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Troilus and Criseyde

BOOK I

The double sorwe of Troilus to tellen,
That was the kyng Priamus sone of Troye,
In lovynge, how his aventures fellen
Fro wo to wele, and after out of joie,
My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye.
Thesiphone, thow help me for t'endite
Thise woful vers, that wepen as I write.

To the clepe I, thow goddesse of torment,
Thow cruwel Furie, sorwynge evere in peyne,
Help me, that am the sorwful instrument,
That helpeth loveres, as I kan, to pleyne;
For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne,
A woful wight to han a drery feere,
And to a sorwful tale, a sory chere.

For I, that God of Loves servantz serve,
Ne dar to Love, for myn unliklynesse,
Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfore sterve,
So fer am I from his help in derknesse.
But natheles, if this may don gladnesse
Unto any lovere, and his cause availle,
Have he my thonk, and myn be this travaille!

But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse,
If any drope of pyte in yow be,
Remembreth yow on passed hevynesse
That ye han felt, and on the adversite
Of othere folk, and thynketh how that ye
Han felt that Love dorste yow displese,
Or ye han wonne hym with to gret an ese.

And preieth for hem that ben in the cas
Of Troilus, as ye may after here,
That Love hem brynge in hevene to solas;
And ek for me preieth to God so dere
That I have myght to shewe, in som manere,
Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure,
In Troilus unsely aventure.

And biddeth ek for hem that ben despeired
In love, that nevere nyl recovered be,
And ek for hem that falsly ben apeired
Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she;
Thus biddeth God, for his benignite,
So graunte hem soone owt of this world to pace,
That ben despeired out of Loves grace.

And biddeth ek for hem that ben at ese,
That God hem graunte ay good perseveraunce,
And sende hem myght hire ladies so to plese
That it to Love be worship and plesaunce.
For so hope I my sowle best avaunce,

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To prey for hem that Loves servauntz be,
And write hire wo, and lyve in charite,

And for to have of hem compassioun,
As though I were hire owne brother dere.
Now herkneth with a good entencioun,
For now wil I gon streght to my matere,
In which ye may the double sorwes here
Of Troilus in lovynge of Criseyde,
And how that she forsook hym et she deyde.

Yt is wel wist how that the Grekes stronge
In armes with a thousand shippes wente
To Troiewardes, and the cite longe
Assegeden, neigh ten yer er they stente,
And in diverse wise and oon entente,
The ravysshyng to wreken of Eleyne,
By Paris don, they wroughten al hir peyne.

Now fel it so that in the town ther was
Dwellynge a lord of gret auctorite,
A gret devyn, that clepid was Calkas,
That in science so expert was that he
Knew wel that Troie sholde destroied be,
By answere of his god, that highte thus:
Daun Phebus or Appollo Delphicus.

So whan this Calkas knew by calkulynge,
And ek by answer of this Appollo,
That Grekes sholden swich a peple brynge,
Thorugh which that Troie moste ben fordo,
He caste anon out of the town to go;
For wel wiste he by sort that Troye sholde
Destroyed ben, ye, wolde whoso nolde.

For which for to departen softely
Took purpos ful this forknowynge wise,
And to the Grekes oost ful pryvely
He stal anon; and they, in curteys wise,
Hym diden bothe worship and servyce,
In trust that he hath konnynge hem to rede
In every peril which that is to drede.

Gret rumour gan, whan it was first aspied
Thorugh al the town, and generaly was spoken,
That Calkas traitour fled was and allied
With hem of Grece, and casten to be wroken
On hym that falsly hadde his feith so broken,
And seyden he and al his kyn at-ones
Ben worthi for to brennen, fel and bones.

Now hadde Calkas left in this meschaunce,
Al unwist of this false and wikked dede,
His doughter, which that was in gret penaunce,
For of hire lif she was ful sore in drede,
As she that nyste what was best to rede;
For bothe a widewe was she and allone
Of any frend to whom she dorste hir mone.

Criseyde was this lady name al right.
As to my doom, in al Troies cite
Nas non so fair, forpassynge every wight,
So aungelik was hir natif beaute,
That lik a thing inmortal semed she,
As doth an hevenyssh perfit creature,
That down were sent in scornynge of nature.

This lady, which that alday herd at ere
Hire fadres shame, his falsnesse and tresoun,
Wel neigh out of hir wit for sorwe and fere,
In widewes habit large of samyt broun,
On knees she fil biforn Ector adown
With pitous vois, and tendrely wepynge,
His mercy bad, hirselven excusynge.

Now was this Ector pitous of nature,
And saugh that she was sorwfully bigon,
And that she was so fair a creature;
Of his goodnesse he gladede hire anon,
And seyde, "Lat youre fadres treson gon
Forth with meschaunce, and ye youreself in joie
Dwelleth with us, whil yow good list, in Troie.

"And al th'onour that men may don yow have,
As ferforth as youre fader dwelled here,

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Ye shul have, and youre body shal men save,
As fer as I may ought enquere or here."
And she hym thonked with ful humble chere,
And ofter wolde, and it hadde ben his wille,
And took hire leve, and hom, and held hir stille.

And in hire hous she abood with swich meyne
As til hire honour nede was to holde;
And whil she was dwellynge in that cite,
Kepte hir estat, and both of yonge and olde
Ful wel biloved, and wel men of hir tolde.
But wheither that she children hadde or noon,
I rede it naught, therfore I late it goon.

The thynges fellen, as they don of werre,
Bitwixen hem of Troie and Grekes ofte;
For som day boughten they of Troie it derre,
And eft the Grekes founden nothing softe
The folk of Troie; and thus Fortune on lofte
And under eft gan hem to whielen bothe
Aftir hir course, ay whil that thei were wrothe.

But how this town com to destruccion
Ne falleth naught to purpos me to telle,
For it were a long digression
Fro my matere, and yow to long to dwelle.
But the Troian gestes, as they felle,
In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dite,
Whoso that kan may rede hem as they write.

But though that Grekes hem of Troie shetten,
And hir cite biseged al aboute,
Hire olde usage nolde they nat letten,
As for to honoure hir goddes ful devoute;
But aldirmost in honour, out of doute,
Thei hadde a relik, heet Palladion,
That was hire trist aboven everichon.

And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme
Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede
With newe grene, of lusty Veer the pryme,
And swote smellen floures white and rede,
In sondry wises shewed, as I rede,
The folk of Troie hire observaunces olde,
Palladiones feste for to holde.

And to the temple, in al hir beste wise,
In general ther wente many a wight,
To herknen of Palladions servyce;
And namely, so many a lusty knyght,
So many a lady fressh and mayden bright,
Ful wel arayed, both meeste, mene, and leste,
Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.

Among thise othere folk was Criseyda,
In widewes habit blak; but natheles,
Right as oure firste lettre is now an A,
In beaute first so stood she, makeles.
Hire goodly lokyng gladed al the prees.
Nas nevere yet seyn thyng to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichone
That hir behelden in hir blake wede.
And yet she stood ful lowe and stille allone,
Byhynden other folk, in litel brede,
And neigh the dore, ay undre shames drede,
Simple of atir and debonaire of chere,
With ful assured lokyng and manere.

This Troilus, as he was wont to gide
His yonge knyghtes, lad hem up and down
In thilke large temple on every side,
Byholding ay the ladies of the town,
Now here, now there; for no devocioun
Hadde he to non, to reven hym his reste,
But gan to preise and lakken whom hym leste.

