The House of Fame, The Legend of Good Women and A Treatise on the Astrolabe
Get it in Sphinx
Coming soon to iPhone and Android. Join the waitlist to hear when Sphinx opens.
The opening
BOOK I.
God turne us every dreem to gode! For hit is wonder, by the rode, To my wit, what causeth swevenes Either on morwes, or on evenes; And why the effect folweth of somme, And of somme hit shal never come; Why that is an avisioun, And this a revelacioun; Why this a dreem, why that a sweven, And nat to every man liche even; Why this a fantom, these oracles, I noot; but who-so of these miracles The causes knoweth bet than I, Devyne he; for I certeinly Ne can hem noght, ne never thinke To besily my wit to swinke, To knowe of hir signifiaunce The gendres, neither the distaunce Of tymes of hem, ne the causes For-why this more than that cause is; As if folkes complexiouns Make hem dreme of reflexiouns; Or elles thus, as other sayn, For to greet feblenesse of brayn, By abstinence, or by seeknesse, Prison, stewe, or greet distresse; Or elles by disordinaunce Of naturel acustomaunce, That som man is to curious In studie, or melancolious, Or thus, so inly ful of drede, That no man may him bote bede; Or elles, that devocioun Of somme, and contemplacioun Causeth swiche dremes ofte; Or that the cruel lyf unsofte Which these ilke lovers leden That hopen over muche or dreden, That purely hir impressiouns Causeth hem avisiouns; Or if that spirits have the might To make folk to dreme a-night Or if the soule, of propre kinde, Be so parfit, as men finde, That hit forwot that is to come, And that hit warneth alle and somme Of everiche of hir aventures By avisiouns, or by figures, But that our flesh ne hath no might To understonden hit aright, For hit is warned to derkly;— But why the cause is, noght wot I. Wel worthe, of this thing, grete clerkes, That trete of this and other werkes; For I of noon opinioun Nil as now make mencioun, But only that the holy rode Turne us every dreem to gode! For never, sith that I was born, Ne no man elles, me biforn, Mette, I trowe stedfastly, So wonderful a dreem as I The tenthe day [dide] of Decembre, The which, as I can now remembre, I wol yow tellen every del.
The whole book is in the Sphinx app.
About this edition
- The words
- The author's text, copied word for word.
- Copied from
- Left out
- The source library's header, footer and license, in 3 places
- Notes and pages added by translators, editors or publishers, in 9 places
- Pictures and their captions, in 2 places
- The title page and opening pages before chapter 1, in 2 places
- The printed table of contents (the app makes its own)
- A preface, foreword or afterword, in 2 places
- Line numbers printed in the margin every fifth or thirtieth line (the app does not show them) (1392 blocks)
- The source website's menus, layout and notices
- Page numbers and running heads from the printed pages
- Line numbers printed in the margin every fifth line (the app does not show them) (231 blocks)
- Other works printed in the same volume