, as I now have in minde. Qui bien aime a tard oublie. ’Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake, And driven awey the longe nightes blake! ’Saynt Valentyn, that art ful by on-lofte; – Thus singen smale foules for thy sake – Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake. ’Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte, Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make; Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake; Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres weders over-shake, And driven away the longe nightes blake.’ And with the showting, whan hir song was do, That foules maden at hir flight a-way, I wook, and other bokes took me to To rede upon, and yet I rede alway; In hope, y-wis, to rede so som day That I shal mete som thing for to fare The bet; and thus to rede I nil not spare. | THE POEM The life so short, the craft so long to learn, The assay so hard, so sharp the conquering, The fearful joy that slips away in turn, All this mean I by Love, that my feeling Astonishes with its wondrous working So fiercely that when I on love do think I know not well whether I float or sink. For although I know not Love indeed Nor know how he pays his folk their hire, Yet full oft it happens in books I read Of his miracles and his cruel ire. There I read he will be lord and sire; I dare only say, his strokes being sore, ‘God save such a lord!’ I’ll say no more. By habit, both for pleasure and for lore, In books I often read, as I have told. But why do I speak thus? A time before, Not long ago, I happened to behold A certain book written in letters old; And thereupon, a certain thing to learn, The long day did its pages swiftly turn. For out of old fields, as men say, Comes all this new corn from year to year; And out of old books, in good faith, Comes all this new science that men hear. But now to the purpose of this matter – To read on did grant me such delight, That the day seemed brief till it was night. This book of which I make mention, lo, Entitled was, as I shall quickly tell, ‘Cicero, on the dream of Scipio’; Seven Chapters it had on heaven and hell And earth and the souls that therein dwell: As briefly as I can treat of its art, I’ll tell you, of its meaning, the main part. First it tells how when Scipio came To Africa, he met Massinissa, Who in his arms embraced the same. Then it tells of their speeches, all the bliss there That lay between them till the shadows gather, And how at night his grandfather, Scipio the Elder, so dear, again in his sleep, did appear. Then it tells how, from a starry place, His grandfather had him Carthage shown, And told him in advance of all his grace And taught him how a man, learned or rude, Who loves the common good and virtue too Shall unto a blissful place yet wend, There where joy is that lasts without an end. Then he asked if folk that have died here Have life and dwelling in another place; And his grandfather said, ‘Have no fear,’ And that our present world’s brief space Is but a kind of death, whose path we trace, And virtuous folk after they die shall go To heaven; and the galaxy did him show. Then showed him how small our Earth appears Compared to the heavens’ quantity; And then he showed him the nine spheres, And after that the melody heard he That comes from those spheres thrice three, The source of music and of melody In this world here, and cause of harmony. Then he told him, since Earth is so slight, And full of torment and so little grace, That he should never in this world delight. And then he said, that in a certain space Of time, return the stars would to their place Where they had been at first, and out of mind Pass all things in this world done by mankind. Then Scipio prayed he would tell him all The way to come into that heavenly bliss; And he said: ‘Know yourself first immortal, Be sure to work busily, wisely in this World for the common good, you’ll not miss The path that leads swift to that place dear, That full of bliss is, and of souls clear. But breakers of the law, he did explain, And lecherous folk, after they are dead, Shall whirl about the Earth ever in pain Till many an age be past, and then indeed Forgiven for their every wicked deed, Then shall they come unto that blissful place, To come to which may God send you his grace!’ The day began to fail, and the dark night That relieves all creatures of their business Bereft me of my book for lack of light, And to my bed I began me to address Filled full of thought and anxious heaviness, For I yet had the thing that I wished not, And the thing that I wished I had not got. Yet finally my spirit at the last Full weary of my labour all the day Took its rest, sent me to sleep so fast That in my sleep I dreamed there as I lay How that Elder in selfsame array Whom Scipio saw, who long ago had died, Came and stood there right at my bedside. The weary hunter sleeping in his bed To the woods again his mind will go; The judge he dreams how his pleas are sped; The carter dreams of drawing carts below; The rich, of gold; the knight fights with his foe; The sick person dreams he drinks a tun; The lover dreams he has his lady won. I cannot say if it was reading fair Of Scipio the Elder just before, That made me dream that he stood there; But thus said he: ‘Yourself so well you bore In looking at that ancient book of lore, Macrobius himself thought not so slight, That I would something of your pain requite.’ – Cytherea, you blissful lady sweet Whose firebrand at your wish robs us of rest And made me to dream this dream complete, Be you my help in this, your aid works best; As surely as I saw you north-northwest, When I began my dream for to write, So give me power to rhyme and indite. THE STORY Scipio the Elder grasped me anon, And forth with him unto a gate brought Encircled with a wall of green stone; And over the gate, in large letters wrought, There were verses written, as I thought, On either side, between them difference, Of which I shall reveal to you the sense. ‘Through me men go into that blissful place Of heart’s healing, and deadly wounds’ cure; Through me men go unto the well of Grace Where green and lusty May shall ever endure; This is the way to all fairest adventure; Be glad, oh Reader, and your sorrow off-cast, All open am I; pass in, and speed you fast!’ ‘Through me men go,’ then spoke the other side, ‘Unto the mortal blow of the spear, Which Disdain and Haughtiness do guide, Where tree shall never fruit nor leaves bear. This stream leads you to the grim trap where The fish in its prison’s lifted out all dry; Avoidance is the only remedy nigh!’ In gold and black these verses written were, Which I in some confusion did behold, For with the one ever increased my fear, Yet with the other did my heart grow bold. The one gave heat to me, the other cold; Fearing error, no wit had I to choose To enter or flee, to save myself or lose. As between adamantine magnets two Of even strength, a piece of iron set That has no power to move to or fro – For though one attracts the other will let It move – so I, that knew not whether yet To enter or leave, till that Scipio my guide Grasped me and thrust me in at the gates wide, And said, ‘It appears written in your face, Your error, though you tell it not to me; But fear you not to come into this place, Since this writing is never meant for thee, Nor any unless he Love’s servant be; For you for love have lost your taste, I guess, As a sick man has for sweet or bitterness. But nonetheless, although you are but dull, What you cannot do, you yet may see; For many a man that can’t resist a pull Still likes at the wrestling for to be And deems whether he does best, or he, And if you have the cunning to indite, I’ll show you matter of which you may write. With that my hand in his he grasped anon, From which I took comfort, and entered fast; And, Lord, I was so glad that I had done! For everywhere that I my eyes did cast Were trees clad with leaves that always last, Each of its kind, of colour fresh and green As emerald, that a joy ‘twas to be seen. The builder’s oak, and then the sturdy ash; The elm, for pillars and for coffins meant; The piper’s box-tree; holly for whip’s lash; Fir for masts; cypress, death to lament; The ewe for bows; aspen for arrows sent; Olive for peace, and too the drunken vine; Victor’s palm; laurel for those who divine. A garden saw I full of blossoming boughs Beside a river, through a green mead led, Where sweetness evermore bountiful is, With flowers white, blue, yellow and red, And with cold well-streams, nothing dead, Which are full of fish, small and light, With red fins and scales silver bright. On every bough I heard the birds sing Angelic voices in their harmony; Some their fledglings forth did bring; And little rabbits to their play went by. And further all about I did espy The fearful roe, the buck, the hart, the hind, Squirrels, and small beasts of noble kind. Instruments, their strings all in accord I heard played with ravishing sweetness That God, who maker is of all and lord, Never heard better, or so I guess; Therewith a breeze that could scarce be less, Made in the leaves green a noise soft In harmony with the fowls’ song aloft. The air of that place so temperate was There was no awkwardness of hot or cold; There waxed every wholesome herb or grass, Nor no man there is ever sick or old; Yet was there joy more a thousand-fold Than man might tell; nor was it ever night But ever clear day to every man’s sight. ‘Neath a tree, by a well, saw I displayed Cupid, our lord, his arrows’ forge and file; And at his feet his bow all ready lay, And Will, his daughter, tempered all this while The arrow-heads in the well, and with hard file She notched them afterwards so as to serve Some for to slay; some to wound and swerve. Then was I aware of Pleasure nigh, And of Adornment, Lust and Courtesy, And