Classic Poem

Whilom an emperour prudent and wys
Regned in Rome and hadde sones three,
Whiche he hadde in greet chiertee and greet prys.
And whan it shoop so þat th'infirmitee
Of deeth, which no wight may eschue or flee,
Him threew doun in his bed, he leet do call
His sones and before him they cam all.

And to the firste he seide in this maneere:
‘Al th'eritage which at the dyynge
Of my fadir he me lefte, al in feere
Leue Y thee. And al þat of my byynge
Was with my peny, al my purchacynge,
My second sone, byqwethe Y to thee.’
And to the thirde sone thus seide he:

‘Vnmeeble good right noon, withouten ooth,
Thee yeue Y may. But Y to thee dyuyse
Iewelles three—a ryng, brooch, and a clooth—
With whiche, and thow be gyed as the wyse,
Thow maist gete al þat oghte thee souffyse.
Who so þat the ryng vsith for to were
Of alle folk the loue he shal conquere.

‘And who so the brooch berith on his brest,
It is eek of swich vertu and swich kynde
That thynke vpon what thyng him lykith best,
And he as blyue shal it haue and fynde.
My wordes, sone, enprynte wel in mynde.
The clooth eek hath a meruillous nature
Which þat committed shal be to thy cure.

‘And who so sit on it, if he wishe where
In al the world to been, he sodeynly
Withoute more labour shal be there.
Sone, tho three iewelles byqwethe Y
To thee, vnto this effect certeynly
that to the studie of the vniuersitee
Thow go, and þat Y bidde and charge thee.’

Whan he had thus seid, the vexacioun
Of deeth so haastid him þat his spiryt
Anoon forsook his habitacioun
In his body. Deeth wolde no respyt
Him yeue at al. He was of his lyf qwyt,
And biried was with swich solempnitee
As fil to his imperial dignitee.

Of the yongeste sone I telle shal
And speke no more of his brethren two,
For with hem haue Y nat to do at al.
Thus spak the modir Ionathas vnto:
‘Syn God his wil hath of thy fadir do,
To thy fadres wil wole Y me confourme
And trewely his testament parfourme.

‘He three iewelles, as thow knowist weel,
A ryng, a brooch, and a clooth, thee byqweeth,
Whos vertues he thee tolde euery deel
Or þat he paste hens and yald vp the breeth.
O goode God, his departynge, his deeth
Ful greuously stikith vnto myn herte
But souffred moot been al, how sore it smerte.’

In þat cas wommen han swich heuynesse
that it nat lyth in my konnynge aright
Yow telle of so greet sorwe the excesse.
But wyse wommen konne take it light,
And in short whyle putte vnto the flight
Al sorwe and wo and cacche ageyn confort.
Now to my tale make Y my resort.

‘Thy fadres wil, my sone, as Y seide eer,
Wole Y parfourme. Haue heer the ryng and go
To studie anoon, and whan þat thow art theer,
As thy fadir thee bad, do euene so.
And as thow wilt, my blessyng haue also.’
Shee vnto him as swythe took the ryng
And bad him keepe it weel for anythyng.

He wente vnto the studie general
Wher he gat loue ynow and aqueyntance
Right good and freendly, the ryng causynge al.
And on a day to him befil this chance.
With a womman, a morsel of plesance,
By the streetes of the vniuersitee
As he was in his walkynge mette he.

And right as blyue he with hire had a tale,
And therwithal sore in hir loue he brente.
Gay, freesh, and pykid was shee to the sale,
For to þat ende and to þat entente
Shee thidir cam. And bothe foorth they wente,
And he a pistle rowned in hir ere.
Nat woot Y what, for Y ne cam nat there.

Shee was his paramour, shortley to seye.
This man to folkes all was so leef
that they him yaf habundance of moneye.
He feestid folk and stood at hy boncheef.
Of the lak of good he felte no greef
Al whyles þat the ryng he with him hadde.
But faylynge it, his frendshipe gan sadde.

His paramour, which þat ycallid was
Fellicula, meruailled right greetly
Of the despenses of this Ionathas,
Syn shee no peny at al with him sy.
And on a nyght as þat shee lay him by
In the bed, thus shee to him spak and seide,
And this peticion assoill him preyde:

‘O reuerent sire, vnto whom’, quod shee,
‘Obeye Y wole ay with hertes humblesse,
Syn þat yee han had my virginitee,
Yow Y byseeche of your hy gentillesse,
Tellith me whens comth the good and richesse
That yee with feesten folk and han no stoor
By aght Y see can, ne gold ne tresor.’

