The Evening of Life

Ye gallant knights, ye ladies sweet,
Now hath it come to pass that ye
With fuller hand must offer me
Honour and salutation meet.
I have still better right to claim this than of yore;
Give ear, and I will tell you why.
Quite forty years I have sung of love, or even more,
And sung as one should do aright.
Then I was glad thereof and fain:
Now mirth has passed from me to you.
My Love-song be your guide thereto,
And be your favour all I gain!

Let me go, with a staff to aid,
And see if honour may be won,
As from my childhood I have done,
With constant toil, all undismayed.
Ye still must grant me honour, be I ne'er so low;
I'm high enough in my degree.
Sore does that vex base minds; doth it degrade me? No!
Good men esteem me all the more.
Such worth does lasting honour lend
That highest praise to it we give;
A worthier life no man could live
Than he who's true until the end.

World, I have marked that meed of thine!
Thou takest all thy gifts from me.
Naked we all depart from thee.
Think shame, if such a fate be mine!
Then would I venture soul and body for thy sake —
'Twas far too much! — time and again.
Worn out am I; now of my years a scoff dost make;
If I wax wroth, dost laugh in scorn.
Nay, laugh, then, laugh a moment more!
Thy day of doom will come anon,
Take from thee all that thou hast won,
And for thy sins will burn thee sore.

May fortune fair my soul befall!
To many a dame and many a knight
Here on this earth I brought delight;
Would I could save myself withal!
Praise I this earthly love of ours, that grieves the soul;
"'Tis all a lie; I rave," it says;
"Sure is True Love alone," it says, "and sound and whole,
And doth for evermore endure."
The love that leaves thee, leave thou too,
O body! Hold this True Love fast!
What thou hast craved, I see at last
That 'tis not perfect through and through.

I chose me out an image fair;
That e'er I saw it, to my wrong,
Alas, or spake with it so long!
Beauty and speech no more are there.
Some marvel dwelt therein; I know not where it flew,
But straight that image was struck dumb.
So dungeon-drab became its rose-and-lily hue
That scent and sheen did fade and go.
If prisoned in thee here I bide,
Mine Image, let me out, that we
Joyous together yet may be;
For I must once more come inside.