Classic Poem

Aftir þat heruest inned had hise sheues,
And that the broun sesoun of Mihelmesse
Was come, and gan the trees robbe of her leues,
That grene had ben and in lusty freisshenesse,
And hem into colour of gelownesse
Had died and doun throwen vndirfoote,
That chaunge sanke into myn herte roote.

For freisshly brougte it to my remembraunce
That stablenesse in this worlde is ther noon
Ther is noþing but chaunge and variaunce
Howe welthi a man be or wel begoon,
Endure it shal not. He shal it forgoon.
Deeth vndirfoote shal him þriste adoun
That is euery wigtes conclucioun,

Wiche for to weyue is in no mannes mygt,
Howe riche he be, stronge, lusty, freissh and gay
And in the ende of Nouembre, vppon a nigt,
Sigynge sore, as I in my bed lay,
For this and oþir þougtis wiche many a day,
Byforne, I tooke, sleep cam noon in myn ye,
So vexid me the þougtful maladie.

I sy wel, sithin I with siknesse last
Was scourgid, cloudy hath bene þe fauour
That shoon on me ful brigt in times past.
The sunne abated, and þe dirke shour
Hilded doun rigt on me, and in langour
Me made swymme, so that my spirite
To lyue no lust had, ne no delyte.

The greef aboute myn herte so sore swal
And bolned euere to and to so sore
That nedis oute I muste therwithal
I thougte I nolde kepe it cloos no more,
Ne lete it in me for to eelde and hore,
And for to preue I cam of a womman,
I braste oute on þe morwe and þus bigan.

Here endith my prolog and folwith my compleinte

Almygty God, as liketh his goodnesse,
Vesiteþ folke alday, as men may se,
With los of good and bodily sikenesse,
And amonge othir, he forþat not me.
Witnesse vppon the wilde infirmite
Wiche þat I hadde, as many a man wel knewe,
And wiche me oute of mysilfe caste and threwe.

It was so knowen to þe peple and kouthe
That counseil was it noon, ne not be migt
Howe it wiþ me stood was in euery mannes mouþe,
And þat ful sore my frendis affrigt
They for myn helþe pilgrimages higt,
And sougte hem, somme on hors and somme on foote,
God gelde it hem, to gete me my boote.

But alþoug the substaunce of my memorie
Wente to pleie as for a certein space,
Git the lorde of vertue, the kyng of glorie,
Of his hige mygt and his benigne grace,
Made it for to retourne into the place
Whens it cam, wiche at Alle Halwemesse
Was fiue geere, neither more ne lesse.

And euere sithin, thankid be God oure Lord
Of his good and gracious reconsiliacioun,
My wit and I haue bene of suche acord
As we were or the alteracioun
Of it was, but by my sauacioun,
Sith þat time haue I be sore sette on fire
And lyued in greet turment and martire.

For þoug that my wit were hoom come agein,
Men wolde it not so vndirstonde or take
With me to dele hadden they disdein
A rietous persone I was and forsake.
Min oolde frendshipe was al ouershake
No wigt with me list make daliaunce
The worlde me made a straunge countinaunce,

Wi[c]h þat myn herte sore gan to tourment,
For ofte whanne I in Westmynstir Halle,
And eke in Londoun, amonge the prees went,
I sy the chere abaten and apalle
Of hem þat weren wonte me for to calle
To companie Her heed they caste awry,
Whanne I hem mette, as they not me sy.

As seide is in þe sauter migt I sey,
" They þat me sy, fledden awey fro me"
Forgeten I was al oute of mynde awey,
As he þat deed was from hertis cherte
To a lost vessel lickned migte I be,
For manie a wigt aboute me dwelling
Herde I me blame and putte in dispreisyng

Thus spake manie oone and seide by me:
" Alþoug from him his siiknesse sauage
Withdrawen and passed as for a time be,
Resorte it wole, namely in suche age
As he is of," and thanne my visage
Bigan to glowe for the woo and fere.
Tho wordis, hem vnwar, cam to myn eere.

" Whanne passinge hete is," quod þei, " trustiþ this,
Assaile him wole agein that maladie."
And git, parde, thei token hem amis
Noon effecte at al took her prophecie.
Manie someris bene past sithen remedie
Of that God of his grace me purueide
Thankid be God, it shoop not as þei seide.

What falle shal, what men so deme or gesse,
To him that woot euery hertis secree,
Reserued is It is a lewidnesse
Men wiser hem pretende þan thei be,
And no wigt knowith, be it he or she,
Whom, howe, ne whanne God wole him vesite
It happith often whanne men wene it lite.

