Paul Strohm - The House of Fame: Book 1 lyrics

Proem God turne us every drem to goode! For hyt is wonder, be the roode, To my wyt, what causeth swevenes Eyther on morwes or on evenes, And why th' effect folweth of somme, And of somme hit shal never come; Why that is an avision And why this a revelacion, Why this a drem, why that a sweven, And noght to every man lyche even; Why this a fantome, why these oracles, I not; but whoso of these miracles The causes knoweth bet then I, Devyne he, for I certeinly Ne kan hem noght, ne never thinke To besily my wyt to swinke To knowe of hir signifiaunce The gendres, neyther the distaunce Of tymes of hem, ne the causes, Or why this more then that cause is -- As yf folkys complexions Make hem dreme of reflexions, Or ellys thus, as other sayn, For to gret feblenesse of her brayn, By abstinence or by seknesse, Prison-stewe or gret distresse, Or ellys by dysordynaunce Of naturel acustumaunce, That som man is to curious In studye, or melancolyous, Or thus so inly ful of drede That no man may hym bote bede; Or elles that devocion Of somme, and contemplacion Causeth suche dremes ofte; Or that the cruel lyf unsofte Which these ilke lovers leden That hopen over-muche or dreden, That purely her impressions Causeth hem avisions; Or yf that spirites have the myght To make folk to dreme a-nyght; Or yf the soule of propre kynde Be so parfit, as men fynde, That yt forwot that ys to come, And that hyt warneth alle and some Of everych of her aventures Be avisions or be figures, But that oure flessh ne hath no myght To understonde hyt aryght, For hyt is warned to derkly -- But why the cause is, noght wot I. Wel worth of this thyng grete clerkys That trete of this and other werkes, For I of noon opinion Nyl as now make mensyon, But oonly that the holy roode Turne us every drem to goode! For never sith that I was born, Ne no man elles me beforn, Mette, I trowe stedfastly, So wonderful a drem as I The tenthe day now of Decembre, The which, as I kan now remembre, I wol yow tellen everydel. The Invocation But at my gynnynge, trusteth wel, I wol make invocacion, With special devocion, Unto the god of slep anoon, That duelleth in a cave of stoon Upon a strem that cometh fro Lete, That is a flood of helle unswete, Besyde a folk men clepeth Cymerie -- There slepeth ay this god unmerie With his slepy thousand sones, That alwey for to slepe hir wone is. And to this god that I of rede Prey I that he wol me spede My sweven for to telle aryght, Yf every drem stonde in his myght. And he that mover ys of al, That is and was and ever shal, So yive hem joye that hyt here Of alle that they dreme to-yere, And for to stonden alle in grace Of her loves, or in what place That hem were levest for to stonde, And shelde hem fro poverte and shonde, And from unhap and ech disese, And sende hem al that may hem plese, That take hit wel and skorne hyt noght, Ne hyt mysdemen in her thoght Thorgh malicious entencion. And whoso thorgh presumpcion, Or hate, or skorn, or thorgh envye, Dispit, or jape, or vilanye, Mysdeme hyt, pray I Jesus God That (dreme he barefot, dreme he shod), That every harm that any man Hath had syth the world began Befalle hym therof or he sterve, And graunte he mote hit ful deserve, Lo, with such a conclusion As had of his avision Cresus, that was kyng of Lyde, That high upon a gebet dyde. This prayer shal he have of me; I am no bet in charyte! Now herkeneth, as I have yow seyd, What that I mette or I abreyd. Story Of Decembre the tenthe day, Whan hit was nyght to slepe I lay Ryght ther as I was wont to done, And fil on slepe wonder sone, As he that wery was forgo On pilgrymage myles two To the corseynt Leonard, To make lythe of that was hard. But as I slepte, me mette I was Withyn a temple ymad of glas, In which ther were moo ymages Of gold, stondynge in sondry stages, And moo ryche tabernacles, And with perre moo pynacles, And moo curiouse portreytures, And queynte maner