Geoffrey Chaucer - The House of Fame: Book 3 lyrics

Incipit liber tercus. Invocation. O God of science and of lyght, Appollo, thurgh thy grete myght, This lytel laste bok thou gye! Nat that I wilne, for maistrye, Here art poetical be shewed, But for the rym ys lyght and lewed, Yit make hyt sumwhat agreable, Though som vers fayle in a sillable; And that I do no diligence To shewe craft, but o sentence. And yif, devyne vertu, thow Wilt helpe me to shewe now That in myn hed ymarked ys -- Loo, that is for to menen this, The Hous of Fame for to descryve -- Thou shalt se me go as blyve Unto the nexte laure y see, And kysse yt, for hyt is thy tree. Now entre in my brest anoon! The Dream Whan I was fro thys egle goon, I gan beholde upon this place. And certein, or I ferther pace, I wol yow al the shap devyse Of hous and [site], and al the wyse How I gan to thys place aproche That stood upon so hygh a roche, Hier stant ther non in Spayne. But up I clomb with alle payne, And though to clymbe it greved me, Yit I ententyf was to see, And for to powren wonder lowe, Yf I koude any weyes knowe What maner stoon this roche was. For hyt was lyk alum de glas, But that hyt shoon ful more clere; But of what congeled matere Hyt was, I nyste redely. But at the laste aspied I, And found that hit was every del A roche of yse, and not of stel. Thoughte I, "By Seynt Thomas of Kent, This were a feble fundament To bilden on a place hye. He ought him lytel glorifye That hereon bilt, God so me save!" Tho sawgh I al the half ygrave With famous folkes names fele, That had iben in mochel wele, And her fames wide yblowe. But wel unnethes koude I knowe Any lettres for to rede Hir names by; for, out of drede, They were almost ofthowed so That of the lettres oon or two Was molte away of every name, So unfamous was woxe hir fame. But men seyn, "What may ever laste?" Thoo gan I in myn herte caste That they were molte awey with hete, And not awey with stormes bete. For on that other syde I say Of this hil, that northward lay, How hit was writen ful of names Of folkes that hadden grete fames Of olde tyme, and yet they were As fressh as men had writen hem here The selve day ryght, or that houre That I upon hem gan to poure. But wel I wiste what yt made; Hyt was conserved with the shade Of a castel that stood on high -- Al this writynge that I sigh -- And stood eke on so cold a place That hete myghte hit not deface. Thoo gan I up the hil to goon, And fond upon the cop a woon, That al the men that ben on lyve Ne han the kunnynge to descrive The beaute of that ylke place, Ne coude casten no compace Swich another for to make, That myght of beaute ben hys make, Ne so wonderlych ywrought; That hit astonyeth yit my thought, And maketh al my wyt to swynke, On this castel to bethynke, So that the grete craft, beaute, The cast, the curiosite Ne kan I not to yow devyse; My wit ne may me not suffise. But natheles al the substance I have yit in my remembrance; For whi me thoughte, be Seynt Gyle, Al was of ston of beryle, Bothe the castel and the tour, And eke the halle and every bour, Wythouten peces or joynynges. But many subtil compa**inges, [Babewynnes] and pynacles, Ymageries and tabernacles I say; and ful eke of wyndowes As flakes falle in grete snowes. And eke in ech of the pynacles Weren sondry habitacles, In which stoden, al withoute -- Ful the castel, al aboute -- Of alle maner of mynstralles And gestiours that tellen tales Both of wepinge and of game, Of al that longeth unto Fame. Ther herde I pleyen on an harpe, That sowned bothe wel and sharpe, Orpheus ful craftely, And on his syde, faste by, Sat the harper Orion, And Eacides Chiron, And other harpers many oon, And the Bret Glascurion; And smale harpers with her glees Sate under hem in dyvers sees, And gunne on hem upward to gape, And countrefete hem as an ape, Or as craft countrefeteth kynde. Tho saugh I stonden hem behynde, Afer fro hem, al be hemselve, Many thousand tymes twelve, That maden lowde mynstralcies In cornemuse and shalemyes, And many other maner pipe, That craftely begunne to pipe, Bothe in doucet and in rede, That ben at festes with the brede; And many flowte and liltyng horn, And pipes made of grene corn, As han thise lytel herde-gromes That kepen bestis in the bromes. Ther saugh I than Atiteris, And