Analysis of The House Of Fame

BOOK I    Incipit liber primus.

God turne us every dreem 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,

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.

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