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Upon the point that is befalle Of love, in which that I am falle, I thenke telle my matiere: Now herkne, who that wol it hiere, Of my fortune how that it ferde. This enderday, as I forthferde To walke, as I yow telle may, -- And that was in the Monthe of Maii, Whan every brid hath chose his make And thenkth his merthes forto make Of love that he hath achieved; Bot so was I nothing relieved, For I was further fro my love Than Erthe is fro the hevene above, As forto speke of eny sped: So wiste I me non other red, Bot as it were a man forfare Unto the wode I gan to fare, Noght forto singe with the briddes, For whanne I was the wode amiddes, I fond a swote grene pleine, And ther I gan my wo compleigne Wisshinge and wepinge al myn one, For other merthes made I none. So hard me was that ilke throwe, That ofte sithes overthrowe To grounde I was withoute breth; And evere I wisshide after deth, Whanne I out of my peine awok, And caste up many a pitous lok Unto the hevene, and seide thus: "O thou Cupide, O thou Venus, Thou god of love and thou goddesse, Wher is pite? wher is meknesse? Now doth me pleinly live or dye, For certes such a maladie As I now have and longe have hadd, It myhte make a wisman madd, If that it scholde longe endure. O Venus, queene of loves cure, Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele, Behold my cause and my querele, And yif me som part of thi grace, So that I may finde in this place If thou be gracious or non." And with that word I sawh anon The kyng of love and qweene bothe; Bot he that kyng with yhen wrothe His chiere aweiward fro me caste, And forth he passede ate laste. Bot natheles er he forth wente A firy Dart me thoghte he hente And threw it thurgh myn herte rote: In him fond I non other bote, For lenger list him noght to duelle. Bot sche that is the Source and Welle Of wel or wo, that schal betide To hem that loven, at that tide Abod, bot forto tellen hiere Sche cast on me no goodly chiere: Thus natheles to me sche seide, "What art thou, Sone?" and I abreide Riht as a man doth out of slep, And therof tok sche riht good kep And bad me nothing ben adrad: Bot for al that I was noght glad, For I ne sawh no cause why. And eft scheo asketh, what was I: I seide, "A Caitif that lith hiere: What wolde ye, my Ladi diere? Schal I ben hol or elles dye?" Sche seide, "Tell thi maladie: What is thi Sor of which thou pleignest? Ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest, I can do the no medicine." "Ma dame, I am a man of thyne, That in thi Court have longe served, And aske that I have deserved, Some wele after my longe wo." And sche began to loure tho, And seide, "Ther is manye of yow Faitours, and so may be that thow Art riht such on, and be feintise Seist that thou hast me do servise." And natheles sche wiste wel, Mi world stod on an other whiel Withouten eny faiterie: Bot algate of my maladie Sche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe. "Ma dame, if ye wolde have rowthe," Quod I, "than wolde I telle yow." "Sey forth," quod sche, "and tell me how; Schew me thi seknesse everydiel." "Ma dame, that can I do wel, Be so my lif therto wol laste." With that hir lok on me sche caste, And seide: "In aunter if thou live, Mi will is ferst that thou be schrive; And natheles how that it is I wot miself, bot for al this Unto my prest, which comth anon, I woll thou telle it on and on, Bothe all thi thoght and al thi werk. "O Genius myn oghne Clerk, Com forth and hier this mannes schrifte," Quod Venus tho; and I uplifte Min hefd with that, and gan beholde The selve Prest, which as sche wolde Was redy there and sette him doun To hiere my confessioun.
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other day fared forth mate success gone wrong all by myself that same time health, salvation seized remedy started, moved suddenly good, happiness fakers pretense, trickery pretense, trickery if by chance every bit
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