Confessio Amantis. Explicit Prologus
Incipit Liber PrimusNaturatus amor nature legibus orbemSubdit, et vnanimes concitat esse feras:Huius enim mundi Princeps amor esse videtur,Cuius eget diues, pauper et omnis ope.Sunt in agone pares amor et fortuna, que cecasPlebis ad insidias vertit vterque rotas.Est amor egra salus, vexata quies, pius error,Bellica pax, vulnus dulce, suaue malum.I may noght strecche up to the heveneMin hand, ne setten al in eveneThis world, which evere is in balance:It stant noght in my sufficanceSo grete thinges to compasse,Bot I mot lete it overpasseAnd treten upon othre thinges.Forthi the Stile of my writingesFro this day forth I thenke changeAnd speke of thing is noght so strange, Which every kinde hath upon honde,And wherupon the world mot stonde,And hath don sithen it began,And schal whil ther is any man;And that is love, of which I meneTo trete, as after schal be sene.In which ther can noman him reule,For loves lawe is out of reule,That of tomoche or of toliteWelnyh is every man to wyte, And natheles ther is nomanIn al this world so wys, that canOf love tempre the mesure,Bot as it falth in aventure:For wit ne strengthe may noght helpe,And he which elles wolde him yelpeIs rathest throwen under fote,Ther can no wiht therof do bote.For yet was nevere such covine,That couthe ordeine a medicine To thing which god in lawe of kindeHath set, for ther may noman findeThe rihte salve of such a Sor.It hath and schal ben everemorThat love is maister wher he wile,Ther can no lif make other skile;For wher as evere him lest to sette,Ther is no myht which him may lette.Bot what schal fallen ate laste,The sothe can no wisdom caste, Bot as it falleth upon chance;For if ther evere was balanceWhich of fortune stant governed,I may wel lieve as I am lernedThat love hath that balance on honde,Which wol no reson understonde.For love is blind and may noght se,Forthi may no certeineteBe set upon his jugement,Bot as the whiel aboute went He yifth his graces undeserved,And fro that man which hath him servedFulofte he takth aweye his fees,As he that pleieth ate Dees,And therupon what schal befalleHe not, til that the chance falle,Wher he schal lese or he schal winne.And thus fulofte men beginne,That if thei wisten what it mente,Thei wolde change al here entente. And forto proven it is so,I am miselven on of tho,Which to this Scole am underfonge.For it is siththe go noght longe,As forto speke of this matiere,I may you telle, if ye woll hiere,A wonder hap which me befell,That was to me bothe hard and fell,Touchende of love and his fortune,The which me liketh to comune And pleinly forto telle it oute.To hem that ben lovers abouteFro point to point I wol declareAnd wryten of my woful care,Mi wofull day, my wofull chance,That men mowe take remembranceOf that thei schall hierafter rede:For in good feith this wolde I rede,That every man ensample takeOf wisdom which him is betake, And that he wot of good apriseTo teche it forth, for such empriseIs forto preise; and therfore IWoll wryte and schewe al openlyHow love and I togedre mette,Wherof the world ensample fetteMai after this, whan I am go,Of thilke unsely jolif wo,Whos reule stant out of the weie,Nou glad and nou gladnesse aweie, And yet it may noght be withstondeFor oght that men may understonde.Upon the point that is befalleOf love, in which that I am falle,I thenke telle my matiere:Now herkne, who that wol it hiere,Of my fortune how that it ferde.This enderday, as I forthferdeTo walke, as I yow telle may,-And that was in the Monthe of Maii, Whan every brid hath chose his makeAnd thenkth his merthes forto makeOf love that he hath achieved;Bot so was I nothing relieved,For I was further fro my loveThan Erthe is fro the hevene above,As forto speke of eny sped:So wiste I me non other red,Bot as it were a man forfareUnto the wode I gan to fare, Noght forto singe with the briddes,For whanne I was the wode amiddes,I fond a swote grene pleine,And ther I gan my wo compleigneWisshinge and wepinge al myn one,For other merthes made I none.So hard me was that ilke