One for the purists: letter from Chaucer to Scogan
To-broken been the statuts hye in hevene
That creat were eternally to dure,
Sith that I see the brighte goddes sevene
Mow wepe and wayle, and passioun endure,
As may in erthe a mortal creature.
Alias, fro whennes may this thing procede?
Of which errour I deye almost for drede.
By word eterne whylom was hit shape
That fro the fif te cercle in no manere
Ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape.
But now so wepeth Venus in hir spere
That with hir teres she wol drenche us here.
Alias, Scogan! this is for thyn offence!
Thou causest this deluge of pestilence.
Hast thou not seyd in blaspheme of this goddes,
Through pryde, or through thy grete rakelnesse,
Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is?
That, for thy lady saw nat thy distresse,
Therfore thou yave hir up at Michehnesse!
Alias, Scogan! of olde folk ne yonge
Was nevere erst Scogan blamed for his tonge!
Thou drowe in scorn Cupyde eek to record
Of thilke rebel word that thou hast spoken,
For which he wol no lenger be thy lord.
And, Scogan, thogh his bowe be nat broken,
He wol nat with his arwes been y-wroken
On thee, ne me, ne noon of our figure;
We shul of him have neyther hurt ne cure.
Now certes, frend, I drede of thyn unhappe,
Lest for thy gilt the wreche of Love procede
On alle hem that ben hore and rounde of shape
That ben so lykly folk in love to spede.
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