That day, is it.

[oloriel]

That dreadful holiday that snuck into this country only a few years ago, as if Carnival didn't harbour horrors enough on its own without the support of pink glittery hearts and the like.

So I meant to write yet another rant on why Valentine's Day is the most over-hyped, commercialized, stupid pseudo-holiday ever.

And then I thought, wait.
You've done that before, and repetitio non placet after a certain while.
And besides, you have the first line of a fricking Valentine's Day poem as your journal title. It would be kind of inconsistent to have that, no matter how much you agree with that sentiment, and then put up a big rant on why YOU do not want to have anything to do with Valentine's Day.

So you don't get the rant.

You get the poem instead. >:D

This is one of the first records, if not the first, to mention Valentine's Day as a holiday of love, and I like it for various reasons; firstly, it is written in Middle English, which is always nice; secondly, it is long and by FAR more intelligent than 'Violets are blue/ Roses are red/ If you don't love me/ I hope you die dead' or the like; thirdly, the lesson is an interesting one, namely (basically) that having a lover is nice for the unenlightened, but the most noble women don't need that to be perfect. Or something like that. [Actually, this poem was likely written as a parody of the chaos around the marriage of Anne of Bohemia. She had three suitors - Richard II, Charles of France, and Friedrich von Meißen - and only decided for Richard II (the royal tercel, so to say) after long deliberations. As the formel eagle doesn't decide within the course of this poem, most scholars presume that it was written before the final decision (i.e. before 1382). But one cannot be sure, and there are many exciting theories concerning the dating of this poem. Wikipedia's article on Valentine's Day would be wise to mention that instead of stating that the possibility the writer apparently decided for is the only one. Just sayin'.]

Anyway.

As not everyone on my friendslist is fluent in both English and German with a side helping of French, I provide you with a very rough translation along with the original poem [in the version used for the Riverside Chaucer. There are 14 manuscripts that all have slight differences, because Medieval spelling wasn't standardized and the scribes that copied stuff down occasionally interpreted things differently]. Try to read the original, though; it's so much better.

Note on translation: I have tried to stay very very very close to the original, which occasionally makes for awkward sentences. When I have derived from the modern word closest to the Middle English word, that usually happened for a reason. "Men", for example, is often not translated as "man" but as "one". That's because it is the German man, not the English man. Similarly, "cunnyng" does not mean the same as modern cunning, but rather the same as German Können. Middle English "may" is closer to "can" than to modern "may"; pure auxiliaries in the modern English can be full verbs in Middle English; and so on and so on. You may guess for yourselves why I translated the "wel ithewed" in line 47 as "endowed with virtues" rather than "well-endowed".

... I am beginning to sound like Christopher Tolkien in the HoME books, so I'll just shut up and give you the poem now. Have fun. >:D

