Lines 1–256

We redyn ofte, and fynde ywryte,
As clerkes don us to wyte,
The layes that ben of harpyng
Ben yfound of frely thing ;
Sum ben of wele, and sum of wo,
And sum of joy, and merthe also,
Sum of bourdys, and sum of rybaudry,
And sum ther ben of the feyre ;
Sum of trechery, and sum of gyle,
And sum of happes that fallen by while.
Of alle thing that men may se
Moost to lowe forsothe they be.
In Brytayn this layes arne ywrytt,
Furst yfounde, and forthe ygete,
Of aventures that fillen by dayes,
Wherof Brytons made her layes,
When they myght owher heryn
Of aventures that ther weryn,
They toke her harpys with game,
Maden layes, and yaf it name.
Of auntures that han befalle
Y can sum telle, but nought all.
Herken, lordynges, that ben trewe,
And y wol you telle of sir Orphewe.
Orpheo was a ryche kyng,
And in his tyme a grete lordyng
Ful fayr man, and large therto,
And hende, curteis, and hardy also.
His fadre was com of king Pluto,
And his modur cam of queue Juno,
That in tyme wer goddys holden,
For wordys that they dedyn and tolden,
Orpheo most of ony thing
Lovede the gle of harpyng ;
Syker was every gode harpoure
Of hym to have moche honour,
Hymself loved for to harpe,
And layde thereon his wittes scharpe
He lerned so, ther non was
A better harper in no plas.
In the werld was never man born,
That onus Orpheo sat biforn,
And he myght of his harpyng her,
He shulde thinke that he wer
In one of the joys of paradys,
Suche joy and melody in his harpyng is.
Orpheo sugerneth in Crasnes,
That is a cyte of noble defens,
He hath a quene ful feyre of pris,
That is clepyd dam Erodys,
The feyrest woman for the nonys
That myghth be made of flessche and bonys,
All hur here, and hur gode nes,
Myghth no man discryve hur fayrenes.
Hit bifel in tyme of May,
That is mery and lykyng the someris day
Awey ben the wynteris schouris,
And every felde is ful of flouris,
Of blosmes spryngyng on the bowe,
Over all the londe is mery ynowe,
That ilke quene, dame Erodys,
Toke with hur two maydenes of pris,
And walked in the undertyde
To pley in hur orchard-syde,
To se floures sprede and spryng,
And se and here the foulys syng.
They seten hem down all thre,
Fayr under an ympe-tre,
And wel sone the feyr quene
Felled a slepe upon the grene.
The maydenes durst hur not awake,
But bysyde hur mery they can hem make,
And lete hur slepe tyl after none,
That the undertyde was agone ;
And, al so sone as sche can wake,
Sche cryed, and lothly can hur make,
She froted hur hondys and hur fete,
And cracched hur tyll that sche can blede,
Hur ryche clothis sche can ter,
And was wode out of hur wit ther.
The two maydenes that sat bysyde
Durst they non lengur abyde,
But went into the palys ryghth,
And tolde both squyer and knyghth,
That her queue awey wolde go.
Kynghths out went, and ladyes also,
And damsellis fyfty and mony mo,
To set her lady they thought to do,
Into the orchard they wer come,
And had hur up in armes ynome,
And brought hur in bed at the last,
And held hur in ryghth fast ;
But ever sche cryed with grete mode,
And rent hurself as sche wer wode.
When the kyng herd this tydyng,
He was never so wo for no thing.
The kyng com, with knyghthis kene,
Into the chamber to his quene,
And of hur had grete pyte :
Swete hert, he sayde, how may this be ?
That ever yet hast ben so stylle,
And now criest so loude and schrylle ;
Thy body, that was white biforn,
With thy nayles is al to-torn ;
Alas! thy rode that was so rede
Is as wan as ony lede.
Also thy fingris smalle,
They ben al blody and palle.
Alas ! thy lovely yyen two
Loken on me as man on so.
Leve dam, y beseche the mercy,
Lete be al this ruful cry,
And tel me what thing and how
Yif ony thing may help the now.
The lady still es at the last,
And gan to wepe swythe fast,
Tho sche sayde the kyng to,
Alas ! my lord, syr Orpheo,
Seth we togedur were
Never yit wroth we ner,
Ever yit thou hast loved me,
With alle myn hert so have y the ;
And now we schul part atwo,
Do thy best, for ye most go,
Alas ! he seyde, forlorn y am,
Whidur wol thou go and to wham ?
