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THE

ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE,

THIS book was begun in French verse by William de Lorris, and finished forty years after by John Clopinell, alias John Moone, born at Mewen upon the river of Loyer, not far from Paris, as appeareth by Molinet, the French author, upon the morality of the Romaunt; and afterward translated for the most part into English metre by Geffrey Chaucer, but not finished. It is entituled, The Romaunt of the Rose; or, The Art of Love: wherein is shewed the helpes and furtherances, as also the lets and impediments that lovers have in their suits. In this book the authour hath many glaunces at the hypocrisie of the clergy: whereby he got himself such batred amongst them, that Gerson, chancellour of Paris, writeth thus of him: saith he, "There was one called Johannes Meldinensis, who wrote a book called, The Romaunt of the Rose; which book if I only had, and that there were no more in the world, if I might have five hundred pound for the same, I wold rather burne it than take the money." He sayth more, that if he thought the authour thereof did not repent him for that book before he dyed, he would vouchsafe to pray for him no more than he would for Judas that betrayed Christ.

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And fast I slept, and in sleeping,
Me mette such a sweuening,
That liked me wondrous wele,
But in that sweuen is neuer a dele
That it nis afterward befall,
Right as this dreame woll tell us all.

Now this dreame woll I rime a right,
To make your heartes gay and light:
For loue it prayeth, and also
Commaundeth me that it be so.
And if there any aske me,
Whether that it be he or she,
Now this booke which is here
Shall highte, that I rede you here:
It is the Romaunt of the Rose,
In which all the art of loue I close.

The matter faire is of to make,
God graunt me in gree that she it take
For whom that it begonnen is,
And that is she, that hath I wis
So mokel prise, and thereto she
So worthie is beloued to be,
That she well ought of prise and right,
Be cleped Rose of euerie wight.
That it was Mey me thoughte tho,
It is fiue yere or more ago,
That it was Mey, thus dreamed me,
In time of loue and iolitie,
That all thing ginneth waxen gay:
For there is neither huske nor hay
In Mey, that it nill shrouded bene,
And it with newe leues wrene:
These woodes eke recoueren grene,
That drie in winter ben to sene,
And the erth waxeth proud withall,
For swote dewes that on it fall,
And the poore estate forget,
In which that winter had it set:
And than become the ground so proude,
That it wol have a newe shroude,
And maketh so queint his robe and faire,
That it had hewes an hundred paire,
Of grasse and floures, Inde and Pers,
And many hewes full diuers:
That is the robe I mean iwis,
Through which the ground to praisen is.
The birdes, that han left hir song,
While they han suffred cold full strong,
In wethers grille, and derke to sight,
Ben in Mey for the Sunne bright,
So glad, that they shew in singing,
That in hir heart is such liking,

That they mote singen and ben light:
Than doth the nightingale her might,
To maken noyse, and singen blith:
Than is blisfull many a sith,
The chelaundre, and the popingaye,
Than younge folke entenden aye,
For to ben gay and amorous,
The time is them so sauorous.

Harde is his heart that loueth nought
In Mey, whan all this mirth is wrought,
Whan he may on these braunches here
The smalle birdes singen clere
Her blisfull swete song piteous,
And in this season delitous :
When loue affirmeth all thing,

Me thought one night, in my sleeping,
Right in my bed full readyly,
That it was by the morrow early,
And up I rose, and gan me cloth,
Anone I wish mine hondes both,
A siluer needle forth I drow,
Out of an aguiler queint inow,
And gan this needle thread anone,
For out of toune me list to gone,
The sound of birdes for to heare
That on the buskes singen cleare,
In the swete season that lefe is,
With a thred basting my sleuis,
Alone I went in my playing,
The smale foules song hearkening,
That payned hem full many a paire,
To sing on bowes blossomed faire:
Iolife and gay, full of gladnesse,
Toward a riuer gan I me dresse,
That I heard renne faste by,
For fairer playen none saw I
Than playen me by that riuere:

For from an hill that stood there nere,

Come doune the stream full stiffe and bold, Clere was the water, and as cold

As any well is, sooth to saine,

And somedele lasse it was than Saine,

But it was straiter, weleaway,

And neuer saw I er that day,
The water that so wele liked me,

And wonder glad was I to se

That lusty place, and that riuere:

And with that water that ran so clere,
My face I wish, tho saw I wele,
The bottome ypaued eneridele
With grauel, full of stones shene,
The meadowes softe, sote, and grene,
Beet right upon the water side,
Full clere was than the morowe tide,
And full attempre out of drede,
Tho gan I walken thorow the mede,
Dounward aye in my playing,
The riuers side coasting.

