Читать книгу The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12 - John Dryden - Страница 5

In olde days of the King Artour,

Of which that Bretons speken gret honour,

All was this lond fulfilled of Faerie;

The Elf quene with hire joly compagnie

Danced ful oft in many a grene mede,

This was the old opinion as I rede;

I speke of many hundred yeres ago,

But now can no man see non elves mo;

For now the grete charitee and prayeres

Of limitoures and other holy freres,

That serchen every land and every streme,

As thikke as motes in the sonne-beme,

Blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures,

Citees and burghes, castles highe and toures,

Thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies,

This maketh that ther ben no Faeries:

For ther as wont to walken was an elf,

Ther walketh now the limatour himself

In undermeles and in morweninges,

And sayth his matines and his holy thinges

As he goth in his limitatioun.

Women may now go safely up and doun,

In every bush, and under every tree,

Ther is non other Incubus but he,

And he ne will don hem no dishonour.

And so befell it that this King Artour

Had in his hous a lusty bacheler,

That on a day came riding fro river:

And happed that, alone as she was borne,

He saw a maiden walking him beforne,

Of which maid he anon, maugre hire hed,

By veray force beraft hire maidenhed:

For which oppression was swiche clamour,

And swiche pursuite unto the King Artour,

That damned was this knight for to be ded,

By cours of lawe, and shuld have lost his hed,

(Paraventure swiche was the statute tho)

But that the quene and other ladies mo

So longe praieden the king of grace,

Til he his lif him granted in the place,

And yaf him to the quene, all at hire will

To chese whether she wold him save or spill.

The quene thanketh the king with all hire might;

And after this thus spake she to the knight,

Whan that she saw hire time upon a day.

Thou standest yet (quod she) in swiche array,

That of thy lif yet hast thou not seuretee;

I grant thee lif if thou canst tellen me

What thing is it that women most desiren:

Beware, and kepe thy nekke bone from yren.

And if thou canst not tell it me anon,

Yet wol I yeve thee leve for to gon

A twelvemonth and a day to seke and lere

An answer suffisant in this matere;

And seuretee wol I have, or that thou pace,

The body for to yelden in this place.

Wo was the knight, and sorwefully he siketh:

But what? he may not don all as him liketh.

And at the last he chese him for to wende,

And come agen right at the yeres ende

With swiche answer as God wold him purvay,

And taketh his leve, and wendeth forth his way.

He seketh every hous and every place,

Wher as he hopeth for to finden grace,

To lernen what thing women loven moste;

But he ne coude ariven in no coste,

Wher as he mighte find in this matere

Two creatures according in fere.

Som saiden women loven best richesse,

Som saiden honour, som saiden jolinesse,

Som riche array, some saiden lust a-bedde,

And oft time to be widewe and to be wedde.

Some saiden that we ben in herte most esed

Whan that we ben yflatered and ypreised.

He goth ful nigh the sothe, I wol not lie;

A man shal winne us best with flaterie;

And with attendance and with besinesse

Ben we ylimed bothe more and lesse.

And som men saiden, that we loven best

For to be free, and do right as us lest,

And that no man repreve us of our vice,

But say that we ben wise and nothing nice:

For trewely ther n'is non of us all,

If any wight wol claw us on the gall,

That we n'ill kike for that he saith us soth;

Assay, and he shal find it that so doth:

For be we never so vicious withinne

We wol be holden wise and clene of sinne.

And som saiden, that gret delit han we

For to be holden stable and eke secre,

And in o purpos stedfastly to dwell,

And not bewreyen thing that men us tell;

But that tale is not worth a rake-stele.

Parde we women connen nothing hele,

Witnesse on Mida; wol ye here the Tale?

Ovide, amonges other thinges smale,

Said Mida had under his longe heres

Growing upon his hed two asses eres,

The whiche vice he hid, as he beste might,

Ful subtilly from every mannes sight,

That, save his wif, ther wist of it no mo;

He loved hire most, and trusted hire also;

He praied hire that to no creature

She n'olde tellen of his disfigure.

