The Complaint of Hoccleve

(my translation)

After the sheaves had been gathered from the harvest,
And the brown season of Michaelmas
Was come, and began to rob the trees of leaves,
Which had been green and lusty in freshness,
And they died into the color of yellowness
And were thrown down underfoot,
Change sank into my heartroot.

Freshly it came into my remembrance 8
That there is no stability in the world.
There is nothing but change and variance.
However wealthy a man be, or well begun,
It shall not endure, he shall forgo it.
Death shall thrust him down underfoot.
That is the conclusion of every man.

Which to waive is in no man's power,
However rich he be, strong, lusty, fresh, or gay.
And in the end of November one night,
Sighing sorely as I lay in my bed,
For this and other thoughts which many a day
Had taken me previously, sleep came not to my eyes,
So much did this thoughtful malady vex me.

I see well that since I last with sickness 22
Was scourged, cloudy has been the favor
That was shown on me full brightly in times past.
The sun abated and the dark shower
Hailed right down on me and in languor
Made me swim, so that my spirit
Had no delight nor pleasure in living.

The grief about my heart so swelled
And bulged ever more and more sore,
That I must needs out therewith.
I thought I could not keep it close any more,
Nor keep it in me for age and hoar.
And to prove I came of a woman,
I burst out one morning and thus began.

Here ends my prologue and follows my complaint.

Almighty God, as it pleases him in his goodness, 36
Visits folk all day, as men may see,
With the loss of goods and bodily sickness,
And among others he forgot not me.
Witness upon the wild infirmity
Which I had, as many a man well knew,
And which cast and threw me out of myself.

It was so well known to people
That it was no secret, nor might it be.
How it stood with me was in every man's mouth,
And that full sorely frightened my friends.
They for my help swore pilgrimages,
And they sought–some on horse and some on foot—
God save them–to get me my booty.

But although the substance of my memory 50
Went out to play for a certain time,
Yet the lord of virtue, the king of glory,
Of his power and benign grace
Made it return into the place
Whence it came, which at All Hallowmass
Was five years, neither no more less.

And ever since, thanked by God our lord,
Of his good and gracious reconciliation,
My wit and I have been of such accord
As we were or the alteration
Of it was. But by my salvation,
Since that time have I been sorely set on fire
And lived in great torment and martyrdom.

For though my wits were come home again, 64
Men would not understand or accept it as so.
They disdained to deal with me.
A riotous person I was, and forsaken.
My old friendships were all overshaken.
No man wanted to make dalliance with me.
The world made me a strange continuance,

Which began sorely to torment my heart.
Often when I went past Westminster Hall
And also in London, among the throng,
I saw the cheer abate and appall
Among them who had been wont to call
Me to company. Their heed they cast awry
When I met them, as they saw me not.

As it is said in the psalter, so might I say, 78
That they who saw me fled from me.
Forgotten I was, all out of mind, away,
As he who was dead from the heart's chart.
To a lost vessel I might be likened,
For many a man dwelling near me
I heard blame me and put in dispraise.

Thus spoke many, and said about me,
"Although his savage sickness has
Withdrawn from him and passed on for the time being,
It will resort back, certainly in such an age
As he is of now." And then my visage
Began to glow for the woe and fear.
The words, they unaware, came to my ears.

"When it is passing hot," said they, "trust this, 92
That malady will assail him again."
And yet, in truth, they took it amiss.
Their prophecy had no affect at all.
Many summers have passed since the remedy
Of God in his grace purveyed me.
Thanked be God, it shaped not as they said.

What shall befall, whatever men deem or guess,
Is reserved to him that knows every heart's secret.
It is ignorance
That men should pretend to be wiser than they are.
And no man knows, whether he or she,
Whom, how, nor when God will visit.
It happens often when men little expect it.

Once I expected as little as any man 106
To fall into that wildness.
But God when he pleases may, will, and can
Withdraw health and send a man sickness.
Though a man be well this day, no secruity
Is assured to him that it shall endure.
God can hurt now, and now heal and cure.

He suffers long but at the last he smites.
When a man is in prosperity,
It is wit to dread a coming fall.
Whoso that takes heed often may see
This world's change and mutability.
In sundry wise how need not be expressed.
To my matter straight I will now address myself.

Men said I looked like a wild steer, 120
And thus so I began to throw my glances about.
Another said I bore my head too high;
"Full buck-like is his brain, well I believe it."
And the third said–and how apt it is in company
To cite him who gives reasonless advice—
"No seriousness is in his head."

I had changed in my pace, some said also,
For here and there I started up like a roe,
Now waking, now resting, but always brainsick.
Another spoke and said also of me,
My feet were always waving to and fro
When I should stand and talk,
And that my eyes sought every hiding place.

I laid an ear always to as I went by 134
And I heard all. And thus in my heart I thought,
"I may repent abiding long here,
Lest that in haste I at the least
Answer amiss; best it is to hie fast hence,
For if I go amiss among this throng,
It will turn to folly and harm me."

