Complaynt D'Amours*
I who am the most sorrowful man that ever yet lived in this world, who least knows a remedy for myself, thus begin my mortal lament against her who can bring me either life or death, but has no mercy or pity on her truest lover, and slays me for my fidelity.
I can do or say nothing to please you. For, alas and alack, surely it pleases you to laugh when I sigh, and thus you banish me from all my bliss! You have cast me on that pitiless isle from which never anyone can escape alive. This I have for loving you, sweet heart.
True it is and well I know, probably, that if it were possible to measure your beauty and goodness, I ought not to wonder even if you cause me woe; since I, the most unworthy man riding or walking on earth, dare always to place my thoughts so high, what wonder if you should show me no favor!
Alas, thus is my life finished! My death, I see, is my fate! Well may I sing, “In sorry time I spend my life!”*– damned be that song! For all my deadly plight, I say, it was mercy, pity, deep affection that made me in all my sorrow to love you dearly.
And thus in despair, I live in love – no, but in despair I die! But shall I thus forgive you my death, you who without cause makes me suffer this sorrow? Yes, surely, I! For she has nothing to do with my folly, though she may cause my death. It is not by her will that I serve her!
Then since I am cause of my own sorrow, and since I endure this without her permission, then very briefly in a few words I may say it is no blame to her womanhood though such a wretch as I perish for her. Yet two things at all times slay me; that is to say, her beauty and my eyes.
So she is nevertheless the very root of my dismay and of my death as well. For with one word she might heal me, if she would promise to do so. Why then does she find gladness in my misery? It is her custom to find pleasure in seeing her servants die for her sake!
But surely, what makes me wonder most is this: since she is, in my judgment, the fairest creature that ever lived, the most benign and the best also that nature has created or shall as long as the world may last, why has she left Pity behind her this way. It was, in truth, a great fault in Nature.
Yet, by God, this is no defect in my lady; I would sorely blame only God or Nature. For though she may show me no pity, I ought not despise my lady’s game, since she does likewise to other men. It is her pastime to laugh when men sigh; and I assent to all that gives her pleasure.
Yet, so far as I dare, I would with sorrowful heart beseech your gentle womanhood, that I might now venture to make known by words my sharp and bitter sorrow, so that for once you would read my complaint, about which I have been so fearful if through my ignorance I have said here any word to displease you.
As I hope for God’s salvation, it would be the most hateful to me of all things to say a thing which might anger you. And to that day when I shall be laid in my grave you shall never find a truer servant. And though I have complained against you, forgive it me, my own dear lady!
I have ever been, and ever shall be, however I journey on, either to life or to death, your humble, true man. You are to me my beginning and end, the sun which illumines the bright and shining star.* By God and my word, it is my intent always and anew to love you freshly. Live or die, I will never repent of it!
I write this complaint, this woeful song and lament, on Saint Valentine’s Day, when every bird shall choose his mate,* to her whose I am wholly and ever shall be, her who has never yet given me her mercy. And yet I will serve her evermore and love her best, though she may let me perish.
Explicit.
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1 This poem, The Complaint of Love (or The Lover's Complaint), like the one above and the two below, is not fully accepted as authentically Chaucer’s own work.
2 In sorry…life. This is the beginning of a little-known short contemporary poem that might be translated as follows: “My life is spent in sorry (sorrowful) time, and ever so I languish more and more, and even more still; until it is amended, I may not live; I am but lost, if I may not be granted her love; for surely I know it well.”
3 Star. Probably Venus, since the next line mentions love.
4 Saint Valentine’s Day . . . mate. As noted also in “The Complaint of Mars,” this is the subject of Chaucer’s Parliament of Fowls.
Translated and Edited by Gerard NeCastro
© Copyright, 2007, All Rights Reserved
Citation. Chaucer, Geoffrey. Complaynt D'Amours. NeCastro, Gerard, ed. and trans. eChaucer: https://www.echaucer.com. [Site Visit Date.]
