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John Lydgate

The Temple of Glass

Through the house give glimmering light (1908) - Arthur Rackham (English, 1867-1939)

‘Through the house give glimmering light’ (1908) - 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

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 Temple of Glas belongs to his earlier period, 1400-1410, and is indebted to Chaucer’s ‘The House of Fame.’ 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 Temple of Glass is a dream vision written in the early fifteenth century, blending allegorical storytelling with lyrical expression. Set in midwinter, the poem transports the narrator to a circular temple of glass founded on ice, its walls painted with images of famous lovers - Dido, Medea, Penelope, Griselda - each petitioning Venus for relief from love's sorrows. The centrepiece is a lady of surpassing beauty who laments that though her heart is free, her body is bound; she lacks liberty to choose her beloved. Venus promises relief and pledges the lady will honourably possess the man she loves, symbolically binding her constancy with evergreen hawthorn. A tormented male lover then appears, pledging eternal devotion. The lady responds cautiously, guided by reason and deference to Venus's will. The goddess unites the pair with a golden chain and a kiss, witnessed by assembled lovers and accompanied by celestial music. The narrator awakens bereft, dedicating his "little book" to his own unattainable lady. The poem explores patience, loyalty, and love's trials, contrasting enforced unions with freely chosen devotion.

Part I

The Poet’s Introduction

Brunnhilde slowly and silently leads her horse down the path to the cave (1910) - Arthur Rackham (English, 1867-1939)

‘Brunnhilde slowly and silently leads her horse down the path to the cave’ (1910) - Arthur Rackham (English, 1867-1939), Artvee

From anxiousness, constraint, and heaviness,

From melancholy, and from deep distress,

I sought my bed, but now, the other night,

When that Lucina, with her pallid light,

Was last joined as one with mighty Phoebus,

In mid-December, in Aquarius,

January’s kalends marking the New Year;

And dark Diana, horned, all things unclear,

Hiding her rays beneath a misty cloud.

In my bed, in sorrow, like to my shroud,

All desolate I lay, constrained by woe,

All the long night, wallowing to and fro,

Till at last, ere I knew it, I sank deep,

Oppressed, into a sudden, deadly sleep,

Within which, I thought that I did pass,

Ravished in spirit, to a Temple of Glass

(Far, I know not how, in the wilderness)

Founded, as it appeared by its likeness,

Not upon steel, but on a craggy rock,

Like frozen ice. And, as I then took stock

Before advancing gainst the sun, as clear

Methought as any crystal, and drew near,

Till I was nigh that dreadful, grisly place,

I waxed amazed; the light, all in my face,

Piercing, without cease, so began to smite,

In every part, wherever within sight,

I chose to go, that nothing could I see

About me, or inspect all there might be

Of wonders there, for brightness of the sun,

Till certain clouds, at last, dark and dun,

Chased by the wind, upon a course were sent,

Obscuring the Titan’s rays, so blent

That I could then, both within and without,

Wherever I looked, behold, all about,

And can report, the fashion and manner

Of all that place, whose shape was circular.

Note: The sun is never in Aquarius in December, and the kalends of January indeed mark the New Year but in January not December. Lydgate, was perfectly well aware of the facts, but employs these contrary indicators to illustrate the poet’s disturbed state of mind, in which, presumably through lovesickness, the world is ‘turned upside-down’.

The Poet Enters the Temple and Views the Images on the Walls

Encompassed within a round twas wrought,

Such that, as I wandered long, and sought,

I found a gate, and made my way, as fast,

Into the Temple, and my gaze did cast,

On every side, now aloft, and now low,

And as I walked onward, my steps full slow,

(If I am to report the truth precisely)

On every wall, painted there, I did see,

From west to east, many a lovely image,

Of sundry lovers, out of another age,

Set in order, and each of likeness true,

All in lifelike colours of wondrous hue,

And I perceived some sat, others did stand,

And some knelt with petitions in their hand,

Some with complaints, woeful and piteous,

Addressed, with doleful faces, to Venus,

Shown as if she were floating on the sea,

Asking that on their woe she take pity.

He Sees Depictions of Dido, Medea, and Venus Herself

And first, of all, I saw her of Carthage,

Dido, its queen, so goodly of visage,

Complaining of her case, telling, alas,

Of how she was deceived by Aeneas,

Despite his vows, the oaths that he had sworn,

Saying she wished she never had been born,

Knowing that death must now possess her.

And next was shown the plaint of Medea,

How Jason played her false once she was his,

And close by Venus, I saw Adonis,

He whom, in pain, she wept for heretofore,

And how he had been slain by the wild boar.

Of Penelope, Alcestis, Griselda, Iseult, Theseus, and Phyllis

There I saw, also, how Penelope

That, for so long, her lord did not see,

Full oft, in colour, waxed pale and green.

And after that I saw the lovely queen,

I mean Alcestis, that true, noble wife,

How for Admetus she laid down her life.

And how for her loyalty, I tell no lie,

Was turned into a daisy-flower thereby.

There also Griselda was, that innocent,

Showing how meek she was and patient.

There was Iseult, midst many another so,

In all the torment, and all the cruel woe,

Her love for Tristan brought her in life.

And how Thisbe stabbed, as with a knife,

Her heart; the blade was that of Pyramus.

And all the manner in which Theseus

Slew the Minotaur, in the house of Minos,

Within the labyrinth wrought by Daedalos.

When he was prisoned on the isle of Crete.

And how the fair Phyllis felt love’s great heat,

Because of Demophon’s fierce flame, alas,

And how, due to his falsehood, and trespass,

Painted upon the wall there, all might see,

How she hanged herself from a filbert tree.

Of Helen, Polyxena, Philomena, and Palamon

And many a story (more than I can tell)

The Temple showed; how that Paris, as well,

Won Helen, the fair and amorous queen,

And how Achilles, all unwary, was seen

To fall at Troy, betrayed by Polyxena;

All this I saw walking hither and thither.

And there I saw portrayed the entire tale,

Of how fair Procne to a nightingale

Was changed, and Philomena to a swallow,

And how Lucretia the Sabines hallow,

And hold a festival for her in Rome.

There saw I the sorrow of Palamon,

How he in prison was, and felt the smart

Of love’s wound there, deep within his heart,

Unwarily hurt through casting his eye

On fair young Emilye as she passed by;

And all the strife twixt him and his brother,

And how they fought one with the other,

Within a grove, till there, by Theseus,

They were reconciled, as Chaucer tells us.

Note: In the Greek myth of Tereus, Procne, and Philomela, Procne was transformed to the vocal nightingale, and Philomela to the less vocal swallow; the Roman versions often reversed the changes of form, such that Procne is the swallow, and Philomela the nightingale. Chaucer tells the tale in ‘The Legend of Good Women’.

Of Phoebus, Daphne, Jupiter, Europa, Amphitryon Alcmene, Mars

And furthermore (as this I did behold)

I saw how Phoebus, with an arrow of gold,

Was wounded in the side, which was, wholly,

Because of the Love-God Cupid’s envy,

And how that Daphne when she sought to flee,

Was turned, in flight, into a laurel tree.

And how Jupiter his shape did alter

Wholly for love of the fair Europa,

And became a bull, and in his pursuit,

The form of his godhead chose to transmute;

And how he, likewise, by transmutation

Donned the appearance of Amphitryon,

Won by Alcmene’s surpassing beauty.