And this I judged and knew well also,
That whatsoever I should answer or say
They would not hold it worth a leek.
For which reason, as I had lost my tongue's key,
I kept myself close and trussed my ways
Drooping and heavy and always bestood with woe.
Small cause had I, I thought, to be glad.

My spirits labored ever full busily 148
To paint my countenance, cheer, and look,
For which men spoke of me so wonderingly,
And for very shame and fear I quaked.
Though my heart had been dipped in the brook
It was so wet and moist with my sweat,
Which was now frosty cold, now fiery hot.

And when I was in my chamber at home,
I was wrought in myself alone in this manner.
I went straight to my mirror and my glass
To look how my cheer seemed,
Or if it were other than it ought to be.
For fain would I have amended it to my cunning and power
If it had not been right.

Many a leap I made to this mirror, 162
Thinking that if I looked in such a manner
Among the folk as I now did, no error
Or suspect look might appear in my face.
This continuance, I am sure, and this cheer
If I put it forth, is no reprovable thing
To those that have reasonable conceits.

And therewith I thought this anon:
"Men can be blind to their own situation all day,
As I have heard said many days ago,
And in that same plight I may stand.
How shall I do? Which is the best way
To bring my troubled spirit to rest?
If I knew how, fain I would do the best."

Since I have recovered, have I full often 176
Had cause for anger and impatience,
Where I have born it easily and softly,
Suffering wrongs to be done to me, and offences,
And not answered again but kept silence,
Lest men should judge me and say,
"See how this man has fallen in again."

As once when I came from Westminster,
Vexed full grievously with thoughtful heat,
Thus thought I: "A great fool I am
To beat this pavement thus each day
And hasten and sweat in and out of labor,
Wondering and purchasing heaviness,
Since I stand all out of favor and grace."

And then I thought on the other hand: 190
"If I am not seen among the throng,
Men will judge that I hide my head
And am worse than I am, it is no less."
Or lord, so my spirit was restless.
I sought rest and I found it not,
But always was trouble ready at my hand.

I may not prevent a man imagining
Above the moon if he likes.
Thereby will he not determine the truth,
But by the proof are things known and understood.
Many a fate is wrapped in the mist.
A man shall be known by his deeds and not by his looks,
As it is written in books.

By the taste of the fruit men may well perceive and know
What it is. Other proof is there none. 205
Every man knows that well, as do I.
Even so may those who judge that my wit is gone--
As yet to this day many a man deems that
I am not well–taste and assay if it be so or no
As I go by them.

It is hard to determine, upon a look,
What a man is; thereby the truth is hidden.
Whether his wits are well or sound,
Cannot be known nor understood by the countenance.
Though a man may have been bitten hard once,
God may continue always to shield him from it.
Communicating is the best try.

I mean to speak of little things, 218
For I am but right ignorant and foolish doubtless.
My cunning is full lean.
Yet I know a homely reason nevertheless.
I hope I may not be found as reasonless
As men judge. Mary, Christ forbid!
I can do no more. The deed will prove me.

If a man falls into drunkenness,
Shall he continue therein evermore?
Nay. Though a man do excess in drinking
So far forth that he can neither speak nor move
And his wits are well nigh bereft
And he is buried in the cup, he afterward
Comes to himself again. Else were it hard.

Right so, though my wit was a pilgrim 232
And went far from home, he came again.
God voided me of the grievous venom
That and infected and made wild my brain.
See how the courteous leech most sovereign
Gives medicine to the sick
In need and relieves him of his grievous pain.

Now let this pass. God know many a man
Seems full wise in countenance and cheer
Which, if he tasted what he knew,
Men might liken him to a fool's peer.
And some man looks a manner foolish
In his outward judgment and deeming,
Who, at the proof, is discreet and prudent.

But however so be my continuance, 246
There is no debate now between me and my wit,
Although there was a severance
For a time betwixt me and it.
The greater harm is mine, who never yet
Was well lettered, prudent, and discreet.
There never stood yet a wise man on my feet.

The truth is this. Such conceit as I had,
And understanding, although it were but small
Before my wits were unserious,
Thanked be our lord Iesu Christ of all,
Such have I now. But overall is blown nigh
The reverse, where through much is my mourning
Which causes me thus to sigh in complaining.

Since my good fortune has changed her cheer, 260
High time it is for me to creep into my grave.
To live joyless, what should I do here?
In my heart I can have no gladness.
I may say but little, otherwise men deem that I rave.
Since I can grip no other thing but woe,
I am now ripe for my sepulcher.

My joy adieu, farewell my good fortune.
From your tables you have struck me.
Since well nigh any man is loath to commune
With me, farewell prosperity.
I am no longer of your livery.
You have put me out of your retinue.
Adieu my good adventure and good luck.

And then afterward thus bethought I to myself: 274
"If I despair in such a way,
It is to purchase more adversity.
What needs my feeble wit to appear
Since God has made my health repair home?
Blessed be he. And what men deem and speak,
Suffer it, I think, and let it not wreck me."