Here begyneth the Parlement of Foules. The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye alwey tat slit so yerne: Al this mene I by Love, that my felynge Astonyeth with his wonderful werkynge So sore, iwis, that whan I on hym thynke Nat wot I wel wher that I flete or synke. For al be that I knowe nat Love in dede, Ne wot how that he quiteth folk her hyre, Yit happeth me ful ofte in bokes reede Of his myrakles and his crewel yre. There rede I wel he wol be lord and syre; I dar nat seyn, his strokes been so sore, But "God save swich a lord!" – I can na moore. Of usage – what for lust and what for lore – On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde. But wherefore that I speke al this? Nat yore Agon it happede me for to beholde Upon a bok, was write with letters olde, And therupon, a certeyn thing to lerne, The longe day ful faste I redde and yerne. For out of olde feldes, as men seyth, Cometh al this newe corn from yer to yere, And out of olde bokes, in good feyth, Cometh al this newe science that men lere. But now to purpose as of this matere: To rede forth hit gan me so delite That al that day me thoughte but a lyte. This bok of which I make mencioun Entitled was al there, as I shal telle: "Tullyus of the Drem of Scipioun." Chapitres sevene it hadde, of hevene and helle And erthe, and soules that therinne dwelle, Of whiche, as shortly as I an it trete, Of his sentence I wol yow seyn the greete. Fyrst telleth it, whan Scipion was come In Affrike, how he meteth Massynisse, That hym for joie in his armes hath inome; Thanne telleth [it] here speche and al the blysse That was betwixt hem til the day gan mysse, And how his auncestre, Affrycan so deere, Gan in his slep that nyght to hym apere. Thanne telleth it that, from a sterry place, How Affrycan hath hym Cartage shewed, And warnede hym beforn of all his grace, And seyde hym what man, lered other lewed, That lovede commune profyt, wel ithewed, He shulde into a blysful place wende There as joye is that last withouten ende. Thanne axede he if folk that here been dede Han lyf and dwellynge in another place. And Affrican seyde, "Ye, withouten drede," And that oure present worldes lyves space Nis but a maner deth, what wey we trace; And rightful folk shul gone, after they dye, To hevene; and shewede hym the Galaxye. Thanne shewede he hym the lytel erthe that here is, At regard of the hevenes quantite; And after shewede he hym the nyne speres; And after that the melodye herde he That cometh of thilke speres thryes thre, That welle is of musik and melodye In this world here, and cause of armonye. Than bad he hym, syn erthe was so lyte, And dissevable and ful of harde grace, That he ne shulde hym in the world delyte. Thanne tolde he hym, in certeyn yeres space That every sterre shulde come into this place Ther it was first, and al shulde out of mynde That in this world is don of al mankynde. Thanne preyede hym Scipion to telle hym al The wey to come into that hevene blisse. And he seyde, "Know thyself first immortal, And loke besyly thow werche and wysse To commune profit, and thow shalt not mysse To comen swiftly to that place deere That ful of blysse is and of soules cleere. "But brekers of the lawe, soth to seyne, And likerous folk, after that they ben dede, Shul whirle about th'erthe alwey in peyne, Tyl many a world be passed, out of drede, And than, foryeven al his wikked dede, Than shul they come into that blysful place, To which to comen God the sende his grace." The day gan faylen, and the derke nyght, That reveth bestes from here besynesse, Berafte me my bok for lak of light, And to my bed I gan me for to dresse, Fulfyld of thought and busy hevynesse; For bothe I hadde thing which that I nolde, And ek I ne hadde that thing that I wolde. But finally my spirit at the laste, For wery of my labour al the day, Tok reste, that made me to slepe faste; And in my slep I mette, as that I lay, How Affrican, ryght in the selve array That Scipion hym say byfore that tyde, Was come and stod right at my beddes syde. The wery huntere, slepynge in his bed, To wode ayeyn his mynde goth anon; The juge dremeth how his plees been sped; The cartere dremeth how his cart is gon; The riche, of gold; the knyght fyght with his fon; The syke met he drynketh of the tonne; The lovere met he hath his lady wonne. Can I not seyn if that the cause were For I hadde red of Affrican byforn That made me to mete that he stod there; But thus seyde he: "Thow hast the so wel born In lokynge of myn olde bok totorn, Of which Macrobye roughte nat a lyte, That sumdel of thy labour wolde I quyte." Cytherea, thow blysful lady swete, That with thy fyrbrond dauntest whom the lest And madest me this sweven for to mete, Be thow myn helpe in this, for thow mayst best! As wisly as I sey the north-north-west, Whan I began my sweven for to write, So yif me myght to ryme, and endyte! This forseyde Affrican me hente anon And forth with hym unto a gate broughte, Ryght of a park walled with grene ston; And over the gate, with letters large iwroughte, There were vers iwriten, as me thoughte, On eyther half, of ful gret difference, Of which I shal yow seyn the pleyn sentence: "Thorgh me men gon into that blysful place Of hertes hele and dedly woundes cure; Thorgh me men gon unto the welle of grace, There grene and lusty May shal evere endure. This is the wey to al good aventure. Be glad, thow redere, and thy sorwe of-caste; Al open am I – passe in, and sped thee faste!" "Thorgh me men gone," than spak that other side, "Unto the mortal strokes of the spere Of which Disdayn and Daunger is the gyde, There nevere tre shal fruyt ne leves bere. This strem yow ledeth to the sorweful were There as the fish in prysoun is al drye; Th'eschewing is only the remedye!" These vers of gold and blak iwriten were, Of whiche I gan astoned to beholde. For with that oon encresede ay my fere And with that other gan myn herte bolde; That oon me hette, that other dide me colde; No wit hadde I, for errour, for to chese To entre or flen, or me to save or lese. Right as betwixen adamauntes two Of evene myght, a pece of yren set Ne hath no myght to meve to ne fro – For what that oon may hale, that other let – Ferde I that nyste whether me was bet To entre or leve, til Affrycan, my gide, Me hente and shof in at the gates wide, And seyde, "It stondeth written in thy face, Thyn errour, though thow telle it not to me; But dred the not to come into this place, For this writyng nys nothyng ment bi the, Ne by non but he Loves servaunt be: For thow of love has lost thy tast, I gesse, As sek man hath of swete and bytternesse. "But natheles, although that thow be dul, Yit that thow canst not do, yit mast thow se. For many a man that may nat stoned a pul Yet liketh hym at wrastlyng for to be, And demen yit wher he do bet or he. And if thow haddest connyng for t'endite, I shal the shewe mater of to wryte." With that myn hand in his he tok anon, Of which I confort caughte, and wente in faste. But, Lord, so I was glad and wel begoon! For overall where that I myne eyen caste Were treës clad with leves that ay shal laste, Ech in his kynde, of colour fresh and greene As emeraude, that joye was to