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Deus dator formarum.
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Thou yiver of the formes, that hast wroght
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The faire world, and bare hit in thy thoght
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Eternally, or thou thy werk began,
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Why madest thou, unto the slaundre of man,
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Or -- al be that hit was not thy doing,
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As for that fyn to make swiche a thing --
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Why suffrest thou that Tereus was bore,
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That is in love so fals and so forswore,
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That, fro this world up to the firste hevene,
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Corrumpeth, whan that folk his name nevene?
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And, as to me, so grisly was his dede,
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That, whan that I his foule story rede,
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Myn eyen wexen foule and sore also;
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Yit last the venim of so longe ago,
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That hit enfecteth him that wol beholde
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The story of Tereus, of which I tolde.
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Of Trace was he lord, and kin to Marte,
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The cruel god that stant with blody darte;
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And wedded had he, with a blisful chere,
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King Pandiones faire doghter dere,
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That highte Progne, flour of her contree,
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Thogh Iuno list nat at the feste be,
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Ne Ymeneus, that god of wedding is;
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But at the feste redy been, y-wise,
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The furies three, with alle hir mortel brond.
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The owle al night aboute the balkes wond,
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That prophet is of wo and of mischaunce.
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This revel, ful of songe and ful of daunce,
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Lasteth a fourtenight, or litel lasse.
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But, shortly of this story for to passe,
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For I am wery of him for to telle,
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Five yeer his wyf and he togeder dwelle,
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Til on a day she gan so sore longe
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To seen her suster, that she saw nat longe,
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That for desyr she niste what to seye.
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But to her husband gan she for to preye,
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For goddes love, that she moste ones goon
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Her suster for to seen, and come anoon,
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Or elles, but she moste to her wende,
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She preyde him, that he wolde after her sende;
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And this was, day by day, al her prayere
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With al humblesse of wyfhood, word, and chere.
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2270 |
This Theseus let make his shippes yare,
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And into Grece him-self is forth y-fare
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Unto his fader in lawe, and gan him preye
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To vouche-sauf that, for a month or tweye,
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That Philomene, his wyves suster, mighte
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On Progne his wyf but ones have a sighte --
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"And she shal come to yow again anoon.
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Myself with her wol bothe come and goon,
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And as myn hertes lyf I wol her kepe."
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This olde Pandion, this king, gan wepe
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For tendernesse of herte, for to leve
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His doghter goon, and for to yive her leve;
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Of al this world he lovede no-thing so;
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But at the laste leve hath she to go.
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For Philomene, with salte teres eke,
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Gan of her fader grace to beseke
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To seen her suster, that her longeth so;
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And him embraceth with her armes two.
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And therwith-al so yon and fair was she
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That, whan that Tereus saw her beautee,
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And of array that ther was noon her liche,
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And yit of bountee was she two so riche,
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He caste his fyry herte upon her so
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That he wol have her, how so that hit go,
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And with his wyles kneled and so preyde,
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Til at the laste Pandion thus seyde: --
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"Now, sone," quod he, "that art to me so dere,
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I thee betake my yonge doghter here,
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That bereth the key of al my hertes lyf.
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And grete wel my doghter and thy wyf,
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And yive her leve somtyme for to pleye,
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That she may seen me ones er I deye."
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And soothly, he hath mad him riche feste,
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And to his folk, the moste and eek the leste,
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That with him com; and yaf him yiftes grete,
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And him conveyeth through the maister-strete
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Of Athenes, and to the see him broghte,
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And turneth hoom; no malice he ne thoghte.
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The ores pulleth forth the vessel faste,
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And into Thrace arriveth at the laste,
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And up into a forest he her ledde,
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And to a cave privily him spedde;
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And, in this derke cave yif her leste,
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Or leste noghte, he bad her for to reste;
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Of whiche her herte agroos, and seyde thus,
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"Wher is my suster, brother Tereus?"
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And therwith-al she wept tenderly,
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And quook for fere, pale and pitously,
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Right as the lamb that of the wolf is biten;
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Or as the colver, that of the egle is smiten,
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And is out of his clawes forth escaped,
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Yet hit is afered and awhaped
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Lest hit be hent eft-sones, so sat she.
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But utterly hti may non other be.
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By force hath he, this traitour, doon that dede,
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That he hath reft her of her maydenhede,
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Maugree her heed, by strengthe and by his might.
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Lo! here a dede of men, and that a right!
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She cryeth "suster!" with ful londe stevene,
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And "fader dere!" and "help me, god in hevene!"
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Al helpeth nat; and yet this false theef
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Hath doon this lady yet a more mischeef,
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For fere lest she sholde his shame crye,
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And doon him openly a vilanye,
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And with his swerd her tong of kerveth he,
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And in a castel made her for to be
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Ful privily in prison evermore,
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And kepte her to his usage and his store,
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So that she mighte him nevermore asterte.
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O sely Philomene! wo is thyn herte;
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2340 |
God wreke thee, and sende thee thy bone!
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Now is hit tyme I make an ende sone.
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This Tereus is to his wyf y-come,
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And in his armes hath his wyf y-come,
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And pitously he weep, and shook his heed,
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And swor her that he fond her suster deed;
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For which this sely Progne hath swich wo,
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That ny her sorweful herte brak a-two;
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And thus in teres lete I Progne dwelle,
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And of her suster forth I wol yow telle.
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2350 |
This woful lady lerned had in youthe
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So that she werken and enbrouden couthe,
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And weven in her stole the radevore
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As hit of women hath be woned yore.
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And, shortly for to seyn, she hath her fille
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Of mete and drink, and clothing at her wille,
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And coude eek rede, and wel y-nogh endyte,
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But with a penne coude she nat wryte;
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But lettres can she weven to and fro,
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So that, by that the yeer was al a-go,
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2360 |
She had y-woven in a stamin large
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How she was broght from Athenes in a barge,
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And in a cave how that she was broght;
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And al the thing that Tereus hath wroght,
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She waf hit wel, and wroot the story above,
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How she was served for her suster love;
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And to a knave a ring she yaf anoon,
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And prayed him, by signes, for to goon
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Unto the quene, and beren her that clooth,
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And by signes swor him many an ooth,
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2370 |
She sholde him yeve what she geten mighte.
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This knave anoon unto the quene him dighte,
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And took hit her, and al the maner tolde.
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And, whan that Progne hath this thing beholde,
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No work she spak, for sorwe and eek for rage;
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But feyned her to goon on pilgrimage
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To Bachus temple; and, in a litel stounde,
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Her dombe suster sitting hath she founde,
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Weping in the castel her aloon.
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Allas! the wo, the compleint, and the moon
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2380 |
That Progne upon her dombe suster maketh!
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In armes everich of hem other taketh,
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And thus I lete hem in hir sorwe dwelle.
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The remenant is no charge for to telle,
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For this is al and som, thus was she served,
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That never harm a-gilte ne deserved
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Unto this cruel man, that she of wiste.
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Ye may be war of men, yif that yow liste.
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For, al be that he wol nat, for his shame,
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Doon so as Tereus, to lese his name,
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2390 |
Ne serve yow as a mordrour or a knave,
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Ful litel whyle shul ye trewe him have,
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That wol I seyn, al were he now my brother,
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But hit so be that he may have non other.
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Explicit Legenda Philomene.
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