And in his walk ful faste he gan to wayten
If knyght or squyer of his compaignie
Gan for to syke, or lete his eighen baiten
On any womman that he koude espye.
He wolde smyle and holden it folye,
And seye hym thus, "God woot, she slepeth softe
For love of the, whan thow turnest ful ofte!

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"I have herd told, pardieux, of youre lyvynge,
Ye loveres, and youre lewed observaunces,
And which a labour folk han in wynnynge
Of love, and in the kepyng which doutaunces;
And whan youre prey is lost, woo and penaunces.
O veray fooles, nyce and blynde be ye!
Ther nys nat oon kan war by other be."

And with that word he gan caste up the browe,
Ascaunces, "Loo! is this naught wisely spoken?"
At which the God of Love gan loken rowe
Right for despit, and shop for to ben wroken.
He kidde anon his bowe nas naught broken;
For sodeynly he hitte hym atte fulle—
And yet as proud a pekok kan he pulle.

O blynde world, O blynde entencioun!
How often falleth al the effect contraire
Of surquidrie and foul presumpcioun;
For kaught is proud, and kaught is debonaire.
This Troilus is clomben on the staire,
And litel weneth that he moot descenden;
But alday faileth thing that fooles wenden.

As proude Bayard gynneth for to skippe
Out of the weye, so pryketh hym his corn,
Til he a lasshe have of the longe whippe—
Than thynketh he, "Though I praunce al byforn
First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn,
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
I moot endure, and with my feres drawe"—

So ferde it by this fierse and proude knyght:
Though he a worthy kynges sone were,
And wende nothing hadde had swich myght
Ayeyns his wille that shuld his herte stere,
Yet with a look his herte wex a-fere,
That he that now was moost in pride above,
Wax sodeynly moost subgit unto love.

Forthy ensample taketh of this man,
Ye wise, proude, and worthi folkes alle,
To scornen Love, which that so soone kan
The fredom of youre hertes to hym thralle;
For evere it was, and evere it shal byfalle,
That Love is he that alle thing may bynde,
For may no man fordon the lawe of kynde.

That this be soth, hath preved and doth yit.
For this trowe I ye knowen alle or some,
Men reden nat that folk han gretter wit
Than they that han be most with love ynome;
And strengest folk ben therwith overcome,
The worthiest and grettest of degree:
This was, and is, and yet men shall it see.

And trewelich it sit wel to be so,
For alderwisest han therwith ben plesed;
And they that han ben aldermost in wo,
With love han ben comforted moost and esed;
And ofte it hath the cruel berte apesed,
And worthi folk maad worthier of name,
And causeth moost to dreden vice and shame.

Now sith it may nat goodly ben withstonde,
And is a thing so vertuous in kynde,
Refuseth nat to Love for to ben bonde,
Syn, as hymselven liste, he may yow bynde;
The yerde is bet that bowen wole and wynde
Than that that brest, and therfore I yow rede
To folowen hym that so wel kan yow lede.

But for to tellen forth in special
Of this kynges sone of which I tolde,
And leten other thing collateral,
Of hym thenke I my tale forth to holde,
Both of his joie and of his cares colde;
And al his werk, as touching this matere,
For I it gan, I wol therto refere.

Withinne the temple he wente hym forth pleyinge,
This Troilus, of every wight aboute,

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On this lady, and now on that, lokynge,
Wher so she were of town or of withoute;
And upon cas bifel that thorugh a route
His eye percede, and so depe it wente,
Til on Criseyde it smot, and ther it stente.

And sodeynly he wax therwith astoned,
And gan hir bet biholde in thrifty wise.
"O mercy, God," thoughte he, "wher hastow woned,
That art so feyr and goodly to devise?"
Therwith his herte gan to sprede and rise,
And softe sighed, lest men myghte hym here,
And caught ayeyn his firste pleyinge chere.

She nas nat with the leste of hire stature,
But alle hire lymes so wel answerynge
Weren to wommanhod, that creature
Was nevere lasse mannyssh in semynge;
And ek the pure wise of hire mevynge
Shewed wel that men myght in hire gesse
Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse.

To Troilus right wonder wel with alle
Gan for to like hire mevynge and hire chere,
Which somdel deignous was, for she let falle
Hire look a lite aside in swich manere,
Ascaunces, "What, may I nat stonden here?"
And after that hir lokynge gan she lighte,
That nevere thoughte hym seen so good a syghte.

And of hire look in him ther gan to quyken
So gret desir and such affeccioun,
That in his herte botme gan to stiken
Of hir his fixe and depe impressioun.
And though he erst hadde poured up and down,
He was tho glad his hornes in to shrinke:
Unnethes wiste he how to loke or wynke.

Lo, he that leet hymselven so konnynge,
And scorned hem that Loves peynes dryen,
Was ful unwar that Love hadde his dwellynge
Withinne the subtile stremes of hire yen;
That sodeynly hym thoughte he felte dyen,
Right with hire look, the spirit in his herte:
Blissed be Love, that kan thus folk converte!

She, this in blak, likynge to Troilus
Over alle thing, he stood for to biholde;
Ne his desir, ne wherfore he stood thus,
He neither chere made, ne word tolde;
But from afer, his manere for to holde,
On other thing his look som tyme he caste,
And eft on hire, whil that servyse laste.

And after this, nat fullich al awhaped,
Out of the temple al esilich he wente,
Repentynge hym that he hadde evere ijaped
Of Loves folk, lest fully the descente
Of scorn fille on hymself; but what he mente,
Lest it were wist on any manere syde,
His woo he gan dissimilen and hide.

Whan he was fro the temple thus departed,
He streght anon unto his paleys torneth.
Right with hire look thorugh-shoten and thorugh-darted,
Al feyneth he in lust that he sojorneth,
And al his chere and speche also he borneth,
And ay of Loves servantz every while,
Hymself to wrye, at hem he gan to smyle,

And seyde, "Lord, so ye lyve al in lest,
Ye loveres! For the konnyngeste of yow,
That serveth most ententiflich and best,
Hym tit as often harm therof as prow.
Youre hire is quyt ayeyn, ye, God woot how!

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Nought wel for wel, but scorn for good servyse.
In feith, youre ordre is ruled in good wise!

"In nouncerteyn ben alle youre observaunces,
But it a sely fewe pointes be;
Ne no thing asketh so gret attendaunces
As doth youre lay, and that knowe alle ye;
But that is nat the worste, as mote I the!
But, tolde I yow the worste point, I leve,
Al seyde I soth, ye wolden at me greve.

"But take this: that ye loveres ofte eschuwe,
Or elles doon, of good entencioun,
Ful ofte thi lady wol it mysconstruwe,
And deme it harm in hire oppynyoun;
And yet if she, for other enchesoun,
Be wroth, than shaltow have a groyn anon.
Lord, wel is hym that may ben of yow oon!"

But for al this, whan that he say his tyme,
He held his pees—non other boote hym gayned—
For love bigan his fetheres so to lyme
That wel unnethe until his folk he fayned
That other besy nedes hym destrayned;
For wo was hym, that what to doon he nyste,
But had his folk to gon wher that hem liste.

And whan that he in chambre was allone,
He doun upon his beddes feet hym sette,
And first be gan to sike, and eft to grone,
And thought ay on hire so, withouten lette,
That, as he sat and wook, his spirit mette
That he hire saugh a-temple, and al the wise
Right of hire look, and gan it newe avise.