seene. The byldere ok, and ek the hardy asshe; The piler elm, the cofre unto carayne; The boxtre pipere, holm to whippes lashe; The saylyinge fyr; the cipresse, deth to playne; The shetere ew; the asp for shaftes pleyne; The olyve of pes, and eke the dronke wyne; The victor palm, the laurer to devyne. A gardyn saw I ful of blosmy bowes Upon a ryver, in a grene mede, There as swetnesse everemore inow is, With floure white, blewe, yelwe, and rede, And colde welle-stremes, nothyng dede, That swymmen ful of smale fishes lighte, With fynnes rede and skales sylver brighte. On every bow the bryddes herde I synge, With voys of aungel in here armonye; Some besyede hem here bryddes forth to brynge; The litel conyes to here pley gone hye; And ferther al aboute I gan aspye The dredful ro, the buk, the hert and hynde, Squyrels, and bestes smale of gentil kynde. Of instruments of strenges in acord Herde I so pleye a ravyshyng swetnesse, That God, that makere is of al and lord, Ne herde nevere beter, as I gesse. Therwith a wynd, unnethe it myghte be lesse, Made in the leves grene a noyse softe Acordaunt to the foules song alofte. Th'air of that place so attempte was That nevere was grevaunce of hot ne cold. There wex ek every holsom spice and gras; No man may there waxe sek ne old; Yit was there joye more a thousandfold Than man can telle; ne nevere wolde it nyghte, But ay cler day to any mannes syghte. Under a tre, beside a welle, I say Cupide, oure lord, his arwes forge and file; And at his fet his bowe al redy lay; And Wille, his doughter, temprede al this while The hevedes in the welle, and with hire wile She couchede hem, after they shulde serve Some for to sle, and some to wounde and kerve. Tho was I war of Plesaunce anon-ryght, And of Aray, and Lust, and Curteysie, And of the Craft that can and hath the myght To don by force a wyght to don folye – Disfigurat was she, I nyl nat lye; And by himself, under an ok, I gesse, Saw I Delyt, that stod with Gentilesse. I saw Beute withouten any atyr, And Youthe, ful of game and jolyte; Foolhardynesse, Flaterye, and Desyr, Messagerye, and Meede, and other thre – Here names shul not here be told for me – And upon pilers greete of jasper longe I saw a temple of bras ifounded stronge. Aboute the temple daunsedyn alwey Women inowe, of whiche some ther weere Fayre of hemself, and some of hem were gay; In kertels, al dishevele, wente they there: That was here offyce alwey, yer by yeere. And on the temple, of dowves white and fayre Saw I syttynge many an hundred peyre. Byfore the temple-dore ful soberly Dame Pees sat, with a curtyn in hire hond, And by hire syde, wonder discretly, Dame Pacience syttynge there I fond, With face pale, upon an hil of sond; And aldernext, withinne and ek withoute, Byheste and Art, and of here folk a route. Withinne the temple, of sykes hoote as fyr, I herde a swogh that gan aboute renne, Whiche sikes were engendered with desyr, Of newe flaume; and wel espied I thenne That al of the cause of sorwes that they drye Cam of the bittere goddesse Jelosye. The god Priapus saw I, as I wente, Withinne the temple in sovereyn place stonde, In swich array as whan the asse hym shente With cri by nighte, and with hys sceptre in honde. Ful besyly men gonne assaye and fonde Upon his hed to sette, of sundry hewe, Garlondes ful of freshe floures newe. And in a prive corner in disport Fond I Venus and hire porter Richesse, That was ful noble and hautayn of hyre port – Derk was that place, but afterward lightnesse I saw a lyte, unnethe it myghte be lesse – And on a bed of gold she lay to reste, Til that the hote sonne gan to weste. Hyre gilte heres with a golden thred Ibounden were, untressed as she lay, And nakes from the brest unto the hed Men myghte hire sen; and, sothly for to say, The remenaunt was wel kevered to my pay, Ryght with a subtly coverchef of Valence – Ther was no thikkere cloth of no defense. The place yaf a thousand savours sote, And Bacchus, god of wyn, sat hire bisyde, And Ceres next, that doth of hunger boote, And, as I seyde, amyddes lay Cypride, To whom on knees two yonge folk ther cryde To ben here helpe. But thus I let hire lye, And ferther in the temple I gan espie. That, in dispit of Dyane the chaste, Ful many a bowe ibroke heng on the wal Of maydenes swiche as gone here tymes waste In hyre servyse; and peynted overall Ful many a story, of which I touche shal A fewe, as of Calyxte and Athalante, And many a mayde of which the name I wante. Semyramis, Candace, and Hercules, Biblis, Dido, Thisbe, and Piramus, Tristram, Isaude, Paris, and Achilles, Eleyne, Cleopatre, and Troylus, Silla, and ek the moder of Romulus: Alle these were peynted on that other syde, And al here love, and in what plyt they dyde. Whan I was come ayeyn into the place That I of spak, that was so sote and grene, Forth welk I tho myselven to solace. Tho was I war wher that ther sat a queene That, as of light the somer sonne shene Passeth the sterre, right so over mesure She fayrer was than any creature. And in a launde, upon an hil of floures, Was set this noble goddesse Nature. Of braunches were here halles and her bourse Iwrought after here cast and here mesure; Ne there nas foul that cometh of engendrure That they ne were prest in her presence To take hire dom and yeve hire audyence. For this was on Seynt Valentynes day, Whan every foul cometh there to chese his make, Of every kynde that men thynke may, And that so huge a noyse gan they make That erthe, and eyre, and tre, and every lake So ful was that unethe was there space For me to stonde, so ful was al the place. And right as Aleyn, in the Pleynt of Kynde, Devyseth Nature of array and face, In swich array men myghte hire there fynde. This noble emperesse, ful of grace, Bad every foul to take his owne place, As they were woned alwey fro yer to yeere, Seynt Valentynes day, to stonden theere. That is to seyn, the foules of ravine Weere hyest set, and thanne the foules smale That eten, as hem Nature wolde enclyne, As worm or thing of which I telle no tale; And water-foul sat lowest in the dale; But foul that lyveth by sed sat on the greene, And that so fele that wonder was to sene. There myghte men the royal egle fynde, That with his sharpe lok perseth the sonne, And othere egles of a lowere kynde, Of whiche that clerkes wel devyse conne. Ther was the tiraunt with his fetheres donne And grey – I mene the goshauk that doth pyne To bryddes for his outrageous ravyne. The gentyl faucoun, that with his feet distrayneth The kynges hand; the hardy sperhauk eke, The quayles foo; the merlioun, that payneth Hymself ful ofte the larke for to seke; There was the douve with hire yën meke; The jelous swan, ayens his deth that syngeth; The oule ek, that of deth the bode bryngeth; The crane, the geaunt, with his trompes soun; The thef, the chough; and ek the janglynge pye; The skornynge jay; the eles fo, heroun; The false lapwynge, ful of trecherye; The stare, that the conseyl can bewrye; The tame ruddok, and the coward kyte; The kok, that orloge is of thorpes lyte; The sparwe, Venus sone; the nyghtyngale, That clepeth forth the grene leves newe; The swalwe, mortherere of the foules smale That maken