‘If Y telle it,’ quod he, ‘parauenture
Thow wilt deskeuere it and out it publisshe
Swich is wommannes inconstant nature
They can nat keepe conseil worth a risshe
Bettre is my tonge keepe than to wisshe
that Y had kept cloos þat is goon at large,
And repentance is thyng þat Y moot charge.’

‘Nay, goode sire, haldith me nat suspect.
Doutith nothyng, Y can be right secree.
Wel worthy wer it me to been abiect
From al good conpaignie if Y’, quod shee,
‘Vnto yow sholde so mistake me
Beeth nat adrad your conseil me to shewe.’
‘Wel,’ seide he, ‘thus it is at wordes fewe.

‘My fadir, the ryng which þat thow maist see
On my fyngir, me at his dyyng day
Byqweeth, which this vertu and propretee
Hath, þat the loue of men he shal haue ay
that werith it. And ther shal be no nay
Of what thyng þat him lykith axe and craue,
But with good wil he shal as blyue it haue.

‘Thurgh þat rynges vertuous excellence
Thus am Y ryche and haue euere ynow’
‘Now sire, yit a word by your licence
Suffrith me for to seye and speke now.
Is it wysdam, as þat it seemeth yow,
Were it on your fyngir continuelly?’
‘What woldest thow mene,’ quod he, ‘therby?

‘What peril therof mighte ther befall?’
‘Right greet,’ quod shee, ‘as yee in conpaignye
Walke often, fro your fyngir mighte it fall
Or plukkid of been in a ragerie
And so be lost, and þat were folie.
Take it me, let me been of it wardeyn,
For as my lyf keepe it wole Y certeyn.’

This Ionathas, this innocent yong man,
Yeuynge vnto hir wordes ful credence,
As youthe nat auysed best be can,
The ryng hir took of his insipience.
Whan this was doon, the hete and the feruence
Of loue þat he had beforn purchaced
Was qweynt and loues knotte was vnlaced.

Men of hir yiftes for to stynte gan
‘A,’ thoghte he, ‘for the ryng Y nat ne bere,
Faillith my loue. Fecche me, womman,’
Seide he, ‘my ryng anoon, Y wole it wer.’
Shee roos and into chambre dressith her,
And whan shee therein hadde been a whyle,
‘Allas,’ quod shee, ‘out on falshode and gyle!

‘The chiste is broken, and the ryng take out.’
And whan he herde hir conplaynte and cry,
He was astoned sore and made a shout
And seide, ‘Cursid be þat day þat Y
The mette first or with myn yen sy.’
She wepte and shewid outward cheer of wo,
But in hir herte was it nothyng so.

The ryng was sauf ynow and in hir cheste
It was. Al þat shee seide was lesyng,
As sum womman othir whyle atte beste
Can lye and weepe whan is hir lykyng.
This man sy hir wo and seide, ‘Derlyng,
Weepe no more. Goddes help is ny.’
To him vnwist how fals shee was and sly.

He twynned thens and hoom to his contree
Vnto his modir the streight way he wente.
And whan shee sy thidir comen was he,
‘My sone,’ quod shee, ‘what was thyn entente
Thee fro the scoole now for to absente?
What causid thee fro scoole hidir to hye?’
‘Modir, right this,’ seide he, ‘nat wole Y lye.

‘For soothe, modir, my ryng is ago.
My paramour to keepe Y betook it,
And it is lost, for which Y am ful wo
Sorwefully vnto myn herte it sit.’
‘Sone, often haue Y warned thee, and yit
For thy profyt Y warne thee, my sone
Vnhonest wommen thow heereaftir shone.

‘Thy brooch anoon right wole Y to thee fette.’
Shee broghte it him and charged him ful deepe,
Whan he it took and on his brest it sette,
Bet than he dide his ryng he sholde it keepe,
Lest he the los bewaille sholde and weepe.
To the vniuersitee, shortly to seyn,
In what he knowde he haastid him ageyn.