Thus gan he make a mirour of his mynde
In which he saugh al holly hire figure,
And that he wel koude in his herte fynde.
It was to hym a right good aventure
To love swich oon, and if he dede his cure
To serven hir, yet myghte he falle in grace,
Or ellis for oon of hire servantz pace.

Imagenynge that travaille nor grame
Ne myghte for so goodly oon be lorn
As she, ne hym for his desir no shame,
Al were it wist, but in pris and up-born
Of alle lovers wel more than biforn,
Thus argumented he in his gynnynge,
Ful unavysed of his woo comynge.

Thus took he purpos loves craft to suwe,
And thoughte he wolde werken pryvely,
First to hiden his desir in muwe
From every wight yborn, al outrely,
But he myghte ought recovered be therby,
Remembryng hym that love to wide yblowe
Yelt bittre fruyt, though swete seed be sowe.

And over al this, yet muchel more he thoughte
What for to speke, and what to holden inne;
And what to arten hire to love he soughte,
And on a song anon-right to bygynne,
And gan loude on his sorwe for to wynne;
For with good hope he gan fully assente
Criseyde for to love, and nought repente.

And of his song naught only the sentence,
As writ myn auctour called Lollius,
But pleinly, save oure tonges difference,
I dar wel seyn, in al, that Troilus
Seyde in his song, loo, every word right thus
As I shal seyn; and whoso list it here,
Loo, next this vers he may it fynden here.

Canticus Troili.

"If no love is, O God, what fele I so?
And if love is, what thing and which is he?
If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?

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If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me,
When every torment and adversite
That cometh of hym may to me savory thinke,
For ay thurst I, the more that ich it drynke.

"And if that at myn owen lust I brenne,
From whennes cometh my waillynge and my pleynte?
If harm agree me, wherto pleyne I thenne?
I noot, ne whi unwery that I feynte.
O quike deth, O swete harm so queynte,
How may of the in me swich quantite,
But if that I consente that it be?

"And if that I consente, I wrongfully
Compleyne, iwis. Thus possed to and fro,
Al sterelees withinne a boot am I
Amydde the see, bitwixen wyndes two,
That in contrarie stonden evere mo.
Allas, what is this wondre maladie?
For hote of cold, for cold of hote, I dye."

And to the God of Love thus seyde he
With pitous vois, "O lord, now youres is
My spirit, which that oughte youres be.
Yow thanke I, lord, that han me brought to this.
But wheither goddesse or womman, iwis,
She be, I not, which that ye do me serve;
But as hire man I wol ay lyve and sterve.

"Ye stonden in hir eighen myghtily,
As in a place unto youre vertu digne;
Wherfore, lord, if my service or I
May liken yow, so beth to me benigne;
For myn estat roial I here resigne
Into hire hond, and with ful humble chere
Bicome hir man, as to my lady dere."

In hym ne deyned spare blood roial
The fyr of love—wherfro God me blesse—
Ne him forbar in no degree, for al
His vertu or his excellent prowesse,
But held hym as his thral lowe in destresse,
And brende hym so in soundry wise ay newe,
That sexti tyme a day he loste his hewe.

So muche, day by day, his owene thought,
For lust to hire, gan quiken and encresse,
That every other charge he sette at nought.
Forthi ful ofte, his hote fir to cesse,
To sen hire goodly lok he gan to presse;
For therby to ben esed wel he wende,
And ay the ner he was, the more he brende.

For ay the ner the fir, the hotter is—
This, trowe I, knoweth al this compaignye;
But were he fer or ner, I dar sey this:
By nyght or day, for wisdom or folye,
His herte, which that is his brestez yëe,
Was ay on hire, that fairer was to sene
Than evere were Eleyne or Polixene.

Ek of the day ther passed nought an houre
That to hymself a thousand tyme he seyde,
"Good goodly, to whom serve I and laboure
As I best kan, now wolde God, Criseyde,
Ye wolden on me rewe, er that I deyde!
My dere herte, allas, myn hele and hewe
And lif is lost, but ye wol on me rewe!"

Alle other dredes weren from him fledde,
Both of th'assege and his savacioun;
N'yn him desir noon other fownes bredde,
But argumentes to his conclusioun:
That she of him wolde han compassioun,
And he to ben hire man while he may dure.
Lo, here his lif, and from the deth his cure!

The sharpe shoures felle of armes preve
That Ector or his othere brethren diden
Ne made hym only therfore ones meve;
And yet was he, where so men wente or riden,
Founde oon the beste, and longest tyme abiden

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Ther peril was, and dide ek swich travaille
In armes, that to thenke it was merveille.

But for non hate he to the Grekes hadde,
Ne also for the rescous of the town,
Ne made hym thus in armes for to madde,
But only, lo, for this conclusioun:
To liken hire the bet for his renoun.
Fro day to day in armes so he spedde
That the Grekes as the deth him dredde.

And fro this forth tho refte hym love his slep,
And made his mete his foo, and ek his sorwe
Gan multiplie, that, whoso tok kep,
It shewed in his hewe both eve and morwe.
Therfor a title he gan him for to borwe
Of other siknesse, lest men of hym wende
That the hote fir of love hym brende,

And seyde he hadde a fevere and ferde amys.
But how it was, certeyn, kan I nat seye,
If that his lady understood nat this,
Or feynede hire she nyste, oon of the tweye;
But wel I rede that, by no manere weye,
Ne semed it that she of hym roughte,
Or of his peyne, or whatsoevere he thoughte.

But thanne felte this Troilus swich wo
That he was wel neigh wood; for ay his drede
Was this, that she som wight hadde loved so,
That nevere of hym she wolde han taken hede,
For which hym thoughte he felte his herte blede;
Ne of his wo ne dorste he nat bygynne
To tellen hir, for al this world to wynne.

But whan he hadde a space from his care,
Thus to hymself ful ofte he gan to pleyne;
He seyde, "O fool, now artow in the snare,
That whilom japedest at loves peyne.
Now artow hent, now gnaw thin owen cheyne!
Thow were ay wont ech lovere reprehende
Of thing fro which thou kanst the nat defende.

"What wol now every lovere seyn of the,
If this be wist, but evere in thin absence
Laughen in scorn, and seyn, 'Loo, ther goth he
That is the man of so gret sapience,
That held us loveres leest in reverence.
Now, thanked God, he may gon in the daunce
Of hem that Love list febly for to avaunce.'

"But, O thow woful Troilus, God wolde,
Sith thow most loven thorugh thi destine,
That thow beset were on swich oon that sholde
Know al thi wo, al lakked hir pitee!
But also cold in love towardes the
Thi lady is as frost in wynter moone,
And thow fordon as snow in fire is soone.

"God wold I were aryved in the port
Of deth, to which my sorwe wol me lede!
A, Lord, to me it were a gret comfort;
Than were I quyt of languisshyng in drede;
For, be myn hidde sorwe iblowe on brede,
I shal byjaped ben a thousand tyme
More than that fol of whos folie men ryme.

"But now help, God, and ye, swete, for whom
I pleyne, ikaught, ye, nevere wight so faste!
O mercy, dere herte, and help me from
The deth, for I, whil that my lyf may laste,
More than myself wol love yow to my laste;
And with som frendly lok gladeth me, swete,
Though nevere more thing ye me byheete."

