John Lydgate
The Complaint of the Black Knight
‘Sir Tristram defeats Sir Palamedes in Ireland’ (1902) - Arthur Rackham (English, 1867-1939), Artvee
Translated and Modernised by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved
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Contents
- Translator’s Introduction.
- The Poet’s Encounter with the Knight.
- The Knight’s Complaint.
- The Poet’s Conclusion.
- The Poet’s Envoi to His Audience.
- The Poet’s Envoi to his Poem.
- Notes
Translator’s Introduction
John Lydgate of Bury (c. 1370 – c. 1451) an English monk and poet, was born in Lidgate, near Haverhill, in the county of Suffolk. He was admitted to the Benedictine monastery of Bury St Edmunds Abbey in 1382, took novice vows soon after, and was ordained as a subdeacon in 1389. He was likely a student at Oxford University, between 1406 and 1408. He admired Geoffrey Chaucer’s work, was a friend to the latter’s son, Thomas, and gained literary patronage at the courts of Henry IV, Henry V, and Henry VI. A prolific writer, The Complaint of the Black Knight, originally called A Complaynt of a Loveres Lyfe belongs to his earlier period, 1400-1410, and is modelled on Chaucer’s The Book of the Duchess. This was one of a number of his works influenced by Chaucer’s writings. Lydgate wrote poems, fables, allegories, and romances. The most extensive of his writings were his Troy Book (1412–20), a translation of the Latin prose narrative Historia destructionis Troiae, by Guido delle Colonne, the Siege of Thebes, a translation of a French prose version of the Roman de Thebes, and the Fall of Princes (1431–8), the last and longest of his works.
The Complaint of the Black Knight unfolds through a frame narrative characteristic of medieval dream vision poetry. The narrator, himself afflicted by lovesickness, wanders into an idealized May landscape where he discovers a dying knight in an arbour. The knight's extended complaint forms the poem's emotional and thematic core: a bitter meditation on Love's injustice, which rewards false lovers while destroying the faithful. The knight cites classical lovers, contrasting faithful figures such as Palamedes, Hercules, and Adonis with deceivers such as Jason, Tereus, and Aeneas, to argue that truth in love brings only suffering, while deceit prospers. Yet despite his lady's cruelty and the machinations of personified enemies (Disdain, Resistance, False-Suspicion), he pledges unwavering devotion unto death. The narrator, moved to tears, transcribes the complaint and invokes Venus to grant the knight mercy. The poem concludes with traditional envoys addressed to princes, ladies, and finally to the poem itself, which the narrator sends to his own unattainable beloved. Through its elaborate structure and catalogue of wronged lovers, the work both celebrates and questions courtly love's central paradox: that suffering itself proves devotion.
The Poet’s Encounter with the Knight
In May, when Flora, its fresh, lively queen,
Had clad the earth in green, and red, and white,
And Phoebus, shedding streams of light, was seen
In Taurus, the Bull, his rays all shining bright,
And Lucifer, to chase away the night,
Ere dawn, his station in the sky did keep,
Prompting true lovers to awake from sleep,
Bringing their heavy hearts a little ease,
After a melancholy night’s deep sorrow,
Nature bade them rise the new day to seize,
And joy in the goodly, glad, grey morrow,
While Hope, St. John her guarantor below,
Also, despite Resistance and Despair,
Bade them take the lively, and wholesome air.
Then, with a sigh, I too began to wake
Out of my slumber, with a sudden start,
Like one death nigh, alas, of woe did take –
My lovesickness seated so near my heart.
And so, to find succour for my sore smart,
Or some release, at least, from all my pain,
That troubled me deeply, in every vein,
I rose, at once, and thought to make my way
Into the woods to hear the birds singing,
Once the misty vapours had blown away,
For bright and pleasant was the morning.
The dew also, was like silver, shining
On every leaf, and like to balm as sweet,
Till fiery Hyperion’s piercing heat
Dried up that sparkling liquid, fresh and new,
On all the herbs adorning the green mead,
And the flowers, of many a diverse hue,
Opened on their stalks, their petals freed,
The leaves spreading far and wide, at need,
Beneath the sun, gold-burnished in his sphere,
Casting his rays upon them, bright and clear.
Forth, by a river, I began to stray,
Its waters clear as beryl or as crystal,
Till I met a little path, that made its way
Towards a park, enclosed by a wall,
All around, and with a gate but small,
So that whoever wished could go alone
Into that park walled with green stone.
