The
Romaunt
of the
Rose

But took agree al hool my play.
But Love is of so hard assay,
That al at onis he reved me,
When I wend best aboven have be.
It is of Love, as of fortune,
That chaungeth ofte, and nil contune;
Which whylom wol on folke amyle,
And gloumbe on hem another whyle;
Now Freend, now foo, thou shalt hir fele,
For in a twinking tournayl wheele.
She can wrythe hir heed away,
This is the concours of hir pley;
She can areyse that doth morne,
And whirle adown, and overturne
Who sittith biegbat, al as hir list;
A fool is he that wol hir trist.
For it am I that am com doun
Churgh change and revolucioun
Sith Bialacoil mot fro me twinne,
Shet in the prisoun yond withinne,
His absence at myn herte I fele;
For al my joye and al myn hele
Was in him and in the rose,
That but yon wal, which him doth close,
Open, that I may him see,
Love nil not that I cured be
Of the peynes that I endure,
Nor of my cruel aventure.

BIALACOIL, myn owne dere!
Though thou be now a prisonere,
Kepe atte leste thyn herte to me,
And suffre not that it daunted be;
Ne lat not Jelousye, in his rage,
Dutten thyn herte in no servage.
Although he chastise thee withoute,
And make thy body unto him loute,
Have herte as hard as dyamaunt,
Stedfast, and nought plaiaunt;
In prisoun though thy body be,
At large hepe thyn herte free.
A trewe herte wol not plye
for no manace that it may drye.
If Jelousye doth thee payne,
Quye him his whyle thus agayne,
Covenge thee, atte leest in thought,
If other way thou mayest nought;
And in this wyse sotilly
Worche, and winne the maistry.
But yit I am in gret affray
Lest thou do not as I say;
Idrede thou canst me greet maugree,
That thou emprisoned art for me;
But that is not for my trespas,
for thurgh me never discovered was
Yit thing that oughte be secree.
Wel more anoy ther is in me,
Chan is in thee, of this mischaunce;
For I endure more hard penaunce
Chan any man can seyn or thinke,
That for the sorwe almost I sinke.
When I remembre me of my wo,
ful nygh out of my wit I go.
Inward myn herte I fele blede,

For comfortles the deeth I drede.
Ow I not wel to have distresse,
When false, thurgh hir wikkednesse,
And traitours, that Arn envyous,
To noyen me be so coragious?
BIALACOIL, ful wel I see,
That they hem shape to disceyve thee,
To make thee buxom to hir lawe,
And with hir corde thee to drawe
Wherso hem lust, right at hir wil;
I drede they have thee brought thertil.
Withoute comfort, thought me sleeth;
This game wol bringe me to my deeth.
For if your gode wille I lese,
Imote be deed; I may not chese.
And if that thou forye me,
Myn herte shal never in lyking be;
Nor elleswhere finde solace,
If I be put out of your grace,
As it shal never been, I hope;
Than shulde I fallen in wanhope.

Here ends the work of Guillaume de Lorris; and
begins the work of Jean de Meun.

L.L.H.S., in wanhope?... nay, pardee!
for I wol never dispired be.
If Hope me faile, than am I
Ungracious and unworthy;
In Hope I wol comforted be,
for Love, whan he bitaught hir me,
Seide, that Hope, wherso I go,
Shulde ay be relees to my wo.
But what and she my balis bete,
And be to me curteis and swete?
She is in nothing ful certeyn.
Lovers she put in ful gret peyn,
And makith hem with wo to dele.
Hir fair biheest disceyveth fele,
for she wol bihote, sikirly,
And failen aftir outrely.
A that is a ful noyous thing!
for many a lover, in loving,
Hangeth upon hir, and trusteth fast,
Whiche lese hir travel at the last.
Of thing to comen she woot right nought;
Therfore, if it be wysly sought,
Hir counseille, foly is to take.
for many tymes, whan she wol make
A ful good silogisme, I drede
That aftirward ther shal in dede
folwe an evel conclusioun;
This put me in confusioun.
for many tymes I have it seen,
That many have bigyled been,
for trust that they have set in Hope,
Which fel hem aftirward aslope.

AC natheles yit, gladly she wolde,
That he, that wol him with hir holde,
Hadde alle tymes his purpos clere,
Withoute deceyte, or any were.
That she desireth sikirly;
When I, hir blamed, I did foly.
But what avayleth hir good wille,
When she ne may staunche my wounde ille?

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