Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Hous of Fame

Book III

O GOD of science and of light,Apollo, through thy grete might,This litel laste book thou gye!Nat that I wilne, for maistrye,Here art poetical be shewed;But, for the rym is light and lewed,Yit make hit sumwhat agreable,Though som vers faile in a sillable;And that I do no diligenceTo shewe craft, but o sentence.And if, divyne vertu, thouWilt helpe me to shewe nowThat in myn hede y-marked is—Lo, that is for to menen this,The Hous of Fame to descryve—Thou shalt see me go, as blyve,Unto the nexte laure I see,And kisse hit, for hit is thy tree;Now entreth in my breste anoon!—
Whan I was fro this egle goon,I gan beholde upon this place.And certein, or I ferther pace,I wol yow al the shap devyseOf hous and site; and al the wyseHow I gan to this place aprocheThat stood upon so high a roche,Hyer stant ther noon in Spaine.But up I clomb with alle paine,And though to climbe hit greved me,Yit I ententif was to see,And for to pouren wonder lowe,If I coude any weyes knoweWhat maner stoon this roche was;For hit was lyk a thing of glas,But that hit shoon ful more clere;But of what congeled matereHit was, I niste redely.But at the laste espyed I,And found that hit was, every deel,A roche of yse, and not of steel.Thoughte I, ‘By Seynt Thomas of Kent!This were a feble foundementTo bilden on a place hye;He oughte him litel glorifyeThat her-on bilt, god so me save!’Tho saw I al the half y-graveWith famous folkes names fele,That had y-been in mochel wele,And hir fames wyde y-blowe.But wel unethes coude I knoweAny lettres for to redeHir names by; for, out of drede,They were almost of-thowed so,That of the lettres oon or twoWas molte away of every name,So unfamous was wexe hir fame;But men seyn, ‘What may ever laste?’Tho gan I in myn herte caste,That they were molte awey with hete,And not awey with stormes bete.For on that other syde I seyOf this hille, that northward lay,How hit was writen ful of namesOf folk that hadden grete famesOf olde tyme, and yit they wereAs fresshe as men had writen hem thereThe selve day right, or that houreThat I upon hem gan to poure.But wel I wiste what hit made;Hit was conserved with the shade—Al this wrytinge that I sy—Of a castel, that stood on hy,And stood eek on so cold a place,That hete mighte hit not deface.Tho gan I up the hille to goon,And fond upon the coppe a woon,That alle the men that ben on lyveNe han the cunning to descryveThe beautee of that ilke place,Ne coude casten no compaceSwich another for to make,That mighte of beautee be his make,Ne [be] so wonderliche y-wrought;That hit astonieth yit my thought,And maketh al my wit to swinkeOn this castel to bethinke.So that the grete craft, beautee,The cast, the curiositeeNe can I not to yow devyse,My wit ne may me not suffyse.But natheles al the substanceI have yit in my remembrance;For-why me thoughte, by Seynt Gyle!Al was of stone of beryle,Bothe castel and the tour,And eek the halle, and every bour,Withouten peces or Ioininges.But many subtil compassinges,Babewinnes and pinacles,Imageries and tabernacles,I saw; and ful eek of windowes,As flakes falle in grete snowes.And eek in ech of the pinaclesWeren sondry habitacles,In whiche stoden, al withoute—Ful the castel, al aboute—Of alle maner of minstrales,And gestiours, that tellen talesBothe of weping and of game,Of al that longeth unto Fame.Ther herde I pleyen on an harpeThat souned bothe wel and sharpe,Orpheus ful craftely,And on his syde, faste by,Sat the harper Orion,And Eacides Chiron,And other harpers many oon,And the Bret Glascurion;And smale harpers with her gleësSeten under hem in seës,And gonne on hem upward to gape,And countrefete hem as an ape,Or as craft countrefeteth kinde.Tho saugh I stonden hem behinde,A-fer fro hem, al by hemselve,Many thousand tymes twelve,That maden loude menstralcyesIn cornemuse and shalmyes,And many other maner pype,That craftely begunne pypeBothe in doucet and in rede,That ben at festes with the brede;And many floute and lilting-horne,And pypes made of grene corne,As han thise litel herde-gromes,That kepen bestes in the