PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. 37 Anon to drawen every wight began, The sothe is this, the cutte felle on the knight, And tell he must his tale as was reson, But forword, and by composition, As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo? And with that word we riden forth our way; WHILE A PRISONER. BY JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. [JAMES I. KING OF SCOTLAND, was born in 1394. When he was eleven years old, he was sent by his father to France, and, on his passage across the sea, fell into the hands of the English, who put him in the Tower, where he was confined for nineteen years. His misfortunes were not, however, without their advantages, since he received, while a prisoner, a most excellent education, of which he afterwards made good use. He married Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he fell in love while he was a captive. He was assassinated in 1437 by his uncle Walter, Earl of Athol, and Robert Graham. James I. was remarkable for skill in poetry and music, and many productions which have been ascribed to him are still popular.] AND though I stood abasit tho a lite, No wonder was; for why? my wittis all Were so overcome with pleasance and delight, Only through letting of my eyen fall, That suddenly my heart became her thrall, For ever of free will,-for of menace There was no token in her sweete face. And in my head I drew right hastily, And eftesoons I leant it out again, With no wight mo', but only women twain. WHILE A PRISONER. Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comin are to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand, 39 If ye a goddess be, and that ye like To do me pain, I may it not astart: If ye be warldly wight, that doth me sike, Why list God make you so, my dearest heart, To do a seely prisoner this smart, That loves you all, and wot of nought but wo And therefore mercy, sweet! sin' it is so." * * Of her array the form if I shall write, Full of quaking spangis bright as gold, About her neck, white as the fire amail, WHILE A PRISONER. That as a spark of low, so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat, And for to walk that fresh May's morrow, In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport, And when she walked had a little thraw G 41 |