Chivalry

The Epilogue A son Livret

Intrepidly depart, my little book, into the presence of that most illustrious lady who bade me compile you. Bow down before her judgment patiently. And if her sentence be that of death I counsel you to grieve not at what cannot be avoided.

But, if by any miracle that glorious, strong fortress of the weak consider it advisable, pass thence to every man who may desire to purchase you, and live out your little hour among these very credulous persons; and at your appointed season die and be forgotten. For thus only may you share your betters' fate, and be at one with those famed comedies of Greek Menander and all the poignant songs of Sappho. Et quid Pandoniae—thus, little book, I charge you poultice your more-merited oblivion—quid Pandoniae restat nisi nomen Athenae?

Yet even in your brief existence you may chance to meet with those who will affirm that the stories you narrate are not verily true and erroneously protest too many assertions which are only fables. To these you will reply that I, your maker, was in my youth the quite unworthy servant of the most high and noble lady, Dame Jehane, and in this period, at and about her house of Havering-Bower, conversed in my own person with Dame Katharine, then happily remarried to a private gentleman of Wales; and so obtained the matter of the ninth story and of the tenth authentically. You will say also that Messire de Montbrison afforded me the main matter of the sixth and seventh stories; and that, moreover, I once journeyed to Caer Idion and talked for some two hours with Richard Holland (whom I found a very old and garrulous and cheery person), and got of him the matter of the eighth tale in this dizain, together with much information as concerns the sixth and the seventh. And you will add that the matter of the fourth and fifth tales was in every detail related to me by my most illustrious mistress, Madame Isabella of Portugal, who had it from her mother, an equally veracious and immaculate lady, and one that was in youth Dame Philippa's most dear associate. For the rest you must admit, unwillingly, the first three stories in this book to be a thought less solidly confirmed; although (as you will say) even in these I have not ever deviated from what was at odd times narrated to me by the aforementioned persons, and have always endeavored honestly to piece together that which they told me.

Also, my little book, you will encounter more malignant people who will jeer at you, and say that you and I have cheated them of your purchase-money. To these you will reply, with Plutarch, Non mi aurum posco, nec mi pretium. Secondly you will say that, of necessity, the tailor cuts the coat according to his cloth; and that he cannot undertake to robe an Ephialtes or a towering Orion suitably when the resources of his shop amount at most to three scant yards of cambric. Indeed had I the power to make you better, my little book, I would have done it. A good conscience is a continual feast, and I summon all heaven to be my witness that had I been Homer you had awed the world, another Iliad. I lament the improbability of your doing this as heartily as any person living; yet Heaven willed it; and it is in consequence to Heaven these same cavillers should now complain if they insist upon considering themselves to be aggrieved.

So to such impious people do you make no answer at all, unless indeed you should elect to answer them by repetition of this trivial song which I now make for you, my little book, at your departure from me. And the song runs in this fashion:

EXPLICIT DECAS REGINARUM