of figures Of olde werk, then I saugh ever. For certeynly, I nyste never Wher that I was, but wel wyste I Hyt was of Venus redely, The temple; for in portreyture I sawgh anoon-ryght hir figure Naked fletynge in a see, And also on hir hed, pardee, Hir rose garlond whit and red, And hir comb to kembe hyr hed, Hir dowves, and daun Cupido Hir blynde sone, and Vulcano, That in his face was ful broun. But as I romed up and doun, I fond that on a wall ther was Thus writen on a table of bras: "I wol now synge, yif I kan, The armes and also the man That first cam, thurgh his destinee, Fugityf of Troy contree, In Itayle, with ful moche pyne Unto the strondes of Lavyne." And tho began the story anoon, As I shal telle yow echon. First sawgh I the destruction Of Troye thurgh the Grek Synon, [That] with his false forswerynge, And his chere and his lesynge, Made the hors broght into Troye, Thorgh which Troyens loste al her joye. And aftir this was grave, allas, How Ilyon a**ayled was And wonne, and kyng Priam yslayn And Polytes his sone, certayn, Dispitously, of daun Pirrus. And next that sawgh I how Venus, Whan that she sawgh the castel brende, Doun fro the heven gan descende, And bad hir sone Eneas flee; And how he fledde, and how that he Escaped was from al the pres, And took his fader Anchises, And bar hym on hys bak away, Cryinge, "Allas, and welaway!" The whiche Anchises in hys hond Bar the goddes of the lond, Thilke that unbrende were. And I saugh next, in al thys fere, How Creusa, daun Eneas wif, Which that he lovede as hys lyf, And hir yonge sone Iulo, And eke Askanius also, Fledden eke with drery chere, That hyt was pitee for to here; And in a forest as they wente, At a turnynge of a wente, How Creusa was ylost, allas, That ded, not I how, she was; How he hir soughte, and how hir gost Bad hym to flee the Grekes host, And seyde he moste unto Itayle, As was hys destinee, sauns faille; That hyt was pitee for to here, 190 When hir spirit gan appere, The wordes that she to hym seyde, And for to kepe hir sone hym preyde. Ther sawgh I graven eke how he, Hys fader eke, and his meynee, With hys shippes gan to saylle Towardes the contree of Itaylle As streight as that they myghte goo. Ther saugh I thee, cruel Juno, That art daun Jupiteres wif, That hast yhated al thy lyf Al the Troianysshe blood, Renne and crye as thou were wood On Eolus, the god of wyndes, To blowen oute, of alle kyndes, So lowde that he shulde drenche Lord and lady, grom and wenche, Of al the Troian nacion, Withoute any savacion. Ther saugh I such tempeste aryse That every herte myght agryse To see hyt peynted on the wal. Ther saugh I graven eke withal, Venus, how ye, my lady dere, Wepynge with ful woful chere, Prayen Jupiter on hye To save and kepe that navye Of the Troian Eneas, Syth that he hir sone was. Ther saugh I Joves Venus kysse, And graunted of the tempest lysse. Ther saugh I how the tempest stente, And how with alle pyne he wente, And prively tok arryvage In the contree of Cartage; And on the morwe, how that he And a knyght highte Achate Mette with Venus that day, Goynge in a queynt array As she had ben an hunteresse, With wynd blowynge upon hir tresse; How Eneas gan hym to pleyne, When that he knew hir, of his peyne; And how his shippes dreynte were, Or elles lost, he nyste where; How she gan hym comforte thoo, And bad hym to Cartage goo, And ther he shulde his folk fynde, That in the see were left behynde. And, shortly of this thyng to pace, She made Eneas so in grace Of Dido, quene of that contree, That, shortly for to tellen, she Becam hys love and let him doo Al that weddynge longeth too. What shulde I speke more queynte, Or peyne me my wordes peynte To speke of love? Hyt wol not be; I kan not of that faculte. And eke to telle the manere How they aqueynteden in fere, Hyt were a long proces to telle, And over-long for yow to dwelle. Ther sawgh I grave how Eneas Tolde Dido every caas That hym was tyd upon the see. And