of Athenes daun Pseustis, And Marcia that loste her skyn, Bothe in face, body, and chyn, For that she wolde envien, loo, To pipen bet than Appolloo. Ther saugh I famous, olde and yonge, Pipers of the Duche tonge, To lerne love-daunces, sprynges, Reyes, and these straunge thynges. Tho saugh I in an other place Stonden in a large space, Of hem that maken blody soun In trumpe, beme, and claryoun; For in fight and blod-shedynge Ys used gladly clarionynge. Ther herde I trumpen Messenus, Of whom that speketh Virgilius. There herde I trumpe Joab also, Theodomas, and other mo; And alle that used clarion In Cataloigne and Aragon, That in her tyme famous were To lerne, saugh I trumpe there. There saugh I sitte in other sees, Pleyinge upon sondry glees, Whiche that I kan not nevene, Moo than sterres ben in hevene, Of whiche I nyl as now not ryme, For ese of yow and los of tyme. For tyme ylost, this knowen ye, Be no way may recovered be. Ther saugh I pleye jugelours, Magiciens, and tregetours, And Phitonesses, charmeresses, Olde wicches, sorceresses, That use exorsisacions, And eke these fumygacions; And clerkes eke, which konne wel Al this magik naturel, That craftely doon her ententes To make, in certeyn ascendentes, Ymages, lo, thrugh which magik To make a man ben hool or syk. Ther saugh I the, quene Medea, And Circes eke, and Calipsa; Ther saugh I Hermes Ballenus, Limote, and eke Symon Magus. There saugh I, and knew hem by name, That by such art don men han fame. Ther saugh I Colle tregetour Upon a table of sycamour Pleye an uncouth thyng to telle -- Y saugh him carien a wynd-melle Under a walsh-note shale. What shuld I make lenger tale Of alle the pepil y ther say, Fro hennes into domes day? Whan I had al this folk beholde, And fond me lous and nought yholde, And eft imused longe while Upon these walles of berile, That shoone ful lyghter than a glas And made wel more than hit was To semen every thing, ywis, As kynde thyng of Fames is, I gan forth romen til I fond The castel-yate on my ryght hond, Which that so wel corven was That never such another nas; And yit it was be aventure Iwrought, as often as be cure. Hyt nedeth noght yow more to tellen, To make yow to longe duellen, Of this yates florisshinges, Ne of compa**es, ne of kervynges, Ne how they hatte in masoneries, As corbetz, ful of ymageries. But Lord, so fair yt was to shewe, For hit was al with gold behewe. But in I wente, and that anoon. Ther mette I cryinge many oon, "A larges, larges, hold up wel! God save the lady of thys pel, Our oune gentil lady Fame, And hem that wilnen to have name Of us!" Thus herde y crien alle, And faste comen out of halle And shoken nobles and sterlynges. And somme corouned were as kynges, With corounes wroght ful of losenges; And many ryban and many frenges Were on her clothes trewely. Thoo atte last aspyed y That pursevantes and heraudes, That crien ryche folkes laudes, Hyt weren alle; and every man Of hem, as y yow tellen can, Had on him throwen a vesture Which that men clepe a cote-armure, Enbrowded wonderliche ryche, Although they nere nought ylyche. But noght nyl I, so mote y thryve, Ben aboute to dyscryve Alle these armes that ther weren, That they thus on her cotes beren, For hyt to me were impossible; Men myghte make of hem a bible Twenty foot thykke, as y trowe. For certeyn, whoso koude iknowe Myghte ther alle the armes seen Of famous folk that han ybeen In Auffrike, Europe, and Asye, Syth first began the chevalrie. Loo, how shulde I now telle al thys? Ne of the halle eke what nede is To tellen yow that every wal Of hit, and flor, and roof, and al Was plated half a foote thikke Of gold, and that nas nothyng wikke, But for to prove in alle wyse, As fyn as ducat in Venyse, Of which to lite al in my pouche is. And they were set as thik of nouchis Ful of the fynest stones faire That men rede in the Lapidaire, As gra**es growen in a mede. But hit were al to longe to rede The names, and therfore I pace. But in this lusty and ryche place That Fames halle called was, Ful moche prees of folk ther nas, Ne crowdyng for to mochil prees. But al on hye, above a dees, Sitte in a see imperiall, That mad was of a rubee all, Which that a carbuncle ys ycalled, Y saugh, perpetually ystalled, A femynyne creature, That never formed by Nature Nas such