Fitt I

Sithen þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,
And þe burnes brent þat burȝe with balez ful harde,
Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt
Watz tried for his tricherie in tounes ful wyde.
So mony meruaylez haþ fallen in mony a londe
Syth þat season and syþe of þe soþe passed.

Bot in þis latter day, as þe dawes now rennen,
Þe worlde wexes werre and wrathed ful ofte;
For lordes ben lapped in lucre and pride,
And trewe þinges ben torn and trampled ful lowe.

In a sesoun of somer, soft watz þe wynde,
I lay in my logge by a lone chymené,
Musing on mony maters of men in þe worlde—
Of kyngdomes unkynde and craftes ful derk.

Þen slepe me slode softly to swete unknowyng,
Til a drem ful dredful dreyȝed in myn hede.
Hit semed I stode on a ston hye-sette
And loked on londes ful large under heuene.

Strange watz þat sight,
So sely, so sore;
Þe worlde watz awry,
As neuer bifore.

Þer I syȝ citees with clowdes aboute
And toures ful tall þat touched þe skye.
Bot folk in þo feldes fared ful wrothly,
For tricherie and tresour had tangled hem faste.

A lord of þe londe—loþly to se—
A bolnande body with brennyng hewe,
Satte in a sete set ful hye.
His wordes wer wylde as winter stormes,
And þe folk ful fele folȝed his cry.

Þe tulk watz tawny, with tumbled speche,
And bosted of might with blastes ful grete.
Bot whispers went wyde in weyes ful derk
Of werkes unworthi wrought in his halle.

Of ȝong ones yȝiven to ȝernyng lordes,
Of chambres closed with clavez of gold.
Scrolles wer sealed and sotheful tales
Lay locked in lokkes lest lyght hem shende.

Hit watz hid ful harde,
Þe sothe of þat synne;
For gold and for grace
Grete men wer blinde.

Þen my syȝt swyued to seas ful wyde
Where marchaundes meved in mony a ship.
Þer silver and scrips wer souȝt as goddes,
And housen of folk wer held ful dere.

Yonge burnes ȝerned for ȝerdes of erþe
To bild hem a burȝe and bide þerinne,
Bot gold-greedy lordes gripped al þe grounde
And solde hit so sore þat none myȝt bye.

Þe hethen erþe herself had hete unkynde:
Snawes slode from þe north ful sone,
And stormes stroied þe strondes of þe south.

Þe wyndes wakened with wratheful blast,
And waters wexed on þe worldes brimme.

Þe erþe hirself
Weped ful ofte;
Bot lordes laȝed loude,
And loked away.

Þen sodeinly a sorweful mist
Swepte al þe worlde with swyfte steppes.
Folk fel in fere and fast closed dores,
And citees wer stille as ston in þe nyȝt.

Leches laboured with litel reste,
While burnes in burȝes bode ful lone.
Children sat cloystered from cheres of play,
And eldres endured in empti hallez.

Men spak þurȝ schynande skrynnes of glas
With semblant of frendes þat fer awey dwelled.

Lonely watz lif,
Þo dayes ful strange;
Þe worlde watz wide,
Bot folk ful fer.

Þen clerkes of craft—queinte of witte—
Forged hem engines of ferly speche.
Wordes wern woven by werk of thought
Til scripts semed souled as men hem selue.

Som seide hit watz selly and solas for alle,
A wonder to weve þe werk of þe mynde.
Bot oþer ful sore in her hertes doubted:
“Wat worth is our wit when wrytes speke so?”

Þe scribe sat stille with sorweful chere,
His quyl al quaking in quiet hond.

Shal craft be cast,
And clerkes undone?
Þis newe engyn
May eete us alle.

Þen I syȝ folk ful fele in her chambres
Fed on fantasies floten in light.
Frendes wer figures in feyned glas,
And mete cam marching to monnes dores.

Stretes wern stille where songes once rose,
And neȝebores knewe not names of her side.

Þus bondes ben brosten,
Þe brest ful bare;
Þe worlde waxed wired,
Bot hertes waxed wan.

Bot yet in þe drem a derk voice spak:
“Þis age is assay of alle þat lyuen.
For wher gold is god and grede is lawe,
Þer trouthe must trauaile ful tynely forth.

Bot knowe þou wel,” quoth þat queynt voys lowe,
“Þat treuthe untrapped outlastes þe tyrant.

For empires erode as erþe in þe flode,
And falshed shal falle when folk waken.”