bromes.Ther saugh I than Atiteris,And of Athenes dan Pseustis,And Marcia that lost her skin,Bothe in face, body, and chin,For that she wolde envyen, lo!To pypen bet then Apollo.Ther saugh I famous, olde and yonge,Pypers of the Duche tonge,To lerne love-daunces, springes,Reyes, and these straunge thinges.Tho saugh I in another placeStonden in a large space,Of hem that maken blody sounIn trumpe, beme, and clarioun;For in fight and blood-shedingeIs used gladly clarioninge.Ther herde I trumpen Messenus,Of whom that speketh Virgilius.Ther herde I Ioab trumpe also,Theodomas, and other mo;And alle that used clarionIn Cataloigne and Aragon,That in hir tyme famous wereTo lerne, saugh I trumpe there.Ther saugh I sitte in other seës,Pleyinge upon sondry gleës,Whiche that I cannot nevene,Mo then sterres been in hevene,Of whiche I nil as now not ryme,For ese of yow, and losse of tyme:For tyme y-lost, this knowen ye,By no way may recovered be.Ther saugh I pleyen Iogelours,Magiciens and tregetours,And phitonesses, charmeresses,Olde wicches, sorceresses,That use exorsisaciouns,And eek thise fumigaciouns;And clerkes eek, which conne welAl this magyke naturel,That craftely don hir ententes,To make, in certeyn ascendentes,Images, lo, through which magykTo make a man ben hool or syk.Ther saugh I thee, queen Medea,And Circes eke, and Calipsa;Ther saugh I Hermes Ballenus,Lymote, and eek Simon Magus.—Ther saugh I, and knew hem by name,That by such art don men han fame.Ther saugh I Colle tregetourUpon a table of sicamourPleye an uncouthe thing to telle;I saugh him carien a wind-melleUnder a walsh-note shale.What shuld I make lenger taleOf al the peple that I say,Fro hennes in-to domesday?Whan I had al this folk beholde,And fond me lous, and noght y-holde,And eft y-mused longe whyleUpon these walles of beryle,That shoon ful lighter than a glas,And made wel more than hit wasTo semen, every thing, y-wis,As kinde thing of fames is;I gan forth romen til I fondThe castel-yate on my right hond,Which that so wel corven wasThat never swich another nas;And yit hit was by aventureY-wrought, as often as by cure.Hit nedeth noght yow for to tellen,To make yow to longe dwellen,Of this yates florisshinges,Ne of compasses, ne of kervinges,Ne how they hatte in masoneries,As, corbets fulle of imageries.But, lord! so fair hit was to shewe,For hit was al with gold behewe.But in I wente, and that anoon;Ther mette I crying many oon,—‘A larges, larges, hold up wel!God save the lady of this pel,Our owne gentil lady Fame,And hem that wilnen to have nameOf us!’ Thus herde I cryen alle,And faste comen out of halle,And shoken nobles and sterlinges.And somme crouned were as kinges,With crounes wroght ful of losenges;And many riban, and many frengesWere on hir clothes trewely.Tho atte laste aspyed IThat pursevauntes and heraudes,That cryen riche folkes laudes,Hit weren alle; and every manOf hem, as I yow tellen can,Had on him throwen a vesture,Which that men clepe a cote-armure,Enbrowded wonderliche riche,Al-though they nere nought y-liche.But noght nil I, so mote I thryve,Been aboute to discryveAl these armes that ther weren,That they thus on hir cotes beren,For hit to me were impossible;Men mighte make of hem a bibleTwenty foot thikke, as I trowe.For certeyn, who-so coude y-knoweMighte ther alle the armes seenOf famous folk that han y-beenIn Auffrike, Europe, and Asye,Sith first began the chevalrye.Lo! how shulde I now telle al this?Ne of the halle eek what nede isTo tellen yow, that every walOf hit, and floor, and roof and alWas plated half a fote thikkeOf gold, and that nas no-thing wikke,But, for to prove in alle wyse,As fyn as ducat in Venyse,Of whiche to lyte al in my pouche is?And they wer set as thikke of nouchisFulle of the fynest stones faire,That men rede in the Lapidaire,As greses growen in a mede;But hit were al to longe to redeThe names; and therfore I pace.But in this riche lusty place,That Fames halle called was,Ful moche prees of folk ther nas,Ne crouding, for to mochil prees.But al on hye, above a dees,Sitte in a see imperial,That maad was of a rubee al,Which that a carbuncle is y-called,I