hony of floures freshe of hewe; The wedded turtil, with hire herte trewe; The pekok, with his aungels fetheres bryghte; The fesaunt, skornere of the cok by nyghte; The waker goos, the cukkow ever unkynde; The popinjay, ful of delicasye; The drake, stroyere of his owene kynde; The stork, the wrekere of avouterye; The hote cormeraunt of glotenye; The raven vys; the crowe with vois of care; The throstil old; the frosty feldefare. What shulde I seyn? Of foules every kynde That in this world han fetheres and stature Men myghten in that place assembled fynde Byfore the noble goddesse Nature, And ech of hem dide his besy cure Benygnely to chese or for to take, By hire acord, his formel or his make. But to the poynt: Nature held on hire hond A formel egle, of shap the gentilleste That evere she among hire werkes fond, The moste benygne and the goodlieste. In hire was every vertu at his reste, So ferforth that Nature hireself hadde blysse To loke on hire, and ofte hire bek to kysse. Nature, the vicaire of the almyghty Lord, That hot, cold, hevy, light, moyst, and dreye Hath knyt by evene noumbres of acord, In esy voys began to speke and seye, "Foules, tak hed of my sentence, I preye, And for youre ese, in fortheryng of youre nede, As faste as I may speke, I wol yow speede." "Ye knowe wel how, Seynt Valentynes day, By my statut and thorgh my governaunce, Ye come for to cheese – and fle youre wey – Youre makes, as I prike yow with plesaunce; But natheles, my ryghtful ordenaunce May I nat lete for al this world to wynne, That he that most is worthi shal begynne. "The tersel egle, as that ye knowe wel, The foul royal, above yow in degree, The wyse and worthi, secre, trewe as stel, Which I have formed, as ye may wel se, In every part as it best liketh me – It nedeth not his shap yow to devyse – He shal first chese and speken in his gyse. "And after hym by ordre shul ye chese, After youre kynde, everich as yow lyketh, And, as youre hap is, shul ye wynne or lese. But which of yow that love most entriketh, God sende hym hire that sorest for hym syketh!" And therwithal the tersel gan she calle, And seyde, "My sone, the choys is to the falle. "But natheles, in this condicioun Mot be the choys of everich that is here, That she agre to his eleccioun, Whoso he be that shulde be hire feere. This is oure usage alwey, fro yer to yeere, And whoso may at this tyme have his grace In blisful tyme he cam into this place!" With hed enclyned and with humble cheere This royal tersel spak, and tariede noght: "Unto my soverayn lady, and not my fere, I chese, and chese with wil, and herte, and thought, The formel on youre hond, so wel iwrought, Whos I am al, and evere wol hire serve, Do what hire lest, to do me lyve or sterve; "Besekynge hire of merci and of grace, As she that is my lady sovereyne; Or let me deye present in this place. For certes, longe may I nat lyve in payne, For in myn herte is korven every veyne. Havynge reward only to my trouthe, My deere herte, have on my wo som routhe. "And if that I be founde to hyre untrewe, Disobeysaunt, or wilful necligent, Avauntour, or in process love a newe, I preye to yow this be my jugement: That with these foules I be al torent, That ilke day that evere she me fynde To hir untrewe, or in my gilt unkynde. "And syn that non loveth hire so wel as I, Al be she nevere of love me behette, Thanne oughte she be myn through hire mercy, For other bond can I non on hire knette. Ne nevere for no wo ne shal I lette To serven hire, how fer so that she wende; Say what yow list, my tale is at an ende." Ryght as the freshe, rede rose newe Ayeyn the somer sonne coloured is, Ryght so for shame al wexen gan the hewe Of this formel, whan she herde al this; She neyther answered wel, ne seyde amys, So sore abasht was she, tyl that Nature Seyde, "Doughter, drede yow nought, I yow assure." Another tersel egle spak anon, Of lower kynde, and seyde, "That shal nat be! I love hire bet than ye don, by Seint John, Or at the leste I love hire as wel as ye, And lenger have served hire in my degree; And if she shulde have loved for long lovynge, To me alone hadde be the guerdonynge. "I dare ek seyn, if she me fynde fals, Unkynde, janglere, or rebel any wyse, Or jelous, do me hangen by the hals! And, but I bere me in hire servyse As wel as that my wit can me suffyse, From poynt in poynt, hyre honour for to save, Take she my lif and al the good I have!" The thridde tercel egle answered tho, "Now, sires, ye seen the lytel leyser here; For every foul cryeth out to ben ago Forth with his make, or with his lady deere; And ek Nature hireself ne wol not here, For taryinge here, not half that I wolde seye; And but I speke, I mot for sorwe deye. "Of long servyse avaunte I me nothing; But as possible is me to deye to-day For wo as he that hath ben languysshyng This twenty wynter, and wel happen may; A man may serven bet and more to pay In half a yer, although it were no moore, Than som man doth that hath served ful yore. "I seye not this by me, for I ne can Don no servyse that may my lady plese; But I dar seyn, I am hire treweste man As to my dom, and faynest wolde hire ese. At shorte wordes, til that deth me sese I wol ben heres, whether I wake or wynke, And trewe in al that herte may bethynke." Of al my lyf, syn that day I was born, So gentil ple in love or other thing Ne herde nevere no man me beforn – Who that hadde leyser and connyng For to reherse hire chere and hire spekyng; And from the morwe gan this speche laste Tyl dounward went the sonne wonder faste. The noyse of foules for to ben delivered So loude rong, "Have don, and lat us wende!" That wel wende I the wode hadde al to-shyvered. "Com of!" they criede, "Allas, ye wol us shende! Whan shal youre cursede pletynge have an ende? How sholde a juge eyther parti leve For ye or nay withouten any preve?" The goos, the cokkow, and the doke also So cryede, "Kek kek! kokkow! quek quek!" hye, That through myne eres the noyse went tho. The goos seyde, "Al this nys not worth a flye! But I can shape herof a remedie, And I wol seye my verdit fayre and swythe For water-foul, whoso be wroth or blythe!" "And I for worm-foul," seyde the fol kokkow, "For I wol of myn owene autorite, For commune spede, take on the charge now, For to delyvere us is gret charite." "Ye may abyde a while yit, parde!" Quod the turtle, "If it be youre wille A wight may speke, hym were as fayr be style. "I am a sed-foul, oon the unworthieste, That wot I wel, and litel of connynge. But bet is that a wyghtes tonge reste Than entermeten hym of such doinge, Of which he neyther rede can ne synge; And whoso hit doth ful foule himself acloyeth, For office uncommyted ofte anoyeth." Nature, which that alwey hadde an ere To murmur of the lewednesse behynde, With facound voys seyde, "Hold youre tongues there! And I shal sone, I hope, a conseyl fynde Yow to delyvere, and fro this noyse unbynde: I juge, of every folk men shul oon calle To seyn the verdit for yow foules alle." Assented were to this conclusioun The brides alle; and foules of ravyne Han chosen fyrst, by pleyn eleccioun, The tercelet of the faucoun to diffyne Al here sentence, and as him lest, termyne; And to Nature hym