And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, In the next bush that was me fast beside, I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, That her clear voice made a loud rioting, Echoing through all the greenwood wide.
Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long; For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, And she hath been before thee with her song; Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.
But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pr As long as in that swooning-fit I lay,
Methought I wist right well what these birds meant, And had good knowing both of their intent,
And of their speech, and all that they would say.
The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:- Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here; For every wight eschews thy song to hear, Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.
What! quoth she then, what is 't that ails thee now It seems to me I sing as well as thou;
For mine's a song that is both true and plain, Although I cannot quaver so in vain As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.
All men may understanding have of me, But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:- Thou sayst OSEE, OSEE, then how may I
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?
Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is ? Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis, Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain That shamefully they one and all were slain, Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.
And also would I that they all were dead, Who do not think in love their life to lead; For who is loth the God of Love to obey Is only fit to die, I dare well say, And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!
Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, That all must love or die; but I withdraw, And take my leave of all such company, For my intent it neither is to die,
Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw.
For lovers, of all folk that be alive, The most disquiet have, and least do thrive; Most feeling have of sorrow, woe, and care, And the least welfare cometh to their share ; What need is there against the truth to strive?
What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, That in thy churlishness a cause canst find To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood; For in this world no service is so good
To every wight that gentle is of kind.
For thereof comes all goodness and all worth; All gentiless and honor thence come forth;
Thence worship comes, content, and true heart's
And full-assured trust, joy without measure, And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth:
And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, And seemliness, and faithful company,
And dread of shame that will not do amiss; For he that faithfully Love's servant is, Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die.
And that the very truth it is which I
Now say, in such belief I'll live and die:
And, Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, If with that counsel I do e'er comply.
Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, Yet, for all that, the truth is found elsewhere; For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis, And Love in old folk a great dotage is; Who most it useth, him 't will most impair.
For thereof come all contraries to gladness; Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness.
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,
Dishonor, shame, envy importunate,
Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.
Loving is aye an office of despair,
And one thing is therein which is not fair; For whoso gets of love a little bliss, Unless it always stay with him, I wis He may full soon go with an old man's hair.
And therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, Thou 'lt be as others that forsaken are ; Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do I.
Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen t The God of Love afflict thee with all teen.
For thou art worse than mad a thousand-fold; For many a one hath virtues manifold,
Who had been naught, if Love had never been.
For evermore his servants Love amendeth, And he from every blemish them defendeth;
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
In loyalty, and worshipful desire,
And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth
Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still, For Love no reason hath but his own will; For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
He lets them perish through that grievous ill.
With such a master would I never be;* For be, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; Within this court full seldom Truth avails, Sc diverse in his wilfulness is he.
* From a manuscript in the Bodleian 23 are also stanzas 44 and 45, which are necessary to complete the sense.
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