Others

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

In thy face I see The map of honor, truth, and loyalty.

I’ll burn my books!

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo’s laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man.

O soul, be changed into little waterdrops, And fall into the ocean—ne’er to be found. My God! my God! look not so fierce on me!

Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? 5 Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul; 6 see, where it flies!

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? 5 Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul; 6 see, where it flies!

Come live with me, and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 1 Woods or steepy mountain yields.

For if he like a madman lived, At least he like a wise one died.

Harvest, oh! harvest your hour While life is abloom with youth! For age with bitter ruth Will fade your beauty’s flower. 4

Sweetheart, come see if the rose Which at morning began to unclose Its damask gown to the sun Has not lost, now the day is done, The folds of its damasked gown And its colors so like your own.

When you are old, at evening candlelit, Beside the fire bending to your wool, Read out my verse and murmur, “Ronsard writ This praise for me when I was beautiful.” 1

Reule wel thyself, that other folk canst rede. And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede.

For whan a man hath over-greet a wit, Ful oft hym happeth to mysusen it.

Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe!

This may wel be rym dogerel.

Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that men may kepe.

Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan Everich a word, if it be in his charge, Al speke he never so rudeliche and large, Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes new.

Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe.

He koude songes make and wel endyte.

That, of al the floures in the mede, Thanne love I most thise floures white and rede, Swiche as men callen daysyes in our toun.

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

O moral Gower, this book I directe To the.