And forto proven it is so, I am miselven on of tho, Which to this Scole am underfonge. For it is siththe go noght longe, As forto speke of this matiere, I may you telle, if ye woll hiere, A wonder hap which me befell, That was to me bothe hard and fell, Touchende of love and his fortune, The which me liketh to comune 70 And pleinly forto telle it oute. To hem that ben lovers aboute Fro point to point I wol declare And wryten of my woful care, Mi wofull day, my wofull chance, That men mowe take remembrance Of that thei schall hierafter rede: For in good feith this wolde I rede, That every man ensample take Of wisdom which him is betake, 80 And that he wot of good aprise To teche it forth, for such emprise Is forto preise; and therfore I Woll wryte and schewe al openly How love and I togedre mette, Wherof the world ensample fette Mai after this, whan I am go, Of thilke unsely jolif wo, Whos reule stant out of the weie, Nou glad and nou gladnesse aweie, 90 And yet it may noght be withstonde For oght that men may understonde. Upon the point that is befalle Of love, in which that I am falle, I thenke telle my matiere: Now herkne, who that wol it hiere, Of my fortune how that it ferde. This enderday, as I forthferde To walke, as I yow telle may,— And that was in the Monthe of Maii, 100 Whan every brid hath chose his make And thenkth his merthes forto make Of love that he hath achieved; Bot so was I nothing relieved, For I was further fro my love Than Erthe is fro the hevene above, As forto speke of eny sped: So wiste I me non other red, Bot as it were a man forfare Unto the wode I gan to fare, 110 Noght forto singe with the briddes, For whanne I was the wode amiddes, I fond a swote grene pleine, And ther I gan my wo compleigne Wisshinge and wepinge al myn one, For other merthes made I none. So hard me was that ilke throwe, That ofte sithes overthrowe To grounde I was withoute breth; And evere I wisshide after deth, 120 Whanne I out of my peine awok, And caste up many a pitous lok Unto the hevene, and seide thus: “O thou Cupide, O thou Venus, Thou god of love and thou goddesse, Wher is pite? wher is meknesse? Now doth me pleinly live or dye, For certes such a maladie As I now have and longe have hadd, It myhte make a wisman madd, 130 If that it scholde longe endure. O Venus, queene of loves cure, Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele, Behold my cause and my querele, And yif me som part of thi grace, So that I may finde in this place If thou be gracious or non.” And with that word I sawh anon The kyng of love and qweene bothe; Bot he that kyng with yhen wrothe 140 His chiere aweiward fro me caste, And forth he passede ate laste. Bot natheles er he forth wente A firy Dart me thoghte he hente And threw it thurgh myn herte rote: In him fond I non other bote, For lenger list him noght to duelle. Bot sche that is the Source and Welle Of wel or wo, that schal betide To hem that loven, at that tide 150 Abod, bot forto tellen hiere