And in I went, to hear the birds, in song,
That on the branches there, in plain and vale,
Made the air ring, all the trees among,
As like to shatter them, in the wooded dale,
And, so it seemed to me, the nightingale,
Voiced his tune so loudly, last and first,
As if, for love, his very heart would burst.
The ground was flat, smooth, and wondrous soft,
All overspread with a tapestry that Nature
Herself had made, thus canopied aloft
With green bowers, shielding the flowers it bore,
That in their beauty they might long endure
The fierce assault of Phoebus’ burning light,
Who, in his sphere, shone so hot and bright.
The temperate air, and then the gentle breeze,
Zephyrus, there, among the blossoms white,
So wholesome, and so nourishing, did please,
Such that each bud, and rounded bloom in sight,
Did, after a fashion, breathe in pure delight,
And granted the hope that its fruit would take,
Ere autumn with its cold, the leaves could shake.
There saw I Daphne, under the bark’s rind,
The green laurel, and the wholesome pine,
The myrrh-tree, that is of the weeping kind;
The tall cedar rose up too, in upright line,
And the hazel, that downwards does incline,
Her green boughs straining, to touch upon,
Her beloved knight, named Demophon.
And there I, also, saw the fresh hawthorn,
In its white motley that so sweet does smell,
Ash, fir, and oak with many a young acorn,
Among other trees, far more than I can tell,
And there, before me, I saw a fount up-well,
Whose course ran, which, clearly, I did behold,
Below a hill; its stream both quick and cold,
Gold the gravel, the water clear as glass.
The banks, about the spring, encircling,
Where soft as velvet was the fresh new grass,
That, thereupon, vigorously did spring.
All the grove of trees, encompassing,
Cast shadow, enclosing the spring around,
And all the herbs seen covering the ground.
The water was so wholesome, so virtuous,
By reason of the plants that grew beside;
Unlike the pool wherein looked Narcissus,
And, due to vengeful Cupid, slowly died,
Cupid, the god, who covertly did hide,
The seeds of death at the water’s brink,
So, death would take any that there might drink;
Nor like the spring, set free by Pegasus,
Below Parnassus, where the poets slept,
Nor like that pool, pure as the chastity
That Diana, and the nymphs about her, kept,
And into whose waters, naked, she leapt,
Where Actaeon, slain by his own hounds, fell,
Merely because he came too near the well;
For this spring, of which I speak, its pure surge
Was so wholesome that it could assuage
Hearts full of anger, and the venom purge
Of hostile thought, with all its cruel rage,
And evermore it could refresh the visage,
Of any overcome by weariness
Through great effort, and those in sore distress.
And I, that through Resistance and Disdain
Was dry with thirst, thought I would assay
To taste, of this spring, a draught or twain,
So that my bitter languor I might allay;
And down upon the bank, at once, I lay,
My head into the spring down-stretching,
And a good draught of the water drinking,
At which I found myself well-relieved
Of the burning sensation near my heart,
So that, truly, I began, as I perceived,
To be eased of my inner wound, in part,
And, so eased, therewithal, up I did start,
And thought to walk forth, and thus see more
Of the park, around, and of the woods it bore.
And through a clearing as I sped apace,
I began to look about me and, behold!
I shortly found a most delightful place,
That was clothed all in trees, both young and old.
(The names of which I shall not here unfold)
Amidst which, there, I saw an arbour green,
With banks of turf for seats, fresh and clean.
The place was full of flowers, of deep blue,
And looking next therein, my eyes began
Twixt a holly and a woodbine, in plain view,
To perceive that amidst them lay a man,
Clad in white and black, and pale and wan,
His whole face of a wondrous deathly hue,
From some dire hurt, his wounds fresh and new,
And moreover, sore tormented by sickness,
Which was afflicting him most grievously,
For upon him was a fever, in hot excess,
That hour by hour shook him piteously,
Such that, due to the grip of his malady,
And heartfelt woe, lying thus, all alone,
It felt like death, simply to hear him groan.
Astonished, I withdrew, a foot or so,
While wondering greatly why it might be
That he lay there, friendless, and in woe,
For none was there to keep him company,
Which roused my compassion and my pity;
So I began, as quietly as I could,
To search about, hidden within the wood,
To see if I might, in any wise, espy,
What the cause was of this deadly woe,
Or why he did, so piteously, decry
His ill-fortune, and thus his fate also;
Giving ear, with full attention, though,
To every word, so gathering all he said,
As, free of his swoon, he raised his head.