Being stricken thus, despite his deity,

With love’s dart, that he could not escape;

There I saw Mars also in his sore scrape,

By Vulcan caught, being with Venus found,

And in the smith’s net, invisibly bound.

And of Mercury and Philology, and of Canace

There too was all the tale, in poetry,

Of Mercury and of Philology,

And how the latter, for her sapience,

Was wedded to that god of eloquence.

And how the Muses humbly did obey,

And to high heaven her did then convey,

How by their singing she was glorified,

Set beside Jupiter, and so stellified.

And further on, depicted, I did see,

How, with her ring, comely Canace

Of every bird the language, and the song,

Could understand, as she walked along,

And how her brother was, in sorry pass

And mishap, aided by the steed of brass.

The Lovers in The Temple, and Their Complaints to Venus

And further within the temple, here and there,

Full many a thousand lovers, urged by care,

Were ready, in varied ways, to complain,

Of their woe, to the goddess, and their pain.

And how they were hindered, some from envy,

And how the false serpent of Jealousy,

Full many a lover had obstructed wholly,

And laid blame upon them, causelessly.

Many complained of their enforced absence,

Those exiled from the beloved’s presence,

Through malicious talk and false suspicion.

Being denied mercy or remission.

Others bemoaned their service, spent in vain

Due to cruel resistance and disdain.

And some also that loved, if truth be told,

Yet found the lady indifferent cold.

And others that were gripped by poverty,

Yet dared not speak of meeting adversity

In forthright manner, lest they were refused.

And some found wanting were so accused;

Others who loved their lady secretly,

And of her therefore dared not seek mercy,

Lest she should condemn them for that same;

And some were there that laid all the blame,

On false lovers who did new things pursue,

And whose deceit hindered the fond and true.

The Poet Gives Further Examples of Their Woes

And some there were, as is often seen,

For their lady many a wound, I ween,

Had endured in many a far region,

While another suitor took possession

Of the lady, and bore away the fruit,

Of all his labour for her, and his suit.

And others also complained of how Wealth,

Has his way, with treasure, and by stealth,

Gaining all so, in spite of birth and right,

That where true lovers act, none might.

And some there were, maids of tender age,

That complained sorely, and with cries of rage,

That they were coupled, gainst all nature,

With crooked old age that cannot linger,

There, out of lust, to perform love’s play;

For it is far from right that fresh, young May

Should be joined to December, cold and strict,

For, being so diverse, they must conflict,

Since age is grouchy, tetchy, and officious,

Always full of anger, and suspicious,

While youth is inclined to mirth and gladness,

And so averse to enmity and sadness.

Alas, that ever the dice should so fall,

That sugar, sweet, is sadly joined with gall.

Women’s Lack of Freedom

These young married girls, they often cried,

Praying that mighty Venus take their side,

And for this mischief work a remedy;

And anon I heard others cry loudly,

With piteous sobbing, and sounds of woe,

Lamenting to the goddess, that they also

Through ill-counsel had, in tender youth,

Even in childhood (as is oft the truth),

Been delivered over to religion,

Ere they attained the age of discretion,

So that of their life they must complain

Obliged, in fine robes, perfection to feign,

And covertly to nurse their pain, and show,

Outwardly, the opposite to heart’s woe.

Thus saw I weeping many a fair maid,

That on her friends all the guilt thus laid.

And others, next, I saw devoured by rage

That had been married at a tender age,

Without the least freedom of election,

Where love must forego its dominion;

For love, when at large, and at liberty,

Chooses freely, and denies entreaty.

Others I saw there who their hands did wring,

At finding men so fickle in everything,

Loving while their beauty was in flower,

Yet scowling with disdain, at later hour,

At she whom they had called their lady dear,

That had been to them of such pleasant cheer;

For lust by beauty is so overcome,

That in their hearts, of truth there is none.

And, midst a rain of tears, I saw another,

Complaining aloud to God and Nature,

As to why they had granted any creature,

Such great beauty, far beyond measure,

And, by so doing, had given occasion

For a man to love, to his confusion,

Namely, there where he could receive no grace,

Who, with a passing look as he did pace,

Had fallen, through the glance of an eye,

And wounded sorely, now was like to die,

That perchance would nevermore her see;

Why should God work so great a cruelty,

On any man, on one who is his creature,

And make him such woe endure moreover,

For her perchance in whom he, in no wise,

Can rejoice, and thenceforth in torment lies,

For all his life until he finds the grave?

For though of her he would mercy crave,

He dares not, and if he dares, and would,

He knows not where to find her, ere he should.

I saw there also (which pained me indeed)

That some were hindered by their sloth or greed.

And some were hindered by their hastiness,

And others also by their recklessness.

He Sees a Lady Kneeling Before the Statue of Venus

But at the last, as I walked, was revealed,

Beside fair Pallas with her gleaming shield,

Full before Venus’ statue on its height,

A lady who knelt there, within my sight

Before the goddess, who, just as the sun

Surpassed the stars in the sky, each one,

And as Lucifer, easing night’s sorrow,

Surpasses in brightness the clear morrow,

And as May exercises sovereignty,

Over the other months by its beauty,

And as the rose in sweetness and odour,

Exceeds every flower, and of all liquor

Balm is most prized, and as the ruby bright,

Over all stones in beauty, with its light,

(As is well known) is granted royalty,

So, with her lovely eyes that fair lady,

In glances that sent out rays full bright,

Surpassed all other beauties in sight.

For, to tell the truth, her great seemliness,

Her womanhood, deportment, loveliness,

Were such it was a marvel how Nature

Could in her labours make such a creature,

Like to an angel, and so fair to see,

So feminine, of such surpassing beauty,

Whose hair brighter than gold did appear,

Like Phoebus’ rays, streaming from his sphere;

The excellence too of her shining face,

Was so replete with beauty and with grace,

By Nature, so well coloured and painted,

That rose and lily were there acquainted,

And that so equally, in right proportion,

That (as I mused), upon close inspection,

I began to marvel how God or Kind,

Could such a treasury of beauty find,

In granting her such passing excellence.

For, in truth, through her noble presence,

The Temple was illumined all about,

And to speak of her, then, beyond doubt,

She was the best that ever was alive,

For none against such attributes can strive,

Speaking that is of generosity,

Of womanhood, and humility,

Of courtesy, and of true excellence,

Of speech, of cheer, seemliness and sense,

Of gracious mien, of converse ever polite,

Being well taught; and therefore of delight

She was the wellspring, and of honesty,

The prime example, and mirror was she

Of discretion, truth, and faithfulness,

To other ladies, and teachers no less,

Who in virtue full learned would appear.

Thus, this lady benign, of humble cheer,

Kneeling, I saw, all clad in green and white,

Before Venus, goddess of all delight,

And all adorned with gems and jewellery,

So richly that it was a joy to see,

With fair texts embroidered on her garment,

So that they might expound her true intent,

And show, in full, that for humility,

And for virtue too, and firm constancy,

She was the root of womanly delight,

Thus, her emblem appeared, in plain sight,

Embroidered there, so that all folk might see,

De Mieulx en Mieulx, in gems and jewellery,

As much as to say, that she, all benign,

Her heart, ‘increasingly’, did resign,

And her whole will, to Venus, the goddess,

If she would hear her, and her ills redress.