She swore him nay, for all the world to winne

She n'olde do that vilanie ne sinne,

To make hire husbond han so foule a name:

She n'olde not tell it for hire owen shame.

But natheles hire thoughte that she dide

That she so longe shulde a conseil hide;

Hire thought it swal so sore about hire herte,

That nedely som word hire must asterte;

And sith she dorst nat telle it to no man,

Doun to a mareis faste by she ran;

Til she came ther hire herte was a-fire:

And as a bitore bumbleth in the mire,

She laid hire mouth unto the water doun.

Bewrey me not, thou water, with thy soun,

Quod she; to thee I tell it, and no mo,

Min husbond hath long asses eres two.

Now is min herte all hole, now is it out,

I might no lenger kepe it out of dout.

Here may ye see, though we a time abide,

Yet out it moste; we can no conseil hide.

The remenant of the Tale, if ye wol here,

Redeth Ovide, and ther ye may it lere.

This knight, of which my Tale is specially,

Whan that he saw he might not come therby,

(This is to sayn, what women loven most)

Within his brest ful sorweful was his gost.

But home he goth, he mighte not sojourne;

The day was come that homward must he turne.

And in his way it happed him to ride,

In all his care, under a forest side,

Wheras he saw upon a dance go

Of ladies foure and twenty, and yet mo.

Toward this ilke dance he drow ful yerne,

In hope that he som wisdom shulde lerne;

But certainly er he came fully there

Yvanished was this dance he n'iste not wher;

No creature saw he that bare lif,

Save on the grene he saw sitting a wif,

A fouler wight ther may no man devise.

Againe this knight this olde wif gan arise,

And saide Sire Knight, here forth ne lith no way.

Tell me what that ye seken by your fay,

Paraventure it may the better be:

Thise olde folk con mochel thing, quod she.

My leve mother, quod this knight, certain

I n'am but ded but if that I can fain

What thing it is that women most desire:

Coude ye me wisse I wold quite wel your hire.

Plight me thy trothe here in myn hond, quod she,

The nexte thing that I requere of thee

Thou shalt it do, if it be in thy might,

And I wol tell it you or it be night.

Have here my trouthe, quod the knight, I graunte.

Thanne, quod she, I dare me wel avaunte

Thy lif is sauf, for I wol stond therby,

Upon my lif the quene wol say as I.

Let see which is the proudest of hem alle,

That wereth on a kerchef or a calle,

That dare sayn nay of that I shal you teche.

Let us go forth withouten lenger speche.

Tho rowned she a pistel in his ere,

And bad him to be glad, and have no fere.

Whan they ben comen to the court, this knight

Said he had hold his day as he had hight,

And redy was his answere, as he saide.

Ful many a noble wif, and many a maide,

And many a widewe, for that they ben wise,

(The quene hireself sitting as a justice)

Assembled ben his answer for to here,

And afterward this knight was bode appere.

To every wight commanded was silence,

And that the knight shuld tell in audience

What thing that worldly women loven best.

This knight ne stood not still as doth a best,

But to this question anon answerd

With manly vois, that all the court it herd.

My liege Lady, generally, quod he,

Women desiren to han soverainetee,

As well over hir husbond as hir love,

And for to ben in maistrie him above.

This is your most desire, though ye me kille;

Doth as you list, I am here at your wille.

In all the court ne was ther wif ne maide,

Ne widewe, that contraried that he saide,

But said he was worthy to han his lif.

And with that word up stert this olde wif

Which that the knight saw sitting on the grene.

Mercy, quod she, my soveraine lady Quene,

Er that your court depart, as doth me right.

I taughte this answer unto this knight,

For which he plighte me his trouthe there,

The firste thing I wold of him requere,

He wold it do, if it lay in his might.

Before this court than pray I thee, Sire, Knight,

Quod she, that thou me take unto thy wif,

For wel thou wost that I have kept thy lif:

If I say false, say nay upon thy fay.