But firstly, allow me to make mention
Of his person, and fully, here, contrive
A portrait, for he was, without exception,
In manliness, amongst the best alive –
And let none gainst the truth attempt to strive –
For in his days, and given his years also,
He had proved himself gainst many a foe.
For in regards to his breadth and length,
He was well made, built in right proportion,
Had he been but fit, and at full strength,
But ill-thought and sickness, gave occasion
For him to lie there, thus, in lamentation,
Alone, overcome, and prone on his face,
Upon the ground, in that desolate place.
And because it seemed to me twas fitting,
That I should record his every word,
Since the source of all his complaining,
And all his misfortune, I had heard,
If it will give you pleasure, in the hearing,
I shall for you, as best as I can, say on,
And pen for you, the words he said, each one.
But who shall help me to record his pain?
Who, now, shall my stylus guide, or lead?
O, Niobe, let now your tears down rain,
And feed my pen; and help me too, at need,
You, woeful stream, feeling my heart bleed
With piteous woe, and feeling my hand quake,
As I seek to write, all for that man’s sake.
For woe is e’er a reason for complaining,
While a doleful face suits wretchedness,
And sorrow e’er brings sighing and weeping,
And grief prompts piteous lament no less,
And one who dares to write of such distress
Needs to know a little, and feelingly,
Of the root, and cause, of that malady.
But I alas, that am in wits but dull,
And lack all knowledge of the matter here,
For me to write, and thus describe in full,
The woeful complaint that you shall hear,
Must do as the scrivener, it would appear,
Who knows nor more of what he must write
Than what his master tells him to indite.
So, fare I, knowing not the sentiment
To be expressed, and so, in conclusion,
Must write naught but what I heard when present,
Of the man’s complaint, without confusion,
Precisely, and without the least addition,
Or subtraction, not one word more or less;
So, to that task, myself I will address.
And if there be any now in this place,
That feels love’s fervour, his ardour intense,
Or has been slandered to his lady’s face,
By false tongues, that with their pestilence,
Harm true men that ne’er did them offence,
In word or deed, or yet in their intent –
If any such, I say, be here, now present,
Let them, of pity, grant me audience,
With doleful face, and sober countenance,
And hear, writ in many a noble sentence,
Of this man’s woe, and mortal mischance,
Complaining now, while lying in a trance,
With eyes all upcast, and sorrowful face,
To this effect, as you shall hear apace:
The Knight’s Complaint
‘The mind oppressed, with inward sighs forlorn,
The life of pain, the body languishing,
The woeful spirit, the heart rent and torn,
The piteous face, pale from complaining,
The deathlike aspect, like ashes glowing,
The briny tears that from my eyen fall,
Part-declare the source of my pain to all.
My heart is crushed, and bleeds, in misery,
My mind’s a place of woe, and of complaint,
My breast is grief’s coffer, sad and dreary,
My body’s powers feeble, now, and faint.
My malady feels heat and cold’s constraint,
Such that I shiver from a lack of heat,
Then burn, as hot as coals from head to feet.
Now hot as fire, now cold as ashes dead,
Now hot instead of cold, then cold again,
Now cold as ice, and then like coals, bright red,
I burn once more, and am, betwixt the twain,
Hurled back and forth, tossed about in pain,
Such that my ardour, plainly, so I feel,
Causes the grievous cold I must conceal,
It is the cold that’s born of high disdain,
The cold of scorn, the cold of cruel hate;
It is the cold that e’er takes every pain
To counter truth, and thwart it soon and late;
It is the cold that would the fire abate
Of true intent, alas, and, harsh the while,
Is yet the cold that will my heart beguile.
For the greater, in truth, is my intent,
With all my might, and faithfully, to serve,
And, in heart and all, to prove diligent,
The less thanks, it would seem, I deserve.
Resistance, for my truth, does me unnerve,
Since ‘she’, who from mercy should spare me yet,
Has now urged Disdain his sword to whet,
And sharpen his arrows too, against me,
To take vengeance, with wilful cruelty,
And many a false tongue, working slyly,
Has begun a war, furthered endlessly;
And, in wrath, false Envy, and Enmity,
Have conspired, against all right and law,
That, out of malice, Truth shall be no more.
