Nothing is better, I well think,Than love; the hidden well-waterIs not so delicate to drink:This was well seen of me and her.
I served her in a royal house;I served her wine and curious meat.For will to kiss between her brows,I had no heart to sleep or eat.
Mere scorn God knows she had of me,A poor scribe, nowise great or fair,Who plucked his clerk’s hood back to seeHer curled-up lips and amorous hair.
I vex my head with thinking this.Yea, though God always hated me,And hates me now that I can kissHer eyes, plait up her hair to see
How she then wore it on the brows,Yet am I glad to have her deadHere in this wretched wattled houseWhere I can kiss her eyes and head.
Nothing is better, I well know,Than love; no amber in cold seaOr gathered berries under snow:That is well seen of her and me.
Three thoughts I make my pleasure of:First I take heart and think of this:That knight’s gold hair she chose to love,His mouth she had such will to kiss.
Then I remember that sundawnI brought him by a privy wayOut at her lattice, and thereonWhat gracious words she found to say.
(Cold rushes for such little feet —Both feet could lie into my hand.A marvel was it of my sweetHer upright body could so stand.)
"Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace;Now am I clean and whole of shame,Nor shall men burn me in the faceFor my sweet fault that scandals them."
I tell you over word by word.She, sitting edgewise on her bed,Holding her feet, said thus. The third,A sweeter thing than these, I said.
God, that makes time and ruins itAnd alters not, abiding God,Changed with disease her body sweet,The body of love wherein she abode.
Love is more sweet and comelierThan a dove’s throat strained out to sing.All they spat out and cursed at herAnd cast her forth for a base thing.
They cursed her, seeing how God had wroughtThis curse to plague her, a curse of his.Fools were they surely, seeing notHow sweeter than all sweet she is.
He that had held her by the hair,With kissing lips blinding her eyes,Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare,Sigh under him, with short mad cries
Out of her throat and sobbing mouthAnd body broken up with love,With sweet hot tears his lips were lothHer own should taste the savour of,
Yea, he inside whose grasp all nightHer fervent body leapt or lay,Stained with sharp kisses red and white,Found her a plague to spurn away.
I hid her in this wattled house,I served her water and poor bread.For joy to kiss between her browsTime upon time I was nigh dead.
Bread failed; we got but well-waterAnd gathered grass with dropping seed.I had such joy of kissing her,I had small care to sleep or feed.
Sometimes when service made me gladThe sharp tears leapt between my lids,Falling on her, such joy I hadTo do the service God forbids.
"I pray you let me be at peace,Get hence, make room for me to die."She said that: her poor lip would cease,Put up to mine, and turn to cry.
I said, "Bethink yourself how loveFared in us twain, what either did;Shall I unclothe my soul thereof?That I should do this, God forbid."
Yea, though God hateth us, he knowsThat hardly in a little thingLove faileth of the work it doesTill it grow ripe for gathering.
Six months, and now my sweet is deadA trouble takes me; I know notIf all were done well, all well said,No word or tender deed forgot.
Too sweet, for the least part in her,To have shed life out by fragments; yet,Could the close mouth catch breath and stir,I might see something I forget.
Six months, and I sit still and holdIn two cold palms her cold two feet.Her hair, half grey half ruined gold,Thrills me and burns me in kissing it.
Love bites and stings me through, to seeHer keen face made of sunken bones.Her worn-off eyelids madden me,That were shot through with purple once.
She said, "Be good with me; I growSo tired for shame’s sake, I shall dieIf you say nothing:" even so.And she is dead now, and shame put by.
Yea, and the scorn she had of meIn the old time, doubtless vexed her then.I never should have kissed her. SeeWhat fools God’s anger makes of men!
She might have loved me a little too,Had I been humbler for her sake.But that new shame could make love newShe saw not — yet her shame did make.
I took too much upon my love,Having for such mean service doneHer beauty and all the ways thereof,Her face and all the sweet thereon.
Yea, all this while I tended her,I know the old love held fast his part:I know the old scorn waxed heavier,Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.
It may be all my love went wrong —A scribe’s work writ awry and blurred,Scrawled after the blind evensong —Spoilt music with no perfect word.
But surely I would fain have doneAll things the best I could. PerchanceBecause I failed, came short of one,She kept at heart that other man’s.
I am grown blind with all these things:It may be now she hath in sightSome better knowledge; still there clingsThe old question. Will not God do right?
Note
En ce temps-là estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et de meseaulx, ce dont
le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que Dieu dust en estre moult griefvement courroucé.
Ores il advint qu’une noble damoyselle appelée Yolande de Sallières estant atteincte
et touste guastée de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant devant leurs
yeux la paour de Dieu la firent issir fors de leurs maisons et oncques ne voulurent
recepvoir ni reconforter chose mauldicte de Dieu et à tous les hommes puante et abhominable.
Ceste dame avoyt esté moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de son corps elle estoyt
large et de vie lascive. Pourtant nul des amans qui l’avoyent souventesfois accollée
et baisée moult tendrement ne voulust plus héberger si laide femme et si détestable
pescheresse. Ung seul clerc qui feut premièrement son lacquays et son entremetteur
en matière d’amour la reçut chez luy et la récéla dans une petite cabane. Là mourut
la meschinette de grande misère et de male mort: et après elle décéda ledist clerc
qui pour grand amour l’avoyt six mois durant soignée, lavée, habillée et deshabillée
tous les jours de ses mains propres. Mesme dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict
clerc se remémourant de la grande beauté passée et guastée de ceste femme se délectoyt
maintesfois à la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lépreuse et l’accoller doulcement de
ses mains amoureuses. Aussy est-il mort de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. Cecy advint
près Fontainebellant en Gastinois. Et quand ouyt le roy Philippe ceste adventure moult
en estoyt esmerveillé.
Grandes Chroniques de France, 1505.