Then, from a trunk that stood hard-by,
The Owl in turn made her reply,
O'er it the ivy grew apace;
There made the Owl her dwelling-place.
The Nightingale, who saw her plain,
Surveyed the bird with high disdain,
Filled with contempt she viewed the Owl,
Whom all men loathsome deem and foul.
"Monster," she cried, "take wings and flee,
I am the worse for sight of thee,
Truly, at thy black looks of yore
Full oft my song I've given o'er;

My tongue grows weak, my courage flies
When you appear before mine eyes,
I'm more inclined to spit than sing
At sound of thy harsh sputtering.'
The Owl abode till it grew late.
Eve came, she could no longer wait;
Her heart began to swell and strain
Till scarce she could her breath contain.

And so, mayhap, I shall at last,

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The tears of grief in each man's eye,
Let the mob fight, he does not care
Though each man pulls the other's hair.
E'en so thou dost upon thy side,
For when the snow lies thick and wide,
And every creature has his sorrow,

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Thou sing'st from night-fall till the morrow.

And thou wert down from off thy spray Then should'st thou sing another way." Then made the Nightingale reply:

"If I avoid the open sky,

And shield myself in places bare,
Nothing for all thy threats I care;
While in my hedge secure I sit,

I reck not of your threats a whit.
I know you cruel to devour
All helpless things within your power,
Wreaking your wrath in evil way
On smaller birds where'er you may.
Hated of all the feathered rout,
The birds combine to drive you out;
Shrieking and scolding after you,
They hard upon your flight pursue.
The tit-mouse, if she had her will,
Would tease you and would work you ill.
Hateful to look upon thou art

In many ways, and every part;

Thy body's short, thy neck is small,

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The blossom 'gins to spring and sprede
Upon the tree and on the mede,
The lily, with her face of snow,
Welcometh me, as well you know,
And bids me, with her aspect fair,
To fly to her, and greet her there.
So too, with ruddy face, the rose,
That from the thorny briar grows,
Bids me to sing in bush and grove,
A joyous carol for her love."

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It said: "Woe! woe! and welawoe!
Woe worth thy flesh, thy foulė blood,
Wretched body, why liest thou so
That wert but now so wild and wode??

"Thou that once wert wont to ride High on horse with head un-bowed, Famed for prowess far and wide, As a lion fierce and proud, Where is all thy mighty pride, And thy voice that rang so loud, Why dost thou there all naked bide, Stitched within that wretched shroud?

"Where is now thy broidered weed, Thy sumpters, bearing thy rich bed? Thy palfreys and thy battle-steed Which at thy side thy Squire led? Thy crying hawks of chosen breed, And the hounds that thou hast fed? Methinks, God recks not of thy need, For all thy friends are from thee fled.

"Where are thy castles and thy towers,
Thy chambers and thy stately halls,
Painted with many-coloured flowers,
And thy riché robės all?

Thy downy quilts and covertures,
Thy sendals and thy purple palls?
Wretch! full dark is now thy bower,
To-morrow thou therein shalt fall!"

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Now when the ghost with gruesome cheer5 49 Thus had made his mournful moan, The corpse, stretched stark upon the bier,A ghastly thing thus left alone,Its head and neck did strait uprear; As a sick thing it 'gan to groan,

And said: "Where art thou now, my fere, 55 My ghost, that quite art from me gone?

"God shaped thee in His image fair, And gave to thee both wit and skill; He trusted me unto thy care

To guide according to thy will.

In witchcrafts foul I had no share,
Nor wist I what was good nor ill,
But like dumb beast thy yoke I bare
And as thou bad'st I must fulfill.

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"I should have been but as the sheep, Or like the dumb and herded kine, That eat, and drink, and sprawl, and sleep, And passed my pain-like slaughtered swine; Gold had I never cared to keep, Nor known that water was not wine, Nor been thrust down to hell's black deep, But for thee,-Soul,-the fault was thine."

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The ghost replied: "There is no doubt

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Thy part was always me to bear:
Needs must this be, I was without
Or hand or foot wert thou not there:
Save as thou carriedst me about
I could do naught, nor least act share;

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I must before thee bend devout, To do aught else I did not dare.

"Of one woman born and bred, Body, thou and I were twain; Together fostered fair and fed

Till thou couldst walk and speak thee plain; 180

A good womán is manės bliss,
When her love right and steadfast is.
No solace is there 'neath the sky,
Of all that man may name or try,
That man to joy so greatly moves
As a good woman that truly loves.
Nor dearer is none in all God's herd
Than a chaste woman with lovely word.

CURSOR MUNDI1

(c. 1320-1325)

THE PROLOGUE

Man yearneth rimes for to hear,

And romances of strange mattere, Of Alisaundere2 the conquerour, Of Julius Caesar the emperour,

That holy were withouten make;"

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After shall I tell to you

Of Jacob and of Esau too;

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Then should there be thereafter told

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Of Greece and Troy the strange strife
Where many thousand lost their life;
Of Brut, that hero bold of hand,
First conquerour of Engeland;
Of King Arthour that was so rike3
Whom no one in his time was like;
Of wonders that his knights befell
Adventures many as I've heard tell,
As Gawain, Kay, and others stable,
For they were men of the Round Table;
How Charles and Roland waged their fight, 15
With Sarcens they no troth would plight;
Of Tristrem and his dear Ysote
How he for her became a sote;4
Of Joneck and of Ysambrase,
Of Ydoine and of Amadase,
Stories alsó of sundry things,
Of princes, prelates, and of kings,
Many songs of storied rime,
English, Frankish, and Latine.
To read and hear each one is prest
Of whatsoe'er he likes the best;
The wise man will of wisdom hear,
The fool to folly draws him near;
The wrong to hear of right is loath,
And pride with buxomness is wroth.

But by the fruit the wise may see
Of what vertú is every tree.
All sorts of fruit that man shall find
Must draw from out the root their kind;
From goodly pear-trees come good pears,
Worse tree, the worse the fruit it bears.
That I should speak from this same tree
Betokens, man, both me and thee;
This fruit betokens all our deeds,
Both good and ill who rightly reads.
Our dedes in our hearts take root,
Whether they be for bale or boot;
For by the thing man draweth untó
For good or ill men shall him know.

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Those things that Holy Church doth state In this same book I now translate.