of Cunning, able and with the might To force a person to perform a folly – I will not lie, disfigured all was she – And by himself under an oak I guess I saw Delight, standing with Nobleness. I saw Beauty, lacking all attire, And Youth, full of games and jollity, Foolhardiness, Flattery, and Desire, Message-sending, Bribery, and three Others – whose names shall not be told by me – And upon pillars tall of jasper long I saw a temple of brass, sound and strong. About the temple dancing every way Went women enough, of whom some were Fair in themselves and some dressed full gay; In gowns, hair dishevelled, danced they there – That was their duty always, year on year – And on the temple, of doves white and fair Saw I sitting many a hundred pair. Before the temple door full soberly Dame Peace sat with a curtain in her hand: And beside her wondrous discreetly, Dame Patience sitting there I found With pale face upon a hill of sand; And next to her, within and without, Promise and Artfulness, and their rout. Within the temple, from sighs hot as fire I heard a rushing sound that there did churn; Which sighs were engendered by desire, That made every altar fire to burn With new flame; and there did I learn That all the cause of sorrows that they see Comes from the bitter goddess Jealousy. The god Priapus saw I, as I went, Within the shrine, pre-eminent did stand, Placed as when the ass foiled his intent By braying at night, his staff in his hand; Full busily men tried as they had planned To set upon his head, of sundry hew, Garlands full of fresh flowers new. And in a quiet corner did disport Venus and her doorkeeper Richness, She was full noble, haughty in her sport; Dark was the place, but afterwards lightness I saw, a light that could scarce be less, And on a bed of gold she lay to rest Till the hot sun sank into the west. Her golden hair with a golden thread Was lightly tied, loose-haired as she lay, And naked from her breast to her head Men could view her; and truly I must say The rest was well covered in its way Just with a subtle veil from Valence; No thicker cloth served for her defence. The place gave out a thousand savours sweet, And Bacchus, god of wine, sat there beside, And Ceres next who does our hunger sate; And as I said, the Cyprian there did lie, To whom, on their knees, two young folk cried, For her help; but there I passed her by, And further into the temple I did spy That, all in spite of Diana the chaste, Full many a broken bow hung on the wall Of maidens such as their time did waste In her service; and pictured over all Full many a story, of which I shall recall A few, as of Callisto and Atalanta And many a maiden whose names I lack here; Semiramis, Candace and Hercules, Biblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus, Tristram, Iseult, Paris and Achilles, Helen, Cleopatra and Troilus, Scylla, and then the mother of Romulus: All these were painted on the other side, And all their love, and in what way they died. When I had come again unto the place Of which I spoke, that was so sweet and green, Forth I walked to bring myself solace. Then was I aware, there sat a queen: As in brightness the summer sun’s sheen Outshines the star, right so beyond measure Was she fairer too than any creature. And in a clearing on a hill of flowers Was set this noble goddess, Nature; Of branches were her halls and her bowers Wrought according to her art and measure; Nor was there any fowl she does engender That was not seen there in her presence, To hear her judgement, and give audience. For this was on Saint Valentine’s day, When every fowl comes there his mate to take, Of every species that men know, I say, And then so huge a crowd did they make, That earth and sea, and tree, and every lake Was so full, that there was scarcely space For me to stand, so full was all the place. And as Alain, in his Complaint of Nature, Describes her array and paints her face, In such array might men there find her. So this noble Empress, full of grace, Bade every fowl to take its proper place As they were wont to do from year to year, On Saint Valentine’s day, standing there. That is to say, the birds of prey on high Were perched, then small fowls without fail, That eat, as Nature does them so incline, Worms, or things of which I’ll tell no tale. And waterfowl sat lowest in the dale; But fowl that live on seeds sat on the green So many there it was a wondrous scene. There might men the royal eagle find Who with his keen glance pierces the sun, And other eagles of a lesser kind On which scholars love to run. There was the tyrant with his feathers dun And grey – I mean the goshawk, who’ll distress Others with his outrageous greediness. The noble falcon, who with his feet will strain At the king’s glove; sparrow-hawk sharp-beaked, The quail’s foe; the merlin that will pain Himself full oft the lark for to seek; There was the dove with her eyes meek; The jealous swan, that