Classic Poem

O þow Lucyna, qwene and empyresse
Of waters alle and of floodes rage,
And cleped art lady and goddesse
Of iorneying and fortunate passage,
Governe and guye by grace þe viage,
þow heuenly qween, sith I of hert[e] prey,
My maystre Chaucer goodly to convey,

Him to expleyte and firþern on his way
With holsom spede, ay in his iournee.
And Neptunus, make eke [þow] no delaye
Hym to fauour whan he is on þe see,
Preserving him from al aduersytee,
From al trouble of wynd and eke of wawe:
And lat þy grace so to him adawe.

þat wher to hym may be [þe] moost plesaunce,
þer make him lande, he and his meynee.
And God I prey, þe whyle he is [in] Fraunce,
To sende him helthe and prosparytee,
Hasty repayre hoom to his cuntree
To recomfort þer with [his] presence
Folks þat mowrne moost for his absence.

For soþely now þ'agreable sonne
Of housholding and fulsum haboundaunce
Eclipsid is, as men recorden konne
þat founden þer so ryche souffisaunce,
Fredam, bountee with gode governaunce,
Disport, largesse, ioye and al gladnesse,
And passingly good chere with gentylesse.

Ceres also, godesse of welfare,
Was ay present, hir chaare with plentee lade:
And Bacus þer ne koude neuer spare
With his lycour hertes for to glade,
Refresshe folks þat were of colour fade.
[Wher] his conduyts moost plentyvous habounde
þe wellis hed so fulsome ay is founde.

His moost ioy is innly gret repayre
Of gentilmen of heghe and lowe estate,
þat him thenkeþ, boþe in foule and fayre.
Withouten hem he is but desolate:
And to be loued þe moost fortunate
þat euer I knew, with othe of soþefastnesse,
Of ryche and pore, for bounteuous largesse.

And gentyl Molyns, myn owen lord so der,
Lytel merveyl þough þow sighe and pleyne:
Now to forgone þin owen pleying-fere,
I wot right wel hit is to þe[e] gret peyne.
But haue good hope soon for to atteyne
þin hertis blisse agayne, and þat right sone,
Or foure tymes chaunged be þe mone.

Lat be your weping, tendre creature,
By my Sainte Eleyne fer away in Ynde.
How shul ye þe gret[e] woo endure
Of his absence, þat ben so truwe and kynde?
Ha[u]e him amonge enprynted in your mynde,
And seyth for him, shortly in a clause,
Goddes soule to hem þat ben in cause.

Ye gentilmen dwelling envyroun,
His absence eke ye aught to compleyne,
For farwell now, as in conclusyoun,
Your pley, your ioye, yif I shal not feyne:
Farwel huntyng and hawkyng, boþe tweyne,
And farwel now cheef cause of your desport,
For he absent, farwel your recomfort.

Lat him not now out of remembraunce
But euer amonge ha[u]e him in memorye.
And for his sake, as in your dalyaunce,
Sayth euery day deuotely þis memorye:
" Saint Iulyan, oure ioye and al our glorye,
Come hoom ageyne, lyche as we desyre,
To suppowaylen al þe hole shyre."

And for my part. I sey right as I th[i]nk,
I am pure sory and hevy is myn hert
More þan I express can wryte with ink.
þe want of him so sore doþ me smert.
But for al þat, hit shal me nought astert
Day and night, with hert[e] debonayre,
[To] prey to God þat he soon may repayre.