But a in part I had rejoicing in me
And a gladness also in my spirit
That though the people took amiss and wrongly,
Deeming me not quit of my sickness,
Yet they lamented the heavy plight
That they had seen in me, with the tenderness
Of their heart's cheer; my grief was the less.

In them I put no fault but one; 288
That they did not know that I was whole,
And day by day they saw me go before them
In hot and cold, and neither in quiet or loudly
Did they know me to do suspectly. A dark cloud
Obscured their sight within and without,
And for all that they were always in such doubt.

They had asked full oftentimes and questioned
Of my fellows at the Privy Seal,
And pried them to tell them with unfeigned hearts
How it stood with me, whether evil or well.
And they told them every bit of the truth,
But they held their words nothing but lies.
They might as well have held their peace.

This troubled life has all too long endured, 302
I have not known how to turn in my skin.
But now I have assured myself to myself
To mourn after no such wondering after this.
As long as my life shall sojourn in me
I shall not reach out in such imaginings.
Let them deem as they like and speak and slander.

The other day the lamentation
Of a woeful man in a book I saw,
To whom words of consolation
Reason gave, speaking effectually,
And well eased was my heart thereby.
For when I had read in the book a while
With the speech of Reason I was well fed.

The heavy man, woeful and anguished, 316
Complained in this manner and thus said:
"My life is full cumbrous to me,
For whither or unto what place I flee
My wickedness ever follows me.
As men may see, the shadow follows the body;
In no manner may I eschew him.

"Vexation of spirit and torment
I lack right none. I have them in plenty.
Wonderfully bitter is my taste and scent.
Woe be the time of my nativity!
Unhappy man, that ever should I be!
O death, thy stroke is a salve of sweetness
To him that lives in such wretchedness.

"Greater pleasure would it be to die 330
By many fold than to live so.
So many sorrows multiply in me
That my life is a very foe to me.
I may not be comforted in my woe,
I can see no end to my distress.
No force, how soon I will end being a man."

Then spoke Reason: "What means all this faring?
Though wealth be not friendly to thee, yet
Out of thine heart void all woe and care."
"By what skill, how, and by what advice and wit,"
Said this woeful man, "Might I do it?"
"Wrestle," quoth Reason, "Against the heaviness
Of the world, troubles, suffering, and duress.

"Behold how many a man suffers disease 344
As great as yours, and far away greater,
And though it pinches and seizes him sharply,
Yet patiently they suffer and bear it.
Think hereon, and the less dear shall it seem.
Such sufferance is the cleansing of men's guilt
And enables them to joy everlasting.

"Woe, heaviness, and tribulation
Are common and profitable to all men.
Though grievous be man's temptation,
It slays man not. To those who are sufferable
And to whom God's stroke is acceptable
Joy is purveyed, for God wounds those
Whom he has ordained to go to bliss.

"Gold is purged, though see'st, in the furnace 358
So that it shall be the finer and cleaner.
Of thy disease, bear the weight and the pieces
Lightly, that God may prove thee
Scourged with sharp adversity;
Do not complain and say, ‘Why must I sustain this?'
For if thou do, thou take it amiss.

"But thus thou should'st think in thine heart
And say to thyself, ‘Lord God, I have a guilt so sore I must smart for my offences
If I am worthy. O lord, I am spilt,
But thou will grant mercy to me.
I am full sure thou may not deny it.
Lord, I repent, and I cry mercy of thee.'"

Longer I thought to reed in this book, 372
But it so shaped that I might not.
He who owned it took it to himself again,
Unaware of me in his haste. Yet have I caught
Some of the doctrine taught by Reason
To the man, as I have said above.
Well thereof I hold myself well paid.

For ever since I have set the less
On the people's imagination,
Talking of this and that about my sickness
Which came of God's visitation.
I might be found in probation,
Not grouching but taking it in sufferance,
Wholesome and wise have been my governance.

Farewell my sorrow! I cast it to the cock. 386
With patience I henceforth think to unpick
The lock of such a doubtful disease and woe
And let out that which has made me sigh.
Hereafter our lord God may, if he likes,
Make all my old affection return,
And in hope of that I will comfort myself.

Thorough is God's just deeming and his judgment
And for my best, now I take and deem,
May the good lord give me my punishment.
In wealth I took no heed or thought
To please him and honor and appease,
And he gave me a bone on which to gnaw
To correct me and put me in awe of him.

He gave me wit and he took it away 400
When he saw that I wasted it,
And he gave it again when it was his to pay.
He granted that I repent of my guilt
And henceforward to set my intent
To do pleasance unto his deity,
And to amend my sinful governance.

Laud and honor and thanks be unto thee,
Lord God that art a salve to all heaviness,
Thanks for my wealth and my adversity,
Thanks for my age and for my sickness,
And thanks be to thine infinite goodness
And thine gifts and all thine beneficence,
And unto thine mercy and grace I call.