我开始liber博智的那本书。上帝turne我们每一个博士eem to gode! For hit is wonder, be the rode, To my wit, what causeth swevens Either on morwes, or on evens; 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 ellis 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 spirites 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 Be 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 mensioun, 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 Invocation But at my ginninge, trusteth wel, I wol make invocacioun, With special devocioun, Unto the god of slepe anoon, That dwelleth in a cave of stoon Upon a streem that cometh fro Lete, That is a flood of helle unswete; Besyde a folk men clepe Cimerie, Ther slepeth ay this god unmerie With his slepy thousand sones That alway for to slepe hir wone is -- And to this god, that I of rede, Prey I, that he wol me spede My sweven for to telle aright, If every dreem stonde in his might. And he, that mover is of al That is and was, and ever shal, So yive hem Ioye that hit here Of alle that they dreme to-yere, And for to stonden alle in grace Of hir loves, or in what place That hem wer levest for to stonde, And shelde hem fro poverte and shonde, And fro unhappe and eche disese, And sende hem al that may hem plese, That take hit wel, and scorne hit noght, Ne hit misdemen in her thoght Through malicious entencioun. And who-so, through presumpcioun, Or hate or scorne, or through envye, Dispyt, or Iape, or vilanye, Misdeme hit, preye I Iesus god That (dreme he barfoot, dreme he shod), That every harm that any man Hath had, sith that the world began, Befalle him therof, or he sterve, And graunte he mote hit ful deserve, Lo! with swich a conclusioun As had of his avisioun Cresus, that was king of Lyde, That high upon a gebet dyde! This prayer shal he have of me; I am no bet in charite! Now herkneth, as I have you seyd, What that I mette or I abreyd. The Dream Of Decembre the tenthe day, Whan hit was night, to slepe I lay Right ther as I was wont to done, And fil on slepe wonder sone, As he that wery was for-go On pilgrimage myles two To the corseynt Leonard, To make lythe of that was hard. But as I sleep, me mette I was Within a temple y-mad of glas; In whiche ther were mo images Of gold, stondinge in sondry stages, And mo riche tabernacles, And with perre mo pinacles, And mo curious portreytures, And queynte maner of figures Of olde werke, then I saw ever. For certeynly, I niste never Wher that I was, but wel wiste I, Hit was of Venus redely, The temple; for, in portreyture, I sawgh anoon-right hir figure Naked fletinge in a see. And also on hir heed, parde, Hir rose-garlond whyt and reed, And hir comb to kembe hir heed, Hir dowves, and daun Cupido Hir blinde sone, and Vulcano, That in his face was ful broun. But as I romed up and doun,