gonne to presente, And she accepteth hym with glad entente. The terslet seyde thanne in this manere: "Ful hard were it to preve by resound Who loveth best this gentil formel here; For everych hath swich replicacioun That non by skilles may be brought adoun. I can not se that arguments avayle: Thanne semeth it there moste be batayle." "Al redy!" quod these egles tercels tho. "Nay, sires," quod he, "if that I durste it seye, Ye don me wrong, my tale is not ido! For, sires – ne taketh not agref I preye – It may not gon as ye wolde in this weye; Oure is the voys that han the charge in honde, And to the juges dom ye moten stonde. "And therfore pes! I seye, as to my wit, Me wolde thynke how that the worthieste Of knyghthod, and longest had used it, Most of estat, of blod the gentilleste, Were sittyngest for hire, if that hir leste; And of these thre she wot hireself, I trowe, Which that he be, for it is light to knowe." The water-foules han here hedes leid Togedere, and of a short avysement, Whan everych hadde his large golee seyd, They seyden sothly, al by oon assent, How that the goos, with here facounde gent, "That so desyreth to pronounce oure nede, Shal telle oure tale," and preyede, "God hire spede!" And for these water-foules tho began The goos to speke, and in hire kakelynge She seyde, "Pes! Now tak kep every man, And herkeneth which a resoun I shal forth brynge! My wit is sharp; I love no taryinge; I seye I rede hym, though he were my brother, But she wol love hym, lat hym love another!" "Lo, here a parfit resound of a goos!" Quod the sperhauk; "Nevere mot she thee! Lo, swich it is to have a tonge loos! Now parde, fol, yit were it bet for the Han holde thy pes than shewed thy nycete. It lyth nat in his wit, ne in his wille, But soth is seyd, 'a fol can not be stille.'" The laughter aros of gentil foules ale, And right anon the sed-foul chosen hadde The turtle trewe, and gonne hire to hem calle, And preyeden hire to seyn the sothe sadde Of this matere, and axede what she radde. And she answerede that pleynly hire entente She wolde shewe, and sothly what she mente. "Nay, God forbede a lovere shulde change!" The turtle seyde, and wex for shame al red, "Though that his lady everemore be straunge, Yit lat hym serve hire ever, til he be ded. Forsothe, I preyse nat the goses red; 'For, though she deyede, I wolde non other make; I wol ben hires, til that the deth me take.'" "Wel bourded," quod the doke, "by myn hat! That men shulde loven alwey causeles! Who can a resound fynde or wit in that? Daunseth he murye that is myrtheles? Who shulde recche of that is recheles?" "Ye queke," seyde the goos, "ful wel and fayre! There been mo sterres, God wot, than a payre!" "Now fy, cherl!" quod the gentil tercelet, "Out of the donghil cam that word ful right! Thow canst nat seen which thing is wel beset! Thow farst by love as oules don by light: The day hem blent, ful wel they se by nyght. Thy kynde is of so low a wrechednesse That what love is, thow canst nouther seen ne gesse." Tho gan the kokkow putte hym forth in pres For foul that eteth worm, and seyde blyve: - "So I," quod he, "may have my make in pes, I reche nat how longe that ye stryve. Lat ech of hem be soleyn al here lyve! This is my red, syn they may nat acorde; This shorte lessoun nedeth nat recorde." "Ye, have the glotoun fild inow his paunche, Thanne are we wel!" seyde the merlioun; "Thow morthere of the heysoge on the braunche That broughte the forth, thow reufullest glotoun! Lyve thow soleyn, wormes corupcioun, For no fors is of lak of thy nature! Go, lewed be thow whil the world may dure!" "Now pes," quod Nature, "I comaunde heer! For I have herd al youre opynyoun, And in effect yit be we nevere the neer. But finally, this is my conclusioun, That she hireself shal han hir eleccioun Of whom hire lest; whoso be wroth or blythe, Hym that she cheest, he shal hire han as swithe. "For sith it may not here discussed be Who loveth hire best, as seyde the tercelet, Thanne wol I don hire this favour, that she Shal han right hym on whom hire herte is set, And he hire that his herte hath on hire knet: Thus juge I, Nature, for I may not lye; To non estat I have non other yë." "But as for counseyl for to chese a make, If I were Resoun, thanne wolde I Conseyle yow the royal tercel take, As seyde the tercelet ful skylfully, As for the gentilleste and most worthi, Which I have wrought so wel to my plesaunce That to yow hit oughte to been a suffisaunce." With dredful vois the formel hire answerde, "My rightful lady, goddesse of Nature! Soth is that I am evere under youre yerde, As is everich other creature, And mot be youres whil my lyf may dure; And therfore graunteth me my firste bone, And myn entente I wol yow sey right sone." "I graunte it yow," quod she; and right anon This formel egle spak in this degre: "Almyghty queen, unto this yer be don, I axe respit for to avise me, And after that so have my choys al fre. This al and som that I wol speke and seye; Ye gete no more, although ye do me deye! "I wol nat serve Venus ne Cupide, Forsothe as yit, by no manere weye." "Now, syn it may non otherwise betide," Quod Nature, "here is no more to seye. Thanne wolde I that these foules were aweye, Ech with his make, for taryinge lengere heere!" And seyde them thus, as ye shul after here. "To yow speke I, ye tercelets," quod Nature, "Beth of good herte, and serveth alle thre. A yer is nat so longe to endure, And ech of yow peyne him in his degree For to do wel, for, God wot, quyt is she Fro yow this yer; what after so befalle, This entremes is dressed for yow alle." And whan this werk al brought was to an ende, To every foul Nature yaf his make By evene acord, and on here way they wende. And, Lord, the blisse and joye that they make! For ech of hem gan other in wynges take, And with here nekkes ech gan other wynde, Thankynge alwey the noble goddesse of kynde. But fyrst were chosen foules for to synge, As yer by yer was alwey hir usaunce To synge a roundel at here departynge, To don Nature honour and plesaunce. The note, I trowe, imaked was in Fraunce, The wordes were swiche as ye may heer fynde, The nexte vers, as I now have in mynde. "Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast thes winters wedres overshake, And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!" "Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte, Thus syngen smale foules for thy sake: 'Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast thes winters wedres overshake.' "Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte, Sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make, Ful blissful mowe they synge when they wake: 'Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast thes winters wedres overshake, And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!'" And with the shoutyng, whan the song was do That foules maden at here flight awey, I wok, and othere bokes tok me to, To reede upon, and yit I rede alwey. I hope, ywis, to rede so som day That I shal mete som thyng for to fare The bet, and thus to rede I nyl nat spare. Explicit parliamentum Avium in die sancti Valentini tentum, secundum Galfridum Chaucers. Deo gracias.