Wher thou comest thou schalt with me,
Whidur thou gost y wyl with thee.
Sir, sche seyde, it may not be this,
I schal you telle how it is :
As y lay this undertyde,
To slepe under the orchard-syde,
Ther com to me two fair knyghtes,
Wele arayde at alle ryghthis,
And bade me come, without lettyng.
To speke with her lord the kyng ;
And y answerde with wordis bolde
That y ne durst, ne y nolde :
Fast agayn they can dryve,
Then com her kyng al so blyve
With a thousand knyghtes and mo,
And with layes fyfty also,
And ryden al on snow-white stedys,
And also white was her wedys
Y sey never seth y was borne
So feyr knygtes me byforne.
The kyng had a crowne on his hede,
It was no selver, ne golde rede,
All it was of precious stone,
As bryght as sunne forsothe it schone.
Al so sone he to me cam,
Wold y, nold ye, he me nam,
And made me with him ryde,
On a whyte palfrey by his syde,
And brought me in to his palys,
Ryght wele ydight over al y wys.
He schewed me castels and touris,
Medewys, ryveres, feldys, and floures,
And his forestes everyche one ;
And seth he brought [me] ayen home,
Into our own orcharde,
And sayde to me this afterwarde :
Loke to-morew that thou be
Here under this ympe-tre ;
And yif thou makest ony lette,
Wherever thou be thou schalt be set,
And to-tore thy lymes alle,
That no thing the help schalle,
And, thaugh thou be so to-tore,
Yit schalt thou awey be bore.
When the kyng herde this case,
Out ! he seyde, and alase
Me were lever to lese my lyfe,
Than to lese the quene my wyfe !
He axed consel of many of man.
But non of hem help hym can.
On the morewe, when tyme came,
The kyng his armes forsoth he name,
And two hundred knyghtes with hym,
Wele yarmed stout and grym ;
With the quene went he,
Into the orchard, under the tre,
Ther made they watche on every syde,
And cast hem there for to byde,
And suffre deth everychon
Er sche schulde from hem gon :
And there anon withouten lette
Among hem all scho was yset,
Awey with the feyre sche was ynome,
Wist non of hem wher scho become.
Ther was ther wepyng and cryeng also,
The king to his chamber can go,
And fel adown on the stone,
He made grete dele and meche mone ;
Wel nye he hed hymself yschent,
He sygh ther was no amendement.
He sende after erle and baroun,
And other lordys of grete renoun ;
And, whan they togeder were,
Lordys, he seyde, that ben here,
Y ordeyne my steward of myn halle
To kepe my londys overalle.
Now y have my quene forlore,
The best lady that ever was bore ;
Y wol never efte woman se,
In wyldernes now wol y be,
And wonne there in holtys here
In wyldernes for evermore.
When ye wyte y am of the world went
Make ye all a parlement,
And do chese you a new kyng,
And do your best in al thing.
Ther was grete sorewe in the halle,
Wepyng and cryeng among hem alle ;
Ther ne myght olde ne yonge
For wepyng speke a worde with tonge.
They knelyd all adown in fer,
And besought hym, yif his wil wer,
That he ne wolde from hem go.
Do wey ! he seyde, y wil not so.
Alle his kyndam he forsoke,
And to hym a sclaveyn anon he toke ;
He ne wolde have non hode,
Hose, ne scho, ne other gode ;
But his harpe he gan take,
And went barfot out at the gate :
Ther most no man with hym go,
Alas ! ther was wepyng and wo.
He that was kyng, and bar the crowne,
Went so porely out of towne,
Into wildernes he gethe,
Bothe throw wode and throw hethe.
Now he is naught at ese,
But now he is at male-ese ;
Now in hard wode he lythe,
With erbis and gras he hym wrythe.
He that had grete plente,
Mete, drynke, and grete dignyte,
Now he most bothe digge and wrote,
Er he have his fille of rote.
In somer he lyveth by hawys,
That on hauthorne growth by schawys ;
And in wynter by rote and rynde,
For other thing may he non fynde.
His body was awey dryve,
With hayle and reyne al to-ryve,
No man coude telle of his sore
That he suffred ten yere and more
He that had castel and toure,
Forest, fryth, bothe felde and flour,
Now hath he nothing that him lyketh,
But wylde bestes that by hym stryketh :
The here of his hede is blak and row,
Benethe his gurdel it ys ygrow.
He taketh his harpe, and maketh hym gle,
And lythe al nyght under a tre.