And when I had a while igone,
I saw a garden right anone,
Full long and broad, and eueridele
Enclosed was, and walled wele,
With hie walles enbatailed,
Portrayed without, and well entayled
With many riche portraitures,
And both yet images and peintures,
Can I beholde besely,
And I woll tell you readyly,
Of thilke images the semblaunce,
As farre as I haue remembraunce.

Amidde saw I Hate stonde,

That for her wrath and yre and onde,
Seemed to be a mynoresse,
An angry wight, a chideresse,
And ful of gile, and fell courage,
By semblaunt was that ilke image,
And she was nothing wele araide,
But like a wode woman afraide,
Ifrounced foule was her visage,
And grinning for dispitous rage,
Her nose snorted up for tene,
Full hidous was she for to sene,
Full foule and rustic was she this,
Her head iwrithen was iwis
Full grimly with a great towaile.

An image of another entaile,
A lifte halfe was her fast by,
Her name aboue her head saw I,
And she was called Felony.

Another image, that Uillany
Icleped was, saw I and fonde
Upon the wall on her right honde.
Uillany was like somedele

That other image, and trusteth wele
She seemed a wicked creature,
By countenaunce in portreiture,
She seemed be full despitous,
And eke full proude and outragious.
Well coud he paint I undertake,
That such an image coude make:
Full foule and churlish seemed she,
And eke villainous for to be,
And little coulde of nurture,
To worship any creature.

And next was painted Couetise,
That eggeth folke in many a gise.
To take and yeve right nought againe,
And great treasoures up to laine.

And that is she, that for usure
Leneth to many a creature
The lasse for the more winning,
So couetous is her brenning,

And that is she for pennies fele,

That teacheth for to robbe and stele

These theeues, and these smale harlotes,
And that is routhe, for by hir throtes,
Full many one hongeth at the last:
She maketh folke compasse and cast
To taken other folkes thing,
Through robberie, or miscoueting.
And that is she that maketh treachours,
And she maketh false pleadours,
That with hir termes and hir domes,
Done maidens, children, and eke gromes,
Her heritage to forgo:

Full crooked were her hondes two,
For couetise is euer wood,

To gripen other folkes good.

Couetise, for her winning,
Full lefe hath other mennes thing.
Another image set saw I,
Nexte Couetise fast by,
And she was cleped Auarice,

Full foule in painting was that vice,
Full sad and caitife was she eke,
And also grene as any leke,

So euil hewed was her colour,

Her seemed to haue liued in langour,
She was like thing for hunger dead,
That lad her life onely by bread

Kneden with eisell strong and egre,
And thereto she was lene and megre,
And she was clad full poorely,
All in an olde torne courtpy,
As she were all with dogges torne,
And both behind and eke beforne
Clouted was she beggerly.

A mantle honge her faste by,
Upon a benche weake and small,
A burnette cote hong there withall,
Furred with no mineuere,

But with a furre rough of heere,
Of lambe skinnes heauy and blake,
It was so old I undertake.
For Auarice to cloath her wele,
Ne hasteth her neuer a dele,
For certainly it were her loth
To wearen of that ilke cloth,
And if it were forweared, she
Woulde haue full great nicete
Of clothing, er she bought her newe,
All were it bad of woll and hewe.

This Auarice held in her hand,
A purse that honge by a band,
And that she hid and bond so strong,
Men must abide wonder long,

Out of the purse er ther come ought,
For that ne commeth in her thought,
It was not certaine her entent,
That fro that purse a peny went.

