And fayid, Walkith forth a pace,
And tel thine advinture and cafe
That thou fhalte finde in Fam'is place.
Nowe (quod I) while that we have space
To speke, or that I go fro the,
For the love of God tellith me
In fothe that I will of the lere,
If this ilke noise which that I here
Be as I have herde the me tell, Of folke that done in erthe ydwell, And comith here in the fame wife As I the herde or this devise, And that here liv'is body n'is In all that House that yondir is
That makith al this loudè fare.
No, (answerid he) by Sainte Clare,
And al fo wiffely God rede me :
But o thinge I will warnè the,
Of the whiche thou wilte have wondir, Lo! to The House of Fame yondir
Thou wofte howe comith every speche, It nedith not the efte to teche;
But understande now right wel this,
Whan any speche ycomin is
Up to the palais, anone right
It wexith like the famè wight
Whiche that the worde in erth yfpake, Be he clothid in red or blake,
And hath so very his likenesse
That spake the worde, that thou wilte geffe
That it the famè body be,
Wher man or woman, he or fhe.
And is not this a wondir thinge?
Yes, (quod I) tho by hevin kinge: And with this worde Farewel, (quod he) And here wil I abydin the,
THOU, god of Science and of Light, Apollo! thorough thy grete might This litil last boke now thou gye, Nowe that I will for maiftèrie Here arte potenciall be shewde, But for the rime is lyght and lewde Yet make it fomwhat agreable, Though fome verfe faile in a syllable, And that I do no diligence
To fhewin craftè but fentence; And if that divine virtue thou
Wilte helpin me to shewin nowe
That in my hed ymarkid is,
Lo! that is for to menin this,
The House of Fame for to difcrive,
Thou shalt yfe me go as blive
Unto the next laurir I fe,
And kyffe it for it is thy tre: Nowe entre in my brest anone,
Whan I was from the egle gone I gan beholde upon this place, And certaine or I furthir passe I wol you al the shape devise
Of House and cite, and al the wise Howe I gan to this place approche, That flode upon fo hie a roche, Hyir yftandith none in Spaine; But up I clambe with mochil paine, And though to clime ygrevid me Yet I ententife was to se,
And for to porin wondre lowe,
If I coude any wife yknowe
What manir stone this roche ywas,
For it was lyke a limid glas, But that it fhone ful morè clere,
But of what congelid matere
It was I ne wifte redily; But at the laste espyid I, And founde that it was everydele A roche of yfe and not of stele:
Thought I, by Saint Thomas of Kent This were a feble foundèment
To buildin on a place fo hie;
He ought hym lite to glorifie
That heron builte, God fo me fave. Tho fawe I all the hall igrave With famous folkis namis fele That haddin ben in mochil wele, And ther famis full wide iblowe, But well unnethis might I knowe Any lettiris for to rede Ther namis by, for out of drede Thei werin almofte of thawed fo That of the lettirs one or two Were molte awaie of every name, So unfamous was wexe ther fame; But men faie, What maie evir laft?
Tho gan I in myne hertè caft That thei were molte awaie for hete, And not awaie with ftormis bete, For on that othir fide I fey Of this hill, that northward yley, How it was writin full of names
Of folke that had afore grete
Of oldè tyme, and yet thei were
As freshe as men had written 'hem there
The felf daie, or that verry houre,
That I on 'hem began to poure;
But well I wiftè what it made, It was confervid with the fhade, All the writyng which that I fie, Of a caftill that stode on hie, And ftode eke in fo cold a place That hete ne might it not deface. Tho gan I on this hill to gone, And found upon the coppe a wone, That all the men that ben on live Ne han the connyng to difcrive The beaute of that ilkè place, Ne coudin castin no compace Soche an othir for to ymake That might of beautie be his make, Ne one fo wondirly iwrought, That it aftonieth yet my thought, And makith all my witte to fwinke, Upon this castill for to thinke, So that the wondir grete beautie, Cafte, craft, and curiofitie, Ne can I not to you devife, My witte ne maie me not suffise, But nathèleffe all the fubftaunce
I have yet in my remembraunce;
For why? me thoughtin, by Sain& Gile,
That all was stone of berile
Bothe the caftill and the toure,
And eke the hall and every boure,
« PreviousContinue » |