Quia Amore Langueo

In a valey of this restles minde
I soughte in mounteine and in mede,
Trustinge a trewe love for to finde.
Upon an hill than I took hede;
A voice I herde, and neer I yede,
In huge dolour complaininge tho,
‘See, dere soule, how my sides blede,
Quia amore langueo.’

Upon this hill I fond a tree,
Under the tree a man sittinge;
From heed to foot wounded was he;
His herte blood I segh bledinge;
A semely man to ben a king,
A graciouse face to loken unto.
I askede why he had peininge.
He seide ‘Quia amore langueo.

‘I am true love that fals was nevere;
My sister, mannes soule, I loved her thus;
Because we wolde in no wise discevere,
I lefte my kingdom glorious.
I purveide for her a paleis precious;
Sche fleith, I folowe, I soughte her so;
I suffrede this peine piteuous,
Quia amore langueo.

‘I crowned her with bliss, and sche me with thorn;
I ledde her to chaumber, and sche me to die;
I broughte her to worschipe, and sche me to scorn;
I dide her reverence, and sche me vilonie.
To love that loveth is no maistrie.
Her hate made nevere my love her fo.
Axe me no questioun why,
Quia amore langueo.

‘I wole abide till sche be redy;
I wole her sue if sche seie nay;
If sche be recheless, I wole be gredy,
And if sche be daungerus, I wole her praie.
If sche wepe, that hide I ne may,
Mine armes her hired to clippe her me to,
Crie oones, ‘I come;’ now, soule, asay!
Quia amore langueo.

‘I sitte on this hill for to see fer;
I loke into the valey my spouse to see;
Now renneth sche awayward, yet come sche me neer,
For out of my sighte may sche not flee.
Summe waite her pray to make her to flee;
I renne bifore, and fleme her fo.
Returne, my spouse, ayen to me,
Quia amore langueo.

‘Fair love, lete us go pleye!
Apples ben ripe in my gardaine.
I schal thee clothe in a newe aray;
Thy mete schall be milk, hony, and win.
Fair love, lete us go digne!
Thy sustenaunce is in my crippe, lo!
Tarie thou not, my faire spouse mine,
Quia amore langueo.

‘If thou be foul, I schall thee make clene;
If thou be sik, I schall thee hele;
If thou moorne ought, I schall thee meene.
Why wolt thou not, fair love, with me dele?
Foundest thou evere love so leel?
What woldest thou, spouse, that I schulde do?
I may not unkindely thee appele,
Quia amore langueo.

‘What schall I do with my fair spouse,
But abide her of my gentilness,
Till that sche loke out of her house
Of fleischly affeccioun? Love mine sche is.
Her bed is made, her bolster is bliss,
Her chaumber is chosen; is there none mo?
Loke out on me at the window of kindeness,
Quia amore langueo.

‘My love is in her chaumber. Hold youre pees;
Make ye no noise, but lete her slepe.
My babe I wolde not were in disese;
I may not heere my dere child wepe.
With my pap I schall her kepe.
Ne merveille ye not though I tend her to.
This hole in my side had nevere be so depe
But quia amore langueo.

‘Longe thou for love nevere so high,
My love is more than thine may be;
Thou wepest, thou gladest, I sitte thee by,
Yet woldest thou oones, leef, loke unto me!
Schulde I alwey fede thee
With children mete? Nay, love, not so!
I wole preve thy love with adversite,
Quia amore langueo.

‘Wexe not wery, mine owne wife!
What mede is it to live evere in coumfort?
In tribulacioun I regne moore rife
Oftetimes than in disport.
In wele and in wo I am ay to supporte.
Mine owne wife, go not me fro!
Thy meede is marked whan thou art mort,
Quia amore langueo.’