The life so short, the craft so long to learn, The attempt so hard, so sharp the conquering, The dreadful joy that always slides away so easily: By all this I mean Love, that astonishes my feelings with his wonderful workings so sorely, certainly, that when I think of him I do not know whether I float or sink. For even though I do not in fact know Love, Nor know how he pays the folk in his service, It happened full often that I read in books Of his miracles and his cruel ire. I read there that he wants to be lord and sire; And his strokes would be so hard that I dare or cannot say more but "God save such a lord!" I use – some for leisure and some for learning – to often read books, as I told you. But wherefore do I speak all this? Not long ago it happened that I beheld a book, which was written with old letters, and thereupon, certain to learn something, I read and yearned all the long day through. For out of old fields, as one says, Come all the new crops from year to year, And out of old books, in good faith, Comes all this new science that one teaches. But now to the purpose of this matter: It delighted me so much to read forth That the whole day felt but short to me. This book of which I make mention was entitled thusly, as I shall tell: "Tullius [Cicero]: Of the Dream of Scipio." Chapters it had seven, of heaven and hell and earth, and the souls that dwell therin, Of which, as briefly as I manage, the substance of meaning I will tell you. First it tells how, when Scipio [the Younger] was come to Africa, how he met Massinissa [king of Numidia], who took him in his arms for joy; Then it tells about their speech and all the bliss That was between them until the day ended, And how his ancestor, dear [Scipio] Africanus, appeared to him in his sleep that night. Then it tells that, from a starlight place, Africanus showed him Carthage, and forewarned him of all its fate, And said him that a man, learned or layman, who loved the public good, endowed with virtues, Should go into a blissful place [after death] where there is joy that lasts without end. Then Scipio asked if people that be dead here Had life and dwelling in another place. And Africanus said, "Yes, without dread," And that the time of life in our present world Is nothing but a manner of death, whichever way we go; And rightful people shall go, after they die, To heaven; and he showed him the Milky Way. Then he showed him how little the earth here is Compared to the quantity of the heavens; And after he showed him the nine spheres; And after that he heard the melody That comes of these thrice three spheres and that is source of music and melody in this world here, and cause of harmony. Then he bade him, as earth was so little and deceptive and ful of hard grace, that he should not delight himself in the world. Then he told him, that in a certain period of time Every star should come into the place Where it was first, and all should go out of mind [= memory] That has been done in this world by all mankind. Then Scipio prayed him to tell him all about The way to come into that heavenly bliss. And he said: "Know thyself first immortal, And look busily that thou worketh and knowest To commune profit, and thou shalt not miss To come swiftly into that dear place That is full of bliss and of pure souls. "But breakers of the law, sooth to say, And lecherous folk, after they are dead, Shall whirl about the earth always in pain, Until many an age be passed, out of dread, And then, forgiven for all their wicked deeds. Then shall they come into that blissful place To which to come God send them his grace." The day began to fail, and the dark night That reaps the beasts from their business Bereft me of my book for lack of light, And I began to dress myself for bed, Fulfilled with thought and busy heaviness; For both I had something that I did not want and did not have the thing that I wanted. But finally my spirit at the last, Wearied of my labour all the day, Took rest, that made me sleep fast; And in my sleep I dreamed, as I lay there, How Africanus, right in the same array That Scipio had seen him in before that time, was come and stood right at my bedside. The weary hunter, sleeping in his bed, His mind again goes into the woods; The judge dreams of how his cases sped by; The carter dreams how his cart went; The rich dream of gold; the knight fights with his foe; The sick dreams that he drinks of his potion; The lover dreams that he has won his lady. I cannot say if it was the cause that I had read of Africanus before That made me dream that he stood there; But thus he said:" You have born thyself so well In looking after my old tattered book, Of which Macrobius did not think little [i.e., thought highly], That I would pay thee for some part of thy labour." Oh Evenstar, thou blissful sweet lady that with thy firebrand dauntest whom thou pleasest And madest for me to dream this dream, Be thou my help in this, for thou canst it best! As truly as I saw thee north-north-west When I began to write down my dream, So give me might to rhyme and endure! This aforesaid Africanus took me anon And brought me forth with him unto a gate of a park walled with green stone; And over the gate, with largely wrought letters, There were verses written, as I thought, On either half, of great difference, Of which I shall tell you the plain content: "Through me one goes into that blissful place Of healed hearts and the cure of deadly wounds; Through me one goes unto the well of grace, Where green and lusty May shall ever last. This is the way to all good chance. Be glad, thou reader, and cast off thy sorrow; I am all open – pass in, and speed thee fast!" "Through me one goes," then spoke that other side, "Unto the mortal strokes of the spear Of which Disdain and Danger are the guides, There never shall the trees bear fruit nor leaves. This stream leads you to the sorrowful weir Where the fish are as in an all-dry prison; Thy only remedy is avoidance!" These verses were written of gold and black, Which I was astonished to see. For with the one my very fear increased And with the other my heart was made more bld; The one heated me, the other made me feel cold; I did not dare, for fear of erring, to choose To enter or flee, or to save or loose myself. Just like a piece of iron, set between two Lodestones of equal might, Has no power to move to or fro – For where the one hails, the other repels – I fared, who did not know whether it was better to enter or leave, until Africanus, my guide, Took and shoves me in at the wide gates, And said, "It stands written in thy face, Thine error, though thou dost not tell it to me; But dread thee not to come into this place, For this writing means nothing for thee, Nor by anyone but those who be Love's servant: For thou of love has lost thy taste, I guess As a sick man hath of sweetness and bitterness. "But nonetheless, although thou be dull, That which thou canst not do, thou mayest see. For many a man that would not stand one pull Yet likes to be at wrestling, And deems whether this one does better or that one. And if thou hadst the ability for the attempt, I should show thee a matter of which to write. With that he took my hand in his at once, Of which I caught comfort, and went in fast. But, Lord, so I was glad and well off! For everywhere where I cast mine eyes Were trees clad with leaves that shall last forever, Each in his kind, of fresh and green colour like emeralds, that was a joy to see. The builder's oak, and also the hardy ash; The pillar elm, the coffin unto corpses; The boxwood for making pipes, holly for whip handles; The sailor's fir; the cypress for lamenting death; The shooter's yew; the asp for straight arrow-shafts; The olive-tree of peace, and also the drunken wine; The victor's palm, the laurel for divination. A garden I saw full of blossoming boughs Upon a riverbank, in a green meadow, Where there is evermore enough sweetness, With white, blue, yellow and red flowers, And cold wells, nothing dead [i.e. very lively], That were aswim with light small fishes With red fins and silver-bright scales. On every bough I heard the birds sing With voices of angels in their harmony; Some busied themselves with bringing forth their offspring; The little conies went there to their play; And further all about I began to espy The timid roe, the buck, the hart and hounds, Squirrels, and small beasts of gentle kind. Of string-instruments in harmony I heard such a ravishing sweetness played, That God, who is maker and lord of all, Never heard anything better, as I guess. Therewith a wind, it could hardly have been less, made in the green leaves a soft noise that blended with the song of the birds aloft. The air of that place was so temperate That there was never grievance of hot nor cold. There also grew every wholesome spice and gras; No man can wax sick or old there; There was a thousandfold more joy Than one can tell; it never turned night, But was ever clear day to any man's sight. Under a tree, beside a well, I saw Cupid, our Lord, forging and filing his arrows; And at his feet his bow lay ready; And Will, his doughter, tempered all the while the arrow-heads in the well, and with her skill she arranged them according to how they should serve after: Some for slaying, and some to wound and cut. Thus was I aware of Pleasure just on the right, And of Array, and Lust, and Curtesy, And of the Artfulness that has the might To bring by force a fellow to doing folly – She was disfigured, I will not lie; And by himself, under an oak, I guess, I saw Delight, that stood with Nobility. I saw Beauty without any attire, And Youth, full of game and jollity; Foolhardiness, Flattery, and Desire, Messagery, and Bribery, and three others – Their names shall not be told by me here – And upon great long pillars of jasper I saw a temple of brass, strongly founded. About the temple there always danced women enough, of whom some there were fair of themselves, and some of them were dressed prettily; In frocks all dishevelled they went there: That was always their office, year by year. And on the temple I saw sitting many hundred pairs Of