Truth (Chaucer poem) Poem Text

Truth

Or 'Ballade de bon conseyl' (To Sir Phillip de la Vache)

Flee from the crowd, and dwell with truthfulness,

Let your thing suffice, though it be small;

Hoarding brings hatred, climbing fickleness,

Praise brings envy, and wealth blinds overall;

Savour no more than ‘tis good that you recall;

Rule well yourself, who others advise here;

And truth shall deliver you, have no fear.

Trouble you not the crooked to redress,

Trusting in her who wobbles like a ball.

Well-being rests on scorning busyness;

Beware therefore of kicking at an awl;

Strive not like the crockery with the wall.

Control yourself, who would control your peer;

And truth shall deliver you, have no fear.

That which is sent, receive in humbleness,

Wrestling for this world asks but a fall.

Here’s not your home, here is but wilderness.

Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beast, out of your stall!

Know your country: look up, thank God for all;

Hold the high way, and let your spirit steer,

And truth shall deliver you, have no fear.

Envoy

Therefore, La Vache, cease your old wretchedness;

To the world cease now to be in thrall;

Cry Him mercy, that out of his high goodness

Made thee from naught, on Him especially call,

Draw unto Him, and pray in general

For yourself, and others, for heavenly cheer;

And truth shall deliver you, have no fear.

(Trans. A.S. Kline)

"Truth," Middle English

Fle fro the pres, and dwelle with sothefastnesse,

Suffise thin owen thing, thei it be smal;

For hord hath hate, and clymbyng tykelnesse,

Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal.

Savour no more thanne the byhove schal;

Reule weel thiself, that other folk canst reede;

And trouthe schal delyvere, it is no drede.

Tempest the nought al croked to redresse,

In trust of hire that tourneth as a bal.

Myche wele stant in litel besynesse;

Bywar therfore to spurne ayeyns an al;

Stryve not as doth the crokke with the wal.

Daunte thiself, that dauntest otheres dede;

And trouthe shal delyvere, it is no drede.

That the is sent, receyve in buxumnesse;

The wrestlyng for the worlde axeth a fal.

Here is non home, here nys but wyldernesse.

Forth, pylgryme, forth! forth, beste, out of thi stal!

Know thi contré! loke up! thonk God of al!

Hold the heye weye, and lat thi gost the lede;

And trouthe shal delyvere, it is no drede.