another thing yseye. For alther-first, soth for to seye, Me thoughte that she was so lyte That the lengthe of a cubite Was lengere than she semed be. But thus sone in a whyle she Hir tho so wonderliche streighte That with hir fet she erthe reighte, And with hir hed she touched hevene, Ther as shynen sterres sevene, And therto eke, as to my wit, I saugh a gretter wonder yit, Upon her eyen to beholde; But certeyn y hem never tolde, For as feele eyen hadde she As fetheres upon foules be, Or weren on the bestes foure That Goddis trone gunne honoure, As John writ in th' Apocalips. Hir heer, that oundy was and crips, As burned gold hyt shoon to see; And soth to tellen, also she Had also fele upstondyng eres And tonges, as on bestes heres; And on hir fet woxen saugh Y Partriches wynges redely. But Lord, the perry and the richesse I saugh sittyng on this godesse! And Lord, the hevenyssh melodye Of songes ful of armonye I herde aboute her trone ysonge, That al the paleys-walles ronge. So song the myghty Muse, she That cleped ys Caliope, And hir eighte sustren eke, That in her face semen meke; And ever mo, eternally, They songe of Fame, as thoo herd y: "Heryed be thou and thy name, Goddesse of Renoun or of Fame!" Tho was I war, loo, atte laste, As I myne eyen gan up caste, That thys ylke noble quene On her shuldres gan sustene Bothe th' armes and the name Of thoo that hadde large fame: Alexander and Hercules, That with a sherte hys lyf les. And thus fond y syttynge this goddesse In nobley, honour, and rychesse; Of which I stynte a while now, Other thing to tellen yow. Tho saugh I stonde on eyther syde, Streight doun to the dores wide, Fro the dees, many a peler Of metal that shoon not ful cler; But though they nere of no rychesse, Yet they were mad for gret noblesse, And in hem hy and gret sentence; And folk of digne reverence, Of which I wil yow telle fonde, Upon the piler saugh I stonde. Alderfirst, loo, ther I sigh Upon a piler stonde on high, That was of led and yren fyn, Hym of secte saturnyn, The Ebrayk Josephus the olde, That of Jewes gestes tolde; And he bar on hys shuldres hye The fame up of the Jewerye. And by hym stoden other sevene, Wise and worthy for to nevene, To helpen him bere up the charge, Hyt was so hevy and so large. And for they writen of batayles, As wel as other olde mervayles, Therfor was, loo, thys piler Of which that I yow telle her, Of led and yren bothe, ywys, For yren Martes metal ys, Which that god is of bataylle; And the led, withouten faille, Ys, loo, the metal of Saturne, That hath a ful large whel to turne. Thoo stoden forth on every rowe Of hem which that I koude knowe, Though I hem noght be ordre telle, To make yow to longe to duelle, These of whiche I gynne rede. There saugh I stonden, out of drede, Upon an yren piler strong That peynted was al endelong With tigres blod in every place, The Tholosan that highte Stace, That bar of Thebes up the fame Upon his shuldres, and the name Also of cruel Achilles. And by him stood, withouten les, Ful wonder hy on a piler Of yren, he, the gret Omer; And with him Dares and Tytus Before, and eke he Lollius, And Guydo eke de Columpnis, And Englyssh Gaufride eke, ywis; And ech of these, as have I joye, Was besy for to bere up Troye. So hevy therof was the fame That for to bere hyt was no game. But yet I gan ful wel espie, Betwex hem was a litil envye. Oon seyde that Omer made lyes, Feynynge in hys poetries, And was to Grekes favorable; Therfor held he hyt but fable. Tho saugh I stonde on a piler, That was of tynned yren cler, The Latyn poete Virgile, That bore hath up a longe while The fame of Pius Eneas. And next hym on a piler was, Of coper, Venus clerk Ovide, That hath ysowen wonder wide The grete god of Loves name. And ther he bar up wel hys fame Upon this piler, also hye As I myghte see hyt with myn ye; For-why this halle, of which I rede, Was woxen on highte, length, and brede, Wel more be a thousand del Than hyt was erst, that saugh I wel. Thoo saugh I on a piler by, Of yren wroght ful sternely, The grete poete daun Lucan, And on hys shuldres bar up than, As high as that y myghte see, The fame of Julius and Pompe. And by him stoden alle these clerkes That writen of Romes myghty werkes, That yf y wolde her names telle, Al to longe most I dwelle. And next