Confessio Amantis, Book III: The Tale of…

Appolinus his leve tok,

To God and al the lond betok

With al the poeple long and brod,

That he no lenger there abod.

The king and queene sorwe made,

Bot yit somdiel thei weren glade

Of such thing as thei herden tho:

And thus betwen the wel and wo

To schip he goth, his wif with childe,

The which was evere meke and mylde

And wolde noght departe him fro,

Such love was betwen hem tuo.

Lichorida for hire office

Was take, which was a norrice,

To wende with this yonge wif,

To whom was schape a woful lif.

Withinne a time, as it betidde,

Whan thei were in the see amidde,

Out of the north they sihe a cloude;

The storm aros, the wyndes loude

Thei blewen many a dredful blast,

The welkne was al overcast,

The derke nyht the sonne hath under,

Ther was a gret tempeste of thunder:

The mone and ek the sterres bothe

In blake cloudes thei hem clothe,

Wherof here brihte lok thei hyde.

This yonge ladi wepte and cride,

To whom no confort myhte availe;

Of childe sche began travaile,

Wher sche lay in a caban clos:

Hire woful lord fro hire aros,

And that was longe er eny morwe,

So that in anguisse and in sorwe

Sche was delivered al be nyhte

And ded in every mannes syhte;

Bot natheles for al this wo

A maide child was bore tho.

Appolinus whan he this knew,

For sorwe a swoune he overthrew,

That noman wiste in him no lif.

And whanne he wok, he seide, "Ha, wif,

Mi lust, mi joie, my desir,

Mi welthe and my recoverir,

Why schal I live, and thou schalt dye?

Ha, thou fortune, I thee deffie,

Nou hast thou do to me thi werste.

Ha, herte, why ne wolt thou berste,

That forth with hire I myhte passe?

Mi peines weren wel the lasse."

In such wepinge and in such cry

His dede wif, which lay him by,

A thousend sithes he hire kiste;

Was nevere man that sih ne wiste

A sorwe unto his sorwe lich;

For evere among, upon the lich

He fell swounende, as he that soghte

His oghne deth, which he besoghte

Unto the goddes alle above

With many a pitous word of love;

Bot suche wordes as tho were

Yit herde nevere mannes ere,

Bot only thilke whiche he seide.

The maister schipman cam and preide

With othre suche as be therinne,

And sein that he mai nothing winne

Ayein the deth, bot thei him rede,

He be wel war and tak hiede,

The see be weie of his nature

Receive mai no creature

Withinne himself as forto holde,

The which is ded: forthi thei wolde,

As thei conseilen al aboute,

The dede body casten oute.

For betre it is, thei seiden alle,

That it of hire so befalle,

Than if thei scholden alle spille.

The king, which understod here wille

And knew here conseil that was trewe,

Began ayein his sorwe newe

With pitous herte, and thus to seie:

"It is al reson that ye preie.

I am," quod he, "bot on al one,

So wolde I noght for mi persone

There felle such adversité.

Bot whan it mai no betre be,

Doth thanne thus upon my word,

Let make a cofre strong of bord,

That it be ferm with led and pich."

Anon was mad a cofre sich,

Al redy broght unto his hond;

And whanne he sih and redy fond

This cofre mad and wel enclowed,

The dede bodi was besowed

In cloth of gold and leid therinne.

And for he wolde unto hir winne

Upon som cooste a sepulture,

Under hire heved in aventure

Of gold he leide sommes grete

And of jeueals a strong beyete

Forth with a lettre, and seide thus:

"I, king of Tyr Appollinus,

Do alle maner men to wite,

That hiere and se this lettre write,

That helpeles withoute red

Hier lith a kinges doghter ded:

And who that happeth hir to finde,

For charité tak in his mynde,

And do so that sche be begrave

With this tresor, which he schal have."

Thus whan the lettre was full spoke,

Thei have anon the cofre stoke,

And bounden it with yren faste,

That it may with the wawes laste,

And stoppen it be such a weie,

That it schal be withinne dreie,

So that no water myhte it grieve.

And thus in hope and good believe

Of that the corps schal wel aryve,

Thei caste it over bord als blyve.

The schip forth on the wawes wente;

The prince hath changed his entente,

And seith he wol noght come at Tyr

As thanne, bot al his desir

Is ferst to seilen unto Tharse.

The wyndy storm began to skarse,

The sonne arist, the weder cliereth,

The schipman which behinde stiereth

Whan that he sih the wyndes saghte,

Towardes Tharse his cours he straghte.

Bot now to mi matiere ayein,

To telle as olde bokes sein,

This dede corps of which ye knowe

With wynd and water was forthrowe

Now hier, now ther, til ate laste

At Ephesim the see upcaste

The cofre and al that was therinne.

Of gret merveile now beginne

Mai hiere who that sitteth stille;

That God wol save mai noght spille.

Riht as the corps was throwe alonde,

Ther cam walkende upon the stronde

A worthi clerc, a surgien,

And ek a gret phisicien,

Of al that lond the wisest on,

Which hihte Maister Cerymon;

Ther were of his disciples some.

This maister to the cofre is come,

He peiseth ther was somwhat in,

And bad hem bere it to his in,

And goth himselve forth withal.

Al that schal falle, falle schal;

They comen hom and tarie noght;

This cofre is into chambre broght,

Which that thei finde faste stoke,

Bot thei with craft it have unloke.

Thei loken in, where as thei founde

A bodi ded, which was bewounde

In cloth of gold, as I seide er,

The tresor ek thei founden ther

Forth with the lettre which thei rede.

And tho thei token betre hiede;

Unsowed was the bodi sone,

And he, which knew what is to done,

This noble clerk, with alle haste

Began the veines forto taste,

And sih hire age was of youthe,

And with the craftes whiche he couthe

He soghte and fond a signe of lif.

With that this worthi kinges wif

Honestely thei token oute,

And maden fyres al aboute;

Thei leide hire on a couche softe,

And with a scheete warmed ofte

Hire colde brest began to hete,

Hire herte also to flacke and bete.

This maister hath hire every joignt

With certein oile and balsme enoignt,

And putte a liquour in hire mouth,

Which is to fewe clerkes couth,

So that sche coevereth ate laste:

And ferst hire yhen up sche caste,

And whan sche more of strengthe cawhte,

Hire armes bothe forth sche strawhte,

Hield up hire hond and pitously

Sche spak and seide, "Ha, wher am I?

Where is my lord, what world is this?"

As sche that wot noght hou it is.

Bot Cerymon the worthi leche

Ansuerde anon upon hire speche

And seith, "Ma dame, yee ben hiere,

Where yee be sauf, as yee schal hiere

Hierafterward; forthi as nou

Mi conseil is, conforteth you:

For trusteth wel withoute faile,

Ther is nothing which schal you faile,

That oghte of reson to be do."