Geoffrey Chaucer translations 2 by Michael R Burch

"Cantus Troili" from "Troilus and Criseyde" by Petrarch translation by Geoffrey Chaucer modernization by Michael R. Burch If there’s no love, O God, why then, so low? And if love is, what thing, and which, is he? If love is good, whence comes my dismal woe? If wicked, love’s a wonder unto me, When every torment and adversity That comes from him, persuades me not to think, For the more I thirst, the more I itch to drink! And if in my own lust I choose to burn, From whence comes all my wailing and complaint? If harm agrees with me, where can I turn? I know not, all I do is feint and faint! O quick death and sweet harm so pale and quaint, How may there be in me such quantity Of you, ’cept I consent to make us three? And if I so consent, I wrongfully Complain, I know. Thus pummeled to and fro, All starless, lost and compassless, am I Amidst the sea, between two rending winds, That in diverse directions bid me, “Go!” Alas! What is this wondrous malady? For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die. *** The Complaint of Cresseid against Fate Robert Henryson translation by Michael R. Burch O sop of sorrow, sunken into care, O wretched Cresseid, now and evermore Gone is thy joy and all thy mirth on earth! Stripped bare of blitheness and happiness, No salve can save you from your sickness. Fell is thy fortune, wicked thy fate. All bliss banished and sorrow in bloom. Would that I were buried under the earth Where no one in Greece or Troy might hear it! *** In Praise of his Ugly Lady by Thomas Hoccleve translation by Michael R. Burch Of my lady? Well rejoice, I may! Her golden forehead is full narrow and small; Her brows are like dim, reed coral; And her jet-black eyes glisten, aye. Her bulging cheeks are soft as clay with large jowls and substantial. Her nose, an overhanging shady wall: no rain in that mouth on a stormy day! Her mouth is nothing scant with lips gray; Her chin can scarcely be seen at all. Her comely body is shaped like a football, and she sings like a cawing jay. *** The sleeper hood-winked by John Skelton translation by Michael R. Burch With “Lullay! Lullay!” like a child, Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled. “My darling dear, my daisy flower," let me, quoth he, “lie in your lap.” “Lie still,” quoth she, “my paramour,” “Lie still, of course, and take a nap.” His head was heavy, such was his hap! All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep, That of his love he took no keep. Geoffrey Chaucer, translation, Troilus, Criseyde, Petrarch