him on a piler stood Of soulfre, lyk as he were wood, Daun Claudian, the sothe to telle, That bar up al the fame of helle, Of Pluto, and of Proserpyne, That quene ys of the derke pyne. What shulde y more telle of this? The halle was al ful, ywys, Of hem that writen olde gestes As ben on trees rokes nestes; But hit a ful confus matere Were alle the gestes for to here That they of write, or how they highte. But while that y beheld thys syghte, I herde a noyse aprochen blyve, That ferde as been don in an hive Ayen her tyme of out-fleynge; Ryght such a maner murmurynge, For al the world, hyt semed me. Tho gan I loke aboute and see That ther come entryng into the halle A ryght gret companye withalle, And that of sondry regiouns, Of alleskynnes condiciouns That dwelle in erthe under the mone, Pore and ryche. And also sone As they were come in to the halle, They gonne doun on knees falle Before this ilke noble quene, And seyde, "Graunte us, lady shene, Ech of us of thy grace a bone!" And somme of hem she graunted sone, And somme she werned wel and faire, And some she graunted the contraire Of her axyng outterly. But thus I seye yow, trewely, What her cause was, y nyste. For of this folk ful wel y wiste They hadde good fame ech deserved, Although they were dyversly served; Ryght as her suster, dame Fortune, Ys wont to serven in comune. Now herke how she gan to paye That gonne her of her grace praye; And yit, lo, al this companye Seyden sooth, and noght a lye. "Madame," seyde they, "we be Folk that here besechen the 1555 That thou graunte us now good fame, And let our werkes han that name. In ful recompensacioun Of good werkes, yive us good renoun." "I werne yow hit," quod she anon; 1560 "Ye gete of me good fame non, Be God, and therfore goo your wey." "Allas," quod they, "and welaway! Telle us what may your cause be." "For me lyst hyt noght," quod she; 1565 "No wyght shal speke of yow, ywis, Good ne harm, ne that ne this." And with that word she gan to calle Her messager, that was in halle, And bad that he shulde faste goon, 1570 Upon peyne to be blynd anon, For Eolus the god of wynde -- "In Trace, ther ye shal him fynde, And bid him bringe his clarioun, That is ful dyvers of his soun, 1575 And hyt is cleped Clere Laude, With which he wont is to heraude Hem that me list ypreised be. And also bid him how that he Brynge his other clarioun, 1580 That highte Sklaundre in every toun, With which he wont is to diffame Hem that me liste, and do hem shame." This messager gan faste goon, And found where in a cave of ston, 1585 In a contree that highte Trace, This Eolus, with harde grace, Held the wyndes in distresse, And gan hem under him to presse, That they gonne as beres rore, 1590 He bond and pressed hem so sore. This messager gan faste crie, "Rys up," quod he, "and faste hye, Til thou at my lady be; And tak thy clariouns eke with the, 1595 And sped the forth." And he anon Tok to a man that highte Triton Hys clarions to bere thoo, And let a certeyn wynd to goo, That blew so hydously and hye 1600 That hyt ne lefte not a skye In alle the welken long and brod. This Eolus nowhere abod Til he was come to Fames fet, And eke the man that Triton het; 1605 And ther he stod, as stille as stoon. And her-withal ther come anoon Another huge companye Of goode folk, and gunne crie, "Lady, graunte us now good fame, 1610 And lat oure werkes han that name Now in honour of gentilesse, And also God your soule blesse! For we han wel deserved hyt, Therfore is ryght that we ben quyt." 1615 "As thryve I," quod she, "ye shal faylle! Good werkes shal yow noght availle To have of me good fame as now. But wite ye what? Y graunte yow That ye shal have a shrewed fame, 1620 And wikkyd loos, and worse name, Though ye good loos have wel deserved. Now goo your wey, for ye be served. And thou, dan Eolus, let see, Tak forth thy trumpe anon," quod she, 1625 "That is ycleped Sklaundre lyght, And blow her loos, that every wight Speke of hem harm and shrewednesse In stede of good and worthynesse. For thou shalt trumpe alle the contrayre 1630 Of that they han don wel or fayre." "Allas," thoughte I, "what aventures Han these sory creatures! For they, amonges al the pres, Shul thus be shamed gilteles. 