Thise wordes, and ful many an other to,
He spak, and called evere in his compleynte
Hire name, for to tellen hire his wo,
Til neigh that he in salte teres dreynte.
Al was for nought: she herde nat his pleynte;
And whan that he bythought on that folie,
A thousand fold his wo gan multiplie.

Bywayling in his chambre thus allone,
A frend of his that called was Pandare
Com oones in unwar, and herde hym groone,

481

And say his frend in swich destresse and care:
"Allas," quod he, "who causeth al this fare?
O mercy, God! What unhap may this meene?
Han now thus soone Grekes maad yow leene?

"Or hastow som remors of conscience,
And art now falle in som devocioun,
And wailest for thi synne and thin offence,
And hast for ferde caught attricioun?
God save hem that biseged han oure town,
That so kan leye oure jolite on presse,
And bringe oure lusty folk to holynesse!"

Thise wordes seyde he for the nones alle,
That with swich thing he myght hym angry maken,
And with angre don his wo to falle,
As for the tyme, and his corage awaken.
But wel he wist, as fer as tonges spaken,
Ther nas a man of gretter hardinesse
Thanne he, ne more desired worthinesse.

"What cas," quod Troilus, "or what aventure
Hath gided the to sen me langwisshinge,
That am refus of every creature?
But for the love of God, at my preyinge,
Go hennes awey; for certes my deyinge
Wol the disese, and I mot nedes deye;
Therfore go wey, ther is na more to seye.

"But if thow wene I be thus sik for drede,
It is naught so, and therfore scorne nought.
Ther is another thing I take of hede
Wel more than aught the Grekes han yet wrought,
Which cause is of my deth, for sorowe and thought;
But though that I now telle it the ne leste,
Be thow naught wroth; I hide it for the beste."

This Pandare, that neigh malt for wo and routhe,
Ful ofte seyde, "Allas, what may this be?
Now frend," quod he, "if evere love or trouthe
Hath ben, or is, bitwixen the and me,
Ne do thow nevere swich a crueltee
To hiden fro thi frend so gret a care!
Wostow naught wel that it am I, Pandare?

"I wol parten with the al thi peyne,
If it be so I do the no comfort,
As it is frendes right, soth for to seyne,
To entreparten wo as glad desport.
I have, and shal, for trewe or fals report,
In wrong and right iloved the al my lyve:
Hid nat thi wo fro me, but telle it blyve."

Than gan this sorwful Troylus to syke,
And seide hym thus: "God leve it be my beste
To telle it the; for sith it may the like,
Yet wol I telle it, though myn herte breste.
And wel woot I thow mayst do me no reste;
But lest thow deme I truste nat to the,
Now herke, frend, for thus it stant with me.

"Love, ayeins the which whoso defendeth
Hymselven most, hym alderlest avaylleth,
With disespeyr so sorwfulli me offendeth,
That streight unto the deth myn herte sailleth.
Therto desir so brennyngly me assailleth,
That to ben slayn it were a gretter joie
To me than kyng of Grece ben and Troye.

"Suffiseth this, my fulle frend Pandare,
That I have seyd, for now wostow my wo;
And for the love of God, my colde care,
So hide it wel—I tolde it nevere to mo,
For harmes myghten folwen mo than two
If it were wist—but be thow in gladnesse,
And lat me sterve, unknowe, of my destresse."

"How hastow thus unkyndely and longe
Hid this fro me, thow fol?" quod Pandarus.
"Paraunter thow myghte after swich oon longe,
That myn avys anoon may helpen us."
"This were a wonder thing," quod Troilus;
"Thow koudest nevere in love thiselven wisse.
How devel maistow brynge me to blisse?"

482

"Ye, Troilus, now herke," quod Pandare;
"Though I be nyce, it happeth often so,
That oon that excesse doth ful yvele fare
By good counseil kan kepe his frend therfro.
I have myself ek seyn a blynd man goo
Ther as he fel that couthe loken wide;
A fool may ek a wis-man ofte gide.

"A wheston is no kervyng instrument,
But yet it maketh sharppe kervyng tolis;
And there thow woost that I have aught myswent,
Eschuw thow that, for swich thing to the scole is;
Thus often wise men ben war by foolys.
If thow do so, thi wit is wel bewared;
By his contrarie is every thyng declared.

"For how myghte evere swetnesse han ben knowe
To him that nevere tasted bitternesse?
Ne no man may ben inly glad, I trowe,
That nevere was in sorwe or som destresse.
Eke whit by blak, by shame ek worthinesse,
Ech set by other, more for other semeth,
As men may se, and so the wyse it demeth.

"Sith thus of two contraries is o lore,
I, that have in love so ofte assayed
Grevances, oughte konne, and wel the more,
Counseillen the of that thow art amayed.
Ek the ne aughte nat ben yvel appayed,
Though I desyre with the for to bere
Thyn hevy charge; it shal the lasse dere.

"I woot wel that it fareth thus be me
As to thi brother, Paris, an herdesse
Which that icleped was Oëenone
Wrot in a compleynte of hir hevynesse.
Yee say the lettre that she wrot, I gesse?"
"Nay, nevere yet, ywys," quod Troilus.
"Now," quod Pandare, "herkne, it was thus:

'Phebus, that first fond art of medicyne,'
Quod she, 'and couthe in every wightes care
Remedye and reed, by herbes he knew fyne,
Yet to hymself his konnyng was ful bare,
For love hadde hym so bounden in a snare,
Al for the doughter of the kyng Amete,
That al his craft ne koude his sorwes bete.'

"Right so fare I, unhappyly for me.
I love oon best, and that me smerteth sore;
And yet, peraunter, kan I reden the
And nat myself; repreve me na more.
I have no cause, I woot wel, for to sore
As doth an hauk that listeth for to pleye;
But to thin help yet somwhat kan I seye.

"And of o thing right siker maistow be,
That certein, for to dyen in the peyne,
That I shal nevere mo discoveren the;
Ne, by my trouthe, I kepe nat restreyne
The fro thi love, theigh that it were Eleyne
That is thi brother wif, if ich it wiste:
Be what she be, and love hire as the liste!

"Therfore, as frend, fullich in me assure,
And tel me plat what is th'enchesoun
And final cause of wo that ye endure;
For douteth nothyng, myn entencioun
Nis nat to yow of reprehencioun,
To speke as now, for no wight may byreve
A man to love, tyl that hym list to leve.

"And witteth wel that bothe two ben vices:
Mistrusten alle, or elles alle leve.
But wel I woot, the mene of it no vice is,

483

For to trusten som wight is a preve
Of trouth; and forthi wolde I fayn remeve
Thi wrong conseyte, and do the som wyght triste
Thi wo to telle; and tel me, if the liste.

"The wise seith, 'Wo hym that is allone,
For, and he falle, he hath non helpe to ryse';
And sith thow hast a felawe, tel thi mone;
For this nys naught, certein, the nexte wyse
To wynnen love—as techen us the wyse—
To walwe and wepe as Nyobe the queene,
Whos teres yet in marble ben yseene.

"Lat be thy wepyng and thi drerynesse,
And lat us lissen wo with oother speche;
So may thy woful tyme seme lesse.
Delyte nat in wo thi wo to seche,
As don thise foles that hire sorwes eche
With sorwe, whan thei han mysaventure,
And listen naught to seche hem other cure.

"Men seyn, 'to wrecche is consolacioun
To have another felawe in hys peyne.'
That owghte wel ben oure opynyoun,
For bothe thow and I of love we pleyne.
So ful of sorwe am I, soth for to seyne,
That certeinly namore harde grace
May sitte on me, for-why ther is no space.