Somtime I wende as lite as any man
For to han falle into that wildenesse,
But God, whanne him liste, may, wole and can
Helthe withdrawe and sende a wigt siiknesse
Thoug man be wel this day, no sikernesse
To hym bihigte is that it shal endure.
God hurte nowe can, and nowe hele and cure.

He suffrith longe but at the laste he smit.
Whanne þat a man is in prosperite,
To drede a falle comynge it is a wit.
Whoso that taketh hede ofte may se
This worldis chaunge and mutabilite
In sondry wise, howe nedith not expresse.
To my mater streite wole I me dresse.

Men seiden I loked as a wilde steer,
And so my looke aboute I gan to throwe.
Min heed to hie, anothir seide, I beer:
" Full bukkissh is his brayn, wel may I trowe"
And seide the thridde, " And apt is in þe rowe
To site of hem that a resounles reed
Can geue: no sadnesse is in his heed"

Chaunged had I m[y] pas, somme seiden eke,
For here and there forþe stirte I as a roo,
Noon abood, noon areest, but al brainseke.
Another spake and of me seide also,
My feet weren ay wauynge to and fro,
Whanne þat I stonde shulde and wiþ men talke,
And þat myn yen sougten euery halke.

I leide an eere ay to as I by wente,
And herde al, and þus in myn herte I caste:
" Of longe abidinge here I may me repente
Lest that of hastinesse I at the laste
Answere amys, beste is hens hie faste,
For if I in þis prees amys me gye,
To harme wole it me turne and to folie."

And this I demed wel and knewe wel eke,
Whatso þat euere I shulde answere or seie,
They wolden not han holde it worth a leke
Forwhy, as I had lost my tunges keie,
Kepte I me cloos, and trussid me my weie,
Droupinge and heuy and al woo bistaad.
Smal cause hadde I, meþougte, to be glad.

My spirites labouriden euere ful bisily
To peinte countenaunce, chere and look,
For þat men spake of me so wondringly,
And for the verry shame and feer I qwook
Thoug myn herte hadde be dippid in þe brook,
It weet and moist was ynow of my swoot,
Wiche was nowe frosty colde, nowe firy hoot.

And in my chaumbre at home whanne þat I was
Mysilfe aloone I in þis wise wrougt
I streite vnto my mirrour and my glas,
To loke howe þat me of my chere þougt,
If any othir were it than it ougt,
For fain wolde I, if it not had bene rigt,
Amendid it to my kunnynge and mygt.

Many a saute made I to this mirrour,
Thinking, " If þat I looke in þis manere
Amonge folke as I nowe do, noon errour
Of suspecte look may in my face appere.
This countinaunce, I am sure, and þis chere,
If I it forthe vse, is nothing repreuable
To hem þat han conceitis resonable."

And therwithal I þougte þus anoon:
" Men in her owne cas bene blinde alday,
As I haue herde seie manie a day agoon,
And in that same plite I stonde may.
Howe shal I do? Wiche is the beste way
My troublid spirit for to bringe in rest?
If I wiste howe, fain wolde I do the best"

Sithen I recouered was, haue I ful ofte
Cause had of anger and inpacience,
Where I borne haue it esily and softe,
Suffringe wronge be done to me, and offence,
And not answerid agen, but kepte scilence,
Leste þat men of me deme wolde, and sein,
" Se howe this man is fallen in agein."

As that I oones fro Westminstir cam,
Vexid ful greuously with þougtful hete,
Thus thougte I, " A greet fool I am,
This pauyment adaies thus to bete,
And in and oute laboure faste and swete,
Wondringe and heuinesse to purchace,
Sithen I stonde out of al fauour and grace."

And thanne þougte I on þat othir side,
" If that I not be sen amonge þe prees,
Men deme wole that I myn heed hide,
And am werse than I am, it is no lees."
O Lorde, so my spirit was restelees
I sougte reste and I not it fonde,
But ay was trouble redy at myn honde.

I may not lette a man to ymagine
Fer aboue þe mone, if þat him liste
Therby the sothe he may not determine,
But by the preef ben thingis knowen and wiste
Many a doom is wrappid in the myste
Man by hise dedis and not by hise lookes
Shal knowen be. As it is writen in bookes,

Bi taaste of fruit men may wel wite and knowe
What that it is. Othir preef is ther noon.
Euery man woote wel that, as þat I trowe
Rigt so, thei that deemen my wit is goon,
As git this day ther deemeth many oon
I am not wel, may, as I by hem goo,
Taaste and assay if it be so or noo.

