Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
Text snippets containing the quad
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A18557
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Thou fiers god of armes, mars the rede; Queen Anelida and false Arcyte
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Chaucer, Geoffrey, d. 1400.
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1477
(1480)
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STC 5090; ESTC S121657
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5,923
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20
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it For routh woo her sorow for to telle Or what man hath y e connyng or the witte Or what man myght within y e chaÌ„bre duelle Yf that I reherce shold the helle That suffreth fair anelida the quene For fals arcyte that dide her al this tene She wepith wayleth swâ—wneth pytously To ground dede she falleth as a stone Crampissheth her lymeÌ„s â—â—ckedly She spekith as her wit were al agone Other colour than asshen hath she none None other worde speketh she moche or lyte But mercy cruel herte myn arcyte And thus endureth til that she was so mate That she nad foot on whiche she may sustene But forth languysshing euer in this astate On whiche arcyte hath couthe non ne tene His herte was els where newe and grene That on her woo not deyneth hym to thinke Hym recketh not whether she flete or synke His newe lady holdeth hym so narow Vp by the brydel at the staues ende That euery worde he drad as an arowe Her danÌ„ger made hym bothe bowe and bende And as her liste made hym turne wende For she ne granteth hym in her lyuyng No grace why that he hath lust to syng But dâ—of hym sorth vnnethe â—â—st her knowe That he was seruant vnto her ladyship But leste y â— he were proud she held hym lowe Thus serueth he withoute mete or sype She sent hym now to land now to shype And for she gaf hym daunger al his fyll Ther fore she had hym at her owen wyll Ensample of this ye thryfty women alle Taketh hede of anelida and arcyte That for her liste hym dere herte calle And was so meke therfore he loueth her lite The kynde of manÌ„s herte is to delyte In thing that stranÌ„ge is also god me saue For what he may not gete that wold he haue Now torne we to anelida agaynÌ„ That pyneth day by day languysshyng But whan she sawe that her gate no gaynÌ„ Vpon a day ful sorowful wepyng She cast herâ—for to make a compleynyng And of her owen hand she gan it wryte And sende it to her theban knyght arcyte Here foloweth the compleynt of anelida quene of hermenye vpon false arcyte of Thebes So thirleth with the poiÌ„t of remembrance The swerd of sorow whet with fals plesaÌ„ce My hert bare of blisse blak of hewe That torned is in quakyng al my daunce My sewerte in a whaped conÌ„tenaunce Syth it auaylleth not to be trewe For who so trewest is it shal her rewe That serueth loue and doth her obseruance Alway tyl one and changeth for no newe I wote my self as wel as ony wight For I loued one with al my hert myght More than my self an C. thousand sythe And called hym my hertis lyf my knyght And was all his as fer as it was right And whan he was glad than was I blithe And his disese was my deth as swithe And he agayn his trouth hath me plight For euermo his lady me to kythe Now is he fals alas and causeles And of my woo he is so routheles That with a word hym list not ones deyne To brynge agayn my sorouful herte in peâ— For he is caught vp in an other lees Ryght as hym lyst he laweth at my peyne And I ne can my herte not restreyne For to loue hym neyther thelees And of alle this I note to whomÌ„ to pleyne And shal I pleyne alas the hard stounde Vnto my foo that yaf my herte a wounde And yet desireth that my harme be more Nay certes for ther shal neuer be founde None other helpe my sores for to sounde My destyne hath shape it so ful yore I wil none other medycyn ne lore I wyl be ay ther I was ones bounde That I haue seyd be seyd for euermore Allas where is bicome your gentillesse Your wordes ful of plesance and humblesse Your obsernances and lo lowe manere Your awaytyng and your besynesse Vpon me that ye called your maistresse Your souerayne of thise world is here Alas and is ther now no word â—e chere Ye wuchen sauf vpon my heuynesse Alas your loue I bye it al to dere Now certes swete though that ye Thus causeles the cause be Of my dedely aduersite Your manly reson ought it to respyte