"If God wol, thow art nat agast of me,
Lest I wolde of thi lady the bygyle!
Thow woost thyself whom that I love, parde,
As I best kan, gon sithen longe while.
And sith thow woost I do it for no wyle,
And sith I am he that thow trustest moost,
Tel me somwhat, syn al my wo thow woost."

Yet Troilus for al this no word seyde,
But longe he ley as stylle as he ded were;
And after this with sikynge he abreyde,
And to Pandarus vois he lente his ere,
And up his eighen caste he, that in feere
Was Pandarus, lest that in frenesie
He sholde falle, or elles soone dye;

And cryde "Awake!" ful wonderlich and sharpe;
"What! Slombrestow as in a litargie?
Or artow lik an asse to the harpe,
That hereth sown whan men the strynges plye,
But in his mynde of that no melodie
May sinken hym to gladen, for that he
So dul ys of his bestialite?"

And with that, Pandare of his wordes stente;
And Troilus yet hym nothyng answerde,
For-why to tellen nas nat his entente
To nevere no man, for whom that he so ferde;
For it is seyd, "Men maketh ofte a yerde
With which the maker is hymself ybeten
In sondry manere," as thise wyse treten,

And namelich in his counseil tellynge
That toucheth love that oughte ben secree;
For of himself it wol ynough out sprynge,
But if that it the bet governed be.
Ek som tyme it is a craft to seme fle
Fro thyng whych in effect men hunte faste;
Al this gan Troilus in his herte caste.

But natheles, whan he hadde herd hym crye
"Awake!" he gan to syken wonder soore,
And seyde, "Frend, though that I stylle lye,
I am nat deef. Now pees, and crye namore,
For I have herd thi wordes and thi lore;
But suffre me my meschief to bywaille,
For thy proverbes may me naught availle.

"Nor other cure kanstow non for me;
Ek I nyl nat ben cured; I wol deye.
What knowe I of the queene Nyobe?
Lat be thyne olde ensaumples, I the preye."
"No," quod Pandarus, "therfore I seye,
Swych is delit of foles to bywepe
Hire wo, but seken bote they ne kepe.

484

"Now knowe I that ther reson in the failleth.
But tel me, if I wiste what she were
For whom that the al this mysaunter ailleth,
Dorstestow that I tolde in hire ere
Thi wo, sith thow darst naught thiself for feere,
And hire bysoughte on the to han som routhe?"
"Why, nay," quod he, "by God and by my trouthe!"

"What, nat as bisyly," quod Pandarus,
"As though myn owene lyf lay on this nede?"
"No, certes, brother," quod this Troilus,
"And whi? For that thow scholdest nevere spede."
"Wostow that wel?" "Ye, that is out of drede,"
Quod Troilus; "for al that evere ye konne,
She nyl to noon swich wrecche as I ben wonne."

Quod Pandarus, "Allas! What may this be,
That thow dispeired art thus causeles?
What! lyveth nat thi lady, bendiste?
How wostow so that thow art graceles?
Swich yvel is nat alwey booteles.
Why, put nat impossible thus thi cure,
Syn thyng to come is oft in aventure.

"I graunte wel that thow endurest wo
As sharp as doth he Ticius in helle,
Whos stomak foughles tiren evere moo
That hightyn volturis, as bokes telle;
But I may nat endure that thow dwelle
In so unskilful an oppynyoun
That of thi wo is no curacioun.

"But oones nyltow, for thy coward herte,
And for thyn ire and folissh wilfulnesse,
For wantrust, tellen of thy sorwes smerte,
Ne to thyn owen help don bysynesse
As muche as speke a resoun moore or lesse,
But list as he that lest of nothyng recche.
What womman koude loven swich a wrecche?

"What may she demen oother of thy deeth,
If thow thus deye, and she not why it is,
But that for feere is yolden up thy breth,
For Grekes han biseged us, iwys?
Lord, which a thonk than shaltow han of this!
Thus wol she seyn, and al the town attones,
'The wrecche is ded, the devel have his bones!'

"Thow mayst allone here wepe and crye and knele—
But love a womman that she woot it nought,
And she wol quyte it that thow shalt nat fele;
Unknowe, unkist, and lost that is unsought.
What, many a man hath love ful deere ybought
Twenty wynter that his lady wiste,
That nevere yet his lady mouth he kiste.

"What sholde be therfore fallen in dispayr,
Or be recreant for his owne tene,
Or slen hymself, al be his lady fair?
Nay, nay, but evere in oon be fressh and grene
To serve and love his deere hertes queene,
And thynk it is a guerdon hire to serve,
A thousand fold moore than he kan deserve."

Of that word took hede Troilus,
And thoughte anon what folie he was inne,
And how that soth hym seyde Pandarus,
That for to slen hymself myght he nat wynne,
But bothe don unmanhod and a synne,
And of his deth his lady naught to wite;
For of his wo, God woot, she knew ful lite.

And with that thought he gan ful sore syke,
And seyde, "Allas! What is me best to do?"
To whom Pandare answered, "If the like,
The beste is that thow telle me al thi wo;
And have my trouthe, but thow it fynde so
I be thi boote, er that it be ful longe,
To pieces do me drawe and sithen honge!"

485

"Ye, so thow seyst," quod Troilus tho, "allas!
But, God woot, it is naught the rather so.
Ful hard were it to helpen in this cas,
For wel fynde I that Fortune is my fo;
Ne al the men that riden konne or go
May of hire cruel whiel the harm withstonde;
For as hire list she pleyeth with free and bonde."

Quod Pandarus, "Than blamestow Fortune
For thow art wroth; ye, now at erst I see.
Woost thow nat wel that Fortune is comune
To everi manere wight in som degree?
And yet thow hast this comfort, lo, parde,
That, as hire joies moten overgon,
So mote hire sorwes passen everechon.

"For if hire whiel stynte any thyng to torne,
Than cessed she Fortune anon to be.
Now, sith hire whiel by no way may sojourne,
What woostow if hire mutabilite
Right as thyselven list wol don by the,
Or that she be naught fer fro thyn helpynge?
Paraunter thow hast cause for to synge.

"And therfore wostow what I the biseche?
Lat be thy wo and tornyng to the grounde;
For whoso list have helyng of his leche,
To hym byhoveth first unwre his wownde.
To Cerberus yn helle ay be I bounde,
Were it for my suster, al thy sorwe,
By my wil she sholde al be thyn to-morwe.

"Look up, I seye, and telle me what she is
Anon, that I may gon about thy nede.
Knowe ich hire aught? For my love, telle me this.
Thanne wolde I hopen rather for to spede."
Tho gan the veyne of Troilus to blede,
For he was hit, and wax al reed for shame.
"Aha!" quod Pandare; "Here bygynneth game."

And with that word he gan hym for to shake,
And seyde, "Thef, thow shalt hyre name telle."
But tho gan sely Troilus for to quake
As though men sholde han led hym into helle,
And seyde, "Allas, of al my wo the welle,
Thanne is my swete fo called Criseyde!"
And wel neigh with the word for feere he deide.

And whan that Pandare herde hire name nevene,
Lord, he was glad, and seyde, "Frend so deere,
Now far aright, for Joves name in hevene.
Love hath byset the wel; be of good cheere!
For of good name and wisdom and manere
She hath ynough, and ek of gentilesse.
If she be fayr, thow woost thyself, I gesse,

"Ne nevere saugh a more bountevous
Of hire estat, n'a gladder, ne of speche
A frendlyer, n'a more gracious
For to do wel, ne lasse hadde nede to seche
What for to don; and al this bet to eche,
In honour, to as fer as she may strecche,
A kynges herte semeth by hyrs a wrecche.

