A COMPLEINT TO HIS LADY - II A LAMENT TO HIS LADY - II
Geoffrey Chaucertrans. Peter Dean
The sore spark of peyne doth me spille;
This Love hath eek me set in swych a place
That my desyr he never wol fulfille;
For neither pitee, mercy, neither grace
Can I nat finde; and fro my sorwful herte,
For to be deed, I can hit nat arace.
The more I love, the more she doth me smerte;
Through which I see, with-oute remedye,
That from the deeth I may no wyse asterte;
For this day in her servise shal I dye.
 The sharp affliction’s tearing me apart;
Such are the terms this Love has placed on me
That my desire will always be athwart;
For neither pity, mercy, bonhomie
I find; and neither from my grieving mind
Can banish thoughts of death’s autonomy.
The more I love, the more she is unkind;
From which I see, with no hope of relief,
I can’t escape the death to me assigned;
I’ll die in serving her is my belief.
Trans. copyright © Peter Dean 2005 






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