The Lady’s Plea to the Goddess

I thought, by her face, as I glanced again,

That she had a great desire to complain,

For she held a written plea, in her hand,

Which declared the sum of her demand,

So that the goddess might her quarrel know;

To this effect (for, here, the words I show):

‘O, Lady Venus, Cupid’s mother, you

Who have all this world in governance,

While hearts that pride makes haughty, too,

Yield themselves meekly to your obeyance,

Cause of our joy, and freer from penance,

You who ever discern the heart’s desire,

By means of eternal love’s heavenly fire,

O blissful, piercing star, all full of light,

You whose joyful rays dispel the darkness,

Chief comforter, after the dark of night,

Relieving the woeful mind’s heaviness,

Take now, good heed, fair Lady, and Goddess,

So that my plea to your grace may attain,

And redress for that of which I complain.

For I am bound to that of which I tire,

Wishing to choose, but lacking liberty,

So, I fail to attain my heart’s desire,

The body tied although the heart be free,

So that I must, of pure necessity,

Outwardly contradict my heart, and be

Though I am one, divided inwardly.

My honour intact, I yet lack freedom.

Which is not God’s justice, or that of Kind.

Thus, to be kept, in utter subjection,

Far from what befits both sense and mind.

My thought can roam, my body lags behind.

For I am here, and yonder is my soul,

Between the two I am suspended whole.

Devoid of joy, sorrow I have in plenty.

What I desire, that I may not possess,

Yet what I wish not is ever with me,

And what I love I can pursue the less,

My lot is contrary to what would bless,

So, thus divided, I am split in twain;

In will and deed both, fettered by a chain.

For though I burn so with feverish heat,

Within my heart I yet complain of cold,

And swelter and sweat; my love is discreet,

God knows, my pleas are never overbold,

Nor, to any, do I one word unfold

Of all my pain – hotter than any did,

I burn, alas, in that my wound is hid.

For he that holds my heart, faithfully,

And all my love, and does so honestly,

And without change, albeit secretly,

I cannot be with, given I am unfree.

O Lady Venus, consider now, and see

How you might act, and my request fulfil,

Since life and death now wait upon your will.’

The Goddess Venus Replies

And then, as I thought, the goddess did bend

Meekly, her head, and softly did express,

That the lady’s torment would shortly end,

And how she would be eased of the distress

Her lover had brought her, her dolefulness,

Have joy of him, and from her purgatory

Be rescued soon, and thenceforth live in glory.

She said: ‘Daughter, since the constancy,

The faithful intent, and true innocence,

That have been present, free of lethargy,

In you, with never a sign of reluctance,

Have affected us so, at this audience,

Through our grace, you shall swiftly find relief,

I promise you, from all that brought you grief.

And in that you, ever of one intent,

Without change born of mutability,

Have despite your pain, been truly patient,

And have dealt humbly with adversity,

And have long suffered, through the cruelty

Of my old father Saturn, such misfortune,

Your misery will cease, and that full soon.

And think of this: within a little while,

It will diminish, and be quickly gone,

For mortals in time go many a mile,

And after a waning moon, comes the sun;

The weather clears, and when the storm is done,

He shines again from out his sphere bright,

As joy does wake when woe is put to flight.

Remember too that never, day or night,

Was judgement ever won without debate,

And also, folk rejoice more at the light

When overcome by darkness, nor does fate,

Permit one always to be fortunate,

Nor does anyone praise sugar’s sweetness,

If they have never tasted bitterness.

Griselda, she was tested every way,

From which, afterwards, came greater joy;

Penelope, she sorrowed, night and day,

Ere her lord came, who was so long at Troy;

Also, the torment no one could allay,

Of Dorigen, the flower of Brittany;

So ever joy is bought most painfully.

Trust me, and learn that, in conclusion,

The end of woe is joy devoid of dread;

For holy saints, through spiritual passion,

As their reward, to heaven have been led;

While plenty follows after dearth has fled.

Thus, my daughter, after all your sorrow,

I promise you shall find a fair tomorrow.

For ever Love’s custom, and his manner,

Is to wound his servants, as you have found,

And after he has exercised his power,

Within them, only then, does joy abound,

And since you have with my leash been bound,

Without complaint, till now, or rebellion,

By right, you should receive consolation.

Which is to say – all doubt now you must quell –

That you will soon enjoy full possession,

Of him whose love you cherish now so well,

In honest manner, without transgression,

Because I know that your own intention,

Is firmly set, for your part, and in all,

On loving him the best, whate’er befall.

For him that you have chosen thereby,

Will be, to you, such as you do desire,

Without alteration, till he shall die.

I have, with my torch, so set him afire,

And, of my grace, shall him so inspire,

That he in his heart shall obey your will

Whether you choose to spare him or to kill.

For unto you so shall his heart bow low,

Without the taint of any doubtfulness,

That he shall never escape the bow –

Though he leans towards unsteadfastness –

I mean that of Cupid, such that, in distress,

To you, will urge him the arrow of gold,

That he shall not escape, as I have told.

And since you wish, of your pity and grace,

To cherish the virtue that he has within,

Through the influence of my benign face,

He shall eschew every vice and sin,

So that no manner of yearning shall win

His heart to seek out anything that’s new,

For he shall prove honest to you, and true.

And why so tightly him to you I’ll bind,

Is that you chose full many to forsake,

Men wise and worthy, and of noble kind,

Flatly refused them, solely for his sake,

He shall to you, whether you sleep or wake,

Be even such, bound by his hope and dread,

As you would wish to win your maidenhead.’

Note: Griselda endured various tests set by her husband Walter; see Chaucer’s Clerk’s Tale, and the works of Boccaccio and Petrarch. For Dorigen see Chaucer’s Franklin’s Tale; she considered suicide to avoid infidelity.

The Lady’s Prayer

And when that goodly fair one, fresh of hue,

Humble, benign, of truth both root and flower,

Conceived that Venus pitied her anew,

Had heard her plea, and wielding her vast power,

Would change bitter to sweet, as was her due,

She fell on her knees, and with deep devotion,

In this wise, then began her orison:

‘Highest of the high, queen, and fair empress,

Goddess of Love, of all our good the best,

That through your beauty, not seductiveness,

Gained the apple from Paris, as I attest,

When Zeus had every goddess as a guest,

At the feast he gave, on heights celestial,

There, in his palace, all imperial;

To you, my Lady, upholder of my life,

Humbly, I thank you, if that shall suffice,

So, you may listen with attentive heart,

And so, dispose of me, and foil all vice,

That while I live, with humble sacrifice,

Upon your altars, at your feast each year,

I shall burn incense, and worship here.

For, by your grace, I am compensated

For all my trouble, and know joy and ease,

Since all the woe in me has abated,

And you, my lady, seek now to appease

Me fully for past pain, while heart’s disease

You seek to turn to gladness and relieve,

For, henceforth, there is no cause to grieve.

And since you will compel, all graciously,

To my service him that loves me best,

And grant me of your bounty, courteously,

That he will never change, as you attest,

Wherein my heart, fully, finds peace and rest,

For, now and ever, O lady mine, benign,

To you, my heart and will I wholly resign,

Thanking you, from the fullness of my heart,

That of grace, and through your visitation,

You, so courteously, wish him by your art,

To demonstrate his utter subjugation,

Without future change or transmutation,

Until his last, now praise and reverence

Be to your name, and to your excellence.