after grave was how shee Made of hym shortly at oo word Hyr lyf, hir love, hir lust, hir lord, And dide hym al the reverence And leyde on hym al the dispence That any woman myghte do, Wenynge hyt had al be so As he hir swor; and herby demed That he was good, for he such semed. Allas! what harm doth apparence, Whan hit is fals in existence! For he to hir a traytour was; Wherfore she slow hirself, allas! Loo, how a woman doth amys To love hym that unknowen ys. For, be Cryste, lo, thus yt fareth. "Hyt is not al gold that glareth." For also browke I wel myn hed, Ther may be under godlyhed Kevered many a shrewed vice. Therfore be no wyght so nyce To take a love oonly for chere, Or speche, or for frendly manere, For this shal every woman fynde, That som man, of his pure kynde, Wol shewen outward the fayreste, Tyl he have caught that what him leste; And thanne wol he causes fynde And swere how that she ys unkynde, Or fals, or privy, or double was. Al this seye I be Eneas And Dido, and hir nyce lest, That loved al to sone a gest; Therfore I wol seye a proverbe, That "he that fully knoweth th' erbe May saufly leye hyt to his ye" -- Withoute drede, this ys no lye. But let us speke of Eneas, How he betrayed hir, allas, And lefte hir ful unkyndely. So when she saw al utterly That he wolde hir of trouthe fayle, And wende fro hir to Itayle, She gan to wringe hir hondes two. "Allas," quod she, "what me ys woo! Allas, is every man thus trewe, That every yer wolde have a newe, Yf hit so longe tyme dure, Or elles three, peraventure? As thus: of oon he wolde have fame In magnyfyinge of hys name; Another for frendshippe, seyth he; And yet ther shal the thridde be That shal be take for delyt, Loo, or for synguler profit"" In suche wordes gan to pleyne Dydo of hir grete peyne, As me mette redely -- Non other auctour alegge I. "Allas!" quod she, "my swete herte, Have pitee on my sorwes smerte, And slee mee not! Goo noght awey! O woful Dido, wel-away!" Quod she to hirselve thoo. "O Eneas, what wol ye doo? O that your love, ne your bond That ye have sworn with your ryght hond, Ne my crewel deth," quod she, "May holde yow stille here with me! O haveth of my deth pitee! Iwys, my dere herte, ye Knowen ful wel that never yit, As ferforth as I hadde wyt, Agylte [I] yow in thoght ne dede. O, have ye men such godlyhede In speche, and never a del of trouthe? Allas, that ever hadde routhe Any woman on any man! Now see I wel, and telle kan, We wrechched wymmen konne noon art; For certeyn, for the more part, Thus we be served everychone. How sore that ye men konne groone, Anoon as we have yow receyved, Certaynly we ben deceyvyd! For, though your love laste a seson, Wayte upon the conclusyon, And eke how that ye determynen, And for the more part diffynen. "O wel-awey that I was born! For thorgh yow is my name lorn, And alle myn actes red and songe Over al thys lond, on every tonge. O wikke Fame! -- for ther nys Nothing so swift, lo, as she is. O, soth ys, every thing ys wyst, Though hit be kevered with the myst. Eke, though I myghte duren ever, That I have don rekever I never, That I ne shal be seyd, allas, Yshamed be thourgh Eneas, And that I shal thus juged be: `Loo, ryght as she hath don, now she Wol doo eft-sones, hardely' -- Thus seyth the peple prively." But that is don, is not to done; Al hir compleynt ne al hir moone, Certeyn, avayleth hir not a stre. And when she wiste sothly he Was forth unto his shippes goon, She into hir chambre wente anoon, And called on hir suster Anne, And gan hir to compleyne thanne, And seyde that she cause was That she first loved him, allas, And thus counseylled hir thertoo. But what! When this was seyd and doo, She rof hirselve to the herte And deyde thorgh the wounde smerte. And al the maner how she deyde, And alle the wordes that she seyde, Whoso to knowe hit hath purpos, Rede Virgile in Eneydos Or the Epistle of Ovyde, What that she wrot or that she dyde; And nere hyt to long to