Geoffrey Chaucer

“ Take her of Anelida and Arcite,
That for her liste him "dere herte' calle
And was so meke, therfor he loved her lyte.
The kynde of mannes herte is to delyte
In thing that straunge is, also God me save!
For what he may not gete, that wolde he have.
Now turne we to Anelida ageyn,
That pyneth day be day in langwisshinge,
But when she saw that her ne gat no geyn,
Upon a day, ful sorowfully wepinge,
She caste her for to make a compleynynge,
And of her owne hond she gan hit write,
And sente hit to her Theban knyght, Arcite.
The compleynt of Anelida the quene upon fals Arcite. ”

“ So that she wende have al his hert yknowe;
But he was fals; hit nas but feyned chere
As nedeth not to men such craft to lere.
But nevertheles ful mykel besynesse
Had he er that he myghte his lady wynne,
And swor he wolde dyen for distresse
Or from his wit he seyde he wolde twynne.
Alas, the while! For hit was routhe and synne
That she upon his sorowes wolde rewe;
But nothing thinketh the fals as doth the trewe. ”

“ Antistrophe Lo, herte myn, al this is for to seyne
As whether shal I preve or elles pleyne?
Which is the wey to doon yow to be trewe?
For either mot I have yow in my cheyne
Or with the deth ye mote departe us tweyne;
Ther ben non other mene weyes newe.
For God so wisly upon my soule rewe,
As verrayly ye sleen me with the peyne;
That may ye se unfeyned of myn hewe.
For thus ferforth have I my detb [y-] soght?
Myself I mordre with my privy thoght;
For sorowe and routhe of your unkyndenesse
I wepe, I wake, I faste; al helpeth noght ”