To sle your frende namely me That neuer yet in no degre Offendyd as wysly he That al wote oute of wo my soule quyte But for I was so playn arcyte In al my werkis moche lite And so besy you to delite Myn honour sauf meke kynde and free Therfore ye put on me this wite And also ye reken not a myte Though that the swerd of sorow bite My woful herte thurgh your cruelte My swete foo why doo ye so for shame And thinke ye that furtherd be your name To loue a newe and be vntrewe nay And put yow in sklaundre now blame And do to me aduersyte and grame That loue you most god thou wost alwaye Yet come agayn be thou playn somÌ„ daye And then shal this y e nowe is mis be game And all foryeue whyle I lyue maye Lo herte myn alle this is for to seyn As whether shal I pray or ellis pleyn Whiche is the way to do you to be trewe For eyther mote I han you in my cheyn Or with the deth ye mote departe vs tweyn Ther lye none other mene weyes newe For god so wysly on my soule rewe As veryly ye sle me with the peyn That may ye se vnfeyned an my hewe And shold I praye and weyuen womaÌ„hede Nay rather dye than do so cruell dede And axe mercy causeles what nede And yf I pleyne what lyf that I lede Thenne wil ye lawhe I knowe it out of deede And yf that I to you myn othes bede For myn excuse a skorn shal be my mede Your chere flourith but it wil not sede For longe a goo I ofte han take hede For though I had you to morn ageyn I myght as wel holde apryll for reyn As holden you to make you stedfaste Alle myghty god of trouth souereyn Wher is y e trouthe of man who hath it sleyn Who y e hym loueth shal hym fynde as faste As in a tempeste is a roten maste Is that a tame beest that is ay fayn To fle away whan he is leest agaste But mercy swete yf I mys seye Haue I ought seyd out of the weye I note my witte is half a weye I fare as doth the songe of chanteplure For now I pleyne and now I pleye I am so marred that I deye Arcyte hath born awey the keye Of alle my world and good auenture For in this world nys creature Wakyng in more discumfiture Than I ne more sorow endure And yf I slepe a furlong weye or twey Thenne thinketh me your fygure Before me stont clothid in azure To profren eft and new assure For to be trewe and loue me til he deye The longe nyght this wonder sight I drye And on the day for thilke affray I dye And of all this right nought ywis ye recche Ne neuer mo myn eyen two be drye And to your routhe to your trouthe I crye But we le awey fer ben they to fecche Thus holdeth we my destyne a wrecche But me to rede out of this drede or gye Ne may my wyt so weyke is it not strecche Thenne I thus syn I may do no more I yeue it vp for now and euermore For shal I neuer eft putten in balance My sikernes or lerne of loue the lore But as the swan I haue herd seye ful yore Agayn his deth shal syngen his penanÌ„ce So synge I here my destyne or chanÌ„ce How that arcite anelida so sore Hath thirled with the peynt of remeÌ„braÌ„ce Thus endeth the compleynt of anelida The ê¯pleiÌ„t of chaucer vnto his empty purse To you my purs and to none other wight Compleyne I for ye be my lady dere I am sory now that ye be light For certes ye now make me heuy chere Me were as â—ef be leyd vpon a bere For whiche vnto your mercy thus I crye Be heuy agayn or ellis mote I dye Now wuchesauf this day or yet be nyght That I of yow the blisful sowne may here Or see your colour like the sonne bright That of yelownes had neuer pere Ye be my lyf ye be my herteâ— stere Quene of confort and of good companye Be heuy agayn or ellis mote I dye Now purs that be to me my lyues light And saueour as doun in this world here Out of this toun helpe me by your might Syn that ye wil not be my tresorere For I am â—haue as nyghe as ony frere But I pray vnto your curtoisye Be heuy agayn or ellis mote I dye The nuoye of chaucer vnto the kynge O conquerour of brutes albyon Whiche that by lyne and fre electionÌ„ Ben veray kynge this to yow I sende And ye that may alle harmes amende Haue mynde vpon my supplicacionÌ„ Explicit Whan feyth failleth in prestes sawes And lordes hestes ar holden for lawes And robbery is holden purchas And lechery is holden solas Than shal the lond of albyon Be brought to grete confusionÌ„ Hit falleth for euery gentilmÌ„an To saye the best that he can In mannes absence And the soth in his presence Hit cometh by kynde of gentil blode To cast away al heuynes And gadre to gidre wordes good The werk of wisedom herith witnes Et sic est finis