saugh, perpetually y-stalled,A feminyne creature;That never formed by natureNas swich another thing y-seye.For altherfirst, soth for to seye,Me thoughte that she was so lyte,That the lengthe of a cubyteWas lenger than she semed be;But thus sone, in a whyle, sheHir tho so wonderliche streighte,That with hir feet she therthe reighte,And with hir heed she touched hevene,Ther as shynen sterres sevene.And ther-to eek, as to my wit,I saugh a gretter wonder yit,Upon hir eyen to beholde;But certeyn I hem never tolde;For as fele eyen hadde sheAs fetheres upon foules be,Or weren on the bestes foure,That goddes trone gunne honoure,As Iohn writ in thapocalips.Hir heer, that oundy was and crips,As burned gold hit shoon to see.And sooth to tellen, also sheHad also fele up-stonding eresAnd tonges, as on bestes heres;And on hir feet wexen saugh IPartriches winges redely.But, lord! the perrie and the richesseI saugh sitting on this goddesse!And, lord! the hevenish melodyeOf songes, ful of armonye,I herde aboute her trone y-songe,That al the paleys-walles ronge!So song the mighty Muse, sheThat cleped is Caliopee,And hir eighte sustren eke,That in hir face semen meke;And evermo, eternally,They songe of Fame, as tho herde I:—‘Heried be thou and thy name,Goddesse of renoun and of fame!’Tho was I war, lo, atte laste,As I myn eyen gan up caste,That this ilke noble queneOn hir shuldres gan susteneBothe tharmes and the nameOf tho that hadde large fame;Alexander, and HerculesThat with a sherte his lyf lees!Thus fond I sitting this goddesse,In nobley, honour, and richesse;Of which I stinte a whyle now,Other thing to tellen yow.Tho saugh I stonde on either syde,Streight doun to the dores wyde,Fro the dees, many a pileerOf metal, that shoon not ful cleer;But though they nere of no richesse,Yet they were maad for greet noblesse,And in hem greet [and hy] sentence;And folk of digne reverence,Of whiche I wol yow telle fonde,Upon the piler saugh I stonde.Alderfirst, lo, ther I sigh,Upon a piler stonde on high,That was of lede and yren fyn,Him of secte Saturnyn,The Ebrayk Iosephus, the olde,That of Iewes gestes tolde;And bar upon his shuldres hyeThe fame up of the Iewerye.And by him stoden other sevene,Wyse and worthy for to nevene,To helpen him bere up the charge,Hit was so hevy and so large.And for they writen of batailes,As wel as other olde mervailes,Therfor was, lo, this pileer,Of which that I yow telle heer,Of lede and yren bothe, y-wis.For yren Martes metal is,Which that god is of bataile;And the leed, withouten faile,Is, lo, the metal of Saturne,That hath ful large wheel to turne.Tho stoden forth, on every rowe,Of hem which that I coude knowe,Thogh I hem noght by ordre telle,To make yow to long to dwelle.These, of whiche I ginne rede,Ther saugh I stonden, out of drede:Upon an yren piler strong,That peynted was, al endelong,With tygres blode in every place,The Tholosan that highte Stace,That bar of Thebes up the fameUpon his shuldres, and the nameAlso of cruel Achilles.And by him stood, withouten lees,Ful wonder hye on a pileerOf yren, he, the gret Omeer;And with him Dares and TytusBefore, and eek he, Lollius,And Guido eek de Columpnis,And English Gaufride eek, y-wis;And ech of these, as have I Ioye,Was besy for to bere up Troye.So hevy ther-of was the fame,That for to bere hit was no game.But yit I gan ful wel espye,Betwix hem was a litel envye.Oon seyde, Omere made lyes,Feyninge in his poetryes,And was to Grekes favorable;Therfor held he hit but fable.Tho saugh I stonde on a pileer,That was of tinned yren cleer,That Latin poete, [dan] Virgyle,That bore hath up a longe whyleThe fame of Pius Eneas.And next him on a piler was,Of coper, Venus clerk, Ovyde,That hath y-sowen wonder wydeThe grete god of Loves name.And ther he bar up wel his fame,Upon this piler, also hyeAs I might see hit with myn yë:For-why this halle, of whiche I redeWas woxe on highte, lengthe and brede,Wel more, by a thousand del,Than hit was erst, that saugh I wel.Tho saugh I, on a piler by,Of yren wroght ful sternely,The grete poete, daun Lucan,And on his shuldres bar up than,As highe as that I mighte see,The