"And forthi loke of good comfort thow be;
For certeinly, the ferste poynt is this
Of noble corage and wel ordeyne,
A man to have pees with hymself, ywis.
So oghtist thow, for noht but good it is
To love wel, and in a worthy place;
The oghte not to clepe it hap, but grace.

"And also thynk, and therwith glade the,
That sith thy lady vertuous is al,
So foloweth it that there is some pitee
Amonges alle thise other in general;
And forthi se that thow, in special,
Requere naught that is ayeyns hyre name;
For vertu streccheth naught hymself to shame.

486

"But wel is me that evere that I was born,
That thow biset art in so good a place;
For by my trouthe, in love I dorste have sworn
The sholde nevere han tid thus fayr a grace.
And wostow why? For thow were wont to chace
At Love in scorn, and for despit him calle
'Seynt Idiot, lord of thise foles alle.'

"How often hastow maad thi nyce japes,
And seyd that Loves servantz everichone
Of nycete ben verray Goddes apes;
And some wolde mucche hire mete allone,
Liggyng abedde, and make hem for to grone;
And som, thow seydest, hadde a blaunche fevere,
And preydest God he sholde nevere kevere.

"And som of hem took on hym, for the cold,
More than ynough, so seydestow ful ofte.
And som han feyned ofte tyme, and told
How that they waken, whan thei slepen softe;
And thus they wolde han brought hemself alofte,
And natheles were under at the laste.
Thus seydestow, and japedest ful faste.

"Yet seydestow that for the moore part
Thise loveres wolden speke in general,
And thoughten that it was a siker art,
For faylyng, for t'assaien overal.
Now may I jape of the, if that I shal;
But natheles, though that I sholde deye,
That thow art non of tho, I dorste saye.

"Now bet thi brest, and sey to God of Love,
'Thy grace, lord, for now I me repente,
If I mysspak, for now myself I love.'
Thus sey with al thyn herte in good entente."
Quod Troilus, "A, lord! I me consente,
And preye to the my japes thow foryive,
And I shal nevere more whyle I live."

"Thow seist wel," quod Pandare, "and now I hope
That thow the goddes wrathe hast al apesed;
And sithen thow hast wopen many a drope,
And seyd swych thyng wherwith thi god is plesed,
Now wolde nevere god but thow were esed!
And thynk wel, she of whom rist al thi wo
Hereafter may thy comfort be also.

"For thilke grownd that bereth the wedes wikke
Bereth ek thise holsom herbes, as ful ofte
Next the foule netle, rough and thikke,
The rose waxeth swoote and smothe and softe;
And next the valeye is the hil o-ofte;
And next the derke nyght the glade morwe;
And also joie is next the fyn of sorwe.

"Now loke that atempre be thi bridel,
And for the beste ay suffre to the tyde,
Or elles al oure labour is on ydel:
He hasteth wel that wisely kan abyde.
Be diligent and trewe, and ay wel bide;
Be lusty, fre; persevere in thy servyse,
And al is wel, if thow werke in this wyse.

"But he that departed is in everi place
Is nowher hol, as writen clerkes wyse.
What wonder is, though swich oon have no grace?
Ek wostow how it fareth of som servise,
As plaunte a tree or herbe, in sondry wyse,
And on the morwe pulle it up as blyve!
No wonder is, though it may nevere thryve.

"And sith that God of Love hath the bistowed
In place digne unto thi worthinesse,
Stond faste, for to good port hastow rowed;
And of thiself, for any hevynesse,
Hope alwey wel; for, but if drerinesse
Or over-haste oure bothe labour shende,
I hope of this to maken a good ende.

487

"And wostow why I am the lasse afered
Of this matere with my nece trete?
For this have I herd seyd of wyse lered,
Was nevere man or womman yet bigete
That was unapt to suffren loves hete,
Celestial, or elles love of kynde;
Forthy som grace I hope in hire to fynde.

"And for to speke of hire in specyal,
Hire beaute to bithynken and hire youthe,
It sit hire naught to ben celestial
As yet, though that hire liste bothe and kowthe;
But trewely, it sate hire wel right nowthe
A worthi knyght to loven and cherice,
And but she do, I holde it for a vice.

"Wherfore I am, and wol ben, ay redy
To peyne me to do yow this servyse;
For bothe yow to plese thus hope I
Herafterward; for ye ben bothe wyse,
And konne it counseil kepe in swych a wyse
That no man shal the wiser of it be;
And so we may ben gladed alle thre.

"And, by my trouthe, I have right now of the
A good conceyte in my wit, as I gesse,
And what it is, I wol now that thow se.
I thenke, sith that Love, of his goodnesse,
Hath the converted out of wikkednesse,
That thow shalt ben the beste post, I leve,
Of al his lay, and moost his foos to greve.

"Ensample why, se now thise wise clerkes,
That erren aldermost ayeyn a lawe,
And ben converted from hire wikked werkes
Thorugh grace of God that list hem to hym drawe,
Thanne arn thise folk that han moost God in awe,
And strengest feythed ben, I undirstonde,
And konne an errowr alderbest withstonde."

Whan Troilus hadde herd Pandare assented
To ben his help in lovyng of Cryseyde,
Weex of his wo, as who seith, untormented,
But hotter weex his love, and thus he seyde,
With sobre chere, although his herte pleyde:
"Now blisful Venus helpe, er that I sterve,
Of the, Pandare, I mowe som thank deserve.

"But, deere frend, how shal my wo be lesse
Til this be doon? And good, ek telle me this:
How wiltow seyn of me and my destresse,
Lest she be wroth—this drede I moost, ywys—
Or nyl nat here or trowen how it is?
Al this drede I, and ek for the manere
Of the, hire em, she nyl no swich thyng here."

Quod Pandarus, "Thow hast a ful gret care
Lest that the cherl may falle out of the moone!
Whi, Lord! I hate of the thi nyce fare!
Whi, entremete of that thow hast to doone!
For Goddes love, I bidde the a boone:
So lat m'alone, and it shal be thi beste."
"Whi, frend," quod he, "now do right as the leste.

"But herke, Pandare, o word, for I nolde
That thow in me wendest so gret folie,
That to my lady I desiren sholde
That toucheth harm or any vilenye;
For dredeles me were levere dye
Than she of me aught elles understode
But that that myghte sownen into goode."

Tho lough this Pandare, and anon answerde,
"And I thi borugh? Fy! No wight doth but so.
I roughte naught though that she stood and herde
How that thow seist! but farewel, I wol go.
Adieu! Be glad! God spede us bothe two!
Yef me this labour and this bisynesse,
And of my spede be thyn al that swetnesse."

488

Tho Troilus gan doun on knees to falle,
And Pandare in his armes hente faste,
And seyde, "Now, fy on the Grekes alle!
Yet, parde, God shal helpe us atte laste.
And dredelees, if that my lyf may laste,
And God toforn, lo, som of hem shal smerte;
And yet m'athenketh that this avant m'asterte!