at his death does sing; The owl too, that portent of death does bring; The crane, the giant with his trumpet-sound; The thief, the chough; the chattering magpie; The mocking jay; the heron there is found; The lapwing false, to foil the searching eye; The starling that betrays secrets on high; The tame robin; and the cowardly kite; The rooster, clock to hamlets at first light; The sparrow, Venus’ son; the nightingale, That calls forth all the fresh leaves new; The swallow, murderer of the bees hale Who make honey from flowers fresh of hue; The wedded turtledove with her heart true; The peacock with angelic feathers bright; The pheasant, scorner of the cock by night; The wakeful goose; the cuckoo all unkind; The parrot cram full of lechery; The drake, destroyer of his own kind; The stork, avenger of adultery; The cormorant hot for gluttony; The raven wise; the crow, the voice of care; The thrush old; the wintry fieldfare. What can I say? Fowl of every kind That in this world have feathers and stature, Men might in that place assembled find Before the noble goddess Nature, And each of them took care, every creature, With a good will, its own choice to make, And, in accord, its bride or mate to take. But to the point: Nature had on her hand A female eagle, of shape the very noblest That ever she among her works had found, The most gracious and the very kindest; In her was every virtue there expressed So perfectly Nature herself felt bliss In gazing at her and her beak would kiss. Nature, deputy of the almighty Lord, Who hot, cold, heavy, light, moist and dry Has knit in balanced measure in accord, In gentle voice began to speak and sigh, ‘Fowl, heed my judgement now, pray I, And for your ease, in furthering of your need, As fast as I can speak, I will you speed. You know that on Saint Valentine’s day, By my statute and through my governance, You come to choose – and then fly your way – Your mates, as I your desires enhance. But nonetheless my rightful ordinance I may not alter, for all the world to win, That he that is most worthy must begin. The male eagle, as you all must feel, The royal fowl, above you in degree, The wise and worthy, secret, true as steel, Whom I have formed, as you can see, In every part as it best pleases me, It needs not that his form I must portray, He shall choose first, and speak in his own way. And after him in order shall you choose According to your kind, as you devise, And, as your luck is, shall you win or lose; But that one of you on whom love most lies, God send him she that sorest for him sighs.’ And therewithal the eagle she did call, And said: ‘My son, the choice on you does fall. But nonetheless, bound by this condition Must be the choice of everyone that’s here, That she shall yet agree to his decision, Whoever it is that shall her mate appear; This is our custom ever, from year to year; And he who at this time would find grace, At blessed time has come unto this place. With head inclined, humble, without fear, This royal eagle spoke and tarried not: ‘My sovereign lady, with no equal here, I choose, and choose with will and heart and thought, The female on your hand so finely wrought, Whose I am all, and ever will serve her I, Do what she please: to have me live or die. Beseeching her of mercy and of grace, As she that is my lady sovereign, To let me die right now, here in this place. For certain, I’ll not live long in such pain, Since in my heart is bleeding every vein; Having regard only for my truth, My dear heart, for my sorrow show some ruth. And if that I be found to her untrue, I disobey, or am blindly negligent, Boastful, or in time chase after new, I pray to you, on me be this judgement, That by these fowls I be all torn then, The very day that she should ever find I am false to her or wilfully unkind. And since none loves her as well as me, Though she never promised me her love, Then she should be mine, in her mercy, For I’ve no other claim on her to move. For never, for any woe, shall I prove Faithless to her, however far she wend; Say what you wish, my tale is at an end.’ Just as the fresh, the red rose new In the summer sunlight coloured is, So from modesty all waxed the hue Of the female when she heard all this; She neither answered, nor said aught amiss, So sore abashed was she, till Nature Said: ‘Daughter, fear you not, I you assure.’ Another male eagle spoke anon, Of lesser rank, and said: ‘This shall not be. I love her more than you do, by Saint John, Or at the least I love her as well as ye, Serving her longer in my degree, And if she should have love for long-loving, To me alone they should the garland bring. I dare state too, that if she finds me yet, False, indiscreet, unkind, rebellious, Or jealous, you may hang me by the neck! And if I do not fulfil in service As well as my wits can, this promise, In all respects her honour for to save, Take she my life, and all my goods I pray.’ A third male eagle answered so: ‘Now, sirs, you know we’ve little leisure here; For every fowl cries out to fly, and go Forth with her mate, or with his lady dear; And Nature herself would rather not hear, By tarrying here, half that I would sigh; Yet unless I speak, I must for sorrow die. Of long service I may offer nothing, Yet it’s as possible for me to die today For woe, as he that has been languishing These twenty winters, and happen it may That a man may serve better and more repay In half a year, although it were no more, Than some man does who has served a score. I say this not for myself, since I can Do no service that may my lady please; But, I dare state, I am her truest man And, in my opinion, best seek her ease; Briefly to speak, till death does me seize I will be hers, whether I wake or wink, And true in all that heart may bethink.’ In all my life since the day I was born, So noble a plea in love or anything Never heard any man but me before, As would be clear if any had the cunning And leisure to echo their way of speaking; And from the morning did their speech last Till downward went the sun wondrous fast. The cries of fowls, now, to be delivered Rang out so loud: ‘Have done, and let us wend!’ That I thought all the woods to pieces shivered. ‘Come on!’ they cried, ‘Alas, you us offend! When will your cursed pleading have an end? How should a judge for either party move A yea or nay, without a shred of proof?’ The goose, the duck, and the cuckoo also ‘Kek, kek!’ ‘Cuckoo!’ ‘Quack, quack!’ cried so high That through both ears the noise did flow. The goose said: ‘All this is not worth a fly! But find a remedy thereof can I, And I will give my verdict fair and swiftly For water fowl, whoever’s pleased or angry.’ ‘And I for worm-eaters,’ said fool cuckoo, For I will on my own authority, For the public good, take up the charge now, Since to free us quickly is great charity.’ ‘You must abide a while yet, indeed!’ Said the turtle-dove,’ If it’s your will That one may speak, who’d better shut his bill.’ I’m a seed-eater, one of the un-worthiest, As I well know, and little own to learning; But better it is a creature’s tongue rest Than that he meddle in those doings Of which he can neither speak nor sing. And he who does so, his cause destroys, For a service not requested oft annoys.’ Nature, who had always kept an ear On the foolish murmuring behind, With eloquent voice said: ‘Hold your tongues there! And I shall soon, I hope, a method find To release you, and from this noise unbind; I decree that every group on one shall call To announce the verdict for you all.’ Agreeable to this same conclusion Were all the fowls: and the birds of prey Chose the first by open election, The male falcon to speak out and say All their judgements, and adjudicate; And, to Nature, himself he did present, And she accepted him with glad intent. The eagle spoke then in this manner: ‘It were full difficult to prove by reason Who loves best this noble female here; Each so puts forward his justification That none by argument may be beaten. I cannot see that arguments avail; Then by battle it seems one must prevail.’ ‘We’re ready!’ the male eagles quoth anon. ‘Nay, sirs! quoth he, ‘If I may dare to say, You do me wrong, my tale is not yet done! For sirs, take no offence of me I pray, It may not, though you wish, happen this way; Ours is the voice whose decision is at hand, And the judge’s judgement you must stand; And therefore, peace! I say, so works my wit, That to me it seems that the worthiest In knighthood, who’s longest practiced it, Highest in rank, and of blood the noblest, Were most fitting for her, if she so wished; And of these three she herself knows, also Which that one is, since easy ‘tis to know.’ The waterfowl had all their heads laid Together and, after short argument, When each of them had his large mouthful said, Agreed truly, by mutual assent, That the goose, who was so eloquent, ‘Who so yearns to pronounce what we agreed, Shall tell our tale,’ and prayed her God speed. And, for these water fowl, then began The goose to speak, and in her cackling She said: ‘Peace! Now take heed every man And hear the judgement I shall forth bring; My wit is sharp, I hate all tarrying; I advise him, though he were my brother, Unless she loves him, let him love another!’ ‘Lo, here’s a reason fitting for a goose!’ Quoth the sparrow-hawk, ‘Never prosper she! Lo such it is to have a tongue that’s loose! Now, by God, fool, it were better for thee To have held your peace, than show stupidity! It lies not in his wit, nor in his will, But true it is, “a fool’s tongue’s never still.”’ Laughter arose from the noble fowls all, And anon the seed-eaters chosen had The turtle true, and to them her did call, And prayed her to tell the plain truth Of the matter, and say what she would do; And she answered that plainly her intent She would speak and truly what she meant. ‘Nay, God forbid that a lover should change,’ The dove said, and blushed for shame all red, ‘Though his lady evermore seem estranged, Yet let him serve her ever till he be dead. For truly, I praise not what the goose has said, For though she died, no other mate I’d take, I would be hers till death my end should make.’ ‘A fine jest,’ quoth the duck, ‘by my hat! That men should love forever causeless, Who can find reason or wit in that? Dances he merrily who is mirthless? Who cares for him who couldn’t care less?’ ‘Quack ye,’ quoth yet the duck, ‘full well and fair! There are more stars above than just one pair!’ ‘Shame on you, churl!’ quoth the noble eagle, ‘Out of the dunghill come the words you cite. You cannot see whatever is done well. You fare in love as owls do in the light; The day blinds them though they see by night. Your kind is of so low a wretchedness That what love is, you cannot see or guess.’ Then the cuckoo did the moment seize For the worm-eating fowls, and did cry: ‘So long as I may have my mate in peace, I care not how long you all may strive. Let both of them stay single all their lives! This I advise, since there’s no agreeing; This short lesson does not bear repeating.’ ‘Yea, so the glutton gets to fill his paunch, Then all is well!’ said the merlin for one; ‘You murderer of the sparrow on the branch, Who brought you forth, you wretched glutton! Live you single then, worms’ destruction! Useless even the defects of your natures; Go you ignorant while the world endures!’ ‘Now peace,’ quoth Nature, ‘I command here! Since I have heard all your opinions, And in effect our end is yet no nearer; Finally now this is my own conclusion: That she herself shall make her own decision Choose whom she wish, whoe’er be glad or angry, Him that she chooses, he shall have her as quickly. For since it may not here resolved be Who loves her best, as said the eagle yet, Then will I grant her this favour, that she Shall have him straight on whom her heart is set, And he’ll have her whom his heart can’t forget. This I decide, Nature, for I may not lie; To naught but love do I my thought apply. But as for advice in what choice to make, If I were Reason, then would I Advise that you the royal eagle take, As said the eagle there most skilfully, As being the noblest and most worthy, Whom I wrought so well for my pleasure; And that to you should be the true measure.’ With fearful voice the female gave answer, ‘My rightful lady, goddess of Nature, Truth it is, your authority I am under As is each and every other creature, And must be yours while my life endure, And therefore grant me my first boon, And my intent I will reveal right soon.’ ‘I grant it you,’ quoth she, and right anon The female eagle spoke in this degree, ‘Almighty queen, until this year be done I ask a respite to think carefully, And after that to make my choice all free. This is the sum of what I’d speak and say; You’ll get no more although you do me slay. I will not serve fair Venus nor Cupid In truth, as yet, in no manner of way.’ ‘Now since there is no alternative,’ Quoth Nature, ‘there is no more to say; Then wish I that these folks were away Each with its mate, not tarrying longer here’ – And spoke to them as you shall after hear. ‘To you I speak, you eagles,’ quoth Nature, ‘Be of good heart and serve you, all three; A year is not too long to endure, So each of you take pains in his degree To do well; for, God knows, free is she Of you this year; whatever may then befall, This same delay is served upon you all.’ And when this task was all brought to an end, Each fowl from Nature his mate did take In full accord, and on their way they went. And, Lord, the blissful scene they did make! For each of them the other in wings did take, And their necks round each other’s did wind, Thanking the noble goddess, kind by kind. But first were fowl chosen for to sing, As was ever their custom year on year To sing out a roundel at their parting To do Nature honour and bring cheer. The tune was made in France, as you may hear; The words were such as here you’ll find In the next verse, I have now in mind. “Who loves late forgets.” ‘Now welcome summer, with your sun soft, That this winter’s weather does off-shake, And the long nights’ black away does take! Saint Valentine, who art full high aloft – Thus sing the small fowls for your sake – Now welcome summer, with your sun soft, That this winter’s weather does off-shake. Well have they cause to rejoice full oft, Since each a marriage with its mate does make; Full joyous may they sing when they wake; Now welcome summer, with your sun soft, That this wintry weather does off-shake, And the long nights’ black away does take.’ And with the cries, when their song was done, That the fowls made as they flew away, I woke, and other books to read upon I then took up, and still I read always; I hope in truth to read something someday Such that I dream what brings me better fare, And thus my time from reading I’ll not spare. |