As for the matter of my chief request,

And the whole substance of my sole intent,

I thank you now and ever, for your bequest,

That you, of your grace, to me have sent,

The power to win him, who shall not repent

Of serving me, humbly, so as to please,

As your final treasure, my heart to ease.

Venus Offers the Lady a Final Gift

And then, in an instant, Venus threw down,

Into the maid’s lap, branches white and green,

Of hawthorn, that were then wound all round

And about her head, and a joy to be seen, 

And bade her keep them honestly, and clean;

The which would not fade, nor ever wax old,

If to her promises she were to hold:

‘As these same boughs’, said she, ‘be fair and sweet,

Pursue the path that they thus signify,

That is to say, be, both in cold and heat,

Of one heart and hope, and on that rely,

Like to these branches which shall never die,

Despite the fiercest storms, severe and keen,

Neither in winter, nor in summer’s green.

And by their example, in weal or woe,

In joy, or torment and adversity,

Whether fortune is kind, or is your foe,

In poverty, or in prosperity,

Raise ever your heart to the same degree

Of love for him, your best, whate’er you feign,

Whom I have humbled, bound now by your chain.’

And, with those words, the goddess shook her head,

And was at peace, and then she spoke no more.

And therewithal, filled with feminine dread,

I thought the maiden sighed again, full sore,

And said again, ‘Lady, it must restore

Hearts to joy, from adversity, alway,

To do your will de mieulx en mieulx malgré.’

Note: The French phrase means ‘increasingly, despite all.’

Part II

And now they never meet in grove or green

‘And now they never meet in grove or green’ (1910) - Arthur Rackham (English, 1867-1939), Artvee

The Poet Observes a Solitary Lover

Thus, ever sleeping and dreaming, as I lay

Within the Temple I saw a great array,

A mass of folk, wondrously murmuring,

Within the Temple, thrusting and shoving,

And everyone striving in their own right,

Such that I cannot here describe the sight,

Briefly, of all the rites there, and likewise

Their deeds, lacking the skill so to devise;

For some bore blood, or incense, or milk,

And some bore sweet flowers soft as silk,

Some bore sparrows, and doves fair and white,

As an offering that would bring delight

To the goddess who, by their prayers, inspired,

Might bring them all that they most desired.

Due to the crowding, briefly to conclude,

I went my way, quitting the multitude,

To refresh myself, out of the press, alone,

And be (as I thought on leaving), on my own.

Within the temple precincts tarrying,

I saw a man, all solitary, walking,

Who, as he paced alone, seemed in pain,

And from his look of dolour, to complain,

Escaping the others, beyond sound or sight,

Yet if I am to describe him aright,

Were it not for his woe and gloominess,

I thought him, to speak of his comeliness,

Of shape, and form, and also of stature,

One who surpassed all others that Nature

Had ever made in likeness of a man,

And therewithal, according to her plan,

Given his gracious face and form, likely,

To be beloved, happy, and wealthy.

And yet it seemed by his outward manner,

That he complained of lacking another,

For as he, by himself, walked up and down,

I heard him lament, with many a frown,

Saying: ‘Why is this now my destiny,

Who now am bound that was at liberty,

And went about according to my wish,

Yet now am caught, and subjected to this,

As one paying homage, true servant now

To the God of Love, while before, I vow,

Nothing I felt, at heart, of love’s deep pain?

But, for the first time, by his fiery chain

I am embraced, so that I can but strive

To love and serve, while I am yet alive,

The lovely maid in the Temple yonder,

Whom I saw but now, inspiring wonder

How God ever chose, considering all,

To make a creature so celestial

So angelic, on this earth, to appear;

For the rays from those eyes bright and clear,

Have wounded me, even unto the heart,

Such that I may not scape death, nor depart.

Most I marvel it was so suddenly

That I was rendered subject to her mercy,

And so required to die, or live on still.

Now, without hope, I must obey her will,

And, humbly, accept all, at a venture,

For, since my life, and death, and any cure,

Lies in her hands, twould in no way avail

To rail against it; for she must prevail;

The palm is hers, and hers the victory.

If I rebelled, neither honour nor glory

Could I myself in any way achieve.

Since I must yield, how can I believe

In fighting on – I know that cannot be –

I could not flee abroad, were I yet free.

O God of Love, how fierce your arrow’s flight;

How cruelly the bond that holds me tight

Shall see you wound and hurt me, causelessly,

Heedless of the depths of my misery.

Much like the thrush, that flies fearing naught

Till, suddenly, within the trap it’s caught,

Though, but lately, it was free as a lark;

So, a fresh tempest has gripped my barque,

That, up and down, by the wind now is blown,

Till well-nigh driven deep and overthrown.

Thrust on, in darkness, by many a wave,

Alas, when shall the tempest that I brave

Pass by, and clear the skies of adversity?

The Pole-star, that I can no longer see,

Is hidden by clouds that blacken the day.

Alas, when will this torment pass away?

None do know, for he who is harmed anew,

And bleeds, inwardly, till waxen in hue,

His sudden wound being fresh and green,

Is unacquainted with the hurt, so keen,

You deal, mighty Cupid, who hearts so daunts,

That, in your wars, no man himself may vaunt,

And win the prize so, except by meekness,

Struggle is of no avail there, nor robustness,

As, lacking the power to struggle, I have found,

Although I would, that by your chain am bound.

Thus, stand I ever between life and death,

To love and serve while ever I have breath,

In a place in which I may not complain,

But am like to one in torment and pain,

Who knows not to whom to divulge his state.

For I dare not, where I anticipate

My cure might lie, from fear and dread,

And inability to speak of how the fire,

From Love’s torch is kindled in my breast.

Thus am I slain, or am wounded at best,

Inwardly, secretly, in my own thought.

O Lady Venus, whose aid I have sought,

Guide me now as to what ‘tis best to do,

Who am so distraught, sorrowing anew,

I know not where to turn, being forlorn,

Save, here, in solitary grief, to mourn,

In the balance, thus, between Hope and Dread,

Without remedy, or comfort, for, instead,

While Hope bids me pursue my suit, I say,

Dread answers her again, and tells me ‘Nay’.

One moment I am set, by Hope, on high,

Yet harsh Dread and Resistance, nearby,

Soon quell my confidence, and bring me low.

Now I am at large, now am prisoned so,

Now in torment, now in sovereign glory,

Now in Paradise, now Purgatory,

Like one undecided, and in despair,

Born up by Hope, Resistance yet brings care, 

Deterred, I say within: ‘It cannot be,’

For whereas I, in my adversity,

Am sometimes charged with seeking mercy,

Then comes Despair, who swiftly teaches me

A new lesson, opposed to that of Hope;

So contrary are they, I can but mope.

And thus, I stand dismayed, and in a trance,

For when Hope would foster my advance,

I tremble out of dread, and cannot speak,

And if it be so, and my suit seems weak,

By failing to say what grieves me so sore,

Causing my harm to grow more and more,

And putting an end to all my delight,

She is no wiser, I being out of sight;

For unless my trouble she plainly knows,

How can she take pity on all my woes?

