Friday, 25 November 2011

Lenvoy de Chaucer a Scogan

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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