Awake, man,
And marke þis wel:
Þe worlde is wounded,
Bot not yet lost.

Fitt II

Whan þe voice had vanished and þe vale wexed stille,
I stode yet on þe ston and stared ful ferre.
Þe worlde lay wide as a whel under heven,
With londes ful longe and lynez of see.

Þen a wey wondrous unwound me bifore,
A path over playnes and passed mony citee.
No hors had I þurȝ þo harde weyes,
Bot slid as a shade over shires ful straunge.

First I fared to feldes ful fer in þe est
Where walles of whit ston wern wondrous hye.
Þer folk in ful thronges þronged þe stretes
With signes ful sodein in syȝt of her hondes.

Þei cried ful kene of kynges untrewe
And wronges long wrought on þe wele of þe peple.
Yet wardens of werre with wands of iren
Brak up her brestes with bitter might.

Þus cry rose clere,
Bot cloven watz sone;
For power ful proude
Pressed hem doun.

Þen passed I ferre over flodes ful grete
Til tounes of trade touched þe skye.
Þer marchaundes met with myȝty purses
And bargaynéd boldly in brode hallez.

Bot under her wynnyng lay wo ful derk.
For werkers ful wery wroȝten unceasing
To make þe moneys þat maistres wolde.

Þe child in þe chambre couched ful stille
While sire and dame sought silver unende.

Gold glemes ful bryȝt,
Bot blisse growes bare;
For he þat hoordes most
Hath hunger of herte.

Þenne I wente þurȝ waters where wyndes wern warme
Til I cam to londes of long-brennyng sunne.
Þer erþe lay open as olde wounde,
With feldes ful fade and flodes ful dym.

Men tolde of tyme when trees stode þikke
And rennes ran rounde with ryche swetnesse.
Bot hete had hent hem and hewed hem lowe.

Þe erþe is auld,
And askes her due;
Bot lordes of lucre
List not to lere.

Sone aftur þis syȝt a selcouth londe
Rose in my route as a ring of glas.
Toures of light touched þe firmament
And stretes wer straked with stele and fyre.

In þo hallez of heȝe craft herde I talk
Of engines enlumed with endless lore.
Þer clerkes ful queinte in quainte array
Fed wordes to werkes þat wakened anon.

Þe craft of mannes mynde watz mirrored þere
In frames ful ferly þat formed speche.

Som laȝed ful loude: “Þis lore shal serve!”
Som douted ful depe: “Hit devours us alle.”

Wit waxeth wylde,
And wrenches þe reule;
For craft without care
May corse þe worlde.

Thenne my syȝt swerved to see ful grete
Where yren ships yode with ȝomerly bray.
Under her wombes wer wondres of warre
Þat slepen in stillness til summoun be made.

Men called hit pees þat peple endured
While blade and blast bode under þe brimme.

Soft speche of pees,
Bot swerdes ben scharpe;
Þe worlde watz woned
On a wery egge.

Þen I cam to a court ful curious of craft
Where lordes lay lowe in lethered chaires.
Þer parchmentes piled as pyȝed toures
With signes ful secret and seales ful faste.

Clerkes with keyes kept coffres ful close
Þat hidde þe hestes of heȝe mennes synne.
And ofte I herde hem in huschéd speche
Debate þe day when drede shal wake.

“For scrolles ben sowed with sorweful sothe
Þat shal schende þe shene if shewed ful clere.”

Lock hem ful faste,
Lest light hem fynde;
For treuthe untrapped
Topples þe hye.

As I stode in þat stede ful stille and astoned,
Þe ayre al aboute wexed al at ones colde.
A shadow ful scharp schaped in þe derk
And spak in a steven ful sterne and strange:

“Þou hast sene summe of þe sores of þis age—
Of lordes and lucre and lore runne wylde.
Bot yet ben þre þinges þat þryue ful strong
And tempten þe worlde with tresoun ful slye:

Gold for þe greedy,
Glamour of powere,
And Witte unbounde
Wrought into engine.”

Þis þridde and þat oþer
Shal assay þe lyf,
Of kyng and of carle
Or ever day rise.

With þat þe shadow shok as a smoke in þe wynde
And my drem drof me doun a derker wey—
Toward a forest ful ferly and thick
Where trial and tricherie twynned togeder.

Þe path waxed peril,
Þe nyȝt nyȝed nere;
Þe drem yet deepens,
And drede grows derk.