"Now, Pandare, I kan na more seye,
But, thow wis, thow woost, thow maist, thow art al!
My lif, my deth, hol in thyn bond I leye.
Help now!" Quod he, "Yis, by mi trowthe, I shal."
"God yelde the, frend, and this in special,"
Quod Troilus, "that thow me recomande
To hire that to the deth me may comande."

This Pandarus, tho desirous to serve
His fulle frend, than seyde in this manere:
"Farwell, and thenk I wol thi thank deserve!
Have here my trowthe, and that thow shalt wel here."
And went his wey, thenkyng on this matere,
And how he best myghte hire biseche of grace,
And fynde a tyme therto, and a place.

For everi wight that hath an hous to founde
Ne renneth naught the werk for to bygynne
With rakel hond, but he wol bide a stounde,
And sende his hertes line out fro withinne
Aldirfirst his purpos for to wynne.
Al this Pandare in his herte thoughte,
And caste his werk ful wisely or he wroughte.

But Troilus lay tho no lenger down,
But up anon upon his stede bay,
And in the feld he pleyde tho leoun;
Wo was that Grek that with hym mette a-day!
And in the town his manere tho forth ay
So goodly was, and gat hym so in grace,
That ecch hym loved that loked on his face.

For he bicom the frendlieste wight,
The gentilest, and ek the mooste fre,
The thriftiest, and oon the beste knyght
That in his tyme was or myghte be;
Dede were his japes and his cruelte,
His heighe port and his manere estraunge,
And ecch of tho gan for a vertu chaunge.

Now lat us stynte of Troilus a stounde,
That fareth lik a man that hurt is soore,
And is somdeel of akyngge of his wownde
Ylissed wel, but heeled no deel moore,
And, as an esy pacyent, the loore
Abit of hym that gooth aboute his cure;
And thus he dryeth forth his aventure.

Explicit liber primus

489

BOOK II

Incipit prohemium secundi libri.

Owt of thise blake wawes for to saylle,
O wynd, o wynd, the weder gynneth clere;
For in this see the boot hath swych travaylle,
Of my connyng, that unneth I it steere.
This see clepe I the tempestous matere
Of disespeir that Troilus was inne;
But now of hope the kalendes bygynne.

O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thow be my speed fro this forth, and my Muse,
To ryme wel this book til I have do;
Me nedeth here noon other art to use.
Forwhi to every lovere I me excuse,
That of no sentement I this endite,
But out of Latyn in my tonge it write.

Wherfore I nyl have neither thank ne blame
Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely,
Disblameth me if any word be lame,
For as myn auctour seyde, so sey I.
Ek though I speeke of love unfelyngly,
No wondre is, for it nothyng of newe is;
A blynd man kan nat juggen wel in hewis.

Ye knowe ek that in forme of speche is chaunge
Withinne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden pris, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem, and yet thei spake hem so,
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Ek for to wynnen love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And forthi if it happe in any wyse,
That here be any lovere in this place
That herkneth, as the storie wol devise,
How Troilus com to his lady grace,
And thenketh, "So nold I nat love purchace,"
Or wondreth on his speche or his doynge,
I noot; but it is me no wonderynge.

For every wight which that to Rome went
Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere;
Ek in som lond were al the game shent,
If that they ferde in love as men don here,
As thus, in opyn doyng or in chere,
In visityng in forme, or seyde hire sawes;
Forthi men seyn, "Ecch contree hath his lawes."

Ek scarsly ben ther in this place thre
That have in love seid lik, and don, in al;
For to thi purpos this may liken the,
And the right nought; yet al is seid or schal;
Ek som men grave in tree, some in ston wal,
As it bitit. But syn I have bigonne,
Myn auctour shal I folwen, if I konne.

Explicit prohemium secundi libri.

490

Incipit liber secundus.

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,
That fresshe floures, blew and white and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that wynter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fletyng every mede,
Whan Phebus doth his bryghte bemes sprede
Right in the white Bole, it so bitidde,
As I shal synge, on Mayes day the thrydde,

That Pandarus, for al his wise speche,
Felt ek his part of loves shotes keene,
That, koude he nevere so wel of lovyng preche,
It made his hewe a-day ful ofte greene.
So shop it that hym fil that day a teene
In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,
And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.

The swalowe Proigne, with a sorowful lay,
Whan morwen com, gan make hire waymentynge
Whi she forshapen was; and evere lay
Pandare abedde, half in a slomberynge,
Til she so neigh hym made hire cheterynge
How Tereus gan forth hire suster take,
That with the noyse of hire he gan awake,

And gan to calle, and dresse hym up to ryse,
Remembryng hym his erand was to doone
From Troilus, and ek his grete emprise;
And caste and knew in good plit was the moone
To doon viage, and took his way ful soone
Unto his neces palays ther biside.
Now Janus, god of entree, thow hym gyde!

Whan he was come unto his neces place,
"Wher is my lady?" to hire folk quod he;
And they hym tolde, and he forth in gan pace,
And fond two othere ladys sete and she,
Withinne a paved parlour, and they thre
Herden a mayden reden hem the geste
Of the siege of Thebes, while hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, "Madame, God yow see,
With youre book and all the compaignie!"
"Ey, uncle myn, welcome iwys," quod she;
And up she roos, and by the hond in hye
She took hym faste, and seyde, "This nyght thrie,
To goode mot it turne, of yow I mette."
And with that word she doun on bench hym sette.

"Ye, nece, yee shal faren wel the bet,
If God wol, al this yeer," quod Pandarus;
"But I am sory that I have yow let
To herken of youre book ye preysen thus.
For Goddes love, what seith it? telle it us!
Is it of love? O, som good ye me leere!"
"Uncle," quod she, "youre maistresse is nat here."

With that thei gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,
"This romaunce is of Thebes that we rede;
And we han herd how that kyng Layus deyde
Thorugh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;
And here we stynten at thise lettres rede—
How the bisshop, as the book kan telle,
Amphiorax, fil thorugh the ground to helle."

Quod Pandarus, "Al this knowe I myselve,
And al th'assege of Thebes and the care;
For herof ben ther maked bookes twelve.
But lat be this, and telle me how ye fare.
Do wey youre barbe, and shew youre face bare;
Do wey youre book, rys up, and lat us daunce,
And lat us don to May som observaunce."

"I! God forbede!" quod she. "Be ye mad?
Is that a widewes lif, so God yow save?
By God, ye maken me ryght soore adrad!
Ye ben so wylde, it semeth as ye rave.

491

It satte me wel bet ay in a cave
To bidde and rede on holy seyntes lyves;
Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves."

"As evere thrive I," quod this Pandarus,
"Yet koude I telle a thyng to doon yow pleye."
"Now, uncle deere," quod she, "telle it us
For Goddes love; is than th'assege aweye?
I am of Grekes so fered that I deye."
"Nay, nay," quod he, "as evere mote I thryve,
It is a thing wel bet than swyche fyve."

"Ye, holy God," quod she, "what thyng is that?
What! Bet than swyche fyve? I! Nay, ywys!
For al this world ne kan I reden what
It sholde ben; some jape I trowe is this;
And but youreselven telle us what it is,
My wit is for t'arede it al to leene.
As help me God, I not nat what ye meene."

"And I youre borugh, ne nevere shal, for me,
This thyng be told to yow, as mote I thryve!"
"And whi so, uncle myn? Whi so?" quod she.
"By God," quod he, "that wol I telle as blyve!
For proudder womman is ther noon on lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the town of Troye.
I jape nought, as evere have I joye!"