1635 But what, hyt moste nedes be." What dide this Eolus, but he Tok out hys blake trumpe of bras, That fouler than the devel was, And gan this trumpe for to blowe, 1640 As al the world shulde overthrowe, That thrughout every regioun Wente this foule trumpes soun, As swifte as pelet out of gonne Whan fyr is in the poudre ronne. 1645 And such a smoke gan out wende Out of his foule trumpes ende, Blak, bloo, grenyssh, swartish red, As doth where that men melte led, Loo, al on high fro the tuel. 1650 And therto oo thing saugh I wel, That the ferther that hit ran, The gretter wexen hit began, As dooth the ryver from a welle, And hyt stank as the pit of helle. 1655 Allas, thus was her shame yronge, And gilteles, on every tonge! Tho come the thridde companye, And gunne up to the dees to hye, And doun on knes they fille anon, 1660 And seyde, "We ben everychon Folk that han ful trewely Deserved fame ryghtfully, And praye yow, hit mote be knowe Ryght as hit is, and forth yblowe." 1665 "I graunte," quod she, "for me list That now your goode werkes be wist, And yet ye shul han better loos, Right in dispit of alle your foos, Than worthy is, and that anoon. 1670 Lat now," quod she, "thy trumpe goon, Thou Eolus, that is so blak; And out thyn other trumpe tak That highte Laude, and blow yt soo That thrugh the world her fame goo 1675 Al esely, and not to faste, That hyt be knowen atte laste." "Ful gladly, lady myn," he seyde; And out hys trumpe of gold he brayde Anon, and sette hyt to his mouth, 1680 And blew it est, and west, and south, And north, as lowde as any thunder, That every wight hath of hit wonder, So brode hyt ran or than hit stente. And, certes, al the breth that wente 1685 Out of his trumpes mouth it smelde As men a pot of bawme helde Among a basket ful of roses. This favour dide he til her loses. And ryght with this y gan aspye, 1690 Ther come the ferthe companye -- But certeyn they were wonder fewe -- And gunne stonden in a rewe, And seyden, "Certes, lady bryght, We han don wel with al our myght, 1695 But we ne kepen have no fame. Hyde our werkes and our name, For Goddys love; for certes we Han certeyn doon hyt for bounte, And for no maner other thing." 1700 "I graunte yow alle your askyng," Quod she; "let your werkes be ded." With that aboute y clew myn hed, And saugh anoon the fifte route That to this lady gunne loute, 1705 And doun on knes anoon to falle; And to hir thoo besoughten alle To hide her goode werkes ek, And seyden they yeven noght a lek For fame ne for such renoun; 1710 For they for contemplacioun And Goddes love hadde ywrought, Ne of fame wolde they nought. "What?" quod she, "and be ye wood? And wene ye for to doo good, 1715 And for to have of that no fame? Have ye dispit to have my name? Nay, ye shul lyven everychon! Blow thy trumpes, and that anon," Quod she, "thou Eolus, y hote, 1720 And ryng this folkes werk be note, That al the world may of hyt here." And he gan blowe her loos so clere In his golden clarioun That thrugh the world wente the soun 1725 Also kenely and eke so softe; But atte last hyt was on-lofte. Thoo come the s**te companye, And gunne faste on Fame crie. Ryght verraily in this manere 1730 They seyden: "Mercy, lady dere! To tellen certeyn as hyt is, We han don neither that ne this, But ydel al oure lyf ybe. But natheles yet preye we 1735 That we mowe han as good a fame, And gret renoun and knowen name, As they that han doon noble gestes, And acheved alle her lestes, As wel of love as other thyng. 1740 Al was us never broche ne ryng, Ne elles noght, from wymmen sent, Ne ones in her herte yment To make us oonly frendly chere, But myghten temen us upon bere; 1745 Yet lat us to the peple seme Suche as the world may of us deme That wommen loven us for wod. Hyt shal doon us as moche good, And to oure herte as moche avaylle 1750 To countrepese ese and travaylle, As we had wonne hyt with labour; For that is dere boght honour At regard of oure grete ese. And yet thou most us more plese: 1755 Let us be holden eke therto Worthy, wise, and goode also, And riche, and happy unto love. For Goddes love, that sit above, Thogh we may not the body have 1760 Of wymmen, yet, so God yow save, Leet men gliwe on us the name -- Sufficeth that we han the fame." "I graunte," quod she, "be my trouthe! Now, Eolus, withouten slouthe, 1765 Tak out thy trumpe of gold, let se, And blow as they