This knight answered, Alas and wala wa!

I wot right wel that swiche was my behest.

For Goddes love as chese a new request:

Take all my good, and let my body go.

Nay than, quod she, I shrewe us bothe two:

For though that I be olde, foule, and pore,

I n'olde for all the metal ne the ore

That under erthe is grave, or lith above,

But if thy wif I were and eke thy love.

My love? quod he; nay, my dampnation.

Alas! that any of my nation

Shuld ever so foule disparaged be.

But all for nought; the end is this, that he

Constrained was, he nedes must hire wed,

And taketh this olde wif, and goth to bed.

Now wolden som men sayn paraventure,

That for my negligence I do no cure

To tellen you the joye and all the array

That at the feste was that ilke day.

To which thing shortly answeren I shal:

I say ther was no joye ne feste at al;

Ther n'as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe;

For prively he wedded hire on the morwe,

And all day after hid him as an oule,

So wo was him his wif loked so foule.

Gret was the wo the knight had in his thought

Whan he was with his wif a-bed ybrought;

He walweth, and he turneth to and fro.

This olde wif lay smiling evermo,

And said, O dere husbond, benedicite!

Fareth ever knight thus with wif as ye?

Is this the lawe of King Artoures hous?

Is every knight of his thus dangerous?

I am your owen love, and eke your wif,

I am she which that saved hath your lif,

And certes yet did I you never unright;

Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

Ye faren like a man had lost his wit.

What is my gilt? for Goddess love tell it,

And it shal ben amended if I may.

Amended? quod this knight, alas! nay, nay,

It wol not ben amended never mo;

Thou art so lothly, and so olde also,

And therto comen of so low a kind,

That little wonder is though I walwe and wind;

So wolde God min herte wolde brest.

Is this, quod she, the cause of your unrest?

Ye certainly, quod he, no wonder is.

Now Sire, quod she, I coude amend all this,

If that me list, er it were dayes three,

So wel ye mighten bere you unto me.

But for ye speken of swiche gentillesse

As is descended out of old richesse;

That therefore shullen ye be gentilmen;

Swiche arrogance n'is not worth an hen.

Loke who that is most vertuous alway,

Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay

To do the gentil dedes that he can,

And take him for the gretest gentilman.

Crist wol we claime of him our gentillesse,

Not of our elders for hir old richesse;

For though they yeve us all hir heritage,

For which we claime to ben of high parage,

Yet may they not bequethen for no thing

To non of us hir vertuous living,

That made hem gentilmen called to be,

And bade us folwen hem in swiche degree.

Wel can the wise poet of Florence,

That highte Dant, speken of this sentence:

Lo in swiche maner rime is Dantes tale.

Ful selde up riseth by his branches smale

Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse

Wol that we claime of him our gentillesse;

For of our elders may we nothing claime

But temporel thing, that man may hurt and maime.

Eke every wight wot this as wel as I,

If gentillesse were planted naturelly

Unto a certain linage doun the line,

Prive and apert, than wold they never fine

To don of gentillesse the faire office;

They mighten do no vilanie or vice.

Take fire, and bere it into the derkest hous

Betwix this and the Mount of Caucasus,

And let men shette the dores, and go thenne,

Yet wol the fire as faire lie and brenne

As twenty thousand men might it behold;

His office naturel ay wol it hold,

Up peril of my lif, til that it die.

Here may ye see wel how that genterie

Is not annexed to possession,

Sith folk ne don hir operation

Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in his kind:

For God it wot men moun ful often find

A lordes sone do shame and vilanie.

And he that wol han pris of his genterie,

For he was boren of a gentil hous,

And had his elders noble and vertuous,

And n'ill himselven do no gentil dedes,

Ne folwe his gentil auncestrie that ded is,

He n'is not gentil, be he duk or erl,

For vilains sinful dedes make a cherl:

For gentillesse n'is but the renomee

Of thin auncestres for hir high bountee,

Which is a strange thing to thy persone:

Thy gentillesse cometh fro God alone;

Than cometh our veray gentillesse of grace;

It was no thing bequethed us with our place.