endyte, Be God, I wolde hyt here write. But wel-away, the harm, the routhe, That hath betyd for such untrouthe, As men may ofte in bokes rede, And al day sen hyt yet in dede, That for to thynken hyt, a tene is. Loo Demophon, duk of Athenys, How he forswor hym ful falsly, And traysed Phillis wikkidly, That kynges doghtre was of Trace, And falsly gan hys terme pace; And when she wiste that he was fals, She heng hirself ryght be the hals, For he had doon hir such untrouthe. Loo, was not this a woo and routhe? Eke lo how fals and reccheles Was to Breseyda Achilles, And Paris to Oenone, And Jason to Isiphile, And eft Jason to Medea, And Ercules to Dyanira, For he left hir for Yole, That made hym cache his deth, parde. How fals eke was he Theseus, That, as the story telleth us, How he betrayed Adriane -- The devel be hys soules bane! For had he lawghed, had he loured, He moste have ben al devoured, Yf Adriane ne had ybe. And for she had of hym pite, She made hym fro the deth escape, And he made hir a ful fals jape; For aftir this, withyn a while, He lefte hir slepynge in an ile Desert allone, ryght in the se, And stal away and let hir be, And took hir suster Phedra thoo With him, and gan to shippe goo. And yet he had yswore to here On al that ever he myghte swere That, so she saved hym hys lyf, He wolde have take hir to hys wif; For she desired nothing ellis, In certeyn, as the book us tellis. But to excusen Eneas Fullyche of al his grete trespas, The book seyth Mercurie, sauns fayle, Bad hym goo into Itayle, And leve Auffrikes regioun, And Dido and hir faire toun. Thoo sawgh I grave how to Itayle Daun Eneas is goo to sayle; And how the tempest al began, And how he loste hys sterisman, Which that the stere, or he tok kep, Smot over bord, loo, as he slep. And also sawgh I how Sybile And Eneas, besyde an yle, To helle wente for to see His fader, Anchyses the free; How he ther fond Palinurus, And Dido, and eke Deiphebus; And every turment eke in helle Saugh he, which is longe to telle; Which whoso willeth for to knowe, He moste rede many a rowe On Virgile or on Claudian, Or Daunte, that hit telle kan. Tho saugh I grave al the aryvayle That Eneas had in Itayle; And with kyng Latyne hys tretee And alle the batayles that hee Was at hymself, and eke hys knyghtis, Or he had al ywonne his ryghtis; And how he Turnus reft his lyf, And wan Lavina to his wif; And alle the mervelous signals Of the goddys celestials; How, mawgree Juno, Eneas, For al hir sleight and hir compas, Acheved al his aventure, For Jupiter took of hym cure At the prayer of Venus -- The whiche I preye alwey save us, And us ay of oure sorwes lyghte! When I had seen al this syghte In this noble temple thus, "A, Lord," thoughte I, "that madest us, Yet sawgh I never such noblesse Of ymages, ne such richesse, As I saugh graven in this chirche; But not wot I whoo did hem wirche, Ne where I am, ne in what contree. But now wol I goo out and see, Ryght at the wiket, yf y kan See owhere any stiryng man That may me telle where I am." When I out at the dores cam, I faste aboute me beheld. Then sawgh I but a large feld, As fer as that I myghte see, Withouten toun, or hous, or tree, Or bush, or gra**, or eryd lond; For al the feld nas but of sond As smal as man may se yet lye In the desert of Lybye. Ne no maner creature That ys yformed be Nature Ne sawgh I, me to rede or wisse. "O Crist," thoughte I, "that art in blysse, Fro fantome and illusion Me save!" And with devocion Myn eyen to the hevene I caste. Thoo was I war, lo, at the laste, That faste be the sonne, as hye As kenne myghte I with myn ye, Me thoughte I sawgh an egle sore, But that hit semed moche more Then I had any egle seyn. But this as sooth as deth, certeyn, Hyt was of gold, and shon so bryghte That never sawe men such a syghte, But yf the heven had ywonne Al newe of gold another sonne; So shone the egles fethers bryghte, And somwhat dounward gan hyt lyghte. Explicit liber primus.