And whan he comen was, his paramour
Him mette anoon, and vnto hire him took
As þat he dide erst, this yong reuelour.
Hir conpaignie he nat a deel forsook
Thogh he cause hadde, but as with the hook
Of hir sleighte he beforn was caght and hent,
Right so he was deceyued eft and blent.

And as thurgh vertu of the ryng before
Of good he hadde habundance and plentee
While it was with him or he hadde it lore,
Right so thurgh vertu of the brooch had he
What good him list. Shee thoghte, ‘How may this be?
Sum pryuee thyng now causith this richesse
As dide the ryng heer before, Y gesse.’

Wondrynge heeron, shee preide him and besoghte
Bysyly nyght and day þat telle he wolde
The cause of this. But he anothir thoghte;
He mente it cloos for him it kept be sholde.
And a long tyme it was or he it tolde.
Shee kepte ay to and to and seide, ‘Allas,
The tyme and hour þat euere Y bore was!

‘Truste yee nat on me, sire?’ she seide.
‘Leuer me were be slayn in this place
By þat good lord þat for vs all deide
Than purpose ageyn yow any fallace.
Vnto yow wole Y be, my lyues space,
As treewe as any womman in eerthe is
Vnto a man. Doutith nothyng of this.’

Smal may shee do þat can nat wel byheete,
Thogh nat parfourmed be swich a promesse.
This Ionathas thoghte hir wordes so sweete
that he was dronke of the plesant swetnesse
Of hem. And of his foolissh tendrenesse
Thus vnto hire he spak and seide tho:
‘Be of good confort. Why weepist thow so?’

And shee therto answerde thus sobbynge:
‘Sire,’ quod shee, ‘myn heuynesse and dreede
Is this. Y am adrad of the leesynge
Of your brooch, as almighty God forbeede
It happid so.’ ‘Now what, so God thee speede,’
Seide he, ‘woldist thow in this cas consaille?’
Quod shee, ‘that Y keepe mighte it, sanz faille.’

He seide, ‘Y haue a fere and dreede algate,
If Y so dide, thow woldest it leese,
As thow lostist my ryng, now goon but late.’
‘First, God preye Y ‘quod shee, ‘þat Y nat cheese
But þat myn herte as the cold frost may freese,
Or elles be it brent with wylde fyr.
Nay, seurly it to keepe is my desyr.’

To hir wordes credence he yaf pleneer
And the brooch took hire. And aftir anoon,
Whereas he was beforn ful leef and cheer
To folk and hadde good, al was agoon.
Good and frendshipe him lakkid, ther was noon.
‘Womman, me fecche the brooch,’ quod he, ‘swythe.
Into thy chambre for it go. Now hy the!’

Shee into chambre wente as þat he bad,
But she nat broghte þat he sente hir fore.
Shee mente it nat. But as shee had be mad,
Hir clothes hath shee al torent and tore
And cryde, ‘Allas, the brooch away is bore!
For which Y wole anoon right with my knyf
Myself slee. Y am weery of my lyf.’

This noyse he herde, and blyue he to hire ran
Weenynge shee wolde han doon as shee spak.
And the knyf in al haaste þat he can
From hire took and threew it behynde his bak,
And seide: ‘For the los ne for the lak
Of the brooch sorwe nat. Y foryeue al.
I truste in God þat yit vs helpe he shal.’

To th'emperice his modir this young man
Ageyn him dressith. He wente hire vnto,
And whan shee sy him, shee to wondre gan.
Shee thoghte, ‘Now sumwhat ther is misdo,’
And seide: ‘Y dreede thy iewelles two
Been lost now, per cas the brooch with the ryng.’
‘Modir,’ he seide, ‘yee, by heuene ryng.’

‘Sone, thow woost wel no iewel is left
Vnto thee now but the clooth precious,
Which Y thee take, thee chargynge eft
The conpaignie of wommen riotous
Thow flee, lest it be to thee so greuous
That thow it nat susteene shalt ne bere.
Swich conpaignie, on my blessyng, forbere.’

The clooth shee fette, and it hath him take.
And of his lady his modir his leeue
He took, but first this forward gan he make.
‘Modir,’ seide he, ‘trustith this weel, and leeue
that Y shal seyn for sooth yee shul it preeue.
If Y leese this clooth, neuere Y your face
Hensfoorth se wole ne yow preye of grace.