fame of Iulius and Pompee.And by him stoden alle these clerkes,That writen of Romes mighty werkes,That, if I wolde hir names telle,Al to longe moste I dwelle.And next him on a piler stoodOf soulfre, lyk as he were wood,Dan Claudian, the soth to telle,That bar up al the fame of helle,Of Pluto, and of Proserpyne,That quene is of the derke pyne.What shulde I more telle of this?The halle was al ful, y-wis,Of hem that writen olde gestes,As ben on treës rokes nestes;But hit a ful confus matereWere al the gestes for to here,That they of write, and how they highte.But whyl that I beheld this sighte,I herde a noise aprochen blyve,That ferde as been don in an hyve,Agen her tyme of out-fleyinge;Right swiche a maner murmuringe,For al the world, hit semed me.Tho gan I loke aboute and see,That ther com entring in the halleA right gret company with-alle,And that of sondry regiouns,Of alleskinnes condiciouns,That dwelle in erthe under the mone,Pore and ryche. And also soneAs they were come into the halle,They gonne doun on kneës falleBefore this ilke noble quene,And seyde, ‘Graunte us, lady shene,Ech of us, of thy grace, a bone!’And somme of hem she graunted sone,And somme she werned wel and faire;And somme she graunted the contraireOf hir axing utterly.But thus I seye yow trewely,What hir cause was, I niste.For this folk, ful wel I wiste,They hadde good fame ech deserved,Althogh they were diversly served;Right as hir suster, dame Fortune,Is wont to serven in comune.Now herkne how she gan to payeThat gonne hir of hir grace praye;And yit, lo, al this companyeSeyden sooth, and noght a lye.‘Madame,’ seyden they, ‘we beFolk that heer besechen thee,That thou graunte us now good fame,And lete our werkes han that name;In ful recompensaciounOf good werk, give us good renoun.’‘I werne yow hit,’ quod she anoon,‘Ye gete of me good fame noon,By god! and therfor go your wey.’‘Alas,’ quod they, ‘and welaway!Telle us, what may your cause be?’‘For me list hit noght,’ quod she;‘No wight shal speke of yow, y-wis,Good ne harm, ne that ne this.’And with that word she gan to calleHir messanger, that was in halle,And bad that he shulde faste goon,Up peyne to be blind anoon,For Eolus, the god of winde;—‘In Trace ther ye shul him finde,And bid him bringe his clarioun,That is ful dyvers of his soun,And hit is cleped Clere Laude,With which he wont is to heraudeHem that me list y-preised be:And also bid him how that heBringe his other clarioun,That highte Sclaundre in every toun,With which he wont is to diffameHem that me list, and do hem shame.’This messanger gan faste goon,And found wher, in a cave of stoon,In a contree that highte Trace,This Eolus, with harde grace,Held the windes in distresse,And gan hem under him to presse,That they gonne as beres rore,He bond and pressed hem so sore.This messanger gan faste crye,‘Rys up,’ quod he, ‘and faste hye,Til that thou at my lady be;And tak thy clarions eek with thee,And speed thee forth.’ And he anonTook to a man, that hight Triton,His clariouns to bere tho,And leet a certeyn wind to go,That blew so hidously and hye,That hit ne lefte not a skyeIn al the welken longe and brood.This Eolus no-wher aboodTil he was come at Fames feet,And eek the man that Triton heet;And ther he stood, as still as stoon.And her-withal ther com anoonAnother huge companyeOf gode folk, and gunne crye,‘Lady, graunte us now good fame,And lat our werkes han that nameNow, in honour of gentilesse,And also god your soule blesse!For we han wel deserved hit,Therfor is right that we ben quit.’‘As thryve I,’ quod she, ‘ye shal faile,Good werkes shal yow noght availeTo have of me good fame as now.But wite ye what? I graunte yow,That ye shal have a shrewed fameAnd wikked loos, and worse name,Though ye good loos have wel deserved.Now go your wey, for ye be served;And thou, dan Eolus, let see!Tak forth thy trumpe anon,’ quod she,‘That is y-cleped Sclaunder light,And blow hir loos, that every wightSpeke of hem harm and shrewednesse,In stede of good and worthinesse.For thou shalt trumpe al the contraireOf that they han don wel or faire.’