Playful Poems

by Unknown

But misinterpret not my speech, I pray;
All this of men, not women, do I say;
For men it is, that come and spoil the lives
Of such, as but for them, would make good wives.
They leave their own wives, be they never so fair,
Never so true, never so debonair,
And take the lowest they may find, for change.
Flesh, the fiend take it, is so given to range,
It never will continue, long together,
Contented with good, steady, virtuous weather.

This Phœbus, while on nothing ill thought he,
Jilted he was, for all his jollity;
For under him, his wife, at her heart’s-root,
Another had, a man of small repute,
Not worth a blink of Phœbus; more’s the pity;
Too oft it falleth so, in court and city.
This wife, when Phœbus was from home one day,
Sent for her lemman then, without delay.
Her lemman!—a plain word, I needs must own;
Forgive it me; for Plato hath laid down,
The word must suit according with the deed;
Word is work’s cousin-german, ye may read:
I’m a plain man, and what I say is this:
Wife high, wife low, if bad, both do amiss:
But because one man’s wench sitteth above,
She shall be called his Lady and his Love;
And because t’other’s sitteth low and poor,
She shall be called,—Well, well, I say no more;
Only God knoweth, man, mine own dear brother,
One wife is laid as low, just, as the other.

Right so betwixt a lawless, mighty chief
And a rude outlaw, or an arrant thief,
Knight arrant or thief arrant, all is one;
Difference, as Alexander learnt, there’s none;
But for the chief is of the greater might,
By force of numbers, to slay all outright,
And burn, and waste, and make as flat as floor,
Lo, therefore is he clept a conqueror;
And for the other hath his numbers less,
And cannot work such mischief and distress,
Nor be by half so wicked as the chief,
Men clepen him an outlaw and a thief.

However, I am no text-spinning man;
So to my tale I go, as I began.

Now with her lemman is this Phœbus’ wife;
The crow he sayeth nothing, for his life;
Caged hangeth he, and sayeth not a word;
But when that home was come Phœbus the lord,
He singeth out, and saith,—“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”
“Hey!” crieth Phœbus, “here be something new;
Thy song was wont to cheer me. What is this?”
“By Jove!” quoth Corvus, “I sing not amiss.
Phœbus,” quoth he; “for all thy worthiness,
For all thy beauty and all thy gentilesse,
For all thy song and all thy minstrelsy,
And all thy watching, blearéd is thine eye;
Yea, and by one no worthier than a gnat,
Compared with him should boast to wear thine hat.”

What would you more? the crow hath told him all;
This woful god hath turned him to the wall
To hide his tears: he thought ’twould burst his heart;
He bent his bow, and set therein a dart,
And in his ire he hath his wife yslain;
He hath; he felt such anger and such pain;
For sorrow of which he brake his minstrelsy,
Both harp and lute, gittern and psaltery,
And then he brake his arrows and his bow,
And after that, thus spake he to the crow:—

“Traitor,” quoth he, “behold what thou hast done;
Made me the saddest wretch beneath the sun:
Alas! why was I born! O dearest wife,
Jewel of love and joy, my only life,
That wert to me so steadfast and so true,
There liest thou dead; why am not I so too?
Full innocent thou wert, that durst I swear;
O hasty hand, to bring me to despair!
O troubled wit, O anger without thought,
That unadviséd smitest, and for nought:
O heart of little faith, full of suspicion,
Where was thy handsomeness and thy discretion?
O every man, hold hastiness in loathing;
Believe, without strong testimony, nothing;
Smite not too soon, before ye well know why;
And be adviséd well and soberly
Before ye trust yourselves to the commission
Of any ireful deed upon suspicion.
Alas! a thousand folk hath hasty ire
Foully foredone, and brought into the mire.
Alas! I’ll kill myself for misery.”

And to the crow, “O thou false thief!” said he,
“I’ll quit thee, all thy life, for thy false tale;
Thou shalt no more sing like the nightingale,
Nor shalt thou in those fair white feathers go,
Thou silly thief, thou false, black-hearted crow;
Nor shalt thou ever speak like man again;
Thou shalt not have the power to give such pain;
Nor shall thy race wear any coat but black,
And ever shall their voices crone and crack
And be a warning against wind and rain,
In token that by thee my wife was slain.”

So to the crow he started, like one mad,
And tore out every feather that he had,
And made him black, and reft him of his stores
Of song and speech, and flung him out of doors
Unto the devil; whence never come he back,
Say I. Amen. And hence all crows are black.

Lordings, by this example I you pray
Take heed, and be discreet in what you say;
And above all, tell no man, for your life,
How that another man hath kissed his wife.
He’ll hate you mortally; be sure of that;
Dan Solomon, in teacher’s chair that sat,
Bade us keep all our tongues close as we can;
But, as I said, I’m no text-spinning man,
Only, I must say, thus taught me my dame; [26]
My son, think on the crow in God his name;
My son, keep well thy tongue, and keep thy friend;
A wicked tongue is worse than any fiend;
My son, a fiend’s a thing for to keep down;
My son, God in his great discretion
Walléd a tongue with teeth, and eke with lips,
That man may think, before his speech out slips.
A little speech spoken advisedly
Brings none in trouble, speaking generally.
My son, thy tongue thou always shouldst restrain,
Save only at such times thou dost thy pain
To speak of God in honour and in prayer;
The chiefest virtue, son, is to beware
How thou lett’st loose that endless thing, thy tongue;
This every soul is taught, when he is young:
My son, of muckle speaking ill-advised,
And where a little speaking had sufficed,
Com’th muckle harm. This was me told and taught,—
In muckle speaking, sinning wanteth nought.
Know’st thou for what a tongue that’s hasty serveth?
Right as a sword forecutteth and forecarveth
An arm in two, my dear son, even so
A tongue clean-cutteth friendship at a blow.
A jangler is to God abominable:
Read Solomon, so wise and honourable;
Read David in his Psalms, read Seneca;
My son, a nod is better than a say;
Be deaf, when folk speak matter perilous;
Small prate, sound pate,—guardeth the Fleming’s house.
My son, if thou no wicked word hast spoken,
Thou never needest fear a pate ybroken;
But he that hath missaid, I dare well say,
His fingers shall find blood thereon, some day.
Thing that is said, is said; it may not back
Be called, for all your “Las!” and your “Alack!”
And he is that man’s thrall to whom ’twas said;
Cometh the bond some day, and will be paid.
My son, beware, and be no author new
Of tidings, whether they be false or true:
Go wheresoe’er thou wilt, ’mongst high or low,
Keep well thy tongue, and think upon the crow.