Ill-Talk it was that first the tale did tell,
Slandering Truth, feigning indignation,
And False-Report then loudly rang his bell,
Such that Mistrust, and False-Suspicion
Have brought constant Truth to his damnation,
So that, alas, wrongfully he must die,
And Falseness then his place shall occupy.
And shall enter into Truth’s own land,
And hold, thereof, the full possession.
O God of Righteousness, and Truth’s right hand,
Why do you allow such harsh oppression,
Such that Falsehood claims the jurisdiction,
In place of Truth, and slays him innocent?
Lacking peace and freedom his time is spent.
Falsely accused, judged by his enemies,
Undefended, he himself being absent,
He was condemned and, despite his pleas,
(For Cruelty it was that sat in Judgement,
In undue haste, and without advisement)
Disdain will execute what they impose,
And punish him in presence of his foes.
No attourney could plead for him in court,
Nor, on his behalf, one word could speak;
Of pledges or of oaths, the judge thought naught,
He found no help there, his prospects bleak.
O Lord of Truth, my rock, your aid I seek.
How can You witness thus, in your presence,
The merciless murder of true Innocence?
Lord, You, that over Truth are sovereign,
See now how I, through Love, am tightly bound,
Sore fettered, thus, by Love’s fiery chain,
Near to death, and pierced by wounds all round,
I who am likely nevermore to prove sound,
And, for loyalty, am condemned to death,
Waiting for naught but to draw my last breath,
Consider me, here, in your Eternal Sight
I who swore, with all my heart, to pass
As one who’d truly serve, with all his might,
But one single other, the which, alas,
Willingly, without suffering trespass,
Has shown my enemies her passing grace,
Inciting them to seek my death apace.
What does this mean? What is this fate, unsure,
Providence has dealt, if I should so call
The God of Love, of whom the false seem sure,
While the true, on Fortune’s wheel, must fall?
Surely, in truth, here’s the worst turn of all:
That Falsehood now, wrongly, bears Truth’s name,
While Truth, instead of Falsehood, bears the blame.
In love, this stormy venture, this blind chance,
Is what most find, what most experience,
For he who does, with Truth, his suit advance,
Shall have for prize that which does give offence,
Though he serves Love with all due diligence;
While those who feign to show humility,
Ne’er fail to garner grace and prosperity.
For I loved one, for many a long day,
With all my heart, my body, and my might,
And, for my life, my heart cannot betray
Its vow, but must hold to what is right,
My promise: though banished from her sight,
And from her own lips hear that I must die,
I will every serve and obey, say I.
For, ever since this world of ours began,
Whoever sought out books, and therein read,
Ever discovered that the faithful man
Was thwarted, while the deceitful, instead,
Was furthered, for love cares not, tis said,
If it slays the true, those not deemed its charge,
While ever letting the false roam at large,
I quote the example of Palamedes,
That true man, that noble worthy knight
Who loved loyally, yet found no release
From his pain, despite his manly might,
Love did to him what was scarcely right,
For the greater his display of chivalry,
The more he was hindered by pure envy;
While the greater his feats, in every place,
Through knightly effort, with toil and pain,
The further was he from his lady’s grace,
Since to her mercy he could ne’er attain,
And until death, could not himself restrain
From courting danger; driven to obey,
As best he could, unto his dying day.
And what was the fate of mighty Hercules,
For all his efforts, and his worthiness,
He of peerless strength, and all his victories?
For, as the tales about his deeds express,
He raised pillars, through might and prowess,
There, near Cadiz, to proclaim, visibly,
That none could surpass him in chivalry;
The which pillars, being far beyond Asia,
Were covered in gold, as a remembrance.
And yet, for all that, he was ranked lower,
Midst those whom Love scorned to advance;
For he, at the last, entered upon a dance
In which no relief could be gained by strife,
And despite all his devotion, lost his life.
Phoebus, also, for all his piercing light,
When he descended to the Earth below,
Was wounded to the heart, at the sight
Of Venus, by a shaft from Cupid’s bow;
Yet his lady wished, of him, naught to know,
Though for love of her his heart did bleed,
Dismissed him thus, and to him paid no heed.
And what of young Pyramus, and his Thisbe,
Of Tristan’s fate, despite his high renown?
Or of Achilles, or Mark Antony,
Or Palamon’s wound, Arcite brought down?
What end had their passion, as its crown,
But, after sorrow, death, and then the grave?
