Bodleian Library MS Fairfax 16

I mene thus, that in al honeste With oute more, ye may to gedre speke What so yow list, at good liberte That eche may to other, her hert breke on jelosie oonly, to be wreke that hath so longe, of his malice and envie Werred trouthe, with his tiranye

Princes pleseth, hit your benignite // Lenvoye this litil dite, to have in mynde of womanhede, also for to se your trew man, may su[m]me mercie fynde And pite eke, that longe hath be hynde Let ayein, be p[ro]voked to grace For by my trouthe, hit is ayens kynde Fals daunger[us], to occupie his place

Go litel quayre, go un to my lyves quene // L'envoye / de quare And my verry, hertis sovereigne And be ryght glad, for she shal the sene Such is thi grace, but I alas in peyne Am left behinde, and not to whom to pleyn For mercie routhe, grace and eke pite exiled be, that I may not ateyne recure to fynde, of hym adversite

The compleynt of Analida the quene upon fals Arcite

Nota So thirled with the poynt, of Reme[m]braunce the suerde of sorowe, y whet with fals plesaunce My hert bare of blis, and blake of hewe that turned is to quakyng al my daunce my suerte, in to a waped countenaunce sith hit availeth not, to ben trewe for who so truest is, hit shal him rewe that serveth love, and dothe her obs[er]vaunce Alwey to oon, and chaungeth for no newe

I wot my self, as wel as eny wight For I loued oon, with al my hert and myght more then my self, an .C. ml. sithe And cleped him, my hertis life, my knyght And was al his, as fer as hit was ryght And when that he was glad, then was I blithe And his disese, was my deth as swithe And he ayein, his trouthe me had I plyght For every more, his lady be to kythe

Alas now hath he, left me causeless and of my wo, he is so routheles that with a worde, him list not ones deyne to bring ayen, my sorowful hert in pes for he is caght up, in a nother les ryght as me list, he laugheth at my peyne and I ne can, myn hert not restreyne that I ne love him alway, nevere theles And of al this, I not to whom me pleyne

And shal I pleyn, alas the hard stounde Un to my foo, that yafe my hert a wounde and yet desireth, that myn harme be more Nay certis ferther, wol I never be founde non other helpe, my sores for to sounde My destany, hath shapen hit yore I wil non other medecyne, ne lore I wil ben ay, ther I was ones bounde that I have seide, be seide for ever more

Alas wher is become, your gentilesse youre wordes ful of plesaunce, and humblesse youre observa[u]nces, in soo low manere And your awayting, and your besynesse upon me that ye calden, your maistresse your sovereigne lady, in this worlde ne here Alas is ther nother, worde ne chere ye vouchesafe, upon myn hevynesse Alas youre love, I bye hit al to dere

Now certis

Now certis suete, thogh that ye thus causeles, the causer be of my dedely, adversyte your manly reson, oght hit to respite to sleue your frende, and namely me that never yet, in no degre offended you, as wisly he That al wote, out of wo my soule quyte

But for I shewed, yow Arcite al that men wolde, to me write and was so besy, you to delyte my honor safe, meke kynde and fre therfor ye put, on me the wite and of me rek, not a myte thogh the suerde, of sorow byte my woful hert, thro your cruelte

My suete foo, why do ye so for shame and thenke ye, that furthered be your name to love a newe, and ben untrew, nay and put you, in sclaunder now, and blame and do to me, adversite, and grame that love you most, god, wel thou wost alway yet come ayen, and be al pleyn so[m]me day and ture al this, that hath be mys, to game and al for yeve, while that I lyve, may

Lo hert myn, al this is for to seyn as wheder shal I prey, or elles pleyn whiche is the wey, to doon yow to be trewe for either mot I have yow, in my cheyn or with the dethe, ye mot dep[ar]te us tweyn ther ben non other mene, weyes newe for god so wisly, upon my soule rewe as verrely ye sleen me, with the peyn that may ye se, unfeyned of myn hewe

For thus ferforthe, have I my dethe soght

My self I mo[r]dre, with my prevy thoght for sorowe and routhe, of your unkyndnesse I wepe, I wake, I fast, al helpeth noght I weyve joy, that is to speke of oght I voyde companye, I fle gladnesse who may avaunt her bet[er], of hevynesse then I and to this plyte, have ye me broght with out gift, me nedeth no witnesse

And shal I prey, and weyve womanhede nay rather dethe, then do so foule a dede and axe mercie, giltles what nede and yf I pleyn, what lyfe I lede yow rekketh not, that know I out of drede and if I to yow, myn othes bede for myn excuse, a skorne shal be my mede your chere floureth, but wol not sede ful longe agoon, I oght to have take hede

For thogh I had yow, to morowe ageyn I myght as wel, holde apprile fro reyn as holde yow, to make yow be stidfast almyghty god, of trouthe sovereigne wher is the trouthe of man who hath hit slayn who that hem loveth, she shal hem fynde as fast as in tempest is, a roten mast this that a tame best, that is ay feyn to renne away, when he is left agast

Now mercie suete, yf I myssey have I seyde oght, amys I prey I not my wit, is al a wey I fare as dothe the songe, of chaunt plure for now I pleyn, and now I pley I am so mased, that I dey Arcite hath borne, a wey the key of al my worlde, and my good aventure

For in this worlde, ther is no creature

Wakynge in more discomfiture then I me more, sorowe enure and yf I slepe, a furlonge wey other twey then thenketh me, that your figure be fore me stout, clad in asure to suere yet este, a newe asure for to be trew, and mercie me to prey

The longe nyght, this wonder sight, I drye and on the day, for this afray, I dye and of al this, ryght noght I wis, ye reche ne nevere mo, myn yen two, be drie and to your routhe, and to your trouthe, I crie but welawey, to fer be they, to feche thus holdeth me, my destany a wreche but me to rede, out of this drede, or guye ne may my wit, so weyke is hit not streche

Then ende I thus, sith I may do no more I yf hit up for now, and ever more for I shal never este, put in balaunce my sekernes, ne lerne of love the lore but as the swan, I have herd seyd ful yore ayains his dethe, shal sing his penanaunce so singe I here, my destany or chaunce how that Arcite, Analida to sore hath thirled, with the poynt of remembraunce

Explicit

The compleynt feire Anelida and fals Arcite

Thou fers god of Armes, Mars the rede that in the frosty contre, called Trace within thy grisly temples ful of drede honoured art, as patroun of that place With thy Bellona, Pallas ful of grace be present and my songe, co[n]tynew and guye at my begynnyng, this I to the crye