Thus, I am often urged by Hope to tell

Of all that grieves me, and then, as well,

Be bold enough the braver step to take

Of asking mercy – but then Dread will wake,

And prompting lack of hope, answers again,

It would be better, since she shows disdain,

To die at once, my death unknown to all,

And then, at that, Hope, on me does call,

To offer my prayer to her, and seek grace,

For since all virtues are portrayed in her face,

Twould not be fitting if mercy lagged behind.

Yet, within myself, straight away, I find

A new thought in my mind stirred by Dread,

Who quite bewilders me till Hope has fled,

Because he says – which chills my very blood

That I am but a fool, and she so good.

Thus, Hope and Dread advise me, without cease,

Contrariwise, such that my woes increase.

Yet, as a last attempt, ere I am dead,

Since there’s no remedy for all I’ve said,

And I am rendered mute as any stone,

I will to the Goddess hasten, alone.

And make my plaint, long as any sermon.

Though death may be the final conclusion

Of my plea, yet still I will strive for more.’

The Lover Makes his Plea to The Goddess Venus

And I thought, a moment later, that I saw

This woeful man (such is my memory)

Enter an oratory, most humbly,

And kneel there, in a respectful manner,

Before the Goddess, and thus address her,

Telling of his sad case, with doleful cheer,

In the following speech, as you shall hear:

‘O Reliever of Woe, Cytherea,

That with the rays of your pleasant light

Gladden the countryside about Cirrha,

Where lies your earthly palace’s fair site,

You, whose beams oft will plunge, all shining bright,

Into Mount Helicon’s Hippocrene spring,

Take pity on me for the tale I bring.

Show not disdain, in your benignity,

For my mortal woe, my Lady Goddess,

With grace, kindness, and generosity,

Help me, out of pity, to win redress,

And though I may lack the skill to express,

The grievous pain I feel within my heart

Nonetheless, show mercy, for your part.

That is to say, O bright heavenly light,

You who have circled the sun, in your sphere,

Since you harmed me, showing your dread might,

Through the influence of your rays, so clear,

And since my service now costs me so dear,

Given that you have caused my malady,

Be gracious now, find me a remedy.

For in you alone lies aid for my case,

And you best know my woe, and all my pain,

And how for dread of death I dare not face

The thought of seeking mercy, nor complain.

Now let your flame her heart so attain,

Without more ado, or I pine at best,

That she may know of all that I request:

How that in all this world I naught desire,

But to serve her wholly, as is her due,

That goodly maid, so womanly, and aspire,

While I have life and mind yet, so to do;

And that you will grant me such grace too,

That my true service she shall not disdain,

Since, from serving her, I would not refrain,

And, since Hope gives me the confidence,

To love her best, and never to repent

While I yet live, and with due diligence,

Though Resistance refuses all assent.

Herewith, Lady, you know my whole intent,

How I have vowed, with all my heart and mind,

To be her man, though I scant mercy find.

For in my heart imprinted is, and true,

Her shape, her form, and all her seemliness,

Her mien, her cheer, and then her goodness, too,

Her womanhood also, her gentleness,

Her truth, her faith, and ever her kindness,

With every virtue, each in its degree,

And naught lacking there, but only pity.

Of grave demeanour, will invariable,

Of benign aspect, root of all delight,

She’s an exemplar of all that’s stable,

Discrete, prudent, in wisdom, clear and bright,

Mirror of knowledge, ground of what is right,

A world of beauty compassed in her face,

Whose piercing glance makes my poor heart to race,

She’s modest, moreover, and wondrous true,

A well of freedom, and most generous,

Ever waxing in virtue, fresh and new,

Eloquent of speech, and wondrous gracious.

Devoid of pride, she’s never contemptuous

Of poverty; naught of this do I feign;

Though she lacks mercy, I may not complain.

What wonder then if I am full of dread,

Too dazzled inwardly to ask for grace,

From one who is the queen of woman-head?

For I know well, from so noble a place

Such will not descend, thus softly I pace,

And humbly accept the woe I endure,

Till, out of pity, she grants me the cure.

And yet one vow, before you, here I make:

Whether she lets me live, or sees me die,

I’ll not complain, but accept all for her sake,

And give thanks to God, and obey, say I,

For, by my troth, my heart shall not deny,

Whether I’m granted mercy or expire,

My will and thought are slaves to her desire.

To be as true as was Mark Antony,

Unto his last breath, to Cleopatra,

Or as young Pyramus was to Thisbe,

Faithful, till death parted them forever,

I aspire, till Atropos shall sever

The thread; in well or woe, loyal found,

Unto my last, like as my heart is bound.

To love as deeply as did Achilles

Unto his last, the fair Polyxena,

Or as the famed and mighty Hercules

Did she who proved his doom, Deianira,

I aspire, and mean all that I utter;

While I live, to respect her and to serve,

Though she still holds her pity in reserve.

Now, Lady Venus, who all things do know

In this world, and from whom naught’s concealed,

For there is nothing, neither high nor low,

That remains, to your wisdom, unrevealed;

You, for whom my meaning I’ve unsealed,

And who know, fully, my intent is true,

And my troth likewise, pity me anew.

For grace I ask, and without presuming,

Seeking mercy, though naught is owed me,

And most humbly, fearful of offending,

Hoping you will, through magnanimity,

Hear my plea, offered with humility,

And grant one, who upon yourself does call,

Release from my woes, someday, one and all.

Since the reward or punishment decreed

For each lover you hold in your own hand,

Show both your grace and pity, and take heed

Of my distress, one bound, by your command,

To obey meekly, as you well understand.

Now where, wounded, I was rendered unsound,

Through your pity, now let my cure be found.

Such that, given she hurt me at first sight,

She might sustain me, now, with aid I mean;

And since the rays from her two eyen bright,

Pierced my poor heart, the pain there sharp and keen,

The wounds within, as yet, still fresh and green,

So, as she hurt, let her grant me succour,

Or, tis certain, I’ll not live much longer.

Lacking eloquence, I can say no more;

Matter I have, and yet cannot explain.

My mind’s too dull my woes to explore.

A tongue I have, and yet for all my pain,

For want of words, I but strive in vain

To tell a half of what grieves my heart,

Awaiting a show of mercy on her part.

But the gist of the matter, I’ll recall:

Through death or mercy, relief to find.

For, heart, body, thought, life, desire, and all,

With all my reason, all my entire mind,

And my five senses, all in one, I bind

To her service, all without inner strife,

Making her princess o’er my death and life.

Of you, I ask your kindness and pity,

O goodly planet, O Lady Venus bright,

And that your son, who is a deity –

Cupid, I mean – through his fearful might,

With his hot brand, so piercing in its light,

May set her heart afire, and leave his mark,

As you before once burned me with your spark,

So that equally, with the self-same fire,

She may be heated, as I burn and melt,

Such that her heart is inflamed with desire,

And she, in fever, learns how I have felt.

For comprehending the wound I was dealt,

Feeling the heat that does my heart embrace,

I hope, in pity, she might show me grace.’

The Goddess Responds to His Plea

And therewithal, the Goddess (as I thought)

Cast her eye towards the man, benignly,

As though, revealing her concern, she sought 

To know of his affliction; and said, gently:

‘Since, without a murmur, you most humbly

Obey our least command, and will so do,

Then provision I shall make for aiding you.

