The Prologue to the Bowge of Courte

In autumpne, whan the sonne in VirgineBy radyante hete enryped hath our corne;Whan Luna, full of mutabylyte,As emperes the dyademe hath worneOf our pole artyke, smylynge halfe in scorneAt our foly and our vnstedfastnesse;The tyme whan Mars to werre hym dyde dres;

I, callynge to mynde the greate auctoryteOf poetes olde, whyche full craftely,Vnder as couerte termes as coude be,Can touche a trouth and cloke it subtyllyWyth fresshe vtteraunce full sentencyously;Dyuerse in style, some spared not vyce to wryte,Some of moralyte nobly dyde endyte;

Wherby I rede theyr renome and theyr fameMaye neuer dye, bute euermore endure:I was sore moued to aforce the same,But Ignoraunce full soone dyde me dyscure,And shewed that in this arte I was not sure;For to illumyne, she sayde, I was to dulle,Auysynge me my penne awaye to pulle,

And not to wryte; for he so wyll atteyneExcedynge ferther than his connynge is,His hede maye be harde, but feble is his brayne,Yet haue I knowen suche er this;But of reproche surely he maye not mys,That clymmeth hyer than he may fotynge haue;What and he slyde downe, who shall hym saue?

Thus vp and down my mynde was drawen and cast,That I ne wyste what to do was beste;So sore enwered, that I was at the lasteEnforsed to slepe and for to take some reste:And to lye downe as soone as I me dreste,At Harwyche Porte slumbrynge as I laye,In myne hostes house, called Powers Keye,

Methoughte I sawe a shyppe, goodly of sayle,Come saylynge forth into that hauen brood,Her takelynge ryche and of hye apparayle:She kyste an anker, and there she laye at rode.Marchauntes her borded to see what she had lode:Therein they founde royall marchaundyse,Fraghted with plesure of what ye coude deuyse.

But than I thoughte I wolde not dwell behynde;Amonge all other I put myselfe in prece.Than there coude I none aquentaunce fynde:There was moche noyse; anone one cryed, Cese!Sharpely commaundynge eche man holde hys pece:Maysters, he sayde, the shyp that ye here see,The Bowge of Courte it hyghte for certeynte:

The owner therof is lady of estate,Whoos name to tell is dame Saunce-pere;Her marchaundyse is ryche and fortunate,But who wyll haue it muste paye therfore dere;This royall chaffre that is shypped hereIs called Fauore, to stonde in her good grace.Than sholde ye see there pressynge in a pace

Of one and other that wolde this lady see;Whiche sat behynde a traues of sylke fyne,Of golde of tessew the fynest that myghte be,In a trone whiche fer clerer dyde shyneThan Phebus in his spere celestyne;Whoos beaute, honoure, goodly porte,I haue to lytyll connynge to reporte.

But, of eche thynge there as I toke hede,Amonge all other was wrytten in her trone,In golde letters, this worde, whiche I dyde rede,Garder le fortune, que est mauelz et bone!And, as I stode redynge this verse myselfe allone,Her chyef gentylwoman, Daunger by her name,Gaue me a taunte, and sayde I was to blame

To be so perte to prese so proudly vppe:She sayde she trowed that I had eten sause;She asked yf euer I dranke of saucys cuppe.And I than softly answered to that clause,That, so to saye, I had gyuen her no cause.Than asked she me, Syr, so God thé spede,What is thy name? and I sayde, it was Drede.

What mouyd thé, quod she, hydder to come?Forsoth, quod I, to bye some of youre ware.And with that worde on me she gaue a glomeWith browes bente, and gan on me to stareFull daynnously, and fro me she dyde fare,Leuynge me stondynge as a mased man:To whome there came an other gentylwoman;

Desyre her name was, and so she me tolde,Sayenge to me, Broder, be of good chere,Abasshe you not, but hardely be bolde,Auaunce yourselfe to aproche and come nere:What though our chaffer be neuer so dere,Yet I auyse you to speke, for ony drede:Who spareth to speke, in fayth he spareth to spede.

Maystres, quod I, I haue none aquentaunce,That wyll for me be medyatoure and mene;And this an other, I haue but smale substaunce.Pece, quod Desyre, ye speke not worth a bene:Yf ye haue not, in fayth I wyll you leneA precyous jewell, no rycher in this londe;Bone Auenture haue here now in your honde.

Shyfte now therwith, let see, as ye can,In Bowge of Courte cheuysaunce to make;For I dare saye that there nys erthly manBut, an he can Bone Auenture take,There can no fauour nor frendshyp hym forsake;Bone Auenture may brynge you in suche caseThat ye shall stonde in fauoure and in grace.

But of one thynge I werne you er I goo,She that styreth the shyp, make her your frende.Maystres, quod I, I praye you tell me why soo,And how I maye that waye and meanes fynde.Forsothe, quod she, how euer blowe the wynde,Fortune gydeth and ruleth all oure shyppe:Whome she hateth shall ouer the see boorde skyp;

Whome she loueth, of all plesyre is ryche,Whyles she laugheth and hath luste for to playe;Whome she hateth, she casteth in the dyche,For whan she frouneth, she thynketh to make a fray;She cheryssheth him, and hym she casseth awaye.Alas, quod I, how myghte I haue her sure?In fayth, quod she, by Bone Auenture.

Thus, in a rowe, of martchauntes a grete routeSuwed to Fortune that she wold be theyre frynde:They thronge in fast, and flocked her aboute;And I with them prayed her to haue in mynde.She promysed to vs all she wolde be kynde:Of Bowge of Court she asketh what we wold haue;And we asked Fauoure, and Fauour she vs gaue.