FullReads

They proined* them, and made them right gay, *preened their feathers
And danc’d and leapt upon the spray;
And evermore two and two in fere,* *together
Right so as they had chosen them to-year* *this year
In Feverere* upon Saint Valentine’s Day. *February

And the river that I sat upon,* *beside
It made such a noise as it ran,
Accordant* with the birde’s harmony, *keeping time with
Me thought it was the beste melody
That might be heard of any man.

And for delight, I wote never how,
I fell in such a slumber and a swow, — *swoon
Not all asleep, nor fully waking, —
And in that swow me thought I hearde sing
The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow;

And that was on a tree right faste by.
But who was then *evil apaid* but I? *dissatisfied
“Now God,” quoth I, “that died on the crois,* *cross
Give sorrow on thee, and on thy lewed voice!
Full little joy have I now of thy cry.”

And as I with the cuckoo thus gan chide,
I heard, in the next bush beside,
A nightingale so lustily sing,
That her clear voice she made ring
Through all the greenwood wide.

“Ah, good Nightingale,” quoth I then,
“A little hast thou been too long hen;* *hence, absent
For here hath been the lewd cuckow,
And sung songs rather* than hast thou: *sooner
I pray to God that evil fire her bren!”* *burn

But now I will you tell a wondrous thing:
As long as I lay in that swooning,
Me thought I wist what the birds meant,
And what they said, and what was their intent
And of their speech I hadde good knowing.

There heard I the nightingale say:
“Now, good Cuckoo, go somewhere away,
And let us that can singe dwelle here;
For ev’ry wight escheweth* thee to hear, *shuns
Thy songes be so elenge,* in good fay.”** *strange **faith

“What,” quoth she, “what may thee all now
It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou,
For my song is both true and plain,
Although I cannot crakel* so in vain, *sing tremulously
As thou dost in thy throat, I wot ne’er how.

“And ev’ry wight may understande me,
But, Nightingale, so may they not do thee,
For thou hast many a nice quaint* cry; *foolish
I have thee heard say, ‘ocy, ocy;’ <3>
How might I know what that should be?”

“Ah fool,” quoth she, “wost thou not what it is?
When that I say, ‘ocy, ocy,’ y-wis,
Then mean I that I woulde wonder fain
That all they were shamefully slain, *die
That meanen aught againe love amiss.

“And also I would that all those were dead,
That thinke not in love their life to lead,
For who so will the god of Love not serve,
I dare well say he is worthy to sterve,* *die
And for that skill,* ‘ocy, ocy,’ I grede.”** *reason **cry

“Ey!” quoth the cuckoo, “this is a quaint* law, *strange
That every wight shall love or be to-draw!* *torn to pieces
But I forsake alle such company;
For mine intent is not for to die,
Nor ever, while I live, *on Love’s yoke to draw.* *to put on love’s yoke*

“For lovers be the folk that be alive,
That most disease have, and most unthrive,* *misfortune
And most endure sorrow, woe, and care,
And leaste feelen of welfare:
What needeth it against the truth to strive?”

“What?” quoth she, “thou art all out of thy mind!
How mightest thou in thy churlishness find
To speak of Love’s servants in this wise?
For in this world is none so good service
To ev’ry wight that gentle is of kind;