white and fair doves. Before the temple-door said full soberly Dame Peace, with a curtain in her hand, And by her side, ever so courteously, I found Dame Patience sitting, With a pale face, upon a hill of sand; And nearest of all, within and also without the temple, Promises and Skill, and of their folk a crowd. Within the temple I head a wind that ran about, of sighs hot as fire, These sighs were mingled with desire, Of new flame; and well espied I then That all the cause of sorrows that drove them Came of the bitter goddess Jealousy. The god Priapus I saw standing as I went Within the temple in a sovereign place, In such array as when the donkey shamed him With his cry by night, and with his sceptre in his hand. Full busily men went to try and find garlands of fresh new flowers of sundry hue to set upon his head. And in a private corner in disport I found Venus and her porter Richness that was very noble and haughty in her deportment – Dark was the place, but afterwards I saw a little light, it could hardly have been less – And she lay to rest on a bed of gold Until the hot sun had gone into the west. Her golden hair was with a golden thread bound back, as she lay in disarray, and naked from the breast unto the head one could see her; and, to say it truly, The rest was covered just enough in my opinion, With a subtle cover of Valence – No thicker cloth there was for decency. The place gave off a thousand sweet savours, And Bacchus, god of wine, sat by her side, And Ceres next, who has the remedy against hunger, And, as I said, in the middle lay Venus, To whom two young people cried on their knees To be their help. But thus I let her lie, And went further into the temple to espy more. There hung, in spite of Diana the chaste, Full many a bow broken on the wall Of maidens such as had gone to waste In her service; and painted overall was many a story, which I shall mention A few, such as Callisto and Atalanta, And many a maid of whom I lack the name. Semiramis, Candace, and Hercules, Biblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus, Tristan, Isolde, Paris and Achilles, Helen, Cleopatra, and Troilus, Silla, and the mother of Romulus too: All these were painted on that other side, And all their love, and in what plight they died. When I was come again into the place Of which I spoke, that was so sweet and green, I walked forth in order to solace myself. Thus I was aware that there sat a queen That, as the light of the shine of the summer-sun Surpasses the starlight, was just as much above measure Fairer than any other creature. And in a glade, upon a hill of flowers, This noble goddess Nature was set. Her halls and chambers were of branches wrought after her design and her measure; There was no bird that comes from procreation That was not ready in her presence To take her doom, and give her hearing. For this was on Saint Valentine's day, When every bird comes there to choose their mate, Of every kind that one may think of, And they were making such a huge noise That earth, and air, and tree and every lake was so full that there was hardly space for me to stand, so full was all the place. And right as Alanus, in the Complaint of Nature, Describes Nature of array and face, In such array one could find her there. This noble embress, full of grace, Bade every bird to take his own place, As they were used to always from year to year, On Saint Valentine's Day, to stand there. That is to say, the birds of prey Were highest set, and then the small birds That eat, as Nature inclined them to, Worms and other things of which I tell no tale; And water-birds sat lowest in the dale; But birds that live on seeds sat on the green, And so many of them that it was a wonder to see. There one might find the royal eagle, That with his sharp look pierces the sun, And other eagles of a lower kind, Of which the scholars can well explain. There was the tyrant with his dun and grey feathers – I mean the goosehawk, who puts to pain other birds for his outrageous rapine. The noble falcon, who with his feet grasps The king's hand; also the hardy sparrowhawk, The qual's foe; the merlin, who pains himself full often in order to seek the lark; There was the dove with her meek eyes; The jealpus swans, who only sings when his death comes; Also the owl, who brings the news of death; The crane, the giant, with his trumpet-sound; The thief the chough; and also the stealing magpie; The scorning jay; the foe of eels, heron; The false lapwing, full of treachery; The starling who can betray the counsel; The tame robin, and the cowardly kite; The cock that is the clock of little villages; The sparrow, Venus' son; the nightingale That calls the new green leaves forth; The swallow, murderer of the little birds That make honey out of flowers of fresh hue; The wedded turtledove with her true heart; The peacock with his bright angel-feathers; The pheasant, scorner of the cock by night; The watchman goose, the ever unkind cuckoo; The parrot, full of delicate wit; The drake, destroyer of his own kind; The stork, the avenger or adultery; The eager cormorant of gluttony; The wise raven; the crow with its said voice; The old trush; the frosty fieldfare. What should I say? Every kind of birds That have feathers and stature one could find assembled in that place before the noble goddess of Nature, And each of them worked diligently in order to benignly choose or take, according to their nature, their female or their mate. But to the point: Nature held on her hand A female eagle, of shape the most noble That she ever found among her works, The most benign and the goodliest. In her was every virtue at rest, So much that Nature herself was blessed To look at her, and to often kiss her beak. Nature, the vicar of the almighty Lord, That has knitted hot, cold, heavy, light, moist and dry By equal numbers into balance, Began to speak with gentle voice and said, "Birds, take head of my judgement, I pray, and for your ease, in fostering of your need, As fast as I may speak, I will you speed." "You know well how, on Saint Valentine's day, By my decree and through my governance You come to choose – and fly your way – Your mates, as I make to please you; But nonetheless, my rightful ordinance I will not let go of even to win all this world, That is, that he who is most worthy shall begin. "The tercel eagle, as you know well, The royal bird, above you in degree, The wise and worthy, discreet, true as steel, Which I have formed, as you can well see, In every part as it liked me best – It is not necessary to explain to you his place – He shall first choose and speak in his custom. "And after him you shall choose in your order, after your kind, everyone as you like, And, as your look is, you shall win or loose. But those of you who love entangles most, God sende him her who seeks for him sorest!" And after that she called the tercel, and said, "My son, the choice is fallen to thee." "But nonetheless, in this condition the choice must be of everyone that is here, That she agree to his election, Whosoever he be that should fare by her. This has always been our custom, from year to year, And whosoever may at this time have his desire, In a blissful time he came into this place!" With head inclined and with humble cheer This royal tercel spoke, and tarried not: "Unto my sovereign lady, not my equal, I choose, and choose with will, and heart, and thought, The female on your hand, so well wrought, To whom I shall belong, and ever will serve her, Do what she likes, to let me live or die; "Beseeking her of mercy and of grace So that she be my sovereign lady; Or let me die presently in this place. For certainly, I cannot live long in pain, For in my heart every vein is bent. Having only her regard for my troth, My dear heart, have on my woe some ruth. "And if I be found to her untrue, disobedient, or wilfully negligent, A boaster, or should in time love another, I pray to you this be my judgement: That with all these birds I be torn apart, That same day that she ever find me To her untrue, or unkind in my guilt. "And since there is none that loves her so well as I, even though she never promised me love, She ought to be mine through her mercy, For I can fasten no other bond on her. I shall never, for no woe, cease To serve her, how far she ever went; Say what you want, my tale is at an end." Right as the new fresh red rose is compared to the colour of the summer sun, Right so turned for shame the hue Of this female, when she head al this; She neither answered in the positive nor negative, So sorely she was abashed, until Nature said, "Daughter, dread not, I assure you." Another tercel eagle spoke anon, Of lower kind, and said, "That shall not be!" I love her better than you do, by Saint John, Or at least I love her as well as you do, And I have longer served her in my way; And if she should have loved for long loving, To me alone has to be the reward. "I also dare to say, if she find me false, Unkind, a gossip, or rebel in any way, Or jealous, do hang me by my neck! And, though I bear myself in her service As well as my wit suffices me, From beginning to the end, to save her honour, she should take my life and all the good I have!" The third tercel eagle answered thus, "Now, sirs, you the little leisure there is; For every bird cries out to be going Forth with her mate, or with his lady dear; And Nature herself will not hear all this For Tarrying here, not half that I would say; But if I do not speak, I must die of sorrow. "Of long service I boast nothing; But just as possible it is for me to die today Of woe like that of one that has been languishing This twenty winter, and it may well happen; A man may serve better and for more pay In half a year, although it be no more, Than some man does that has served a long time. "I do not say this for me, for I cannot Have done any service that may please my lady; But I dare say, I am her truest man as far as my doom is concerned, and would ease her the most. To make it short, until death seize me I would be hers, whether I wake or sleep, And true in all that a heart may think of." In all my life, since the day I