Classic Poem

Let no man boste of cunning nor vertu,
Of tresour, richesse, nor of sapience,
Of worldly support, for al cometh of Jesu,
Counsail, confort, discrecioun, prudence,
Provisioun, forsight, and providence,
Like as the Lord of grace list dispose:
Some man hath wisdom, some man hath eloquence—
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

Holsom in smelling be the swote flowres,
Ful delitable outward to the sight;
The thorn is sharp, cured with fresh coloures;
Al is not gold that outward sheweth bright.
A stokfish bone in derknesse yeveth a light,
Tween fair and foul, as God list dispose
A difference atwixen day and night—
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

The golden char of Phebus in the air
Chaseth mistes blak that they dare not appeere,
At whos uprist mountains be made so fair
As they were newly gilt with his beemes cleere;
The night doth folwe, appalleth al his cheere
When western wawes his streemes over-close.
Rekne al beute, al freshness that is heere
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

Constraint of colde maketh flowres dare
With winter frostes that they dare not appeere.
Al clad in russet the sod of green is bare;
Tellus and Jove be dulled of their cheere
By revolucioun and turning of the yeere.
As gery March his stoundes doth disclose—
Now rein, now storm, now Phebus bright and cleere—
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

Wher is now David, the most worthy king
Of Juda and Israel, most famous and notable?
And wher is Solomon most sovereign of cunning,
Richest of bilding, of tresour incomparable?
Face of Absolon, most fair, most amiable?
Rekne up echone, of trouthe make no glose,
Rekne up Jonathas, of frenship immutable—
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

Wher is Julius, proudest in his empire,
With his triumphes most imperial?
Wher is Pirrus, that was lord and sire
Of al Inde in his estat royal?
And wher is Alisaunder that conquered al,
Failed leiser his testament to dispose?
Nabugodonosor or Sardanapal?
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

Wher is Tullius with his sugred tunge?
Or Crisistomus with his golden mouth?
The aureat ditees that be red and sunge
Of Omerus, in Greece both north and south?
The tragedyes divers and uncouth
Of moral Senek, the mysteryes to unclose?
By many example this matere is ful couth—
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

Wher been of Fraunce al the Dozepeers
Which in Gaule hadde the governaunce?
‘Vowes of the Pecok,’ with al their proude cheers?
The Worthy Nine with al their high bobbaunce?
Troian knightes, grettest of alliaunce?
The flees of gold conquered in Colchose?
Rome and Cartage, most soverein of puissaunce?
Al stant on chaunge like a midsomer rose. . .

The remembraunce of every famous knight,
Ground considered, is bilt on rightwisnesse.
Race out ech quarel that is not bilt on right;
Withoute trouth what vaileth high noblesse?
Laurer of martirs founded on holynesse—
White was made red their triumphes to disclose:
The white lillye was their chast clennesse,
Their bloody suffraunce was no somer rose.

It was the Rose of the bloody feeld,
Rose of Jericho that grew in Bedleem;
The five Roses portrayed in the sheeld,
Splayed in the baner at Jerusalem.
The sonne was clips and derk in every rem
When Crist Jesu five welles list unclose
Toward Paradis, called the rede strem,
Of whos five woundes print in your hert a rose.