I hate a lord with arms to war unknown, I hate a priest or monk with beard o'ergrown;A doting husband, or a tradesman's son, Who apes a noble, and would pass for one.
I hate much water and too little wine, A prosperous villain and a false divine;A niggard lout who sets the dice aside;
A flirting girl all frippery and pride;
A cloth too narrow, and a board too wide;Him who exalts his handmaid to his wife, And her who makes her groom her lord for life;The man who kills his horse with wanton speed, And him who fails his friend in time of need.--Tr.by Costello.
PIERRE VIDAL.End Twelfth Century.
Of all sweet birds, I love the most The lark and nightingale:
For they the first of all awake, The opening spring with songs to hail.
And I, like them, when silently Each Troubadour sleeps on, Will wake me up, and sing of love And thee, Vierna, fairest one!
.
The rose on thee its bloom bestowed, The lily gave its white, And nature, when it planned thy form A model framed of fair and bright.
For nothing, sure, that could be given, To thee hath been denied;That there each thought of love and joy In bright perfection might reside.--Tr.by Taylor.
GUIRAUT DE BORNEILH.End Thirteenth Century.
Companion dear! or sleeping or awaking, Sleep not again! for, lo! the morn is nigh, And in the east that early star is breaking, The day's forerunner, known unto mine eye.
The morn, the morn is near.
Companion dear! with carols sweet I'll call thee;Sleep not again! I hear the birds' blithe song Loud in the woodlands; evil may befall thee, And jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long, Now that the morn is near.
Companion dear! forth from the window looking, Attentive mark the signs of yonder heaven;Judge if aright I read what they betoken:
Thine all the loss, if vain the warning given.
The morn, the morn is near.
Companion dear! since thou from hence wert straying, Nor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited;My prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying, That thou in peace thy backward way might tread.
The morn, the morn, is near.
Companion dear! hence to the fields with me!
Me thou forbad'st to slumber through the night, And I have watched that livelong night for thee;But thou in song or me hast no delight, And now the morn is near.
ANSWER.
Companion dear! so happily sojourning, So blest am I, I care not forth to speed:
Here brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorning Her dwelling-place,--then wherefore should I heed The morn or jealous eyes?--Tr.by Taylor.
FABLES AND TALES.
FABLES.
A large and popular class of writing of the French Middle Ages was that of FABLIAUX or Fables.A Fable is "a recital, for the most part comic, of a real or possible event occurring in the ordinary affairs of human life." We possess some two hundred of these fables, varying in length from twenty to five hundred lines.They are generally mocking, jocular, freespoken, half satirical stories of familiar people, and incidents in ordinary life.The follies of the clergy are especially exposed, though the peasants, knights, and even kings furnish frequent subjects.
They are commonly very free and often licentious in language.The following is an example of the simpler kind of Fables.
Quoted by Saintsbury from M.de Montaiglon, editor of the latest collection of Fabliaux (Parts l872-'88).
THE PRIEST WHO ATE MULBERRIES.
Ye lordlings all, come lend an ear;
It boots ye naught to chafe or fleer, As overgrown with pride:
Ye needs must hear Dan Guerin tell What once a certain priest befell, To market bent to ride.
The morn began to shine so bright, When up this priest did leap full light And called his folk around:
He bade them straight bring out his mare, For he would presently repair Unto the market-ground.
So bent he was on timely speed, So pressing seemed his worldly need, He weened 't were little wrong If pater-nosters he delayed, And cast for once they should be said E'en as he rode along.
And now with tower and turret near Behold the city's walls appear, When, as he turned aside, He chanced in evil hour to see All hard at hand a mulberry-tree That spread both far and wide.
Its berries shone so glossy black, The priest his lips began to smack, Full fain to pluck the fruit;But, woe the while! the trunk was tall, And many a brier and thorn did crawl Around that mulberry's root.
The man, howbe, might not forbear, But reckless all he pricked his mare In thickest of the brake;Then climbed his saddle-bow amain, And tiptoe 'gan to stretch and strain Some nether bough to take.
A nether bough he raught at last;
He with his right hand held it fast, And with his left him fed:
His sturdy mare abode the shock, And bore, as steadfast as a rock, The struggling overhead.
So feasted long the merry priest, Nor much bethought him of his beast Till hunger's rage was ended:
Then, "Sooth!" quoth he, "whoe'er should cry, 'What ho, fair sir!' in passing by, Would leave me here suspended."Alack! for dread of being hanged, With voice so piercing shrill he twanged The word of luckless sound, His beast sprang forward at the cry, And plumb the priest dropped down from high Into the brake profound.
There, pricked and pierced with many a thorn, And girt with brier, and all forlorn, Naught boots him to complain:
Well may ye ween how ill bested He rolled him on that restless bed, But rolled and roared in vain:
For there algates he must abide The glowing noon, the eventide, The livelong night and all;The whiles with saddle swinging round, And bridle trailing on the ground, His mare bespoke his fall.
O, then his household shrieked for dread, And weened at least he must be dead;His lady leman swooned:
Eftsoons they hie them all to look If haply in some dell or nook His body might be found.
Through all the day they sped their quest;The night fled on, they took no rest;
Returns the morning hour:
When, lo! at peeping of the dawn.
It chanced a varlet boy was drawn Nigh to the mulberry-bower.
The woful priest the help descried:
"O, save my life! my life!" he cried, "Enthralled in den profound!