han axed me, That every man wene hem at ese, Though they goon in ful badde lese." This Eolus gan hit so blowe 1770 That thrugh the world hyt was yknowe. Thoo come the seventh route anoon, And fel on knees everychoon, And seyde, "Lady, graunte us sone The same thing, the same bone, 1775 That [ye] this nexte folk han doon." "Fy on yow," quod she, "everychon! Ye masty swyn, ye ydel wrechches, Ful of roten, slowe techches! What? False theves! Wher ye wolde 1780 Be famous good, and nothing nolde Deserve why, ne never ye roughte? Men rather yow to hangen oughte! For ye be lyke the sweynte cat That wolde have fissh; but wostow what? 1785 He wolde nothing wete his clowes. Yvel thrift come to your jowes, And eke to myn, if I hit graunte, Or do yow favour, yow to avaunte! Thou Eolus, thou kyng of Trace, 1790 Goo blowe this folk a sory grace," Quod she, "anon; and wostow how? As I shal telle thee ryght now. Sey: `These ben they that wolde honour Have, and do noskynnes labour, 1795 Ne doo no good, and yet han lawde; And that men wende that bele Isawde Ne coude hem noght of love werne, And yet she that grynt at a querne Ys al to good to ese her herte.'" 1800 This Eolus anon up sterte, And with his blake clarioun He gan to blasen out a soun As lowde as beloweth wynd in helle; And eke therwith, soth to telle, 1805 This soun was so ful of japes, As ever mowes were in apes. And that wente al the world aboute, That every wight gan on hem shoute And for to lawghe as they were wod, 1810 Such game fonde they in her hod. Tho come another companye, That had ydoon the trayterye, The harm, the grettest wikkednesse That any herte kouth. gesse; 1815 And prayed her to han good fame, And that she nolde doon hem no shame, But yeve hem loos and good renoun, And do hyt blowe in a clarioun. "Nay, wis," quod she, "hyt were a vice. 1820 Al be ther in me no justice, Me lyste not to doo hyt now, Ne this nyl I not graunte yow." Tho come ther lepynge in a route, And gunne choppen al aboute 1825 Every man upon the crowne, That al the halle gan to sowne, And seyden: "Lady, leef and dere, We ben suche folk as ye mowe here. To tellen al the tale aryght, 1830 We ben shrewes, every wyght, And han delyt in wikkednesse, As goode folk han in godnesse; And joye to be knowen shrewes, And ful of vice and wikked thewes; 1835 Wherefore we praye yow, a-rowe, That oure fame such be knowe In alle thing ryght as hit ys." "Y graunte hyt yow," quod she, "ywis. But what art thow that seyst this tale, 1840 That werest on thy hose a pale, And on thy tipet such a belle?" "Madame," quod he, "soth to telle, I am that ylke shrewe, ywis, That brende the temple of Ysidis 1845 In Athenes, loo, that citee." "And wherfor didest thou so?" quod she. "By my thrift," quod he, "madame, I wolde fayn han had a fame, As other folk hadde in the toun, 1850 Although they were of gret renoun For her vertu and for her thewes. Thoughte y, as gret a fame han shrewes, Though hit be for shrewednesse, As goode folk han for godnesse; 1855 And sith y may not have that oon, That other nyl y noght forgoon. And for to gette of Fames hire, The temple sette y al afire. Now do our loos be blowen swithe, 1860 As wisly be thou ever blythe!" "Gladly," quod she; "thow Eolus, Herestow not what they prayen us?" "Madame, yis, ful wel," quod he, "And I wil trumpen it, parde!" 1865 And tok his blake trumpe faste, And gan to puffen and to blaste, Til hyt was at the worldes ende. With that y gan aboute wende, For oon that stood ryght at my bak, 1870 Me thoughte, goodly to me spak, And seyde, "Frend, what is thy name? Artow come hider to han fame?" "Nay, for sothe, frend," quod y; "I cam noght hyder, graunt mercy, 1875 For no such cause, by my hed! Sufficeth me, as I were ded, That no wight have my name in honde. I wot myself best how y stonde; For what I drye, or what I thynke, 1880 I wil myselven al hyt drynke, Certeyn, for the more part, As fer forth as I kan myn art." "But what doost thou here than?" quod he. Quod y, "That wyl y tellen the, 1885 The cause why y stonde here: Somme newe tydynges for to lere, Somme newe thinges, y not what, Tydynges, other this or that, Of love or suche thynges glade. 