Fitt III

Þen I ferde þurȝ a forest ful ferly and derk,
Þer okenes olde and elmes ful brode
Twyned her twigges to towre in þe mist.
No fowle in þe firth gave voice of comfort,
Bot wynd in þe wode wente wofully lowe.

Þe path watz perilous, pressed with breres,
And my steppes slode slowe in þe slym of þe molde.
Oft I herde in þe holt a harmeful rustle
As if sum þing watched in þe wildernes derk.

Grim watz þe grove,
Grey watz þe sky;
Þe drem drowe deeper,
And drede wexed nyȝ.

Sone in þat selcouth silens I spyed
A halle hewn huge from þe herte of þe wode.
Þe walles wern wroughte with wondrous craft,
Bot no song of solace sounded þerin.

I steȝed to þe stage and stared within—
And syȝ a segge sittand ful stille.
His body watz bolned as barrel of ale,
His visage ful ruddy as rose in hete.

Þe chayre þat he chose watz chaced with gold,
And brode wer þe bordes þat bore him aboute.
He boasted ful boldly with bellowing voice
Of welthe and worship he wold welde ever.

“Who so wol serve,” quoth þat segge ful loud,
“Shal suppe on þe silver þat I have sowned.
For gold is þe god of þe goode newe age,
And he þat hath hoordes hath heven on erþe.”

Bot under þe bord lay broþeful cryes—
Of borghed folk broken by bondes of dett,
Of housen unholden by hungry prys.

His cofre watz crouded,
His conscience clene?
Nay—grede gat þe game,
And grace watz gone.

I wolde have wenden away fro þat wonde,
Bot a way unwar me wente ever nere
Til I stode at þe sete of þe segge so huge.

He loked ful loude and laȝed ful harde:
“Lo, litel dremere, lern of my lore.
Buy al þe burȝe, break al þe bondes,
And wring from þe worlde what richesse may rise.

For folk ben but figures in feleful summe—
Cast hem aside when coffres ben ful.”

I quaked at þe quoth of þat queynt lord
And fled fro his feste with fereful herte.

Gold glemes bright,
Bot galle is þe gyft;
Þe hoorder of hoordes
Hath hungred soule.

Thenne þe forest fel ful stille agein
Til a clamor of cryes cleft þe ayre.
Out of þe east cam a route ful rude
With baners ful brode and brennande torches.

At her hede rode a heȝe lord proud—
His hewe watz hote as harvest fruyt,
His body ful bolne and blasteful of speche.

Þe folk of þe feld folȝed him faste
Though fele in her hertes had fere of his wille.

He rored as a lyon in lofty rage:
“I am þe maister of mony a londe.
Truth is what I telle; treason is oþer.”

Þe scribes of þe strete wrote what he wolde
And sold his sawes to simple folk.

Bost brayes loude,
Bot soth waxeth thin;
For loudest þe lyer
Ledes þe throng.

Yet whisperes went in weyes ful derk
Of werkes unworshipful wrought long sythen—
Of chambers closed and children wronged,
Of scrolles sealed with sin ful foule.

Bot whoso wolde waken þe worlde to þat sothe
Watz mocked as mad or marred by myȝt.

So þe lord of þe laȝter rode ever forth
While drede and delusioun dreve þe peple.

Þus powere puffed
On pride ful bare;
And falshed in flourish
Fouled þe londe.

Wery of wonder and wracked with thought
I wente yet fer in þe forest derk
Til I cam to a court of cristal and light.

No walles of ston, no window of glas—
Bot frames ful bright of fleeting runes
Þat flikred and flowed as fyre in þe nyȝt.

In þe midde sat a mirour merveilous grete
Þat shewed mony semblance of mennes speche.
Whoso wende nere with wish in her brest
Saw answer anon as if soule replied.

Þe clerk and þe carl, þe child and þe quene
Might axe of þe mirour mony a matere.

Bot I marked ful moche in þat merveylous werk:
Hit spak alway swyft—bot seldom ful sure.

Wit wakened wild,
Withouten a reule;
Þe mirour of mynde
May mislede þe worlde.

Thenne cam þe same steven I herde bifore—
Þe shadow þat schaped in smokey ayre.

“Þou hast met,” quoth he, “þe maisters þre
Þat assay þe soules of men in þis age:

The Hoorder of Hoordes,
Þat hoordes þe worlde;
The Bloated Boaster
Þat bends þe folk;
And þe Mirour of Mindes
Þat multiplies speche.