And by that image nigh inough,
Was peinted Enuie, that neuer lough,
Nor neuer well in her heart ferde
But if she either saw or herde

Some great mischaunce, or great disease,
Nothing ne may so much her please
As mischeife and misauenture,
Or when she seeth discomfiture
Upon any worthy man fall,

Than liketh her right well withall.
She is full glad in hir courage,
If she see any great linage

Be brought to naught in shamefull wise:

And if a man in honour rise,

Or by his wit, or by his prowesse,
Of that hath she great heauinesse,
For trusteth well she goeth nie wood,
When any chaunce happeth good.

Enuy is of such cruelte,
That fayth ne trouth holdeth she,
To friend ne fellow, bad or good.
Ne she hath kinne none of her blood
That she nis full bir enemie,
She nolde, I dare saine hardely
Her owne father fared wele,
And sore abieth she euerie dele
Her malice, and her male talent:
For she is in so great turment
And hate such, when folke doth good,
That nye she melteth for pure wood,
Her hert kerueth and so breaketh
That God the people well awreaketh,
Enuy iwis shall neuer let,
Some blame upon the folke to set.
I trowe that if Enuie iwis,
Knew the beste man that is,
On this side or beyond the see,
Yet somewhat lacken him would she:
And if he were so hende and wise,
That she ne might all abate his prise,

Yet would she blame his worthinesse,
Or by her wordes make it lesse.
I sawe Envy in that painting,
Had a wonderfull looking,
For she ne looked but awrie,
Or overwhart, all baggingly.
And she had a foule usage,
She might looke in no visage

Of man ne woman, forth right plaine,
But shette her one eye for disdaine,
So for envie brenned shee
When she might any man see
That faire, or worthy were, or wise,
Or else stood in folkes priso.

Sorow was painted next Envie
Upon that wall of masonrie:
But well was seene in her colour
That she had lived in languour:
Her seemed to have the jaundice,
Not halfe so pale was Avarice,
Ne nothing like of leannesse,

For sorowe, thought, and great distresse,
That she had suffred daie and night,
Made her yellow, and nothing bright:
Full sad, pale, and megre also,
Was never wight yet half so wo
As that her seemed for to be,
Nor so fulfilled with yre as she,

I trow that no wight might her pleasc
Nor doe that thing that might her ease,
Nor she ne would her sorow slake,
Nor comfort none unto her take,
So depe was her wo begonne,
And eke ber heart in anger ronne,

A sorowfull thing wel seemed she:
Nor she had nothing slowe be
For to scratchen all her face
And for to rent in many place

Her clothes, and for to teare her swire,

As she that was fulfilled of yre,
And all to torne lay eke her heere
About her shoulders, here and there,

As she that had it all to rent
For anger and for male talent.

And eke I tell you certainly
How that she wept full tenderly:
In worlde nis wight so hard of heart
That had seene her sorowes smart
That nolde have had of her pite,
So wo begon a thing was she.
She all to dasht her selfe for wo
And smote togider her hands two,
To sorrow was she full ententife,
That wofull retchelesse caitife
Her wroughte little of playing,
Or of clipping or kissing;
For who so sorrowfull is in heart
Him luste not to play ne start,
Nor for to dauncen, ne to sing,
Ne may his heart in temper bring
To make joy on even or morrow,
For joy is contrarie unto sorrow.

Elde was painted after this,
That shorter was a foot iwis
Than she was wont in her yong hede,
Unneth her selfe she might fede,
So feeble and eke so old was she
That faded was all her beaute.
Full salow was waxen her colour,
Her head for hore was white as flour,