throwe,That ofte sithes overthroweTo grounde I was withoute breth;And evere I wisshide after deth, Whanne I out of my peine awok,And caste up many a pitous lokUnto the hevene, and seide thus:'O thou Cupide, O thou Venus,Thou god of love and thou goddesse,Wher is pite? wher is meknesse?Now doth me pleinly live or dye,For certes such a maladieAs I now have and longe have hadd,It myhte make a wisman madd, If that it scholde longe endure.O Venus, queene of loves cure,Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele,Behold my cause and my querele,And yif me som part of thi grace,So that I may finde in this placeIf thou be gracious or non.'And with that word I sawh anonThe kyng of love and qweene bothe;Bot he that kyng with yhen wrothe His chiere aweiward fro me caste,And forth he passede ate laste.Bot natheles er he forth wenteA firy Dart me thoghte he henteAnd threw it thurgh myn herte rote:In him fond I non other bote,For lenger list him noght to duelle.Bot sche that is the Source and WelleOf wel or wo, that schal betideTo hem that loven, at that tide Abod, bot forto tellen hiereSche cast on me no goodly chiere:Thus natheles to me sche seide,'What art thou, Sone?' and I abreideRiht as a man doth out of slep,And therof tok sche riht good kepAnd bad me nothing ben adrad:Bot for al that I was noght glad,For I ne sawh no cause why.And eft scheo asketh, what was I: I seide, 'A Caitif that lith hiere:What wolde ye, my Ladi diere?Schal I ben hol or elles dye?'Sche seide, 'Tell thi maladie:What is thi Sor of which thou pleignest?Ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest,I can do the no medicine.''Ma dame, I am a man of thyne,That in thi Court have longe served,And aske that I have deserved, Some wele after my longe wo.'And sche began to loure tho,And seide, 'Ther is manye of yowFaitours, and so may be that thowArt riht such on, and be feintiseSeist that thou hast me do servise.'And natheles sche wiste wel,Mi world stod on an other whielWithouten eny faiterie:Bot algate of my maladie Sche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe.'Ma dame, if ye wolde have rowthe,'Quod I, 'than wolde I telle yow.''Sey forth,' quod sche, 'and tell me how;Schew me thi seknesse everydiel.''Ma dame, that can I do wel,Be so my lif therto wol laste.'With that hir lok on me sche caste,And seide: 'In aunter if thou live,Mi will is ferst that thou be schrive; And natheles how that it isI wot miself, bot for al thisUnto my prest, which comth anon,I woll thou telle it on and on,Bothe all thi thoght and al thi werk.O Genius myn oghne Clerk,Com forth and hier this mannes schrifte,'Quod Venus tho; and I uplifteMin hefd with that, and gan beholdeThe selve Prest, which as sche wolde Was redy there and sette him dounTo hiere my confessioun.This worthi Prest, this holy manTo me spekende thus began,And seide: 'Benedicite,Mi Sone, of the feliciteOf love and ek of all the woThou schalt thee schrive of bothe tuo.What thou er this for loves sakeHast felt, let nothing be forsake, Tell pleinliche as it is befalle.'And with that word I gan doun falleOn knees, and with devociounAnd with full gret contriciounI seide thanne: 'Dominus,Min holi fader Genius,So as thou hast experienceOf love, for whos reverenceThou schalt me schriven at this time,I prai the let me noght mistime Mi schrifte, for I am destourbedIn al myn herte, and so contourbed,That I ne may my wittes gete,So schal I moche thing foryete:Bot if thou wolt my schrifte opposeFro point to point, thanne I suppose,Ther schal nothing be left behinde.Bot now my wittes ben so blinde,That I ne can miselven teche.'Tho he began anon to preche, And with his wordes debonaireHe seide tome softe and faire:'Thi schrifte to oppose and hiere,My Sone, I am assigned hiereBe Venus the godesse above,Whos Prest I am touchende of love.Bot natheles for certein skileI mot algate and nedes wileNoght only make my spekyngesOf love, bot of othre thinges, That touchen to the cause of vice.For that belongeth to thofficeOf Prest, whos ordre t
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