Classic Poem

Somer is comen with love to toune,
With blostme, and with brides roune.
The note of hasel springeth,
The dewes darkneth in the dale.
For longing of the nightegale,
Thes foweles murye singeth.

Ic herde a strif bitweyes two —
That on of wele, that other of wo:
Bitwene two ifere.
That on hereth wimmen that hoe beth hende,

That other hem wole with mighte shende.
That strif ye mowen ihere.

The nightingale is on by nome
That wol shilden hem from shome,
Of skathe hoe wole hem skere;
The threstelcok hem kepeth ay,
He seith by nighte and eke by day
That hy beth fendes ifere.

For hy biswiketh euchan mon
That mest bileveth hem upon.
They hy ben milde of chere,
Hoe beth fikele and fals to fonde,
Hoe wercheth wo in euchan londe.
It were betere that hy nere.

" It is shome to blame levedy,
For hy beth hende of corteisy;
Ich rede that thou lete.
Ne wes nevere bruche so strong,
Ibroke with righte ne with wrong,
That mon ne mighte bete.

Hy gladieth hem that beth wrothe,
Bothe the heye and the lowe;
Mid gome hy cunne hem grete.
This world nere nout if wimmen nere;
Imaked hoe wes to mones fere;
Nis no thing all so swete. "

" I ne may wimmen herien nohut,
For hy beth swikele and false of thohut,
Also ich am understonde.
Hy beth feirc and bright on hewe;
Here thout is fals, and untrewe:
Ful yare ich have hem fonde.

Alisaundre the king meneth of hem:
In the world nes non so crafty mon,
Ne non so riche of londe.
I take witnesse of monye and fele
That riche weren of worldes wele;
Muche wes hem the shonde. "

The nightingale hoe wes wroth:
" Fowel, me thinketh thou art me loth
Sweche tales for to showe.
Among a thousend levedies itolde,
Ther nis non wickede, I holde,
Ther hy sitteth on rowe.

Hy beth of herte meke and milde;
Hemself hy cunne from shome shilde
Withinne boures wowe,
And swettoust thing in armes to wree
The mon that holdeth hem in glee.
Fowel, why ne art thou it iknowe? "

" Gentil fowel, seyst thou it me?
Ich habbe with hem in boure ibe,
I haved all mine wille.
Hy willeth for a litel mede
Don a senful, derne dede,
Here soule for to spille.

Fowel, me thinketh thou art les;
They thou be milde and softe of pes,
Thou seyst thine wille.
I take witnesse of Adam,
That wes oure furste man,
That fonde hem wicke and ille. "

" Threstelcok, thou art wood,
Other thou const to litel good
This wimmen for to shende.
It is the swetteste driwerie,
And mest hoe cunnen of curteisie.
Nis nothing all so hende.

The mest murthe that mon haveth here,
Whenne hoe is maked to his fere
In armes for to wende.
It is shome to blame levedy;
For hem thou shalt gon sory —
Of londe ich wille thee sende. "

" Nightingale, thou havest wrong!
Wolt thou me senden of this lond
For ich holde with the righte?
I take witnesse of Sire Gawain,
That Jhesu Crist gaf might and main
And strengthe for to fighte:

So wide so he hevede igon,
Trewe ne founde he nevere non
By daye ne by nighte. "

" Fowel, for thy false mouth,
Thy sawe shall ben wide couth;
I rede thee fle with mighte.

Ich habbe leve to ben here,
In orchard and in erbere,
Mine songes for to singe.
Herd I nevere by no levedy
Bote hendinesse and curteisy,
And joye hy gunnen me bringe;

Of muchele murthe hy telleth me.
Fere, also I telle thee,
Hy livieth in longinge.
Fowel, thou sittest on hasel bou;
Thou lastest hem; thou havest wou —
Thy word shall wide springe. "

" It springeth wide, well ich wot —
Thou tell it him that it not!
This sawes ne beth nout newe.
Fowel, herkne to my sawe,
Ich wille thee telle of here lawe —
Thou ne kepest nout hem iknowe.

Thenk on Costantines quene —
Foul well hire semede fou and grene —
How sore it gon hire rewe!
Hoe fedde a crupel in hire bour,
And helede him with covertour.
Loke, whar wimmen ben trewe! "

" Threstelcok, thou havest wrong!
Also I saye one my song,
And that men witeth wide,
Hy beth brightore under shawe
Then the day whenne it dawe
In longe someres tide.

Come thou evere in here londe,
Hy shulen don thee in prisoun stronge
And ther thou shalt abide.
The lesinges that thou havest maked,
Ther thou shalt hem forsake,
And shome thee shall bitide. "

" Nightingale, thou seyst thine wille,
Thou seyst that wimmen shulen me spille.
Datheit who it wolde!
In holy book it is ifounde,
Hy bringeth mony mon to grounde,
That proude weren and bolde.

Thenk upon Saunsum the stronge,
How muchel his wif him dude to wronge!
Ich wot that hoe him solde.
It is that worste hord of pris
That Jhesu makede in parais
In tresour for to holde. "

Tho seyde the nightingale:
" Fowel, well redy is thy tale;
Herkne to my lore!
It is flour that lasteth longe,
And mest iherd in every londe,
And lovelich under gore.

In the worlde nis non so goed leche,
So milde of thoute, so feir of speche,
To hele monnes sore.
Fowel, thou rewest all thy thohut;
Thou dost evele, ne geineth thee nohut;
Ne do thou so namore! "

" Nightingale, thou art unwis
On hem to leyen so muchel pris;
Thy mede shall ben lene.
Among on hundret ne beth five,
Nouther of maidnes ne of wive,
That holdeth hem all clene;

That hy ne wercheth wo in londe,
Other bringeth men to shonde,
And that is well iseene.
And they we sitten therfore to strive,
Bothe of maidnes and of wive,
Soth ne seyst thou ene. "

" O fowel, thy mouth thee haveth ishend!
Thoru wham wes all this world iwend?
Of a maide meke and milde;
Of hire sprong that holy bern
That boren wes in Bedlehem,
And temeth all that is wilde.

Hoe ne weste of sunne ne of shame;
Marye wes hir righte name —
Crist hire ishilde!
Fowel, for thy false sawe
Forbed I thee this wode shawe;
Thou fare into the filde! "

" Nightingale, I wes wood,
Other I couthe to litel good
With thee for to strive.
I saye that ich am overcome
Thoru hire that bar that holy sone,
That soffrede wundes five.

I swerie by his holy name:
Ne shall I nevere seyen shame
By maidnes ne by wive.
Out of this londe will I te,
Ne rech I never weder I fle.
Away ich wille drive. "