Uppon a look is harde men hem to grounde
What a man is. Therby the sothe is hid
Whethir hise wittis seek bene or sounde,
By countynaunce is it not wist ne kid.
Thoug a man harde haue oones been bitid,
God shilde it shulde on him contynue alway
By commvnynge is the beste assay.

I mene, to commvne of thingis mene,
For I am but rigt lewide, douteles,
And ignoraunt My kunnynge is ful lene.
Git homely resoun knowe I neuerethelees.
Not hope I founden be so resounlees
As men deemen Marie, Crist forbede!
I can no more Preue may the dede.

If a man oones falle in drunkenesse,
Shal he contynue therynne eueremo?
Nay, þoug a man do in drinking excesse
So ferforþe þat not speke he ne can, ne goo,
And hise witts welny bene refte him fro,
And buried in the cuppe, he aftirward
Cometh to hymsilfe ageine, ellis were it hard.

Rigt so, þoug þat my witte were a pilgrim,
And wente fer from home, he cam again.
God me deuoided of the greuous venim
That had enfectid and wildid my brain
See howe the curteise leche moost souerain
Vnto the seke geueth medicine
In nede, and hym releueth of his greuous pine.

Nowe lat this passe. God woot, many a man
Semeth ful wiis by countenaunce and chere
Wiche, and he tastid were what he can,
Men migten licken him to a fooles peere,
And som man lokeþ in foltisshe manere
As to þe outwarde doom and iugement,
That, at þe prefe, discreet is and prudent.

But algatis, howe so be my countinaunce,
Debaat is nowe noon bitwixe me and my wit,
A[l]þoug þat ther were a disseueraunce,
As for a time, bitwixe me and it.
The gretter harme is myn, þat neuere git
Was I wel lettrid, prudent and discreet
Ther neuere stood git wiis man on my feet.

The sothe is this, suche conceit as I had
And vndirstonding, al were it but smal,
Bifore þat my wittis weren vnsad,
Thanked be oure Lorde Ihesu Crist of al,
Suche haue I nowe, but blowe is ny oueral
The reuerse, wherþorug moche is my mornynge,
Wiche causeth me thus syge in compleinynge.

Sithen my good fortune hath chaungid hir chere,
Hie tyme is me to crepe into my graue.
To lyue ioielees, what do I here?
I in myn herte can no gladnesse haue
I may but smal seie but if men deme I raue.
Sithen oþir þing þan woo may I noon gripe,
Vnto my sepulcre am I nowe ripe.

My wele, adieu, farwel, my good fortune
Oute of goure tables me planed han ge.
Sithen welny eny wigt for to commvne
With me loth is, farwel prosperite.
I am no lenger of goure liuere
Ge haue me putte oute of goure retenaunce
Adieu, my good auenture and good chaunce.

And aswithe aftir, thus biþougte I me:
" If þat I in this wise me dispeire,
It is purchas of more aduersite.
What nedith it my feble wit appeire,
Sith God hath made myn helþe home repeire,
Blessid be he? And what men deme and speke,
Suffre it þenke I and me not on me wreke."

But somdel had I reioisinge amonge,
And a gladnesse also in my spirite,
That þoug þe peple took hem mis and wronge,
Me deemyng of my siiknesse not quite,
Git for they compleined the heuy plite
That they had seen me in wiþ tendirnesse
Of hertis cherte, my greef was the lesse.

In hem putte I no defaute but oon
That I was hool, þei not ne deme kowde,
And day by day þei sye me bi hem goon
In hete and coolde, and neiþer stille or lowde
Knewe þei me do suspectly A dirke clowde
Hir sigt obscurid withynne and wiþoute,
And for al þat were ay in suche a doute.

Axide han they ful oftesithe, and freined
Of my felawis of the Priue Seel,
And preied hem to telle hem wiþ herte vnfeined,
Howe it stood with me, wethir yuel or wel
And they the sothe tolde hem euery del,
But þei helden her wordis not but lees.
Thei migten as well haue holden her pees.

This troubly liif hath al to longe endurid
Not haue I wist hou in my skyn to tourne.
But nowe mysilfe to mysilfe haue ensurid
For no suche wondringe aftir this to mourne
As longe as my liif shal in me soiourne
Of suche ymaginynge I not ne recche.
Lat hem deeme as hem list and speke and drecche.

