"Within Our Court stands One without Compare"

Text: Loosely inspired by Christine de Pizan’s “Letter of Othea to Hector”, originally published as L’Epistre de Othéa in France in 1400. A 15th c. manuscript of an English translation was found in the Library of the Marquis of Bath, and the original French was translated again and re-printed in the mid 16th c. by Stephen Scrope. After researching her endless contributions to multiple events and reigns over the course of decades, I knew the poem had to be similarly far-reaching in its scope.

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/60567/60567-h/60567-h.h

AS. LVI

Within Our Court stands One without Compare:

These Words are meant for Thee, dear Mistress Clare,

We Graces three observe thy gracious Works;

I, patron of the feast, Euphrosyne (You-FRO-sih-knee),

With sisters, Generosity and Cheer,

Charis (Kah-REESE) and Thaleia (Thah-LAY-uh) respectively,

Do tidings joyful bring to De Crecy,

The maker of much good Festivity.

Spiced wine or rich broth, both Ambrosia be:

Divine, like Us, in service to true Love.

Thy gift, sweet Hospitality, doth gleam

More brightly than what gold the temples store.

Heady aromas fly to where We dance:

Not soaring oaths, nor duels of moment’s passion,

Nor piteous weeping ballads stir our Steps

Or hearts, as they might woo our Lady, Venus:

‘Tis Plenty, Mirth, and Giving freely done

Which stirs us as the Spring awakes the world!

In thee, Thaleia finds a brimming hearth

Which fills before the feast with roasting meats

And after with the glow of well-banked smiles

Which laughter sparks to reignite again,

Thy constant off’ring to Euphrosyne.

Our Sister Charis works in thee as well,

For scholarship and artistry thou hast:

But not like Faustus twisted for his greed,

Nor proud Pygmalion’s vanity corrupt --

Sweet Favour fuels thy splendid Works instead

The Beauty which then spreads throughout the World

To all thy needle, ladle, loom doth touch.

Thy Cornucopia has no resting place,

But lives and breathes, expands the more it fills.

Echoing in its depth, thy bounty sings

The rhythms of thy gentle heart-string’s song --

‘Tis that soft Music, harmonized by each

Warm voice that thy dear Gifts uplift,

Which grows in strength, and rises to Our ears,

So to that chorus must Our minds be moved.

Their lyric? That thou, Clare, are peerless proved.

So as their ardor to crescendos swell,

We join the throng, and name thee Non-Pareil.

(late 15th/ early 16th c. PERIOD SPELLING, based on the English translation of the Letter of Othea)

AS. LVI

Withyn Oure Cort stands One wythoute Compare:

These Wordes are mene for The, deer Miſtreſſe Clare,

We Graces three obserue thy gracious Workes;

I, patronne of the fest, Euphroſyne,

Wythe syſteres, Generosytie ande Cheer,

Charis and Thaleia respecktyuelie,

Doe tidynges ioyefull bryng to De Crecy,

The maker of myche gode Festyuytie.

Spyced vvine or riche broth, both Ambroſia be:

Diuyne, lech Us, yn seruys to trewe Loue.

Thy gift, swet Hospitalytie, dothe gleme

More bryghtly than wat golde the temples store.

Hedy aromas fly to where We daunce:

Not soryng owthes, nor dvels of moment’s pasioun,

Nor pityous wepyng balades stir our Steps

Or hertys, as they myghte woo our Lady, Venus:

‘Tis Plentie, Mirth, ande Giuynge freely done

Wiche styrreth us like Spryng awakes the World!

Yn thee, Thaleia fyndeth brimynge herthe

Whiche filleth ‘for the feest wythe roſtynge meats

And after wythe the glowe of welle-bankyd smylles

Whiche laughynge sparketh re-ignycyounne,

Thy conſtant off’rynge to Euphrosyne.

Our Syſtere Charis workes yn the as welle,

For scollarshippe and artystry thowe hast:

But not like Favſtvs twyſted for his greed,

Nor proud Pygmalion’s vaynytie corumpe --

Swete Fauour fewles thy splendid Workes ynstede

The Beaute which thenne spreddeth through the World

To all thy needle, laydle, loome doth toche.

Thy Cornucopeya haſt no reſtyng place,

But liueth, breetheth, expandeth as yt filles.

Echoyng yn its depthe, thy bounte synges

The rythems of thy gentil hert-stryng’s songge --

‘Tis that softe Muſick, harmonyſed by iche

Warme voys that thy deer Giftes uplifte,

Whiche growes yn strenghte, ande ryſes to Our eres,

So too that chorus must Our myndes be moued.

Theyr lyryc? That thowe, Clare, are peerlesse proued.

So as theyr ardor to cresciendos swelle,

We joyne the throng, ande name thee Non-Pareil.

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