‘With Goddes help Y shal do wel ynow.’
Hir blessyng he took and to studie is go.
And as beforn told haue Y vnto yow,
His paramour, his priuee mortel fo,
Was wont for to meete him, right euene so
Shee dide thanne and made him plesant cheere.
They clippe and kisse and walke homward in feere.

Whan they were entred in the hows, he spradde
This clooth vpon the ground and theron sit
And bad his paramour, this womman badde,
To sitte also by him adoun on it.
Shee dooth as þat he commandith and bit.
Had shee his thoght and vertu of the clooth
Wist, to han sete on it had shee been looth.

Shee for a whyle was ful sore affesid.
This Ionathas wisshe in his herte gan:
‘Wolde God þat Y mighte thus been esid,
That as on this clooth Y and this womman
Sitte here, as fer were as þat neuere man
Or this cam.’ And vnnethe had he so thoght
But they with the clooth thidir weren broght.

Right to the worldes ende, as þat it were.
Whan apparceyued had shee this, shee cryde
As thogh shee thurgh girt had be with a spere
‘Harrow, allas þat euere shoop this tyde!
How cam we hidir?’ ‘Nay,’ he seide, ‘abyde,
Wers is comynge. Heer soul wole Y thee leue.
Wylde beestes thee shuln deuoure or eue,

‘For thow my ryng and brooch haast fro me holden.’
‘O reuerent sire, haue vpon me pitee,’
Quod shee. ‘If yee this grace do me wolden,
As me brynge hoom ageyn to the citee
Whereas Y this day was, but if þat yee
Hem haue ageyn, of foul deeth do me dye.
Your bontee on me kythe, Y mercy crye.’

This Ionathas kowde nothyng be waar,
Ne take ensample of the deceites tweyne
that shee dide him beforn, but feith hir baar.
And hire he comanded on dethes peyne
Fro swiche offenses thensfoorth hir restreyne
Shee swoor and made therto foreward.
But herkneth how shee baar hire aftirward.

Whan shee sy and kneew þat the wratthe and ire
that he to hire had born was goon and past
And al was wel, shee thoghte him eft to fyre.
In hir malice ay stood shee stidefast,
And to enquere of him was nat agast,
In so short tyme how þat it mighte be
That they cam thidir out of hir contree.

‘Swich vertu hath this clooth on which we sitte,’
Seide he, ‘þat where in this world vs be list,
Sodeynly with the thoght shuln thidir flitte,
And how thidir come vnto vs vnwist
As thyng fro fer vnknowen in the mist.’
And therwith to this womman fraudulent,
‘To sleepe’, he seide, ‘haue I good talent.

‘Let see,’ quod he, ‘strecche out anoon thy lappe,
In which wole I myn heed doun leye and reste.’
So was it doon, and he anoon gan nappe.
Nappe? Nay, he sleep right wel atte beste.
What dooth this womman, oon the fikileste
Of wommen all, but þat clooth þat lay
Vndir him shee drow lyte and lyte away.

Whan shee it had al, ‘Wolde God,’ quod shee,
‘I were as I was this day morwenynge.’
And therwith this roote of iniquitee
Had hir wissh and soul lefte him ther slepynge.
O Ionathas, lyk to thy perisshynge
Art thow. Thy paramour maad hath thy berd.
Whan thow wakist, cause hast thow to be ferd.

But thow shalt do ful wel, thow shalt obteene
Victorie on hire. Thow haast doon sum deede
Plesant to thy modir, wel can I weene,
For which our lord God qwyte shal thy meede
And thee deliure out of thy woful dreede.
The chyld whom þat the modir vsith blesse,
Ful often sythe is esid in distresse.

Whan he awook and neithir he ne fond
Womman ne clooth, he wepte bittirly
And seide: ‘Allas, now is ther in no lond
Man werse, I trowe, begoon, than am Y!’
On euery syde his look he caste and sy
Nothyng but briddes in the eir fleynge
And wylde beestes aboute him rennynge,

Of whos sighte he ful sore was agrysid.
He thoghte: ‘Al this wel disserued Y haue.
What eilid me to be so euel auysid,
That my conseil kowde I nat keepe and saue?
Who can fool pleye, who can madde or raue,
But he þat to a womman his secree
Deskeuereth—the smert cleueth now on me.’