And, also, my son Cupid, who is blind,

He shall help me, that we might thus fulfil

Your whole request, and so leave naught behind

Undone, and remedy all that seems ill,

In answer to your plaint, and so we will;

And she for whom you pine most, at heart,

Shall, of her mercy, make all pain depart.

When she receives you, thus, without question,

Be not too hasty, faithful heart reveal,

For in serving her, through humble action,

Lies redress for all that you now feel;

And she will be as true as any steel,

To you alone, through our power and grace,

If you but abide meekly, a little space.

But understand that all her cherishing

Will yet be grounded upon honesty,

And no other will, through evil scheming,

Judge that she’s amiss in any degree,

For no pity, sympathy, or mercy,

Will she show, nor your petitions heed,

More than belongs to the womanly creed.

Be not astonished by her wilfulness,

Nor feel despair due to her hesitation,

Let reason bridle lust with humbleness,

Without complaint or signs of rebellion,

For joy shall follow frustrated passion,

Since all who suffer torment and endure,

Shall not fail to be gifted with the cure.

For above all she shall love you the best,

And I shall here, without harmful action,

By my influence, inspire in her breast,

With honest, and generous intention,

An inclination born of pure affection,

Leading her heart to take pity on you,

Because I know you purpose to be true.

Go to her now, and stand you by her side,

With humble mien, and seek to win her grace,

And let Hope lead you there, and be your guide.

Though Dread may match your step, pace for pace,

All will be well; but look that you displace

From out your heart hopelessness and despair,

Ere ever her presence you seek to share.

And Mercy a smooth way for you shall make:

Send Honest Meaning first, with a message,

So that Mercy, in her heart, is full awake;

And Secrecy, to further your passage

With Humble Mien, also, who is so sage,

As go-betweens – and I myself, for one,

Will bring good fortune, ere your tale be done.

Go forth at once, and be of goodly cheer,

For one’s suit saying naught will never speed,

Grant me your trust, and banish every fear,

Since I will aid you in your hour of need,

For out of sheer goodness, she’ll give heed,

Granting you an audience, without fail

And list to you, until you’ve told your tale.

For well you know, and I need not explain,

Silence prompts not mercy, so be brave,

For who that would, of his concealed pain,

Be fully cured, and seeks his life to save,

He must reveal his wound, however grave,

And present its current state to his leech,

Or risk dying, simply through lack of speech.

He who is negligent, when sorrows start,

In seeking aid, I hold him but a wretch;

For she will not bring peace to his heart

If to the heart his pleading fails to stretch.

Will you not, to be cured, a true salve fetch?

If not, all must fail, for none may attain

The height of bliss who choose to live in pain.

Therefore, go at once, and in humble guise,

Before this lady, and meekly kneel down,

And, in true words, a fair speech so devise,

That she will show compassion, and not frown.

For she whom you claim is of high renown,

Virtue’s sovereign queen, as you maintain,

Will, with womanly grace, pity your pain.’

The Poet’s Invocation

When the goddess’ speech was ended wholly,

Twas then I began to look about me,

All astonished, I stood there in a trance,

Observing the manner and the countenance,

And all the look of this sorrowful man,

Who was, in colour, deadly pale and wan,

Overwhelmed by dread within his thought,

Presenting a face, as if he cared naught

For life or death, nor what his fate might be,

So great his fear and his uncertainty,

Afraid to issue forth, and speak of his pain,

To his lady, or of his woes complain,

The sorrow, and torment, of this disease,

This fatal lovesickness, that did him seize –

My sympathy for him, and his sad plight,

Leading my pen to quiver as I write.

For him I felt so deep a compassion,

On seeking to repeat his lamentation,

That though, within myself, I duly strive,

At a true portrait I can scarce arrive.

Alas, on whom, for aid now, shall I call?

Not to the nine Muses, since they are all

Rightfully helpers in joy, not in woe,

And in matters that delight them also,

Wherefore they will hardly direct my pen,

Nor inspire me – ‘alas’, I say, again.

I can ask no other than Tisiphone,

And her two sisters, if they will aid me,

Being goddesses of torment and pain.

Now, into my ink, let their dark tears rain 

That will, with sad letters, my paper blot,

Not to paint its content, but, spot by spot,

Show the words of that apprehensive man,

When, of his complaint, he at once began,

To tell his lady, and thereby to declare

His hidden sorrows, and the weight of care,

That, within his heart, constrained him sore,

The burden of which was this, no less, no more:

Note: Tisiphone and her sisters were the three Furies of Greek myth, whom Chaucer also invokes in ‘Troilus and Criseyde’ (1.6-7, and 4.22-24).

The Lover’s Address to His Lady

‘Princess of youth, and flower of gentleness,

Exemplar of virtue, ground of courtesy,

Fount of beauty, queen, and fair mistress,

Showing all women how they all should be,

Ever the faithful mirror, in which to see

The true mien and manner of womanhood,

Heed what I say of mercy, for you should.

I beseech you, first, of your high nobility,

With quaking heart, and filled with inner fear,

Not of right, but through your grace and pity,

Show me true sympathy, and aid me here.

That is to say, O well of goodly cheer,

That I care not, though you may work my death,

If you but hearken, now, to my every breath.

The fatal stroke, the immense force and might,

Of Cupid, the god no man may oppose,

Has so pierced my heart, deeply, and outright,

That I could not hide, even if I chose,

My inward wound, and nor can I disclose,

My state to a greater power; the god so fast

To serve you has bound me, thus, first to last,

So that heart and all, without strife, must yield,

At risk of death, to your service alone,

As the goddess Venus wishes, and revealed,

When, before her, I humbly made my moan.

She marked me as, most loyally, your own,

To serve you, and never false love to feign,

Whether you choose to grant me ease or pain.

So that naught but mercy is now my cry,

To you my lady, nor shall I seek the new,

If you will graciously, before I die,

Pity my suffering, with feelings true;

For, by my troth, if you, indeed, but knew

The cause entire of my adversity,

Surely, to my distress, you’d show mercy.

For, true to you, and ever in secrecy,

I shall be found to serve, as best I can,

And faithful, withal, to the last degree,    

You alone, as humbly as yet did man

Serve his lady, since the world began,

And shall do so ever, without sloth,

While I live, God be witness to my troth.

For I would rather die here, suddenly,

Than offend my lady, in any wise,

Or suffer this inward pain, privately,

Than that my service you should still despise.

For I would never ask for aught, likewise,

If myself, as your servant, you would accept,

And, if I trespassed, rightly, my path correct,

And grant me, of your mercy, this prayer,

Purely out of grace, and womanly pity:

That I might learn each day, in your care,

How to please, and also that you teach me,

When I go amiss, by acting wrongly,

How I may, by serving you, make amends,

From thenceforth, avoiding all that offends.

For, as regards myself, it would suffice

That as your man you would myself receive,

To act wholly as you would so devise,

And as I could, with my full wits, achieve;

And inasmuch as you then shall perceive

That I am true, reward me with your grace,

Or else punish my trespasses apace.

And if so be that I may not obtain

Your mercy, yet grant this, at my behest:

That in your service, for my woe and pain,

I may die, and thus, in the end, find rest.

Such is the sum of all I, here, request:

Either, in mercy, you your servant save,

Or, lacking mercy, that I seek my grave.’

