The Book of the Duchess and other PoemsGeoffrey ChaucerTable of ContentsThe Book of the Duchess.1 Geoffrey Chaucer.1The Book of the Duchess and other PoemsiThe Book of the DuchessGeoffrey ChaucerThe Book of the Duchess The Proem The Dream The House of Fame Book I Book II Book III The Parliament of Fowles The Proem The Story This page copyright 1999 Blackmask Online.THE PROEMI have gret wonder, be this lighte,How that I live, for day ne nighteI may nat slepe wel nigh noght,I have so many an ydel thoghtPurely for defaute of slepeThat, by my trouthe, I take no kepeOf nothing, how hit cometh or goth,Ne me nis nothing leef nor loth.Al is yliche good to me Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be For I have feling in nothinge,But, as it were, a mased thing,Alway in point to falle adoun;For sorwful imaginaciounIs alway hoolly in my minde.And wel ye wite, agaynes kyndeHit were to liven in this wyse;For nature wolde nat suffyseTo noon erthely creatureNot longe tyme to endureWithoute slepe, and been in sorwe;And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,Slepe; and thus melancolyeAnd dreed I have for to dye,Defaute of slepe and hevinesseHath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,That I have lost al lustihede.Suche fantasies ben in myn hedeSo I not what is best to do.The Book of the Duchess1But men myght axe me, why sooI may not slepe, and what me is?But natheles, who aske thisLeseth his asking trewely.Myselven can not telle whyThe sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,I holde hit be a siknesseThat I have suffred this eight yere,And yet my bote is never the nere;For ther is phisicien but oon,That may me hele; but that is doon.Passe we over until eft;That wil not be, moot nede be left;Our first matere is good to kepe.So whan I saw I might not slepe,Til now late, this other night,Upon my bedde I sat uprightAnd bad oon reche me a book,A romaunce, and he hit me tookTo rede and dryve the night away;For me thoghte it better playThen playen either at chesse or tables.And in this boke were writen fablesThat clerkes hadde, in olde tyme,And other poets, put in rymeTo rede, and for to be in mindeWhyl men loved the lawe of kinde.This book ne spak but of such thinges,Of quenes lyves, and of kinges,And many othere thinges smale.Amonge al this I fond a taleThat me thoughte a wonder thing.This was the tale: There was a kingThat hight Seys, and hadde a wyf,The beste that mighte bere lyf;And this quene hight Alcyone.So hit befel, therafter sone,This king wolde wenden over see.To tellen shortly, whan that heWas in the see, thus in this wyse,Soche a tempest gan to ryseThat brak hir mast, and made it falle,And clefte her ship, and dreinte hem alle,That never was founden, as it telles,Bord ne man, ne nothing elles.Right thus this king Seys loste his lyf.Now for to speken of his wife: This lady, that was left at home,Hath wonder, that the king ne comeHoom, for hit was a longe terme.Anon her herte gan to erme;The Book of the Duchess and other PoemsThe Book of the Duchess2And for that hir thoughte evermoHit was not wel he dwelte so,She longed so after the kingThat certes, hit were a pitous thingTo telle hir hertely sorwful lyfThat hadde, alas! this noble wyfe;For him she loved alderbest.Anon she sente bothe eest and westTo seke him, but they founde nought.Alas! quoth she, that I was wrought!And wher my lord, my love, be deed?Certes, I nil never ete breed,I make avowe to my god here,But I mowe of my lord here!Such sorwe this lady to her tookThat trewely I, which made this book,Had swich pite and swich rowtheTo rede hir sorwe, that, by my trowthe,I ferde the worse al the morweAfter, to thenken on her sorwe.So whan she coude here no wordThat no man mighte fynde hir lord,Ful ofte she swouned, and saide Alas!For sorwe ful nigh wood she was,Ne she coude no reed but oon;But doun on knees she sat anoon,And weep, that pite was to here.A! mercy! swete lady dere!Quod she to Iuno, hir goddesse;Help me out of this distresse,And yeve me grace my lord to seeSone, or wite wherso he be,Or how he fareth, or in what wyse,And I shal make you sacrifyse,And hoolly youres become I shalWith good wil, body, herte, and al;And but thou wilt this, lady swete,Send me grace to slepe, and meteIn my slepe som certeyn sweven,Wherthrough that I may knowen evenWhether my lord be quik or deed.With that word she heng doun the heed,And fil aswown as cold as ston;Hir women caught her up anon,And broghten hir in bed al naked,And she, forweped and forwaked,Was wery, and thus the dede sleepFil on hir, or she toke keep,Through Iuno, that had herd hir bone,That made hir to slepe sone;For as she prayde, so was don,The Book of the Duchess and other PoemsThe Book of the Duchess3In dede; for Iuno, right anon,Called thus her m