was born, Such a gentle plee in love or anything else I never heard any man before – Who would have leisure and knowledge To rehearse their manner and their speaking; And from the morning this speech lasted Until the sun went down, wondrously fast. The noise of birds [pleading] to be delivered Rang so loud, "Have done, and let us go!" That I well thought the whole wood had quaked. "Come on!" They cried, "Alas, you want to torment us!" When shall your cursed pleading have an end? How should a judge believe either party For yea or nay without any proof?" The goose, the cuckoo, and also the duck Cried "Kek kek! Cuckoo! Quak quak!" so high That the noise went through my ears thus. The goose said, "All this is not worth a fly! But I can make a remedy thereof, And I will say my verdict fair and swift For water-birds whoso be wroth or blithe!" "And I for worm-birds," said the foolish cuckoo, "For I will of my own authority Take on the charge now, for the common good, For to deliver us is great charity." "Ye may abide a while yet, by God!" Quoth the turtledove, "If it be your will that a wretch speak, he may as well be still." "I am a seed-bird, one of the unworthiest, That I know well, and of little knowledge. But it is better that a wretch's tongue rest Than that he meddle with such doings Of which he can neither speak nor sing; And whosoever does it overburdens himself full foully, For an uncommited office often angers." Nature, who always had an ear for the murmer of the lewedness behind, said with eloquent voice, "Hold your tongues there! And I shall soon, I hope, find a counsel To deliver you, and unbind from this noise: I judge, of every folk you shall choose one To speak the verdict for all you birds." To this conclusion all the birds Assented; and the birds of prey Had chosen first, by just election, The tercelet [young male] falcon to define All their sentence, and end it, as he please; And to Nature he went to present it, And she accepts him with glad intent. The tercelet said then in this manner: "Very hard would it be to prove by reason Who loves this noble female here best; For everone has such replies That cannot be brought down by arguments. I cannot see that arguments avail: Then it seems that there must be a duel." "All ready!" Said those tercel eagles then. "Nay, sires," quoth he, "if I am permitted to say so, You do me wrong, my tale is not yet done! For, sires – I pray, do not take it as grievance – It may not go in this way as you want; Ours is the voice that has the charge in hand, But you must stand by the judge's doom." "And therefore peace! I say, as to my wit, I would think that the worthiest Of knighthood, who had longest used it, Most of state, the most noble of blood, Were the most suitable for her, if that please her; And of these three she knows herself, I trust, Which that one is, for it is easy to know." The water-birds had laid their heads together, and after a short deliberation When everyone had said his large mouthful, They said truly, all by one assent, That the goose with her genteel eloquence, "That so desires to pronounce our need, Shall tell our tale," and prayed, "God speed her!" And for these water-birds thus the goose Began to speak, and in her quacking She said, "Peace! Now everyone take heed, And hearken for the reason I shall bring forth! My wit is sharp; I love no tarrying; I say I advice him, as though he were my brother, If she will not love him, let him love another!" "Lo, hear perfect reasoning for a goose!" Quoth the sparrowhawk; "She must never prosper! Lo, such it is to have a loose tongue! Now bygod, fool, it were better if thou Hadst held thy peace than showed thy cleverness. It lies not in his wit nor in his will, But truly is it said, 'a fool cannot be silent.'" The laughter of all the noble birds arose, And right anon the seed-foul had chosen The true turtledove, and went to call her to them, And prayed her to say the sad truth Of this matter, and asked what she would advise. And she answered that she would show her intent Plainly, and what she truly meant. "Nay, God forbid a lover should change!" The turtledove said, and went all red for shame, "Even though his lady be forevermore estranged from him, He has to serve her ever, until he be dead. Forsooth, I do not praise the goose's advice; 'For, though she died, I would want no other mate; I would be hers, until death take me.'" "Well jested," quoth the duck, "By my hat! That one should always love without a cause! Who can find reason or wit in that? Does he dance merrily who is mirthless? Who should care for one that does now care?" "You quack," said the goose, "Full well and fair! There are more stars, God knows, than only a pair!" "Now fie, cad!" quoth the noble tercelet, "That word came trule out of the dung-hill! Thou canst not see a thing that is well visible! Thou farest by love as owls fare by light: The day blinds them, but well they see by night. Thy kind is of so low a wretchedness That thou canst neither see nor guess what love is." Then the cuckoo put himself forward For birds that eat worms, and said quickly: - "So I," quoth he, "May have my mate in peace, I do not care how long you be at strife. Let each of them be single all their lives! This is my advice, since they cannot agree; This short lesson does not need to be repeated." "Yes, have the glutton fill his paunch enough, Then we are well off!" said the merlin; "Thou murderer of the hedge sparrow on the branch That brought thee up, thou most pitiful glutton! Live thou alone, corrupted by worms, For no force lacks in thy nature! Go, be thou lewd while the world may last!" "Now peace," quoth Nature, "I command her! For I have heard all your opinion, And in effect we are no closer [to a solution]. But finally, this is my conclusion, That she herself shall have her shoice Of who pleases her; whosoever be wroth or blithe, He that she chooses shall have her as reward. "For since it cannot be discussed here Who loves her best, as the tercelet said, Then I will do her this favour, that she Shall have him on whom her heart is set, And he her that has his heart knit to hers: Thus judge I, Nature, for I may not lie; I have no regard for any estate." "But as for counsel for which choice to make, If I were Resoun, then I would Counsel you to take the royal tercel, As the tercelet said so skilfully, As he is the most noble and most worthy, Which I have wrought so well to my pleasure That it ought to be sufficient for you." With fearful voice the female answered her, "My rightful lady, goddess of Nature! True is it that I am ever under your authority, As is ever other creature, And must be yours while my life may last; And therefore grant me my first boon, And my intent I will tell you very soon." "I grant it," quoth she, and at once The female eagle spoke in this degree: "Almighty queen, until this year is over, I ask respite from advice to me, And after that I will have made my choice. All this and some I would speak and say; You get no more, even if you kill me! "I do not want to serve Venus nor Cupid, Forsooth, as yet, in any way." "Now, since it cannot betide otherwise," quoth Nature, "There is no more to say. Then I would that these birds were away, Each with their mate, so prevent tarrying here longer!" And she told them thus, as you shall here afterwards. "To you I speak, you tercelets," quoth Nature. "Be of good heart, and serve all three! A year is not so long to endure, And each of you take pains after his manner In order to do well, for, God knows, she is free Of you this year; what may befall afterwards, The entre-mass is prepared for all of you." And when this work was all brought to an end, Nature gave to every bird his mate by mutual agreement, and they went on their way. And, Lord, the bliss and joy that they made! For each of them took the other into his wings, And they wound their necks with each other, Thanking all the while the noble goddess of Nature. But first birds were chosen for singing, As year by year it was always their custom To sing a roundel at their departing, To do Nature honour and pleasure. The tune, I trust, was made in France, The words were such as you may find here, The following verse, as I remember it now. "Now welcome, spring, with thy soft sun, Who thou hast overthrown the winter's wheather, And driven away the long black nights!" "Saint Valentine, that art full high in heaven, Thus do small birds sing for thy sake: 'Now welcome, spring, with thy soft sun, Who thou hast overthrown the winter's wheather.' "Well do they have cause to be often glad, Since each of them has recovered their mate, Blissfully they may sind when they awake: 'Now welcome, spring, with thy soft sun, Who thou hast overthrown the winter's wheather, And driven away the long black nights!" And with the shouting when the song was done That the birds made at their flight away, I woke, and turned to other books, To read upon, and I read them all the time. I hope, truly, to read something some day That I shal dream of something to fare Better, and thus I will not stop reading.

Some day I shall be able to do this table thing so that the appropriate verses are actually next to each other, but it is not this day. It gets closest with a display resolution of 1024 x 768px. >_>

Comments

[allamistako.livejournal.com]

That was supposed to kill my friendslist, right?

[oloriel.livejournal.com]

No, that was me being stupid and forgetting the lj-cut. >.< Sorry?

[allamistako.livejournal.com]

In that case, happy valentine's :)

[etoilepb.livejournal.com]

Damn but I wish you had posted this or I had asked you for something useful about six months ago. :-/ I've got VERY historically-inclined friends getting married on 2/24 and some passage from this would have been perfect to get calligraphed or engraved for them as a wedding present.

[oloriel.livejournal.com]

Hm... technically, ten days are not too little time for a calligraphy? ;)
Sorry though - I had no idea!

[meril.livejournal.com]

The very next post on my flist after yours was someone posting a Valentine letter from 1477.

I love your posts, they're so interesting <3