This othir day a lamentacioun
Of a wooful man in a book I sy,
To whom wordis of consolacioun
Resoun gaf spekynge effectuelly,
And wel esid myn herte was therby,
For whanne I had a while in þe book reed,
With the speche of Resoun was I wel feed.

The heuy man wooful and angwisshous
Compleined in þis wise, and þus seide he:
" My liif is vnto me ful encomborus,
For whidre or vnto what place I flee,
My wickidnessis euere folowen me,
As men may se the shadwe a body sue,
And in no manere I may hem eschewe.

" Vexacioun of spirit and turment
Lacke I rigt noon. I haue of hem plente
Wondirly bittir is my taast and sent
Woo be þe time of my natiuite
Vnhappi man, that euere shulde I be
O deeth, thi strook a salue is of swetnesse
To hem þat lyuen in suche wrecchidnesse.

" Gretter plesaunce were it me to die,
By manie foolde than for to lyue so.
Sorwes so manie in me multiplie
That my liif is to me a verre foo.
Comforted may I not be of my woo.
Of my distresse see noon ende I can.
No force howe soone I stinte to be a man."

Thanne spake Resoun, " What meneth al this fare?
Thoug welþe be not frendly to thee, git
Oute of thin herte voide woo and care."
" By what skile, howe, and by what reed and wit,"
Seide this wooful man, " migte I doon it?"
" Wrastle," quod Resoun, " agein heuynesse
Of þe worlde, troublis, suffringe and duresse.

" Biholde howe many a man suffrith dissese,
As greet as þou and alaway grettere,
And þoug it hem pinche sharply and sese,
Git paciently thei it suffre and bere.
Thinke hereon and the lesse it shal þe dere.
Suche suffraunce is of mannes gilte clensinge,
And hem enableth to ioie euerelastinge.

" Woo, heuinesse and tribulacioun
Comen aren to me[n] alle and profitable
Thoug greuous be mannes temptacioun,
It sleeth man not. To hem þat ben suffrable
And to whom Goddis strook is acceptable
Purueied ioie is, for God woundith tho
That he ordeined hath to blis to goo.

" Golde purgid is, thou seest, in þe furneis,
For þe finer and clenner it shal be.
Of þi dissese the weigte and þe peis
Bere ligtly, for God, to prove the,
Scourgid þe hath wiþ sharpe aduersite
Not grucche and seie, " Whi susteine I this? "
For if þou do, thou the takest amis.

" But þus þou shuldist þinke in þin herte,
And seie, " To þee, lorde God, I haue agilte
So sore I moot for myn offensis smerte,
As I am worthi. O Lorde I am spilte,
But þou to me þi mercy graunte wilte
I am ful sure þou maist it not denie.
Lorde, I me repente, and I the mercy crie. " "

Lenger I þougte reed haue in þis book,
But so it shope þat I ne migte naugt
He þat it ougte agen it to him took,
Me of his hast vnwar. Git haue I caugt
Sum of the doctrine by Resoun taugt
To þe man, as above haue I said
Wel þerof I holde me ful wel apaid,

For euere sithen sett haue I the lesse
By the peples ymaginacioun,
Talkinge this and þat of my siknesse
Wich cam of Goddis visitacioun
Migte I haue be founde in probacioun
Not grucching but han take it in souffraunce,
Holsum and wiis had be my gouernaunce.

Farwel my sorowe, I caste it to the cok
With pacience I hensforþe thinke vnpike
Of suche þougtful dissese and woo the lok,
And lete hem out þat han me made to sike
Hereafter oure Lorde God may, if him like,
Make al myn oolde affeccioun resorte,
And in hope of þat wole I me comforte.

Thorug Goddis iust doom and his iugement
And for my best, nowe I take and deeme,
Gaf þat good lorde me my punischement
In welthe I tooke of him noon hede or geme,
Him for to plese and him honoure and queme,
And he me gaf a boon on for to gnawe,
Me to correcte and of him to have awe.

He gaf me wit and he tooke it away
Whanne that he sy that I it mis dispente,
And gaf agein whanne it was to his pay.
He grauntide me my giltis to repente,
And hensforwarde to sette myn entente
Vnto his deitee to do plesaunce,
And to amende my sinful gouernaunce.

Laude and honour and þanke vnto þee be,
Lorde God, that salue art to al heuinesse
Thanke of my welthe and myn aduersitee.
Thanke of myn elde and of my seeknesse
And thanke be to thin infinit goodnesse
And thi giftis and benefices alle,
And vnto thi mercy and grace I calle.