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Iwis great qualme ne were it none, Ne sinne, although her life were gone. All woxen was her body unwelde And drie and dwined all for elde, A foule forwelked thing was she That whilom round and soft had be, Her heeres shoken fast withall As from her hedde they would fall: Her face frounced and forpined, And both her hondes lorne fordwined: So old she was that she ne went A foot, but it were by potent. The time that passeth night and daye, And restlesse trauayleth aye, And stealeth from vs so priuyly, That to vs seemeth sikerly That it in one point dwelleth euer, And certes it ne resteth neuer, But goeth so fast, and passeth aye That there nis man that thinke maye What time that now present is Asketh at these clerkes this, For menne thinke it readily Three times been passed by The time that may not soiourne But goth, and may neuer retourne, As water that doun runneth aye But neuer droppe returne may: There may nothing as time endure, Metall, nor yearthly creature, For all thing is frette and shall, The time eke that chaungeth all, And all doth waxe, and fostred be, And all thing destroyeth he. The time that eldeth our auncestours And eldeth kinges and emperours, And that vs all shall ouercommen Er that death vs shall haue nommen, The time that hath all in welde To elden folke, had made her elde So inly, that to my weting She might helpe her selfe nothing, But tourned ayen vnto childhede; She had nothing her selfe to lede Ne wit ne pithe in her hold More than a childe of two yere old.

But nathelesse I trow that she Was faire sometime, and fresh to se, When she was in her rightfull age: But she was past all that passage And was a doted thing becommen: A furred cappe on had she nommen; Well had she clad her selfe and warme, For cold might els doen her harme, These olde folke haue alway cold, Hir kind is such, when they been old. Another thing was doen there write, That seemed like an ipocrite, And it was cleped Pope holy, That ilke is she, that priuily Ne spared never a wicked deed, When men of her taken none heed, And maketh her outward precious, With pale visage and piteous, And seemeth a simple creature, But ther nis no misaduenture, That she ne thinketh in courage: Full like to her was thilke image, That maked was like her semblaunce, She was ful simple of countenaunce.

And she was clothed and eke shod,
As she were for the loue of God
Yolden to religion,

Soch seemed her deuotion.

A psalter held she fast in hond,
And busily she gan to fond
To make many a faint prayere,
To God, and to his saintes dere:
Ne she was gay, fresh, ne iolife,
But seemed to be full ententife
To goode workes, and to faire,
And thereto she had on an haire.

Ne certes she was fatte nothing
But seemed werie for fasting,
Of colour pale and dead was she,
From her the gates aie warned be
Of Paradise, that blisfull place,
For such folke maken leane bir grace:
As Christ sayth in his Euangile,
To get hem prise in toune a while,
And for a little glorie vaine,
They lesen God and eke his raigne.
And alderlast of euerichone,
Was painted Pouert all alone,
That not a peny had in hold,
Although she her clothes sold,
And though she shuld an honged be,
For naked as a worme was she,
And if the weather stormie were,
For cold she shuld haue died there.

She ne had on but a straite old sacke, And many a cloute on it there stacke, This was her cote, and her mantele, No more was there neuer a dele To cloath her with; 1 vndertake, Great leser hadde she to quake: And she was put, that I of talke, Ferre fro these other, vp in an halke, There lurked and there coured she, For poore thing, where so it be, Is shamefast, and despised aie: Accursed may well be that daie, That poore man conceived is, For God wote all to seld iwis Is any poore man well ifed, Or well arrayed or icled, Or well beloued, in such wise, In honour that he may arise.

All these thinges well auised,
As I haue you er this deuised,
With gold and azure ouer all,
Depainted were vpon the wall.
Square was the wall, and high somdele
Enclosed, and ibarred wele,

In stead of hedge, was that gardin,
Come neuer shepherde therein :
Into that gardin, well iwrought,
Who so that me coud haue brought,
By ladders or else by degree,
It would well haue liked mee,
For such solace, such joy, and pleie,

I trow that neuer man ne seie,
As was in that place delicious:
The gardin was not daungerous,
To herborow birdes many one,
So rich a yere was never none
Of birdes song, and braunches grene,
Therein were birdes mo I wene,

Than been in all the realme of Fraunce:
Full blisfull was the accordaunce,

Of swete pitous song they made,
For all this worlde it ought glade.