Such the prize won by lovers fine and brave!
Yet duplicitous Jason, in all his falseness
Untrue to Medea of Colchis; and, alas,
Tereus, that root of unnatural excess;
And added to them, faithless Aeneas,
Each alike false, in their cruel trespass,
Had their way in love, and worked their will,
Without, save falsehood, any show of skill.
That knight of Thebes, also, the false Arcite,
And Demophon, too, with his tardiness,
They had their wish, and all that may delight,
For all their falsehood, and deceitfulness,
Thus ever, Love, alas, the merciless,
Furthers his false troops, in every way,
And slays the true, unjustly, day by day.
For Adonis, the true, was slain by the boar,
Amidst the woodland, in the green shade,
For love of Venus, he was wounded sore.
Yet merciless Vulcan her deceits repaid;
Many a pleasant night that foul churl played,
While Mars her worthy knight, her true man,
Knew neither mercy nor comfort, for a span.
Also, the young, and handsome Hippomenes,
So vigorous and noble in his courage,
Who chose to serve with all his heart, and please,
Atalanta, that was so fair of visage,
By Love was repaid, in manner savage,
With cruel transformation, at the last,
Such that unrewarded at his death, he passed.
Lo, for serving Love, now hear the prize!
Lo, how Love his servants does requite!
Lo, how he does the faithful man despise,
Slaying the true, granting the false respite!
Lo, how he makes the sword of sorrow bite
Such hearts as must his wishes e’er obey,
Saving the false, while the true fall away!
For, pledge or oath, promise, or assurance,
With true intent, service, attentiveness,
Patient mien, and faithful attendance,
Manhood, might in arms, worthiness,
Pursuit of honour, and noble prowess,
In foreign lands, with travel and travail –
Little or nothing will, in love, avail.
Not peril of death, either on sea or land,
Hunger and thirst, sorrow nor sickness
Nor great enterprises taken in hand,
Shedding of blood, nor manly hardiness,
Nor in frequent assaults wounds and distress,
Nor the risking of life, nor death indeed –
All is for naught, of these Love takes no heed.
But Liars with their false flattery,
Their deceptions and duplicitousness,
Their tale-telling, their endless trickery,
False semblances, counterfeit humbleness
Disguised, in false colours, as steadfastness,
Their fraud, concealed by a piteous face,
Readily receive the reward of grace,
And can themselves then best magnify
Their status, with false mien and presumption,
Enhancing their cause with many a lie,
Beneath the mask of two-faced intention,
Thinking one thing, in giving their opinion
Saying another, to set themselves aloft,
And hinder Truth, a thing that’s seen full oft.
The which I purchase now, all too dear,
Thanks to Cupid, with Venus as his guide,
As is seen by my face, my lack of cheer,
And by his arrows that yet pierce my side,
So that except for death, naught I abide,
Lingering from day to day – alas, my heart!
Whenever he chooses to whet his dart,
This melancholy heart to split in two,
Through want of mercy and lack of pity
On ‘her’ part, to whom all my pain is due,
And never once cares, of her grace, to see
My true intent, because of her cruelty.
And, most of all, at this I e’er complain
That she delights in laughing at my pain.
And wilfully, it seems, my death she swore,
Though I am innocent, and know not why,
Save for the pledge that I gave before,
To serve her cause only, until I die.
O God of Love, to you I raise my cry,
And, to you, blind, deceptive deity,
I now complain of the great wrong done me,
And of your stormy, wilful variance,
Your ever-changing, instability;
Now up now down, on the wheel of chance,
To trust to you brings no security,
While I blame naught but your duplicity.
Then, he who is an archer, yet is blind,
May guess the mark, yet ne’er the mark will find.
And lacking thus all sense of direction,
Without a guide, he lets his arrow go,
Lacking not only eyesight, but reason;
When he shoots it often happens so,
That he hurts his friend rather than his foe;
So does this god, when his sharp arrows fly,
Slaying the true, letting the false pass by.
Of the wounds he deals, this is the worst of all,
That when he hurts, he makes so cruel a breach,
That those who are heartsick cry and call,
To their enemy, to act now as their leech;
And hard it is for a man to have to reach,
When on the brink of death, in jeopardy,
Forth to his foe, seeking the remedy.
And so, it fares, even now, with me;
Of my foe who rendered my heart unsound,
I must, likewise, ask grace, pity, mercy,
And there, too, where no such may be found,
For, now, my wound will the leech confound,
The God of All does now my fate ensure,
That my life’s foe alone my wound can cure.