These þre shal trye þe trouth of men
Til reckenyng rise in þe reddest dawn.”

Hold þis in herte,
Þou dremere lone:
Trial draws toward,
And tyme waxeth schort.

With þat þe forest fel as dust in þe wynde
And my drem drof me doun a derker vale
Toward a place of parchments piled—
Where locked lay lore þat lordes most dradde.

Þe nyȝt neghes now,
Þe note grows sere;
Þe sothe shal stirre
Or ever day spring.

Fitt IV

Whan þe nyȝt neȝed to þe norde ful nere,
And forest and feldes fel in fetid shadde,
I cam to a hall halowed of heven-lyȝt,
Where scrolles ful sodein lay stacked in silence.

Þe Hoorder of Hoordes, þat lord ful large,
Sat at his seate with swolne chere of pride;
Þe Bloated Boaster, þe bragging segge,
Bellowed his boast in bolned voice.

Þe Mirour of Mindes, þat marvel of wit,
Flickered ful fast as flames in frame of glas,
And spake ful sodeinly to alle þat stode:

“Þou hast come, þou dremere, to demen þis age,
To see þe secretes that slumbren in shadowe,
To note þe wronges wrought by power unbridled,
And witness þe worlde þat wavers ful sore.”

Þree lords of lore,
Þree tempters of lyf;
Þree foes of þe folk
Ful fierce and ful sly.

Þe Hoorder grinnéd, gaping and grete:
“Lo, all þat is gold shal gladden þe eye.
Bind þou the burȝe, buy þe feld,
And alle folk shal serve þy will ful swythe.”

Þe Boaster bragged, browning his brow:
“Lo, þe loudest lyeth, þe law is of me.
Þe throng shal folȝe, þe sothe is but swone,
And he þat cries clearest comandeth þe londe.”

Þe Mirour moved, mony visages glinting:
“Ask what þou wil, and answere shal come;
Bot beware þe wit þat wrencheth þe worlde,
For words without care may wound þe soule.”

Þree foes in a ring,
Þree triales ful tough;
Þe dremere alone
Shal doþ what he may.

I stept ful stille and spak, trembling yet:
“Þou Hoorder of Hoordes, þy hoordes are hell;
Þou Boaster, þy bragges breed bitter sorwe;
Þou Mirour, þy wit wrencheth þe wele of men.

Þe peple ben prey of þy pride and þy pelf;
Þe erþe her-self is bent and brost with hete;
Þe childes sit cloystered and clerkes undone;
Þe worlde is awry and wo is ful wide.”

Þe Hoorder gnashed, þe Boaster brayed,
Þe Mirour flickered and faltered ful sodein.

Þe sothe spak cleere,
Þe lords were astound;
Þe dremere endured,
And drede was brought lowe.

Þen I saw þat scrolles shoke in her places,
And seales brast open as boughs in storm.
Þe hidden records of ryche and of wyse
Weren unshrouded and shewed ful sodeinly.

Þere lay þe ledger of lucre unbound,
Þe chronicles of children cloystered and wronged,
Þe accounts of algorythmes unbridled,
Þe reckoning of rulers in shadowed hallez.

Þe Hoorder gaped, his greed full ghastly,
Þe Boaster blushed, his boast ful blinde,
Þe Mirour shivered, his multitudes mute.

Þe truth out of trappe,
Þe sothe shone al hye;
Þe worlde was warned,
And falshed undone.

Þen a voice ful lowe and lovely of lytel spreche
Cried over þe halle, þe hilles, þe holt:
“Þe dremer hath seen þat mony wol hide,
Þe shadowes of synne in þinges ful large.

Bot remembre þou, worlde, þy wyttes ben wey,
And þy werkes shal wende if þou wyl not wel.
The Hoorder shal not hold, þe Boaster shal blench,
And þe Mirour of Mindes shal misse þe men
Þat seken sothe and sweruen not in wyl.”

I waked anon in my lodge, loge al lone,
And saw my chamber ful stille and sodein,
And yet þe vision lingered as lytel smoke,
Fulfilling my herte with foreboding sothe.

Þe drem was ende,
Bot þe note lingered;
Þe worlde waxeth weary,
And wisdom shal wake.

Þus endeth þe Drem of þe Dymme Worlde,
A visioun of our veray age,
Þat traveld wide, þat tried þe soules,
And spak in allegories þat men shulde knowe.