Le Chevalier au Lion

Yvain or “Le Chevalier au Lion” (The Knight of the Lion) is a romance written about 1175 by Chrestien de Troyes (of whom almost nothing is known). I give some extracts below. These extracts are passages that I find interesting and that I can understand fairly easily.

After a fierce fight Yvain splits Esclados ’s skull. Esclados is fatally injured but Yvain pursues him without mercy:

En la fin, son hiaume escartele
Au chevalier messire Yvains.
Del cop fu estonez et vains
Li chevaliers; mout s’ esmaia,
Qu’ ainz si felon cop n’ essaia,
Qu’ il li ot desoz le chapel
Le chief fandu jusqu’ au cervel,
Tant que del cervel et del sanc
Taint la maille del hauberc blanc,
Don si tres grant dolor santi
Qu’ a po li cuers ne li manti.
S’ il s’ an foï, n’ a mie tort,
Qu’ il se santi navrez a mort;
Car riens ne li valut desfansse.
Si tost s’ an fuit, com il s’ apansse,
Vers son chastel, toz esleissiez,
Et li ponz li fu abeissiez
Et la porte overte a bandon;
Et messire Yvains de randon
Quanqu’ il puet aprés esperone.
Si con girfauz grue randone,
Qui de loing muet et tant l’ aproche
Qu’ il la cuide panre et n’ i toche,
Ensi cil fuit, et cil le chace
Si pres qu’ a po qu’ il ne l’ anbrace,
Et si ne le par puet ataindre;
Et s’ est si pres que il l’ ot plaindre
De la destrece que il sant.

Esclados dies of his wound. His followers are enraged and bewildered when they cannot catch Yvain (who is invisible):

Et disoient: « Ce, que puet estre?
Que ceanz n’ a huis ne fenestre
Par ou riens nule s’ an alast,
Se ce n’ ert oisiax qui volast
Ou escuriax ou cisemus
Ou beste ausi petite ou plus,
Que les fenestres sont ferrees,
Et les portes furent fermees
Lors que mes sire en issi fors;
Morz ou vis est ceanz li cors,
Que defors ne remest il mie.
La sele assez plus que demie
Est ça dedanz, ce veons bien,
Ne de lui ne trovomes rien
Fors que les esperons tranchiez
Qui li cheïrent de ses piez.
Or au cerchier par toz ces engles,
Si lessomes ester ces gengles,
Qu’ ancor est il ceanz, ce cuit,
Ou nos somes anchanté tuit,
Ou tolu le nos ont maufé. »

Laudine, Esclados’s widow, is overcome by grief. Her attendant Lunete urges her to set aside her grief and find a new champion to defend her defenceless kingdom:

« Si feroiz, dame, s’ il vos siet.
Mes or dites, si ne vos griet,
Vostre terre, qui desfandra
Quant li rois Artus i vendra,
Qui doit venir l’ autre semainne
Au perron et a la fontainne?
N’ en avez vos eü message
De la dameisele sauvage
Qui letres vos en anvea?
Ahi! con bien les anplea!
Vos deüssiez or consoil prendre
De vostre fontainne desfandre,
Et vos ne finez de plorer!
N’ i eüssiez que demorer,
S’ il vos pleüst, ma dame chiere,
Que certes une chanberiere
Ne valent tuit, bien le savez,
Li chevalier que vos avez:
Ja par celui qui mialz se prise
N’ en iert escuz ne lance prise.
De gent malveise avez vos mout,
Mes ja n’ i avra si estout
Qui sor cheval monter en ost,
Et li rois vient a si grant ost
Qu’ il seisira tot sanz desfansse. »

Laudine marries Yvain and his adventures continue …

Piers Plowman

Piers Plowman is a Middle English allegorical narrative poem (written apparently by a William Langland). There seem to be three versions of the poem: A, B, and C. My quotes are from the B text. Parts of the poem are very lively. I give some extracts below. The full text of one version of the B text is available here.