Alas, and woe, that ever I was born,
Or that ever I saw the bright sun!
For, now, I realise that, ere my life’s dawn,
The thread of my destiny had been spun
By the Parcae: to slay me, and have done;
For my death they shaped ere I was made,
Which, simply by being true, I can’t evade.
Also, the mighty goddess, called Nature,
By God above, granted the governance
Of worldly things, their care to ensure,
Ordained that, through her wise providence,
My lady should possess, in abundance,
Each and every virtue, and did provide,
To murder Truth, Resistance as her guide.
For, goodness, form, seemliness, and beauty,
Prudence, wit, and surpassing fairness,
Glad face and gentle mien, humility,
And womanly generosity to excess,
Nature in her most fully did express
When she wrought her; yet, at the last, Disdain,
To hinder Truth, she made her chamberlain,
Then Mistrust also, and False-Suspicion,
With Misapprehension, appointed she,
As her chief counsellors, to this conclusion;
The exile of Compassion and Mercy,
And, from her Court, to make sad Pity flee,
Such that Contempt, within it, now doth reign,
Through misbelieving tales that men feign.
And thus, I am, for being true, alas
Murdered, slain by words both sharp and keen,
Though guiltless, God knows, of all trespass,
Lying, and bleeding, here, midst the chill green.
Mercy now, sweet, mercy my life’s queen!
For grace, born of your mercy, I yet pray,
That, in your service, I might die this day.
But if so be that I die, if such my fate,
While mercy comes not my life to save,
Yet, of my death, still let this be the date
That, by your will, sees me in my grave,
Or swiftly, if you would ease, as I crave,
My painful wounds that ache so and bleed,
Heal them, from pity, in my hour of need.
For of other cures plainly there are none;
Only mercy can aid me in this case,
And since my wound bleeds ever and anon,
Whether I live depends upon your grace;
And though of guilt I lack a single trace,
I still ask mercy, ever with true intent,
Prepared to die, if, to that, you assent.
Against that sentence I shall never strive,
In word or deed, plainly, for as I say,
I would, rather than yet remain alive,
Die at once, in truth, if please her it may.
And whether it is to be this very day,
Or, instead, whenever she wishes, I
Would be content in her service to die.
And God, You who know our thoughts outright,
Just as You do all other things You see,
Ere I shall die, I pray, with all my might,
Most humbly, that You will grant to me,
That she, the good and fair, fresh and free,
Who slays me only by denying mercy,
May learn, before I die, of my loyalty.
For indeed, that, in truth, would suffice me,
If she knew of it, whate’er the circumstance,
And that being so, I would be pleased if she
If she so wished, upon me took vengeance,
Who serve, and must obey, her every glance;
Tis not for me her judgement to disobey,
But, at her wish, to willingly die this day.
Without protest, without rebellion,
In will and word, wholly I assent,
Not raising a single contradiction,
To obey her commands without dissent,
And if I die, by way of testament,
My heart I send her, and my spirit too,
That, with them, aught she wishes she may do.
And finally, to the virtue in her bred,
And to her mercy, myself I commend,
Who lie here, now, betwixt hope and dread,
Awaiting, humbly, what order she may send,
For certainly, on this she may depend,
It will be welcome, while I yet have breath,
Whether, for me, her choice is life or death.
What more to say of this matter does remain,
Since all is hers to will, and lies in her hand:
Both life and death, my joy and all my pain?
Yet, in conclusion, let my promise stand,
Till by predestined fate, at her command,
My spirit from my body its way shall wend.
Hear this, my troth; and, thus, I make an end.’
The Poet’s Conclusion
And with that he began to sigh full sore,
As if his heart were breaking in twain,
And held his peace, and spoke not one word more.
But gazing upon his woe and mortal pain,
The tears, down from my eyes, began to rain,
Full piteously, from deep inward woe,
Seeing him, for his troth, languishing so.
And all this while the leaves did me enclose
Among the trees, amidst which I did hide,
Till, at the last, the woeful man arose,
And to a log he went that lay beside
Where each May he’d chosen to abide,
Solely to complain of his pains so keen,
From year to year, beneath the boughs’ green.
