this gardyn cunningly,
That never was ther gardyn of such prys,
Save that it were the verrey Paradys.
The odure of floures and the fresshe sight,
Wolde have made eny pensyf herte light
That ever was born, save that a gret siknesse
Or too gret sorrow held it in distresse,
And after dyner they began to daunce,
So ful it was of beautee and plesaunce,
And synge also, but Dorigen sang alone.
She made alwey her cómpleynt and hire mone,
For that she saw not in the daunce move,
The one that was her housbond, and her love;
But none the less she muste a tyme abyde,
And with good hope she let her sorrow glyde.

Upon this daunce, amonges other men,
Dauncèd a squier biforen Dorigen,
That fressher was and jolyer of array,
As I have heard, than is the monthe of May.
He syngeth and daunceth passyng any man,
That is or hath been since this world bygan;
Therwith he was, if men shulde him discryve,
One of the beste farynge men alive,
Yong, strong, ryht vertuous and riche, and wys,
And wel biloved, and holden in grete price.
And shortly, if the sooth I tellen shal,
Unwytyng of this Dorigen at al,
This lusty squyer, servaunt to Venús,
Which that y-clepéd was Aurelius,
Had loved her best of eny créatúre
Tuo yeer and more, as was his áventúre;
But never durste he telle her of his grevaunce,
Withoute cuppe he drank al his penaúnce.
He was dispeyrèd, nothing durst he seye,
Save in his talk somwhat wolde he display
His woe, as in a general cómpleynýng;
He sayde, he loved and was biloved nothing.
Of suche mater of love he made his layes,
Songes and compleigntes, dirges and roundelays;
How that he durste nought his sorrow telle,
That languissheth as fire slowe in helle;
And die he seyde he muste, as did Echo
For Narcissus, that durste nought telle her woe.
But in no other maner than I seye
He durste not to her his woe betreye,
Save paraventure some tyme at the daunce,
When yong folk kepen al their óbservaúnce
It may wel be he lokèd on her face
In such a wise, as one that asketh grace,
But nothing wiste she of his entent.
And yet it happèd, ere they thence are went,
Bycause that he was her neygheboúre,
And was a man of worshipe and honoúr,
And she hadde knowen him long in tyms yore,
They felle in speche, and ofte more and more
Unto his purpose drew Aurelius;
And when he saw his tyme, he sayde thus.
“Madame,” quoth he, “by God, that this world made,
So that I wist it mighte your herte glad,
I wolde that day, that your Arviragus
Went on the see, that I Aurelius
Had went that I shulde never have come again;
For wel I wot my servise is in vayn,
My guerdon is but bersting of myn herte.
Madame, have pitee upon my peynes smerte,
For as with a sword ye may me slay or saven.
Here at youre foot God wold that I were graven
I have now no more leisure for to seye;
Have mercy on me, swete, or let me die.”

She gan to loke upon Aurelius;
“Is this youre wille,” quoth she, “and say ye thus?
Never,” quoth she, “wist I what ye have mente,
But now, Aurely, I knowe youre entente.
By the goode God, that gaf me soule and lyf,
Never shal I be found untrewe wif
In word or werk; as fer as I have wit,
I wole be his to whom that I am knyt.”
But after that in pley thus seyde she:
“Take this for fynal answer as for me.
Aurelye,” quoth she, “by high God above,
Yet wil I graunte you to be my love,
Since I you see so piteously compleyne,
Looke on the daye when al along Bretayne
Ye shal remoove the rockes stone by stone,
That roome ther be for shippes and boats to gon;
I say, when ye have made these costes so clene
Of rockes, that ther is no stone y-sene,
Than wil I love you best of any man,
Have here my trothe, in al that ever I can.”
“Is ther none other grace in you?” quoth he.
“No, by that Lord,” quoth she, “that made me,
For wel I wot that that shal never betyde.
Let such folýe out of youre herte glyde.
What glory shulde a man have in his life,
That he shulde love another mannes wyf?”
Woe was Aurely when that he this herde,
And with a sorrowful herte he thus answérde.
“Madame,” quoth he, “this were impossíble.
Then must I deye a sodeyn deth orríble.”
And with that word he tornèd him anon.

Then came her other frendes many a one,
And in the alleyes roamèd up and doun,
And nothing wiste of this conclusioún,
But sodeinly began to revel newe,
Til that the brighte sonne had lost his hewe,
For the hórizón had lost the sunnes light,
(This is as moche to say that it was night);
And home they go in joye and in solás;
Save only wrecched Aurelius, allas.
He to his hous is gon with sorrowful hert.
He seith, he may not from his deth depart.
He thinketh that he felith his herte cold,
Up to the hevene his handes gan he hold,
And on his kneës bare he sette him doun,
And in his ravynge sayd his orisoún.
For verray woe out of his witte he brake,
He knew nought what he seyde, but thus he spake;
With piteous herte hath he his pleynt bygunne
Unto the goddes and first unto the sonne.
He sayde, “Apollo, God and governoúr
Of every plaunte, of herbe, tree, and flour,
That gevest by thy declinacioun
To each of them his tyme and his sesoún,
When that thy place in heven is low or high;
Lord Phebus, cast thin merciable eye
On wrecched Aúrelý, that am