Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 3.pdf/74

52

By means of drugs, strong, clear, and fine,

To bring to end this art divine.

But this alone is for the ken

Of learned and right worthy men,

Who labour hard, nor seek to shirk

The perfecting of Nature’s work.

Quacks and impostors strive in vain,

To them her marvels sealed remain.

Then busy Nature, whose desire

Is ever to keep bright the fire

Of life in all her works, raised high

Her voice and wept so plaintively,

That not a piteous heart and tender

Beats but would fain its tribute render

To her deep grief, the which so keen

And deep was for one fault I ween,

That prompting strong, she felt to shirk

Her duties and forego her work,

But that she greatly feared offence

To give her lord by indolence.

It little needs to seek what thing

Upon her heart such suffering

And misery brought. Gladly would I

Apply myself ententively

All Nature to describe to you

Deemed I my wit sufficed thereto.

My wit! alas! what have I said?

For none of those wise men, long dead,

Great Aristotle or Plato,

Who knew far more than most men know,

Either by written word or speech,

Could unto that great secret reach;