And since that it was drawing towards night,
And the sun had run his diurnal course,
So that his shining orb, its piercing light,
His bright beams, and streaming rays, perforce,
Had returned to the waves’ watery source;
Deep beneath the border of our ocean,
His chariot of gold sank, swift in motion.
And while the twilight, and the rose-red
Of Phoebus light yet gilded all in sight,
A pen I took, and swiftly my hand sped,
The sorrowful plaint of that man to write,
As he had told it, word by word, ere night,
And I, hearing, could of him make report,
Thus, to divert your hearts with all I’ve wrought.
If aught be amiss, lay the charge on me,
For it is right that I should bear the blame
If aught that is here misreported be,
Such as to make this poem seem but lame,
Through my lack of skill. And if the same
Complaint as that man made, I here express,
I look for mercy and, ask forgiveness.
And, as I wrote, methought I saw afar,
Pleasantly, in the west, and shining clear,
Hesperus, which bright and gleaming star
So glad, so fair, so piercing does appear,
Venus, I mean, whose beams falling here,
That can the heavy heart alone relieve,
It is her custom to display at eve.
Then I, as fast, went down upon one knee,
And even thus to her began to pray,
‘O Lady Venus, so fair a sight to see,
Let him not, for his troth, die this day,
For the sake of that joy when you lay
With Mars, your knight, whom Vulcan found,
And with an invisible chain so bound
You twain together, so displayed his guile,
That all the gods above, the Court celestial,
At your plight, began to mock and smile.
O fair Lady, e’er benevolent in all,
Comfort to the careworn, goddess immortal,
Aid us now, and through your diligence,
Let the rays of your benign influence
Descend to us, furthering true loyalty,
Namely in those that lie in sorrow bound.
Show your power, offer them your pity,
Ere Resistance works them to confound.
And especially let your powers be found
To succour, to whate’er degree you may,
That true man who in the arbour lay.
And further all, for his sake, who stay true,
O glad star, O Lady Venus mine,
And cause his lady to grace his suit too,
Her steel heart towards mercy to incline,
Ere your rays surrender to decline,
Ere you vanish, to be seen no more;
For the love that you, for Adonis, bore.’
And when she had sunk to her rest,
I quickly rose, and home to bed I went,
Being weary, thinking it for the best,
Praying then, with all my best intent,
That all true hearts gainst whom Resistance bent
His force, if mercy should relieve their pain,
Might be restored, ere May returned again.
And, so that I need, no more, keep awake,
Farewell you lovers, all you that be true,
Praying to God, as now my leave I take,
That ere tomorrow’s sun does rise anew,
And ere he shows again his rosy hue,
That each of you may shortly find true grace
And your own lady, in your arms, embrace.
For, this I mean, that with plain honesty,
Without more ado, together you may speak
Whate’er you wish, your tongues at liberty,
Open your hearts to one another, and seek
Vengeance, on Jealousy alone, to wreak,
Who has so long, from malice and envy,
Oppressed True Love, and practised tyranny.
The Poet’s Envoi to His Audience
Princes, may it please your benignity
To keep this little work of mine in mind,
And you ladies, also, that you may see
To this, that your true man does mercy find,
And pity, that has long been left behind,
So that he is once more restored to grace,
For, by my troth, it is against all Kind,
That false Resistance occupy his place.
The Poet’s Envoi to his Poem
Go little poem, go unto my life’s queen,
That sovereign who o’er my heart does reign;
Be glad that you, by her, shall now be seen –
Thus, are you graced, but I, alas, in pain
Am left, nor know to whom I should complain;
For Mercy, Sorrow, Grace, and also Pity,
Are exiled, such that I may not obtain
The means of escape from my adversity.
Notes:
Flora – The Roman fertility goddess of flowers and the Spring. Her husband was Zephyrus the West Wind (see verse 9)
The Sun, Phoebus – is in the constellation Taurus, the Bull, from late April to late May.
Lucifer – is the planet Venus in its dawn aspect, preceding the rising Sun in the east. Hesperus is its evening aspect, setting after the sun in the west.
‘Saint John to borrow’ – in the original text, here interpreted as ‘with Saint John as guarantor’, was a common phrase of the period, used especially as an ‘au revoir’ on parting, equivalent to’ Saint John go with you.’ The Evangelist’s eagle symbol signifies far-sightedness and Hope, while the Saint John of the Book of Revelation prophesies the New Jerusalem.
Resistance – ‘Daunger’, a personification first appearing in the ‘Romance of the Rose’ (by Guillaume de Lorris, continued by Jean de Meung).