The Lady’s Reply to His Plea

And when the benign maid, her intent true,

Had heard all the complaint of this man,

Like to a crimson rose, all fresh of hue,

Her colour deepened, as the blood began

To rise from her heart, and then swiftly ran

To mark her cheeks, showing her modesty;

Abashed by honest dread, such was she.

And she began, humbly, to cast her eyes

Towards him, showing her benignity,

Uttering not a word, in her surprise,

Either of dread, or pity, or mercy.

For she was so guided by honesty

Not a thing escaped those lips, on her part,

Given that reason so possessed her heart.

Till, at last, she melted with compassion,

For she his truth, and pure intent, did feel,

And then to him she spoke, in this fashion:

‘For your request, for your well-meant appeal,

And wish for loyal service, you reveal,

All of which you offer to me, humbly,

With all my heart, I thank you profusely.

And inasmuch as your intent, moreover,

Is wholly virtuous, and curbed by dread,

You ought by right, surely, to fare better,

In your plea, like an arrow swiftly sped;

But as for me, I may, a true woman bred,

Grant you no more, of my own sole intent,

Than that to which my Lady gives assent.

For Venus well knows, that I am not free

To do a single thing, but at her command,

And am charged by her, and bound to be

Obedient, whate’er she may demand,

But for my part, and if it be not banned

By the goddess, the true love you promise,

Leads me to appoint you to my service.

For she holds my heart subject to her law,

This heart which is yours, nor shall I repent

In thought or deed of my choice, evermore;

Venus be witness, who knows tis my intent

To accept her decisions and whole judgement,

Precisely as she wishes, and will ordain,

Knowing, as she does, the truth of we twain.

For, until the time when Venus may choose

To shape a path that leads to our hearts’ ease,

You and I must humbly await fair news,

Bear all graciously, and as for our disease

Of love, complain not, till she does appease

Our hidden woe that does, within, constrain

Our hearts, from day to day, bringing pain.

For, in abiding every woe and fear,

Those who suffer will find a remedy;

And often for the best is such delay,

Before they’re healed of their malady.

Therefore, since Venus guides us wholly,

Let us agree to take all for the best,

Till she decides to set our hearts at rest.

For she it is that binds, and can constrain

Two hearts to act as one, her planet meet

To free lovers, happily, from their pain,

And she can turn all that is bitter sweet.

Now blissful goddess, from your starry seat

Cast your bright rays on us, and bless us here,

Knowing we’ll prove as true as we appear.’

Venus Addresses the Two Lovers

And therewithal, as my eyes their gaze cast

On both, to view the aspect of those twain,

As humbly before the goddess they passed,

I thought I saw that, with a golden chain,

Venus at once embraced and did constrain

Their two hearts to be as one, forever,

While they both should live, ne’er to dissever,

Saying to them, benignly, as they drew near:

‘Since it is so, and you bow to my might,

My command is that you my daughter dear,

Bestow on this man fully, as is right,

Your loving grace, at once, here, in my sight,

He who ever has humbly sought to serve;

For your gratitude he rightly does deserve.

Your honour safe, likewise your womanhood,

To cherish him befits you, in woe and weal;

Bound by hope and dread, be it understood,

Within the links of my chain, true as steel,

He’s one to whom your grace you must reveal,

That to your service ever himself applies,

And you must do so in haste, as I’ll devise.

Which is to say, that you should now take heed

Of this: that he’s the most faithful and true

Of all your servants, yet, despite his need,

Requests naught but compassion from you,

For he has sworn to take up with none new,

Whether for life or death, for joy or pain,

But to be ever yours, right as you ordain.

Thus, you must, for otherwise ‘twere wrong,

Show grace to him and, fully, him receive,

And in my presence, since he has, for long,

Been yours wholly, which you may well believe,

Such that if you deny him, without leave,

I myself would call it mere cruelty,

And mark you down as one lacking pity.

So, for his truth, let him find truth again;

For long service, bestow upon him grace,

And let your pity counteract his pain,

For, now, is the moment you should displace

Resistance from your heart, mercy embrace,

And give love for love, which is only meet,

And such is the task I ask you to complete.

And I’ll be guarantor, as is but right,

Of his humbleness, and his attendance,

And that he shall, morning, noon and night,

Fulfil his duty with due diligence,

Ever waiting upon you, now and hence,

Wherefore, my son, listen and take heed,

To obey fully, serving her every need.

And, first of all, I ask that you should be

Faithful of heart, and constant as a wall,

True, humble, and meek, acting discretely,

Without ever changing, in part or all.

And if any torment upon you shall fall,

Trouble not, but ever in steadfastness

Root your heart; be true in your distress.

And, furthermore, hold in due reverence

All womankind, for your fair lady’s sake,

And suffer no man to cause them offence.

For love of her, evermore undertake

To defend them whether they sleep or wake;

And ever step forth to be their champion

Against their enemies, for the sake of one.

Be courteous ever, and humble in speech,

To rich and poor alike; neat but not vain;

Busy ever in searching out ways to teach

True lovers to find easement from their pain,

Since you are one, eschewing all disdain.

Love has the power any heart to daunt,

Boast not, if you’re not rendered lean and gaunt.

Be lusty too, and not a prey to sadness,

Nor too reserved, but ever harbour joy,

Nor too pensive, but free of heaviness,

And ever gladness, against woe, employ.

When sorrow comes, let mirth ease all annoy,

As maturity demands, and bear the smart,

Nor let the many know what ails your heart.

And then, all virtues busily pursue,

And vice eschew, for your sole love alway,

And let not slander your own heart undo:

Words are but wind, and swiftly pass away.

Whate’er you hear, like stone, have naught to say;

In being too swiftly roused take no delight,

Here she stands who, for all, shall you requite.

And whether in her presence, or her absence,

Let no other beauty your faith undermine,

Since, of beauty, I’ve granted her excellence,

Above all others, in virtue, thus to shine.

And think how fire serves gold to refine,

Which, once purified, is tested by assay,

As, to be proved, you are tested by delay.

A time will come when, for this misery,

You shall be well repaid and gain, instead,

Life’s joy and, of love, a sufficiency,

So long as hope has ever your bridle led.

Let not despair, then, hinder you with dread,

But ever place your trust in her mercy,

Since none but she can heal you, wholly.

Each moment of time, hour, day, week, and year,

Be constant, faithful, stray not from her sight,

Abide, endure, for now the time draws near

In which your true desire shall most delight.

And let your heart, of woe, feel not the bite,

Through joy deferred, for all shall be made good,

Your own, in peace, the flower of womanhood.

Think how she is this world’s true sun, its light,

The star of beauty, and the flower of sweetness,

Both root and bloom, and ever the ruby bright,

That gladdens hearts troubled by the darkness,

And how I have made her your heart’s empress.

Be glad that you are bound by her command.

Come nearer daughter, take him by the hand,

So that, despite the hardship he endures,

After his torment he may be glad and light,

When, of your grace, you take him to be yours,

Now and forevermore, here in my sight,

And this I wish, also: since it is right

That, without more ado, his sorrows ease,

Kiss him, in my presence; let them cease.

So that here, of all your hurt, you may be

Healed, and freed to the joy that I assure,

And that one lock, to which I hold the key

Shall close both hearts, its gold being pure,

To signify that here you reached the shore,

And fulfilled your wish in this holy place,

Within my temple now, in this year of grace.

