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To Rosemounde
Read by Alan Baragona
as edited by Larry Benson
in The Riverside Chaucer, Third Edition
Houghton Mifflin
(text reproduced below with permission)
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Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne As fer as cercled is the mapamounde, For as the cristal glorious ye shyne, And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde. Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde That at a revel whan that I see you daunce, It is an oynement unto my wounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde; Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde. So curtaysly I go with love bounde That to myself I sey in my penaunce, "Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce." Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne As I in love am walwed and ywounde, For which ful ofte I of myself devyne That I am trewe Tristam the secounde. My love may not refreyde nor affounde, I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce. Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. |