Thinketh how noble, as saith Valerius,

Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,

That out of poverte rose to high noblesse.

Redeth Senek, and redeth eke Boece,

Ther shull ye seen expresse that it no dred is

That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis:

And therefore, leve husbond, I thus conclude,

Al be it that min auncestres weren rude,

Yet may the highe God, and so hope I,

Granten me grace to liven vertuously;

Than am I gentil whan that I beginne

To liven vertuously and weiven sinne.

And ther as ye of poverte me repreve,

The highe God, on whom that we beleve,

In wilful poverte chese to lede his lif;

And certes every man, maiden, or wif,

May understond that Jesus heven king

Ne wold not chese a vicious living.

Glad poverte is an honest thing certain,

This wol Senek and other clerkes sain.

Who so that halt him paid of his poverte,

I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte.

He that coveiteth is a poure wight,

For he wold han that is not in his might;

But he that nought hath, ne coveiteth to have,

Is riche, although ye hold him but a knave.

Veray poverte is sinne proprely.

Juvenal saith of poverte merily,

The poure man whan he goth by the way,

Beforn the theves he may sing and play.

Poverte is hateful good; and, as I gesse,

A ful gret bringer out of besinesse;

A gret amender eke of sapience

To him that taketh it in patience.

Poverte is this, although it some elenge,

Possession that no wight wol challenge.

Poverte ful often, whan a man is low,

Maketh his God and eke himself to know.

Poverte a spectakel is, as thinketh me,

Thurgh which he may his veray frendes see.

And therefore, Sire, sin that I you not greve,

Of my poverte no more me repreve.

Now, Sire, of elde that ye repreven me:

And certes, Sire, though non auctoritee

Were in no book, ye gentiles of honour

Sain that men shuld an olde wight honour,

And clepe him Fader, for your gentillesse;

And auctours shal I finden, as I gesse.

Now ther ye sain that I am foule and old,

Than drede ye not to ben a cokewold;

For filthe, and elde also, so mote I the,

Ben grete wardeins upon chastitee.

But natheles, sin I know your delit,

I shal fulfill your worldly appetit.

Chese now (quod she) on of thise thinges twey,

To han me foule and old til that I dey,

And be to you a trewe humble wif,

And never you displese in all my lif;

Or elles wol ye han me yonge and faire,

And take your aventure of the repaire

That shal be to your hous because of me,

Or in some other place it may wel be?

Now chese yourselven whether that you liketh.

This knight aviseth him, and sore siketh,

But at the last he said in this manere:

My lady and my love, and wif so dere,

I put me in your wise governance,

Cheseth yourself which may be most plesance

And most honour to you and me also,

I do no force the whether of the two,

For as you liketh, it sufficeth me.

Than have I got the maisterie, quod she,

Sin I may chese and governe as me lest.

Ye certes, wif, quod he, I hold it best.

Kisse me, quod she, we be no lenger wrothe,

For by my trouth I wol be to you bothe,

This to sayn, ye bothe faire and good.

I pray to God that I mote sterven wood

But I to you be al so good and trewe

As ever was wif sin that the world was newe,

And but I be to-morwe as faire to seen

As any lady, emperice, or quene,

That is betwix the est and eke the west,

Doth with my lif and deth right as you lest.

Cast up the curtein, loke how that it is.

And whan the knight saw veraily all this,

That she so faire was, and so yonge therto,

For joye he hent hire in his armes two:

His herte bathed in a bath of blisse,

A thousand time a-row he gan hire kisse:

And she obeyed him in every thing

That mighte don him plesance or liking.

And thus they live unto hir lives ende

In parfit joye; and Jesu Crist us sende

Husbondes meke and yonge, and fresh a-bed,

And grace to overlive hem that we wed.

And eke I pray Jesus to short hir lives

That wol not be governed by hir wives;

And old and angry nigards of dispence

God send hem sone a veray pestilence.