[_Here, at_ l. 4070 _of the_ French text, _ends the work of_ G. de Lorris; _and begins the work of_ Jean de Meun.]
Allas, in wanhope?--nay, pardee! For I wol never dispeired be. If Hope me faile, than am I 4435 Ungracious and unworthy; In Hope I wol comforted be, For Love, whan he bitaught hir me, Seide, that Hope, wher-so I go, Shulde ay be relees to my wo. 4440 But what and she my balis bete, And be to me curteis and swete? She is in no-thing ful certeyn. Lovers she put in ful gret peyn, And makith hem with wo to dele. 4445 Hir fair biheest disceyveth fele, For she wol bihote, sikirly, And failen aftir outrely. A! that is a ful noyous thing! For many a lover, in loving, 4450 Hangeth upon hir, and trusteth fast, Whiche lese hir travel at the last. Of thing to comen she woot right nought; Therfore, if it be wysly sought, Hir counseille, foly is to take. 4455 For many tymes, whan she wol make A ful good silogisme, I drede That aftirward ther shal in dede Folwe an evel conclusioun; This put me in confusioun. 4460 For many tymes I have it seen, That many have bigyled been, For trust that they have set in Hope, Which fel hem aftirward a-slope. But natheles yit, gladly she wolde, 4465 That he, that wol him with hir holde, Hadde alle tymes [his] purpos clere, Withoute deceyte, or any were. That she desireth sikirly; Whan I hir blamed, I did foly. 4470 But what avayleth hir good wille, Whan she ne may staunche my stounde ille? That helpith litel, that she may do, Outake biheest unto my wo. And heeste certeyn, in no wyse, 4475 Withoute yift, is not to pryse. Whan heest and deed a-sundir varie, They doon [me have] a gret contrarie. Thus am I possed up and doun With dool, thought, and confusioun; 4480 Of my disese ther is no noumbre. Daunger and Shame me encumbre, Drede also, and Ielousye, And Wikked-Tunge, ful of envye, Of whiche the sharpe and cruel ire 4485 Ful oft me put in gret martire. They han my Ioye fully let, Sith Bialacoil they have bishet Fro me in prisoun wikkidly, Whom I love so entierly, 4490 That it wol my bane be, But I the soner may him see. And yit moreover, wurst of alle, Ther is set to kepe, foule hir bifalle! A rimpled vekke, fer ronne in age, 4495 Frowning and yelowe in hir visage, Which in awayte lyth day and night, That noon of hem may have a sight. Now moot my sorwe enforced be; Ful soth it is, that Love yaf me 4500 Three wonder yiftes of his grace, Which I have lorn now in this place, Sith they ne may, withoute drede Helpen but litel, who taketh hede. For here availeth no Swete-Thought, 4505 And Swete-Speche helpith right nought. The thridde was called Swete-Loking, That now is lorn, without lesing. [The] yiftes were fair, but not forthy They helpe me but simply, 4510 But Bialacoil [may] loosed be, To gon at large and to be free. For him my lyf lyth al in dout, But-if he come the rather out. Allas! I trowe it wol not been! 4515 For how shuld I evermore him seen? He may not out, and that is wrong, Bicause the tour is so strong. How shulde he out? by whos prowesse, Out of so strong a forteresse? 4520 By me, certeyn, it nil be do; God woot, I have no wit therto! But wel I woot I was in rage, Whan I to Love dide homage. Who was in cause, in sothfastnesse, 4525 But hir-silf, dame Idelnesse, Which me conveyed, thurgh fair prayere, To entre into that fair vergere? She was to blame me to leve, The which now doth me sore greve. 4530 A foolis word is nought to trowe, Ne worth an appel for to lowe; Men shulde him snibbe bittirly, At pryme temps of his foly. I was a fool, and she me leved, 4535 Thurgh whom I am right nought releved. She accomplisshed al my wil, That now me greveth wondir il. Resoun me seide what shulde falle. A fool my-silf I may wel calle, 4540 That love asyde I had not leyde, And trowed that dame Resoun seyde. Resoun had bothe skile and right. Whan she me blamed, with al hir might, To medle of love, that hath me shent; 4545 But certeyn now I wol repent. 'And shulde I repent? Nay, parde! A fals traitour than shulde I be. The develles engins wolde me take, If I my [lorde] wolde forsake, 4550 Or Bialacoil falsly bitraye. Shulde I at mischeef hate him? nay, Sith he now, for his curtesye, Is in prisoun of Ielousye. Curtesye certeyn dide he me, 4555 So muche, it may not yolden be, Whan he the hay passen me lete, To kisse the rose, faire and swete; Shulde I therfore cunne him maugree? Nay, certeynly, it shal not be; 4560 For Love shal never, [if god wil], Here of me, thurgh word or wil, Offence or complaynt, more or lesse, Neither of Hope nor Idilnesse; For certis, it were wrong that I 4565 Hated hem for hir curtesye.
