1The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
2Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering,
3The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne,
4Al this mene I by love, that my feling
5Astonyeth with his wonderful worching
6So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,
7Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.
8For al be that I knowe nat love in dede,
9Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,
10Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede
11Of his miracles, and his cruel yre;
12Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre,
13I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,
14But God save swich a lord! I can no more.
15Of usage, what for luste what for lore,
16On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde.
17But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore
18Agon, hit happed me for to beholde
19Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde;
20And ther-upon, a certeyn thing to lerne,
21The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne.
22For out of olde feldes, as men seith,
23Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere;
24And out of olde bokes, in good feith,
25Cometh al this newe science that men lere.
26But now to purpos as of this matere–
27To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,
28That al the day me thoughte but a lyte.
29This book of which I make of mencioun,
30Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle,
31'Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun.';
32Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and helle,
33And erthe, and soules that therinnr dwelle,
34Of whiche, as shortly as I can hit trete,
35Of his sentence I wol you seyn the grete.
36First telleth hit, whan Scipion was come
37In Afrik, how he mette Massinisse,
38That him for Ioye in armes hath y nome.
39Than telleth hit hir speche and al the blisse
40That was betwix hem, til the day gan misse;
41And how his auncestre, African so dere,
42Gan in his slepe that night to him appere.
43Than telleth hit that, fro a sterry place,
44How African hath him Cartage shewed,
45And warned him before of al his grace,
46And seyde him, what man, lered other lewed,
47That loveth comun profit, wel y-thewed,
48He shal unto a blisful place wende,
49Ther as Ioye is that last withouten ende.
50Than asked he, if folk that heer be dede
51Have lyf and dwelling in another place;
52And African seyde, 'ye, withoute drede,'
53And that our present worldes lyves space
54Nis but a maner deth, what wey we trace,
55And rightful folk shal go, after they dye,
56To heven; and shewed him the galaxye.
57Than shewed he him the litel erthe, that heer is,
58At regard of the hevenes quantite;
59And after shewed he him the nyne speres,
60And after that the melodye herde he
61That cometh of thilke speres thryes three,
62That welle is of musyk and melodye
63In this world heer, and cause of armonye.
64Than bad he him, sin erthe was so lyte,
65And ful of torment and of harde grace,
66That he ne shulde him in the world delyte.
67Than tolde he him, in certeyn yeres space,
68That every sterre shulde come into his place
69Ther hit was first; and al shulde out of minde
70That in this worlde is don of al mankinde.
71Than prayde him Scipioun to telle him al
72The wey to come un-to that hevene blisse;
73And he seyde, 'know thy-self first immortal,
74And loke ay besily thou werke and wisse
75To comun profit, and thou shalt nat misse
76To comen swiftly to that place dere,
77That ful of blisse is and of soules clere.
78But brekers of the lawe, soth to seyne,
79And lecherous folk, after that they be dede,
80Shul alwey whirle aboute therthe in peyne,
81Til many a world be passed, out of drede,
82And than, for-yeven alle hir wikked dede,
83Than shul they come unto that blisful place,
84To which to comen god thee sende his grace!'–
85The day gan failen, and the derke night,
86That reveth bestes from her besinesse,
87Berafte me my book for lakke of light,
88And to my bedde I gan me for to dresse,
89Fulfild of thought and besy hevinesse;
90For bothe I hadde thing which that I nolde,
91And eek I ne hadde that thing that I wolde.
92But fynally my spirit, at the laste,
93For-wery of my labour al the day,
94Took rest, that made me to slepe faste,
95And in my slepe I mette, as I lay,
96How African, right in the selfe aray
97That Scipioun him saw before that tyde,
98Was comen and stood right at my bedes syde.
99The wery hunter, slepinge in his bed,
100To wode ayein his minde goth anoon;
101The Iuge dremeth how his plees ben sped;
102The carter dremeth how his cartes goon;
103The riche, of gold; the knight fight with his foon;
104The seke met he drinketh of the tonne;
105The lover met he hath his lady wonne.
106Can I nat seyn if that the cause were
107For I had red of African beforn,
108That made me to mete that he stood there;
109But thus seyde he, 'thou hast thee so wel born
110In loking of myn olde book to-torn,
111Of which Macrobie roghte nat a lyte,
112That somdel of thy labour wolde I quyte!'–
113Citherea! thou blisful lady swete,
114That with thy fyr-brand dauntest whom thee lest,
115And madest me this sweven for to mete,
116Be thou my help in this, for thou mayst best;
117As wisly as I saw thee north-north-west,
118When I began my sweven for to wryte,
119So yif me might to ryme and endyte!