And I my selfe so merry ferde,
Whan I her blisfull songes herde,
That for an hundred pound would I,
If that the passage openly
Had be vnto me free

That I nolde entren for to see
Thassemble (God keepe it fro care)
Of birdes, whiche therein ware,
That songen through hir merry throtes,
Daunces of loue, and merry notes.
When I thus heard the foules sing,
I fell fast in a waymenting,
By which art, or by what engiu,
I might come into that gardin,
But way I couthe finde none,
Into that gardin for to gone,

Ne nought wist I if that there were
Either hole or place where,
By which I might haue entre,
Ne there was none to teache me,
For I was all alone iwis,
For woe and anguishe of this,
Till at last bethought I mee,
That by no way ne might it bee,

That there nas ladder ne way to pace,
Or hole, into so faire a place.
Tho gan I go a full great paas,
Enuiron, euen in compas,
The closing of the square wall,
Till that I found a wicket small
So shette, that I ne might in gone,
And other entre was there none.

Upon this doore I gan to smite
That was so fetis, and so lite,
For other waye coud I not seke.
Full longe I shote, and knocked eke,
And stode full long all herkening
If that I heard any wight conming:
Till that the doore of thilke entre
A maiden curteis opened me:
Her haire was as yellowe of hewe
As any bason scoured newe,
Her fleshe tender as is a chicke

With bente browes, smooth and slicke,
And by measure large we re
The opening of her eyen clere:
Her nose of good proportion,
Her eyen graie, as is a faucon,

With sweete breath and well favoured,
Her face white and well coloured,
With little mouth, and round to see;
A cloue chinne eke had she;
Her necke was of good fashion
In length and greatnesse by reason,
Without bleine, scabbe, or roine;
Fro Jerusalem vnto Burgoine
Ther nis a fairer necke iwis
To fele how smooth and soft it is.
Her throte also white of hewe,
As snowe on braunce snowed newe.
Of bodie full well wrought was she,
Men neden not in no countre
A fairer bodie for to seke:
And of fine orfrais had she eke
A chapelet, so semely on,
Ne neuer wered máide upon;
And faire aboue that chapelet
A rose garlond had she set;

She had a gaie mirrour
And with a riche gold treasour,
Her head was tressed queintly
Her sleeues sewed fetously.
And for to keepe her hondes faire
Of gloues white she had a paire:
And she had on a coate of grene
Of cloth of gaunt, withouten wene:
Well seemed by her apparaile
She was not wont to great trauaile.
For whan shee kempt was feteously
And well araied and richly,

Than had she doen all her iournee,
For merrye and well begon was she.
She led a lustie life in May,
She had no thought, by night ne day
Of nothing, but if it were onely
To grayeth her well and vncouthly.
Whan that this dore had opened me
This maiden, seemely for to see,

I thonked her as I best might,
And asked her how that she bight:
And what she was, I asked eke,
And she to me was nought vnmeke
Ne of her answeare daungerous,
But faire answerde, and sayed thus:

"Lo sir, my name is Idlenesse
So clepe men me, more and lesse:
Full mightie and full rich am I,
And that of one thinge namely,
For I entende to nothing

But to my joye, and my pleying,
And for to kembe and tresse me:
Acquainted am I and priue
With Mirthe, lord of this gardin,
That fro the londe of Alexandrin
Made the trees hither be fet,
That in this gardin been iset:
And when the trees woxen an hight,
This wall that stant here in thy sight,
Did Mirthe enclosen all about,
And these images all without
He did hem both entaile and paint,
That neither been jolife ne quaint,
But they been full of sorowe and wo,
As thou hast seene a while ago.

AND oft times him to solace
Sir Mirthe commeth into this place,
And eke with him commeth his meine,
That liuen in lust and iolite:
And now is Mirthe therein, to here
The birdes how they singen clere,
The mauis and the nightingale,
And other jolly birdes smale:
And thus he walketh to solace
Him and his folke, for sweeter place
To playen in, he may not finde,
Although he sought one in till Inde.
The alther fairest folke to see
That in this worlde may found bee
Hath Mirthe with him in his rout,
That followen him alwaies about."
When Idlenesse had told all this,
And I had herkened well ywis,
Then saied I to dame Idlenesse,
"Now also wisely God me blesse,
Sith Mirthe, that is so faire and fre,
Is in this yerd with his meine,

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