Be bound, eternally, by this assurance

The knot is tied that may not be unbound,

And that all the gods of this alliance,

Saturn, and Jove, and Mars, gathered round,

And Cupid too, who rendered you unsound,

Shall bear witness, and shall due vengeance take

On whichever of you your troth, first, does break.

Such that by virtue of their fierce rays,

Vengeance shall fall on you, without mercy;

I from my sacred book will clean erase,

Whichever one has been found to vary.

Therefore, at once, unite yourselves, fully,

While you have life and mind, so as to be

Of one accord till, death parts he and she.

So that, if a liking for newfangleness

Should, in any manner, your hearts assail

And move or stir an errant faithlessness

To fight against true love, lest it prevail,

Let not your courage nor resistance fail,

Nor such assault see you flee, or remove;

For if untested none the truth can prove.

For white is whiter, when set beside black,

And sweet seems sweeter after bitterness,

And falsehood is ever foiled in its attack,

Where true love is rooted in faithfulness.

Without such trials, folk meet with scant success

In proving love or hatred; love will grow,

Between you two, if it is bought with woe.

And everything is valued more highly,

And seems a greater prize when dearly bought;

And love itself is grounded more securely,

When it is gained with pain, woe, and thought,

After a length of time wherein tis sought;

And every conquest gains in excellence

Where its pursuit is countered by resistance.

And, thus, to you sweeter and more pleasing

Shall love be found – I do you so assure,

In that you’ve proved capable of suffering,

And humbly, meekly, patiently, can endure,

Such that I shall at once now work my cure,

And your two hearts forever shall so bind

That naught but death that true knot shall unwind.

Now, why further upon this matter dwell?

Approach at once, and do as I have said.

And first, my daughter, source of virtue’s well,

Be glad in thought and heart, and, free of dread,

Grant him grace who ever, as he has pled,

Serves your wishes, and I shall undertake

That he’ll be true, and ne’er shall you forsake’

She Then Unites the Pair

Forthwith, amidst the host, where they did stand

Before the goddess, the lady, fair and good,

Took her most humble servant by the hand,

Who knelt before her meekly, where she stood,

And then she kissed him, as a lover should,

To seal their compact, in the way advised,

As, you have heard, fair Venus had devised.

Thus was this man to joy, by her action,

Out of sorrow brought, and to every good,

And, freed from his pain, found satisfaction,

In her, who meant well, and forever would,

And though, in good faith, I surely should

Tell of the rapture their hearts did embrace,

Here, by my life, I have too little space.

For he has gained the one whom he loves best,

And she has granted him grace, of pity,

And thus, their hearts are both set at rest,

Without the risk of mutability,

For Venus has, of her benignity,

Confirmed these two (why should I brook delay?)

As one, and from the other ne’er to stray.

The joy in the temple, and all about,

At this accord, wrought with solemnity,

Led praise and honour, within and without,

To be shown to Venus, and the deity,

Her son, Cupid the god; while Calliope,

And all her sisters, in sweet harmony,

Glorified the goddess, with their melody.

And, as one, with notes both loud and sharp,

They showed her true honour and reverence,

And in their midst, Orpheus, with his harp,

Began to touch the strings with diligence

And Amphion, displayed his excellence

In music, and revealed such skilfulness

As served to please and gratify the goddess,

Solely because of the affinity,

Between those two, that none might dissever.

And every lover, of high or low degree,

Prayed to Venus that, henceforth and ever,

The love between them might fail never,

Enduring, endlessly, midst every plight,

And being thus hard won, shine yet more bright.

Note: In Greek myth, Calliope was the Muse of eloquence and epic poetry, and foremost of the Nine Muses; Orpheus was the Thracian poet-musician, and Calliope’s son, whose musical skill drew the wild creatures, trees and stones to him, who attempted to win back his wife Eurydice from the Underworld, and who was torn to pieces by the Maenads, the followers of Dionysus; Amphion, a scion of Zeus, built the walls of Thebes, their stones being transported magically to the sound of his lyre.

Venus Seals the Compact

And the Goddess, on hearing that request,

Being privy to the pair’s clear intention

Saw them united, at her own behest,

And spoke as follows, in confirmation,

So that while they lived, of one affection

They would, in perpetuity, remain,

And neither would have cause to complain:

‘Insofar as, in our divine realm, this hour,

The gods have, together, in our presence,

Fully devised, through the supreme power

Invested in their stellar influence,

That through such might, and just providence,

Their love, in terms of grace, and fortune too,

Shall, ever one, changelessly, renew.’

At which declaration, the temple round,

Due to the satisfaction of those present,

Soon resonated with melodious sound,

On behalf of those lovers, of true intent;

Twas a new ballad, goodly in extent.

Before the goddess, in notes loud and clear,

Rose the singing, thus, as you now shall hear:

‘Fairest of stars, that with your piercing light,

And the benign power of your rays, so clear,

Causes true hearts in love to feel but light,

Due to the shining, here, of your glad sphere,

Now praise and glory, O Venus, Lady dear,

To your divine name, you who, without sin,

Have helped this man his lady for to win.

Propitious planet, O Hesperus, so bright,

That can, sorrowful hearts, comfort and steer,

Ever prepared, through your grace and might,

To aid all those that purchase love so dear,

And empowered to set hearts on fire, here,

Honour to you, from all who are herein,

That allowed this man his lady, thus, to win.

O mighty goddess, daystar after night,

Gladding the morrow when you so appear,

Voiding the darkness, ever the freshest sight,

Merely by gleaming there, with pleasant cheer:

You we thank, all we lovers that are here,

That this man – to whom treachery is sin –

You have aided, his lady for to win.’

The Poet Wakes from His Dream

And at those sounds, that heavenly melody,

Which they wrought, together, in harmony,

Throughout the Temple, for this man’s sake,

Out of my sleep, I, presently, did wake,

Wholly astonished, and with mazed head.

At that sudden change, all oppressed by dread,

I thought I had woken as from a trance.

For flown, clean away, was all remembrance

Of my dream, such that pain and sorrow too

I felt at heart, and knew not what to do.

Great was my woe that I had lost the sight

Of she whom, all throughout that long night,

I had dreamed of in my inner vision.

Whereat I made a mighty lamentation,

For I had never in my life, night or morn,

Seen one so fair, from the day I was born;

For love of whom, if I labour aright,

I intend to compose here, and to write,

A little treatise, and a discourse make,

In praise of women, wholly for her sake,

To commend them, as is only right,

For their goodness, employing all my might:

Praying to her that is so bounteous,

So full of virtue, and ever gracious,

Out of her female wisdom, and pity,

To accept this humble treatise, kindly,

Till I have found the leisure to expound,

My vision fully, to one so renowned,

And tell plainly all its significance,

As it presents itself to my remembrance,

In a work at which my lady may look.

Now, go your way, my humble little book,

And seek her presence, as I command.

Recommend me, firstly, when you stand

Before her, to her and her excellence,

And pray that it be to her no offence,

If any word you speak is mis-applied,

Beseeching her not to be dissatisfied;

For, as she desires, I will correct you,

When to me, once more, she does direct you,

In regard to her benign and lovely face.

Now go your way, and seek to win her grace.

The End of John Lydgate’s ‘The Temple of Glass’