Fourteenth Century Verse & Prose

English literature -- Middle English, 1100-1500; Great Britain -- History -- 14th century -- Sources

Fel on slepe opon þe grene.
      Þe maidens durst hir nouȝt awake,
      Bot lete hir ligge and rest take.
      So sche slepe til afternone,                        75
      Þat vndertide was al ydone.
      Ac as sone as sche gan awake,
      Sche crid and loþli bere gan make,
      Sche froted hir honden and hir fet,
      And crached hir visage, it bled wete;               80
      Hir riche robe hye al torett,
      And was reuey<se>d out of hir witt.
      Þe tvo maidens hir biside
      No durst wiþ hir no leng abide,
      Bot ourn to þe palays ful riȝt,                     85
      And told boþe squier and kniȝt
      Þat her quen awede wold,
      And bad hem go and hir athold.
      Kniȝtes vrn, and leuedis also,
      Damisels sexti and mo,                              90
      In þe orchard to þe quen hye come,
      And her vp in her armes nome,
      And brouȝt hir to bed atte last,
      And held hir þere fine fast;
      Ac euer sche held in o cri,                         95
      And wold vp and owy.
        When Orfeo herd þat tiding,
      Neuer him nas wers for no þing.
      He come wiþ kniȝtes tene
      To chaumber riȝt bifor þe quene,                   100
      And biheld, and seyd wiþ grete pité:
      'O lef liif, what is te,
      Þat euer ȝete hast ben so stille,
      And now gredest wonder schille?
      Þi bodi, þat was so white ycore,                   105
      Wiþ þine nailes is al totore.
      Allas! þi rode, þat was so red,
      Is al wan as þou were ded;
      And also þine fingres smale
      Beþ al blodi and al pale.                          110
      Allas! þi louesom eyȝen to
      Lokeþ so man doþ on his fo.
      A! dame, ich biseche merci.
      Lete ben al þis reweful cri,
      And tel me what þe is, and hou,                    115
      And what þing may þe help now.'
        Þo lay sche stille atte last,
      And gan to wepe swiþe fast,
      And seyd þus þe king to:
      'Allas! mi lord, Sir Orfeo,                        120
      Seþþen we first togider were,
      Ones wroþ neuer we nere,
      Bot euer ich haue yloued þe
      As mi liif, and so þou me.
      Ac now we mot delen ato;                           125
      Do þi best, for y mot go.'
        'Allas!' quaþ he, 'forlorn icham.
      Whider wiltow go, and to wham?
      Whider þou gost, ichil wiþ þe,
      And whider y go, þou schalt wiþ me.'               130
      'Nay, nay, sir, þat nouȝt nis;
      Ichil þe telle al hou it is:
      As ich lay þis vndertide,
      And slepe vnder our orchard-side,
      Þer come to me to fair kniȝtes                     135
      Wele y-armed al to riȝtes,
      And bad me comen an heiȝing,
      And speke wiþ her lord þe king.
      And ich answerd at wordes bold,
      Y durst nouȝt, no y nold.                          140
      Þai priked oȝain as þai miȝt driue;
      Þo com her king also bliue,
      Wiþ an hundred kniȝtes and mo,
      And damisels an hundred also,

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Fourteenth Century Verse & Prose

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