Meed, a beautiful richly-dressed woman, speaks in favour of mede (reward, pay, bribery):

“It bicometh to a kyng that kepeth a reaume
To yeve men mede that mekely hym serveth –
To aliens and to alle men, to honouren hem with yiftes;
Mede maketh hym biloved and for a man holden.
Emperours and erles and alle manere lordes
Thorugh yiftes han yonge men to yerne and to ryde.
The Pope and alle prelates presents underfongen
And medeth men hemselven to mayntene hir lawes,
Servaunts for hire servyce, we seeth wel the sothe,
Taken mede of hir maistres, as thei mowe acorde.
Beggeres for hir biddynge bidden men mede.
Mynstrales for hir myrthe mede thei aske.
The Kyng hath mede of his men to make pees in londe.
Men that kenne clerkes craven of hem mede.
Preestes that prechen the peple to goode
Asken mede and massepens and hire mete also.
Alle kyn crafty men craven mede for hir prentices.
Marchaundise and mede mote nede go togideres:
No wight, es I wene, withouten Mede may libbe!”

Gluttony is on his way to church to be shriven but he stops off at the public house for a quick drink of spiced ale:

Now bigynneth Gloton for togoto shrifte,
And kaireth hym to kirkewarde his coupe to shewe.
Ac Beton the Brewestere bad hym good morwe
And asked of hym with that, whiderward he wolde.
“To holy chirche,” quod he, “for to here masse,
And sithen I wole be shryven, and synne na moore.”
” I have good ale, gossib,” quod she, ” Gloton, woltow assaye?”
” Hastow,” quod he, “any hote spices?”
“I have pepir and pione,” quod she, “and a pound of garleek,
A ferthyngworth of fenel seed for fastynge dayes.”
Thanne goth Gloton in, and grete othes after.

When Wastour refuses to work in return for food Piers sets Hunger on Wastour and his companion:

“I was noght wont to werche,” quod Wastour, “and now wol I noght bigynne!”
And leet light of the lawe, and lasse of the knyghte,
And sette Piers at a pese, and his plowgh bothe,
And manaced Piers and his men if thei mette eftsoone.
“Now, by the peril of my soule!” quod Piers, “I shal apeire yow alle!”
And houped after Hunger, that herde hym at the firste.
“Awreke me of thise wastours,” quod he, “that this world shendeth!”
Hunger in haste thoo hente Wastour by the mawe,
And wrong hym so by the wombe that al watrede hise eighen.
He buffetted the Bretoner aboute the chekes
That he loked lik a lanterne al his lif after.
He bette hem so bothe, he brast ner hire guttes;
Ne hadde Piers with a pese-lof preyed Hunger to cesse,
They hadde be dolven bothe — ne deme thow noon oother.
“Suffre hem lyve,” he seide and lat hem ete with hogges,
Or ellis benes and bren ybaken togideres.”

Christ, in the form of light, demands entry at the gates of hell:

Eft the light bad unlouke, and Lucifer answerde,
“Quis est iste?
What lord artow?” quod Lucifer. The light soone seide,
“Rex glorie,
The lord of myght and of mayn and alle manere vertues –
Dominus virtutum.
Dukes of this dymme place, anoon undo thise yates,
That Crist may come in, the Kynges sone of Hevene!”
And with that breeth helle brak, with Belialles barres –
For any wye or warde, wide open the yates.
Patriarkes and prophetes, populus in tenebris,
Songen Seint Johanes song, “Ecce Agnus Dei.”
Lucifer loke ne myghte, so light hym ablente.

Thanks Doctor

Below is another quote from Jean Bodel´s ¨Les Congés¨. One thing I like about this quote is that Bodel sets aside his own suffering to pay tribute to his doctor and friend Jofroi:

Bien ai prové son maïstire:
Nus hon ne l´en porroit aprendre.
Mout li covint grant paine rendre
A ma car sauder et reprendre,
Qui tant est de faible matire:
Comment osa il entreprendre
Tel teste a roisnier et a fendre
Qui ert mauvaise tote entire?

(I have indeed experienced his skill:
No man can teach him anything.
He had to take great trouble
To join and glue again my flesh,
Which is made of such weak matter:
How did he dare undertake
To clip and cut open such a head
Which was rotten to the core?)

Jean Bodel

Jean Bodel was a French poet writing about 1200. In his poem “Les Congés” (Farewells) he writes movingly about the conflict between his sick body and his healthy mind:

Or primes doi men sens declore,
Le cuer ovrir et les ieus clore,
Car il m’ajorne et si m’anuite.

(Now first I must unfold my intelligence,
Open my heart and close my eyes,
Since for me it grows light even as it grows dark.)