‘Alas,’ thoughte I, ‘what aventuresHan these sory creatures!For they, amonges al the pres,Shul thus be shamed gilteles!But what! hit moste nedes be.’What did this Eolus, but heTok out his blakke trumpe of bras,That fouler than the devil was,And gan this trumpe for to blowe,As al the world shulde overthrowe;That through-out every regiounWente this foule trumpes soun,As swift as pelet out of gonne,Whan fyr is in the poudre ronne.And swiche a smoke gan out-wendeOut of his foule trumpes ende,Blak, blo, grenish, swartish reed,As doth wher that men melte leed,Lo, al on high fro the tuel!And therto oo thing saugh I wel,That, the ferther that hit ran,The gretter wexen hit began,As doth the river from a welle,And hit stank as the pit of helle.Alas, thus was hir shame y-ronge,And giltelees, on every tonge.Tho com the thridde companye,And gunne up to the dees to hye,And doun on knees they fille anon,And seyde, ‘We ben everichonFolk that han ful trewelyDeserved fame rightfully,And praye yow, hit mot be knowe,Right as hit is, and forth y-blowe.’‘I graunte,’ quod she, ‘for me listThat now your gode werk be wist;And yit ye shul han better loos,Right in dispyt of alle your foos,Than worthy is; and that anoon:Lat now,’ quod she, ‘thy trumpe goon,Thou Eolus, that is so blak;And out thyn other trumpe takThat highte Laude, and blow hit soThat through the world hir fame goAl esely, and not to faste,That hit be knowen atte laste.’‘Ful gladly, lady myn,’ he seyde;And out his trumpe of golde he braydeAnon, and sette hit to his mouthe,And blew hit est, and west, and southe,And north, as loude as any thunder,That every wight hadde of hit wonder,So brode hit ran, or than hit stente.And, certes, al the breeth that wenteOut of his trumpes mouthe smeldeAs men a pot-ful bawme heldeAmong a basket ful of roses;This favour dide he til hir loses.And right with this I gan aspye,Ther com the ferthe companye—But certeyn they were wonder fewe—And gonne stonden in a rewe,And seyden, ‘Certes, lady brighte,We han don wel with al our mighte;But we ne kepen have no fame.Hyd our werkes and our name,For goddes love! for certes weHan certeyn doon hit for bountee,And for no maner other thing.’‘I graunte yow al your asking,’Quod she; ‘let your werk be deed.’With that aboute I clew myn heed,And saugh anoon the fifte routeThat to this lady gonne loute,And doun on knees anoon to falle;And to hir tho besoughten alleTo hyde hir gode werkes eek,And seyde, they yeven noght a leekFor fame, ne for swich renoun;For they, for contemplaciounAnd goddes love, hadde y-wrought;Ne of fame wolde they nought.‘What?’ quod she, ‘and be ye wood?And wene ye for to do good,And for to have of that no fame?Have ye dispyt to have my name?Nay, ye shul liven everichoon!Blow thy trumpe and that anoon,’Quod she, ‘thou Eolus, I hote,And ring this folkes werk by note,That al the world may of hit here.’And he gan blowe hir loos so clereIn his golden clarioun,That through the world wente the soun,So kenely, and eek so softe;But atte laste hit was on-lofte.Thoo com the sexte companye,And gonne faste on Fame crye.Right verraily, in this manereThey seyden: ‘Mercy, lady dere!To telle certein, as hit is,We han don neither that ne this,But ydel al our lyf y-be.But, natheles, yit preye we,That we mowe han so good a fame,And greet renoun and knowen name,As they that han don noble gestes,And acheved alle hir lestes,As wel of love as other thing;Al was us never broche ne ring,Ne elles nought, from wimmen sent,Ne ones in hir herte y-mentTo make us only frendly chere,But mighte temen us on bere;Yit lat us to the peple semeSwiche as the world may of us deme,That wimmen loven us for wood.Hit shal don us as moche good,And to our herte as moche availeTo countrepeise ese and travaile,As we had wonne hit with labour;For that is dere boght honourAt regard of our grete ese.And yit thou most us more plese;Let us be holden eek, therto,Worthy, wyse, and gode also,And riche, and happy unto love.For goddes love, that sit above,Though we may not the body haveOf wimmen, yet, so god yow save!Let men glewe on us the name;Suffyceth that we han the fame.’