1890 For certeynly, he that me made To comen hyder, seyde me, Y shulde bothe here and se In this place wonder thynges; But these be no suche tydynges 1895 As I mene of." "Noo?" quod he. And I answered, "Noo, parde! For wel y wiste ever yit, Sith that first y hadde wit, That somme folk han desired fame 1900 Diversly, and loos, and name. But certeynly, y nyste how Ne where that Fame duelled, er now, And eke of her descripcioun, Ne also her condicioun, 1905 Ne the ordre of her dom, Unto the tyme y hidder com." "[Whych] than be, loo, these tydynges, That thou now [thus] hider brynges, That thou hast herd?" quod he to me; 1910 "But now no fors, for wel y se What thou desirest for to here. Com forth and stond no lenger here, And y wil thee, withouten drede, In such another place lede 1915 Ther thou shalt here many oon." Tho gan I forth with hym to goon Out of the castel, soth to seye. Tho saugh y stonde in a valeye, Under the castel, faste by, 1920 An hous, that Domus Dedaly, That Laboryntus cleped ys, Nas mad so wonderlych, ywis, Ne half so queyntelych ywrought. And ever mo, as swyft as thought, 1925 This queynte hous aboute wente, That never mo hyt stille stente. And therout com so gret a noyse That, had hyt stonden upon Oyse, Men myghte hyt han herd esely 1930 To Rome, y trowe sikerly. And the noyse which that I herde, For al the world ryght so hyt ferde As dooth the rowtynge of the ston That from th' engyn ys leten gon. 1935 And al thys hous of which y rede Was mad of twigges, falwe, rede, And grene eke, and somme weren white, Swiche as men to these cages thwite, Or maken of these panyers, 1940 Or elles [hottes] or dossers; That, for the swough and for the twygges, This hous was also ful of gygges, And also ful eke of chirkynges, And of many other werkynges; 1945 And eke this hous hath of entrees As fele as of leves ben in trees In somer, whan they grene been; And on the roof men may yet seen A thousand holes, and wel moo, 1950 To leten wel the soun out goo. And be day, in every tyde, Been al the dores opened wide, And be nyght echon unshette; Ne porter ther is noon to lette 1955 No maner tydynges in to pace. Ne never rest is in that place That hit nys fild ful of tydynges, Other loude or of whisprynges; And over alle the houses angles 1960 Ys ful of rounynges and of jangles Of werres, of pes, of mariages, Of reste, of labour, of viages, Of abood, of deeth, of lyf, Of love, of hate, acord, of stryf, 1965 Of loos, of lore, and of wynnynges, Of hele, of seknesse, of bildynges, Of faire wyndes, and of tempestes, Of qwalm of folk, and eke of bestes; Of dyvers transmutacions 1970 Of estats, and eke of regions; Of trust, of drede, of jelousye, Of wit, of wynnynge, of folye; Of plente, and of gret famyne, Of chepe, of derthe, and of ruyne; 1975 Of good or mys governement, Of fyr, and of dyvers accident. And loo, thys hous, of which I write, Syker be ye, hit nas not lyte, For hyt was sixty myle of lengthe. 1980 Al was the tymber of no strengthe, Yet hit is founded to endure While that hit lyst to Aventure, That is the moder of tydynges, As the see of welles and of sprynges; 1985 And hyt was shapen lyk a cage. "Certys," quod y, "in al myn age, Ne saugh y such an hous as this." And as y wondred me, ywys, Upon this hous, tho war was y 1990 How that myn egle faste by Was perched hye upon a stoon; And I gan streghte to hym gon, And seyde thus: "Y preye the That thou a while abide me, 1995 For Goddis love, and lete me seen What wondres in this place been; For yit, paraunter, y may lere Som good theron, or sumwhat here That leef me were, or that y wente." 2000 "Petre, that is myn entente," Quod he to me; "therfore y duelle. But certeyn, oon thyng I the telle, That but I bringe the therinne, Ne shalt thou never kunne gynne 2005 To come into hyt, out of doute, So faste hit whirleth, lo, aboute. But sith that Joves, of his grace, As I have seyd, wol the solace Fynally with these thinges, 2010 Unkouthe syghtes and tydynges, To pa**e with thyn hevynesse, Such routhe hath he of thy distresse, That thou suffrest debonairly -- And wost thyselven outtirly 2015 Disesperat of alle blys, Syth that Fortune hath mad amys The [fruit] of al thyn hertys reste Languisshe and eke in poynt to breste -- That he, thrugh hys myghty merite, 2020 Wol do the an ese, al be hyt lyte, And yaf in expres commaundement, To which I am obedient, To further the with al my myght, And wisse and teche