By Geoffrey Chaucer
Scog 1 Tobroken been the statutz hye in hevene
Scog 2 That creat were eternally to dure,
Scog 3 Syth that I see the bryghte goddis sevene
Scog 4 Mowe wepe and wayle, and passioun endure,
Scog 5 As may in erthe a mortal creature.
Scog 6 Allas, fro whennes may thys thing procede,
Scog 7 Of which errour I deye almost for drede?
Scog 8 By word eterne whilom was it shape
Scog 9 That fro the fyfte sercle, in no manere,
Scog 10 Ne myght a drope of teeres doun escape.
Scog 11 But now so wepith Venus in hir spere
Scog 12 That with hir teeres she wol drenche us here.
Scog 13 Allas! Scogan, this is for thyn offence;
Scog 14 Thow causest this diluge of pestilence.
Scog 15 Hastow not seyd, in blaspheme of the goddis,
Scog 16 Thurgh pride, or thrugh thy grete rekelnesse,
Scog 17 Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is,
Scog 18 That, for thy lady sawgh nat thy distresse,
Scog 19 Therfore thow yave hir up at Michelmesse?
Scog 20 Allas! Scogan, of olde folk ne yonge
Scog 21 Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tonge.
Scog 22 Thow drowe in skorn Cupide eke to record
Scog 23 Of thilke rebel word that thow hast spoken,
Scog 24 For which he wol no lenger be thy lord.
Scog 25 And, Scogan, though his bowe be nat broken,
Scog 26 He wol nat with his arwes been ywroken
Scog 27 On the, ne me, ne noon of oure figure;
Scog 28 We shul of him have neyther hurt ne cure.
Scog 29 Now certes, frend, I dreed of thyn unhap,
Scog 30 Lest for thy gilt the wreche of Love procede
Scog 31 On alle hem that ben hoor and rounde of shap,
Scog 32 That ben so lykly folk in love to spede.
Scog 33 Than shal we for oure labour have no mede;
Scog 34 But wel I wot, thow wolt answere and saye,
Scog 35 “Lo, olde Grisel lyst to ryme and playe!”
Scog 36 Nay, Scogan, say not so, for I m’ excuse —
Scog 37 God helpe me so! — in no rym, dowteles,
Scog 38 Ne thynke I never of slep to wake my muse,
Scog 39 That rusteth in my shethe stille in pees.
Scog 40 While I was yong, I put hir forth in prees;
Scog 41 But al shal passe that men prose or ryme;
Scog 42 Take every man hys turn, as for his tyme.
Scog 43 Scogan, that knelest at the stremes hed
Scog 44 Of grace, of alle honour and worthynesse,
Scog 45 In th’ ende of which strem I am dul as ded,
Scog 46 Forgete in solytarie wildernesse —
Scog 47 Yet, Scogan, thenke on Tullius kyndenesse;
Scog 48 Mynne thy frend, there it may fructyfye!
Scog 49 Far-wel, and loke thow never eft Love dyffye.