‘I graunte,’ quod she, ‘by my trouthe!Now, Eolus, with-outen slouthe,Tak out thy trumpe of gold, let see,And blow as they han axed me,That every man wene hem at ese,Though they gon in ful badde lese.’This Eolus gan hit so blowe,That through the world hit was y-knowe.Tho com the seventh route anoon,And fel on kneës everichoon,And seyde, ‘Lady, graunte us soneThe same thing, the same bone,That [ye] this nexte folk han doon.’‘Fy on yow,’ quod she, ‘everichoon!Ye masty swyn, ye ydel wrecches,Ful of roten slowe tecches!What? false theves! wher ye woldeBe famous good, and no-thing noldeDeserve why, ne never roughte?Men rather yow to-hangen oughte!For ye be lyk the sweynte cat,That wolde have fish; but wostow what?He wolde no-thing wete his clowes.Yvel thrift come on your Iowes,And eek on myn, if I hit graunte,Or do yow favour, yow to avaunte!Thou Eolus, thou king of Trace!Go, blow this folk a sory grace,’Quod she, ‘anoon; and wostow how?As I shal telle thee right now;Sey: “These ben they that wolde honourHave, and do noskinnes labour,Ne do no good, and yit han laude;And that men wende that bele IsaudeNe coude hem noght of love werne;And yit she that grint at a querneIs al to good to ese hir herte.”’This Eolus anon up sterte,And with his blakke clariounHe gan to blasen out a soun,As loude as belweth wind in helle.And eek therwith, [the] sooth to telle,This soun was [al] so ful of Iapes,As ever mowes were in apes.And that wente al the world aboute,That every wight gan on hem shoute,And for to laughe as they were wode;Such game fonde they in hir hode.Tho com another companye,That had y-doon the traiterye,The harm, the gretest wikkednesseThat any herte couthe gesse;And preyed hir to han good fame,And that she nolde hem doon no shame,But yeve hem loos and good renoun,And do hit blowe in clarioun.‘Nay, wis!’ quod she, ‘hit were a vyce;Al be ther in me no Iustyce,Me listeth not to do hit now,Ne this nil I not graunte you.’Tho come ther lepinge in a route,And gonne choppen al abouteEvery man upon the croune,That al the halle gan to soune,And seyden: ‘Lady, lefe and dere,We ben swich folk as ye mowe here.To tellen al the tale aright,We ben shrewes, every wight,And han delyt in wikkednes,As gode folk han in goodnes;And Ioye to be knowen shrewes,And fulle of vyce and wikked thewes;Wherfor we preyen yow, a-rowe,That our fame swich be knoweIn alle thing right as hit is.’‘I graunte hit yow,’ quod she, ‘y-wis.But what art thou that seyst this tale,That werest on thy hose a pale,And on thy tipet swiche a belle!’‘Madame,’ quod he, ‘sooth to telle,I am that ilke shrewe, y-wis,That brende the temple of IsidisIn Athenes, lo, that citee.’‘And wherfor didest thou so?’ quod she.‘By my thrift,’ quod he, ‘madame,I wolde fayn han had a fame,As other folk hadde in the toun,Al-thogh they were of greet renounFor hir vertu and for hir thewes;Thoughte I, as greet a fame han shrewes,Thogh hit be [but] for shrewednesse,As gode folk han for goodnesse;And sith I may not have that oon,That other nil I noght for-goon.And for to gette of Fames hyre,The temple sette I al a-fyre.Now do our loos be blowen swythe,As wisly be thou ever blythe.’‘Gladly,’ quod she; ‘thou Eolus,Herestow not what they preyen us?’‘Madame, yis, ful wel,’ quod he,‘And I wil trumpen hit, parde!’And tok his blakke trumpe faste,And gan to puffen and to blaste,Til hit was at the worldes ende.With that I gan aboute wende;For oon that stood right at my bak,Me thoughte, goodly to me spak,And seyde: ‘Frend, what is thy name?Artow come hider to han fame?’‘Nay, for-sothe, frend!’ quod I;‘I cam noght hider, graunt mercy!For no swich cause, by my heed!Suffyceth me, as I were deed,That no wight have my name in honde.I woot my-self best how I stonde;For what I drye or what I thinke,I wol my-selven al hit drinke,Certeyn, for the more part,As ferforth as I can myn art.’‘But what dost thou here than?’ quod he.Quod I, ‘that wol I tellen thee,The cause why I stondë here:—Som newe tydings for to lere:—Som newe thinges, I not what,Tydinges, other this or that,Of love, or swiche thinges glade.For certeynly, he that me madeTo comen hider, seyde me,I shulde bothe here and see,In this place, wonder thinges;But these be no swiche tydingesAs I mene of.’ ‘No?’ quod he.And I answerde, ‘No, pardee!For wel I wiste, ever yit,Sith that first I hadde wit,That som folk han desyred fameDyversly, and loos, and name;But certeynly, I niste howNe wher that Fame dwelte, er now;Ne eek of hir descripcioun,Ne also hir condicioun,Ne the ordre of hir dome,Unto the tyme I hider come.’‘[Whiche] be, lo, these tydinges,That thou now [thus] hider bringes,That thou hast herd?’ quod he to me;‘But now, no fors; for wel I seeWhat thou desyrest for to here.Com forth, and stond no longer here,And I wol thee, with-outen drede,In swich another place lede,Ther thou shalt here many oon.’Tho gan I forth with him to goonOut of the castel, soth to seye.Tho saugh I stonde in a valeye,Under the castel, faste by,An hous, that domus Dedali,That Laborintus cleped is,Nas maad so wonderliche, y-wis,Ne half so queynteliche y-wrought.And evermo, so swift as thought,This queynte hous aboute wente,That never-mo hit stille stente.And ther-out com so greet a noise,That, had hit stonden upon Oise,Men mighte hit han herd eselyTo Rome, I trowe sikerly.And the noyse which that I herde,For al the world right so hit ferde,As doth the routing of the stoonThat from thengyn is leten goon.And al this hous, of whiche I rede,Was made of twigges, falwe, rede,And grene eek, and som weren whyte,Swiche as men to these cages thwyte,Or maken of these paniers,Or elles hottes or dossers;That, for the swough and for the twigges,This hous was also ful of gigges,And also ful eek of chirkinges,And of many other werkinges;And eek this hous hath of entreesAs fele as leves been on treesIn somer, whan they grene been;And on the roof men may yit seenA thousand holes, and wel mo,To leten wel the soun out go.And by day, in every tyde,Ben al the dores open wyde,And by night, echoon, unshette;Ne porter ther is non to letteNo maner tydings in to pace;Ne never reste is in that place,That hit nis fild ful of tydinges,Other loude, or of whispringes;And, over alle the houses angles,Is ful of rouninges and of IanglesOf werre, of pees, of mariages,Of reste, of labour of viages,Of abood, of deeth, of lyfe,Of love, of hate, acorde, of stryfe,Of loos, of lore, and of winninges,Of hele, of sekenesse, of bildinges,Of faire windes, of tempestes,Of qualme of folk, and eek of bestes;Of dyvers transmutaciounsOf estats, and eek of regiouns;Of trust, of drede, of Ielousye,Of wit, of winninge, of folye;Of plentee, and of greet famyne,Of chepe, of derth, and of ruyne;Of good or mis governement,Of fyr, of dyvers accident.And lo, this hous, of whiche I wryte,Siker be ye, hit nas not lyte;For hit was sixty myle of lengthe;Al was the timber of no strengthe,Yet hit is founded to endureWhyl that hit list to Aventure,That is the moder of tydinges,As the see of welles and springes,—And hit was shapen lyk a cage.‘Certes,’ quod I, ‘in al myn age,Ne saugh I swich a hous as this.’And as I wondred me, y-wis,Upon this hous, tho war was IHow that myn egle, faste by,Was perched hye upon a stoon;And I gan streighte to him goonAnd seyde thus: ‘I preye theeThat thou a whyl abyde meFor goddes love, and let me seenWhat wondres in this place been;For yit, paraventure, I may lereSom good ther-on, or sumwhat hereThat leef me were, or that I wente.’‘Peter! that is myn entente,’Quod he to me; ‘therfor I dwelle;But certein, oon thing I thee telle,That, but I bringe thee ther-inne,Ne shalt thou never cunne ginneTo come in-to hit, out of doute,So faste hit whirleth, lo, aboute.But sith that Ioves, of his grace,As I have seyd, wol thee solaceFynally with [swiche] thinges,Uncouthe sightes and tydinges,To passe with thyn hevinesse;Suche routhe hath he of thy distresse,That thou suffrest debonairly—And wost thy-selven utterlyDisesperat of alle blis,Sith that Fortune hath maad a-misThe [fruit] of al thyn hertes resteLanguisshe and eek in point to breste—That he, through his mighty meryte,Wol do thee ese, al be hit lyte,And yaf expres commaundement,To whiche I am obedient,To furthre thee with al my might,And wisse and teche thee arightWher thou maist most tydinges here;Shaltow anoon