the aryght Where thou maist most tidynges here. Shaltow here anoon many oon lere." With this word he ryght anoon Hente me up bytweene hys toon, And at a wyndowe yn me broghte, That in this hous was, as me thoghte -- And therwithalle, me thoughte hit stente, And nothing hyt aboute wente -- And me sette in the flor adoun. But which a congregacioun Of folk, as I saugh rome aboute, Some wythin and some wythoute, Nas never seen, ne shal ben eft; That, certys, in the world nys left So many formed be Nature, Ne ded so many a creature; That wel unnethe in that place Hadde y a fote-brede of space. And every wight that I saugh there Rouned everych in others ere A newe tydynge prively, Or elles tolde al openly Ryght thus, and seyde: "Nost not thou That ys betyd, lo, late or now?" "No," quod he, "telle me what." And than he tolde hym this and that, And swor therto that hit was soth -- "Thus hath he sayd," and "Thus he doth," "Thus shal hit be," "Thus herde y seye," "That shal be founde," "That dar I leye" -- That al the folk that ys alyve Ne han the kunnynge to discryve The thinges that I herde there, What aloude, and what in ere. But al the wondermost was this: Whan oon had herd a thing, ywis, He com forth ryght to another wight, And gan him tellen anon-ryght The same that to him was told, Or hyt a forlong way was old, But gan somwhat for to eche To this tydynge in this speche More than hit ever was. And nat so sone departed nas Tho fro him, that he ne mette With the thridde; and or he lette Any stounde, he told him als; Were the tydynge soth or fals, Yit wolde he telle hyt natheles, And evermo with more encres Than yt was erst. Thus north and south Wente every tydyng fro mouth to mouth, And that encresing ever moo, As fyr ys wont to quyke and goo From a sparke spronge amys, Til al a citee brent up ys. And whan that was ful yspronge, And woxen more on every tonge Than ever hit was, [hit] wente anoon Up to a wyndowe out to goon; Or, but hit myghte out there pace, Hyt gan out crepe at som crevace, And flygh forth faste for the nones. And somtyme saugh I thoo at ones A lesyng and a sad soth sawe, That gonne of aventure drawe Out at a wyndowe for to pace; And, when they metten in that place, They were achekked bothe two, And neyther of hem moste out goo For other, so they gonne crowde, Til ech of hem gan crien lowde, "Lat me go first!" "Nay, but let me! And here I wol ensuren the, Wyth the nones that thou wolt do so, That I shal never fro the go, But be thyn owne sworen brother! We wil medle us ech with other, That no man, be they never so wrothe, Shal han on [of us] two, but bothe At ones, al besyde his leve, Come we a-morwe or on eve, Be we cried or stille yrouned." Thus saugh I fals and soth compouned Togeder fle for oo tydynge. Thus out at holes gunne wringe Every tydynge streght to Fame, And she gan yeven ech hys name, After hir disposicioun, And yaf hem eke duracioun, Somme to wexe and wane sone, As doth the faire white mone, And let hem goon. Ther myghte y seen Wynged wondres faste fleen, Twenty thousand in a route, As Eolus hem blew aboute. And, Lord, this hous in alle tymes Was ful of shipmen and pilgrimes, With scrippes bret-ful of lesinges, Entremedled with tydynges, And eek allone be hemselve. O, many a thousand tymes twelve Saugh I eke of these pardoners, Currours, and eke messagers, With boystes crammed ful of lyes As ever vessel was with lyes. And as I alther-fastest wente About, and dide al myn entente Me for to pleyen and for to lere, And eke a tydynge for to here, That I had herd of som contre That shal not now be told for me -- For hit no nede is, redely; Folk kan synge hit bet than I; For al mot out, other late or rathe, Alle the sheves in the lathe -- I herde a gret noyse withalle In a corner of the halle, Ther men of love-tydynges tolde, And I gan thiderward beholde; For I saugh rennynge every wight As faste as that they hadden myght, And everych cried, "What thing is that?" And somme sayde, "I not never what." And whan they were alle on an hepe, Tho behynde begunne up lepe, And clamben up on other faste, And up the nose and yen kaste, And troden fast on others heles, And stampen, as men doon aftir eles. Atte laste y saugh a man, Which that y [nevene] nat ne kan; But he semed for to be A man of gret auctorite. . . .