Hyperion – A ‘Titan’ in Greek mythology, often identified with his son Helios, the Sun.
Phoebus – Apollo as the god of the Sun, in myth, an epithet for the Sun itself.
Zephyrus – See the note on Flora above.
Daphne – In the Greek myth, on being pursued by Apollo, Daphne was transformed to a laurel tree, so as to escape his attentions.
Demophon – In the Greek myth, Demophon abandoned his lover Phyllis, who was transformed to an almond tree, here a filbert, or hazel, tree.
‘White motley’ – The white flowers of the Hawthorn or May Tree, are here a symbol of constancy, since the hawthorn endures harsh winters and is long-lived.
Narcissus – In the Greek myth, Echo, fell in love with the proud Narcissus, who spurned her, after which she faded till only her voice remained, and she unable to speak other than to repeat what was said to her. Narcissus subsequently fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water, pined away, and was turned into a flower after his death.
Pegasus – In Greek myth Pegasus was a winged horse who sprang from the blood of Medusa after she was slain by Perseus. Pegasus created the Hippocrene spring on Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses, by stamping his hoof on the earth.
Actaeon – In Greek myth, Actaeon, while out hunting, spied the goddess Diana bathing, and was punished by being torn to pieces by his own hounds.
The colour blue – and the woodbine plant, are symbols of constancy.
Resistance – (Daunger, in the original), Ill-Talk (Male-Bouche), and the other personifications derive from ‘The Romance of the Rose’ (by Guillaume de Lorris, continued by Jean de Meung)
Palamedes – a Knight of the Round Table in the Arthurian legends. A pagan from the Middle East who converts to Christianity, his unrequited love for Iseult causes conflict with Tristan.
Hercules – was unwittingly brought to his death by Deianira his wife, through her giving him a shirt dipped in the blood of Nessus the centaur. Hercules had slain Nessus with an arrow dipped in the Hydra’s venom, and the dying centaur told Deianira that mixing his blood and semen would produce a love-potion that would guarantee Hercules loyalty to her. She subsequently used it when attempting to rid herself of a rival Iole, and the shirt caused his torment and death.
Pyramus – in the Greek myth, loved Thisbe, who communicated with him secretly through a hole in the wall, and after a scene of Romeo and Juliet style confusion, in this case involving an encounter with a lioness, he commits suicide thinking her dead, and she commits suicide on finding his corpse.
Tristan – and Iseult, in the Arthurian tale (the finest version being that of Gottfried von Strassburg, unfinished but happily completed by the addition of the fragments of Thomas of England’s text) were exemplars of lovers possessed by a mutual but ultimately frustrated passion ended only by death.
Achilles – was betrothed to Polyxena who was supposedly complicit in his death, and was afterwards sacrificed by the Greeks beside his tomb.
Mark Antony – famously loved by Cleopatra of Egypt, was defeated in battle by Octavian (later the Emperor Augustus), and after attempting suicide believing her dead, died in Cleopatra’s arms.
Arcite – and Palamon, are characters in Chaucer’s ‘The Knight’s Tale’ which he based on Boccaccio’s epic poem ‘Teseida’. The two knights battle for love of Emilye, Palamon being wounded and Arcite later dying after being thrown by his horse during the contest.
Jason – in the Greek myth, abandoned Medea, sorceress of Colchis, who had aided his acquisition of the Golden Fleece.
Tereus – in the Greek myth, raped his wife Procne’s sister, Philomela.
Aeneas – prince of Troy, and founder of Rome in Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’, abandoned Dido Queen of Carthage in order to pursue his ambition in Italy.
Arcite – The Theban Arcite appears in Chaucer’s ‘Anelida and Arcite’, in which he wins the love of Anelida, queen of Armenia, but betrays her for another.
Adonis – was loved by the goddess Venus, but slain by a wild boar while out hunting. She committed adultery with the god Mars, but they were caught in an iron net by her husband Vulcan, blacksmith to the gods.
Hippomenes – won the hand of Atalanta by winning a footrace. After desecrating Cybele’s temple, at Aphrodite’s instigation, by mating there, Cybele turned them into a lion and lioness, whom the Greeks believed could not mate with each other only with leopards, and they were condemned to draw her chariot.
‘Kind’ – Nature, including the nature of the human species.
The End of John Lydgate’s ‘The Complaint of the Black Knight’