heer many oon lere.’With this worde he, right anoon,Hente me up bitwene his toon,And at a windowe in me broghte,That in this hous was, as me thoghte—And ther-withal, me thoghte hit stente,And no-thing hit aboute wente—And me sette in the flore adoun.But which a congregaciounOf folk, as I saugh rome abouteSome within and some withoute,Nas never seen, ne shal ben eft;That, certes, in the world nis leftSo many formed by Nature,Ne deed so many a creature;That wel unethe, in that place,Hadde I oon foot-brede of space;And every wight that I saugh thereRouned ech in otheres ereA newe tyding prevely,Or elles tolde al openlyRight thus, and seyde: ‘Nost not thouThat is betid, lo, late or now?’‘No,’ quod [the other], ‘tel me what;’—And than he tolde him this and that,And swoor ther-to that hit was sooth—‘Thus hath he seyd’—and ‘Thus he dooth’—‘Thus shal hit be’—‘Thus herde I seye’—‘That shal be found’—‘That dar I leye:’—That al the folk that is a-lyveNe han the cunning to discryveThe thinges that I herde there,What aloude, and what in ere.But al the wonder-most was this:—Whan oon had herd a thing, y-wis,He com forth to another wight,And gan him tellen, anoon-right,The same that to him was told,Or hit a furlong-way was old,But gan somwhat for to echeTo this tyding in this specheMore than hit ever was.And nat so sone departed nasThat he fro him, that he ne metteWith the thridde; and, or he letteAny stounde, he tolde him als;Were the tyding sooth or fals,Yit wolde he telle hit nathelees,And evermo with more encreesThan hit was erst. Thus north and southeWent every [word] fro mouth to mouthe,And that encresing ever-mo,As fyr is wont to quikke and goFrom a sparke spronge amis,Til al a citee brent up is.And, whan that was ful y-spronge,And woxen more on every tongeThan ever hit was, [hit] wente anoonUp to a windowe, out to goon;Or, but hit mighte out ther pace,Hit gan out crepe at som crevace,And fleigh forth faste for the nones.And somtyme saugh I tho, at ones,A lesing and a sad soth-sawe,That gonne of aventure draweOut at a windowe for to pace;And, when they metten in that place,They were a-chekked bothe two,And neither of hem moste out go;For other so they gonne croude,Til eche of hem gan cryen loude,‘Lat me go first!’ ‘Nay, but lat me!And here I wol ensuren theeWith the nones that thou wolt do so,That I shal never fro thee go,But be thyn owne sworen brother!We wil medle us ech with other,That no man, be he never so wrothe,Shal han that oon [of] two, but botheAt ones, al beside his leve,Come we a-morwe or on eve,Be we cryed or stille y-rouned.’Thus saugh I fals and sooth compounedTogeder flee for oo tydinge.Thus out at holes gonne wringeEvery tyding streight to Fame;And she gan yeven eche his name,After hir disposicioun,And yaf hem eek duracioun,Some to wexe and wane sone,As dooth the faire whyte mone,And leet hem gon. Ther mighte I seenWenged wondres faste fleen,Twenty thousand in a route,As Eolus hem blew aboute.And, lord! this hous, in alle tymes,Was ful of shipmen and pilgrymes,With scrippes bret-ful of lesinges,Entremedled with tydinges,And eek alone by hem-selve.O, many a thousand tymes twelveSaugh I eek of these pardoneres,Currours, and eek messangeres,With boistes crammed ful of lyesAs ever vessel was with lyes.And as I alther-fastest wenteAboute, and dide al myn ententeMe for to pleye and for to lere,And eek a tyding for to here,That I had herd of som contreeThat shal not now be told for me;—For hit no nede is, redely;Folk can singe hit bet than I;For al mot out, other late or rathe,Alle the sheves in the lathe;—I herde a gret noise withalleIn a corner of the halle,Ther men of love tydings tolde,And I gan thiderward beholde;For I saugh renninge every wight,As faste as that they hadden might;And everich cryed, ‘What thing is that?’And som seyde, ‘I not never what.’And whan they were alle on an hepe,Tho behinde gonne up lepe,And clamben up on othere faste,And up the nose on hye caste,And troden faste on othere helesAnd stampe, as men don after eles.Atte laste I saugh a man,Which that I [nevene] naught ne can;But he semed for to beA man of greet auctoritee….