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Text
Cupido, unto whos commandement
The gentil kinrede of goddes on hy
And peple infernal been obedient,
And the mortel folk seruen bisyly,
Of goddesse Sitheree sone oonly,
To alle tho that to our deitee
Been sogettes greetinges senden we.
In general, we wole that yee knowe
That ladies of honour and reverence
And other gentil wommen han ysowe
Swich seed of complainte in our audience
Of men that doon hem outrage and offense
That it our eres greeveth for to heere,
So pitous is th' effect of hir mateere;
And passing alle londes on this yle
That clept is Albioun they moost complaine;
They sayn that ther is croppe and roote of guile,
So can tho men dissimulen and faine
With standing dropes in hir eyen twaine,
Whan that hir herte feeleth no distresse.
To blinde wommen with hir doublenesse,
Hir wordes spoken been so sighingly
And with so pitous cheere and contenance,
That every wight that meeneth trewely
Deemeth that they in herte han swich greuance.
They sayn so importable is hir penance
That but hir lady list to shewe hem grace
They right anoon moot sterven in the place.
"A, lady min," they sayn, "I yow ensure,
Shewe me grace and I shal evere be,
Whiles my lif may lasten and endure,
To yow as humble in every degree
As possible is, and keepe al thing secree
As that yourselven liketh that I do;
And elles moot min herte breste on two."
Ful hard is it to knowe a mannes herte,
For outward may no man the truthe deeme
Whan word out of his mouth may ther noon sterte,
But it sholde any wight by reson queeme
So is it seid of herte, it wolde seeme.
O faithful womman, ful of Innocence,
Thou art betrayed by fals apparence!
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Translation
Cupid,
the lord to whose commands are bent
The gentle company of gods on high,
To whom those bound in hell are obedient,
Whom mortal folk all serve assiduously,
Cithera's child, the goddess's son truly:
To all those subjects of our power we
Send greetings, from our royal deity.
In general
we will it to be known
That ladies to whom all give reverence,
And other gentlewomen too, have sown
Such seed of complaint in our audience,
Of men who do them outrage and offence,
It grieves our ears to hear this sad lament,
So piteous
is the matter they present.
More than the other
lands, about this isle
Called Albion these women most
complain.
They say that there's the height
and depth of guile,
There men know how to fabricate
and feign
With standing tears which from both
eyes drop rain
(When really their hearts don't
feel distress)
To blind all women with their
doubleness.
Men's
words are spoken mournfully and slow,
And with such pitiable countenance,
Each upright person who observes them so
Judges that in their hearts lies real grievance.
So insupportable is their penance,
(They say), unless their lady change their lot
Immediately,
they'll die upon the spot.
"Ah lady
mine," they say, "you may be sure
If you'll show mercy I will ever be,
As long as life may flourish and endure,
To you as meek and low in each degree
As possible, and act with secrecy,
Just as, you know, you'd rather that I do,
And if I don't, may my heart break in two."
How hard it is to know a man's true heart!
The outward surface hides the truth from sight.
When every word which from man's lips may start
Is thought sincere, his conversation might
Seem unexceptionable, artless, and right.
O faithful woman, innocent and true,
Smooth-seeming falseness works its tricks on you.
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