Tho gan she wondren moore than biforn
A thousand fold, and down hire eyghen caste;
For nevere, sith the tyme that she was born,
To knowe thyng desired she so faste;
And with a syk she seyde hym atte laste,
"Now, uncle myn, I nyl yow nought displese,
Nor axen more that may do yow disese."

So after this, with many wordes glade,
And frendly tales, and with merie chiere,
Of this and that they pleide, and gonnen wade
In many an unkouth, glad, and dep matere,
As frendes doon whan thei ben mette yfere,
Tyl she gan axen hym how Ector ferde,
That was the townes wal and Grekes yerde.

"Ful wel, I thonk it God," quod Pandarus,
"Save in his arm he hath a litel wownde;
And ek his fresshe brother Troilus,
The wise, worthi Ector the secounde,
In whom that alle vertu list habounde,
As alle trouthe and alle gentilesse,
Wisdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse."

"In good feith, em," quod she, "that liketh me
Thei faren wel; God save hem bothe two!
For trewelich I holde it gret deynte
A kynges sone in armes wel to do,
And ben of goode condiciouns therto;
For gret power and moral vertu here
Is selde yseyn in o persone yfeere."

"In good faith, that is soth," quod Pandarus.
"But, by my trouthe, the kyng hath sones tweye—
That is to mene, Ector and Troilus—
That certeynly, though that I sholde deye,
Thei ben as voide of vices, dar I seye,
As any men that lyven under the sonne:
Hire myght is wyde yknowe, and what they konne.

"Of Ector nedeth it namore for to telle:
In al this world ther nys a bettre knyght
Than he, that is of worthynesse welle;
And he wel moore vertu hath than myght;
This knoweth many a wis and worthi wight.
The same pris of Troilus I seye;
God help me so, I knowe nat swiche tweye."

"By God," quod she, "of Ector that is sooth.
Of Troilus the same thyng trowe I;
For, dredeles, men tellen that he doth
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth hym here at hom so gentily
To everi wight, that alle pris hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be."

"Ye sey right sooth, ywys," quod Pandarus;
"For yesterday, whoso had with hym ben,
He myghte han wondred upon Troilus;

492

For nevere yet so thikke a swarm of been
Ne fleigh, as Grekes for hym gonne fleen,
And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes eere,
Ther nas no cry but 'Troilus is there!'

"Now here, now ther, he hunted hem so faste,
Ther nas but Grekes blood—and Troilus.
Now hem he hurte, and hem al down he caste;
Ay wher he wente, it was arayed thus:
He was hire deth, and sheld and lif for us,
That, as that day, ther dorste non withstonde
Whil that he held his blody swerd in honde.

"Therto he is the frendlieste man
Of gret estat that evere I saugh my lyve;
And wher hym lest, best felawshipe kan
To swich as hym thynketh able for to thryve."
And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,
He took his leve, and seyde, "I wol gon henne."
"Nay, blame have I, myn uncle," quod she thenne.

"What aileth yow to be thus wery soone,
And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?
Nay, sitteth down; by God, I have to doone
With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go."
And everi wight that was aboute hem tho,
That herde that, gan fer awey to stonde,
Whil they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.

Whan that hire tale al brought was to an ende,
Of hire estat and of hire governaunce,
Quod Pandarus, "Now tyme is that I wende.
But yet, I say, ariseth, lat us daunce,
And cast youre widewes habit to mischaunce!
What list yow thus youreself to disfigure,
Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?"

"A, wel bithought! For love of God," quod she,
"Shal I nat witen what ye meene of this?"
"No, this thing axeth leyser," tho quod he,
"And eke me wolde muche greve, iwis,
If I it tolde and ye it toke amys.
Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille
Than seye a soth that were ayeyns youre wille.

"For, nece, by the goddesse Mynerve,
And Jupiter, that maketh the thondre rynge,
And by the blisful Venus that I serve,
Ye ben the womman in this world lyvynge—
Withouten paramours, to my wyttynge—
That I best love, and lothest am to greve;
And that ye weten wel youreself, I leve."

"Iwis, myn uncle," quod she, "grant mercy!
Youre frendshipe have I founden evere yit.
I am to no man holden, trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quyt;
And with the grace of God, emforth my wit,
As in my gylt I shal yow nevere offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende.

"But for the love of God I yow biseche,
As ye ben he that I love moost and triste,
Lat be to me youre fremde manere speche,
And sey to me, youre nece, what yow liste."
And with that word hire uncle anoon hire kiste,
And seyde, "Gladly, leve nece dere!
Tak it for good, that I shal sey yow here."

With that she gan hire eighen down to caste,
And Pandarus to coghe gan a lite,
And seyde, "Nece, alwey—lo!—to the laste,
How so it be that som men hem delite
With subtyl art hire tales for to endite,
Yet for al that, in hire entencioun
Hire tale is al for som conclusioun.

"And sithe th'ende is every tales strengthe,
And this matere is so bihovely,
What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe
To yow, that ben my frend so feythfully?"

493

And with that word he gan right inwardly
Byholden hire and loken on hire face,
And seyde, "On swich a mirour goode grace!"

Than thought he thus: "If I my tale endite
Aught harde, or make a proces any whyle,
She shal no savour have therin but lite,
And trowe I wolde hire in my wil bigyle;
For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle
Theras thei kan nought pleynly understonde;
Forthi hire wit to serven wol I fonde"—

And loked on hire in a bysi wyse,
And she was war that he byheld hire so,
And seyde, "Lord! so faste ye m"avise!
Sey ye me nevere er now? What sey ye, no?"
"Yis, yys," quod he, "and bet wol er I go!
But be my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye
Be fortunat, for now men shal it se.

"For to every wight som goodly aventure
Som tyme is shape, if he it kan receyven;
But if he wol take of it no cure,
Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,
Lo, neyther cas ne fortune hym deceyven,
But ryght his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;
And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.

"Good aventure, O beele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye konne it take;
And for the love of God, and ek of me,
Cache it anon, lest aventure slake!
What sholde I lenger proces of it make?
Yif me youre hond, for in this world is noon—
If that yow list—a wight so wel bygon.

"And sith I speke of good entencioun,
As I to yow have told wel herebyforn,
And love as wel youre honour and renoun
As creature in al this world yborn,
By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,
And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye,
Ne shal I nevere sen yow eft with yë.

"Beth naught agast, ne quaketh naught! Wherto?
Ne chaungeth naught for fere so youre hewe!
For hardely the werst of this is do;
And though my tale as now be to yow newe,
Yet trist alwey ye shal me fynde trewe;
And were it thyng that me thoughte unsittynge,
To yow wolde I no swiche tales brynge."

"Now, good em, for Goddes love, I preye,"
Quod she, "come of, and telle me what it is!
For both I am agast what ye wol seye,
And ek me longeth it to wite, ywis;
For whethir it be wel or be amys,
Say on, lat me nat in this feere dwelle."
"So wol I doon; now herkeneth! I shall telle:

"Now, nece myn, the kynges deere sone,
The goode, wise, worthi, fresshe, and free,
Which alwey for to don wel is his wone,
The noble Troilus, so loveth the,
That, but ye helpe, it wol his bane be.
Lo, here is al! What sholde I moore seye?
Doth what yow lest to make hym lyve or deye.

"But if ye late hym deyen, I wol sterve—
Have here my trouthe, nece, I nyl nat lyen—
Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve."
With that the teris breste out of his yën,
And seide, "If that ye don us bothe dyen
Thus gilteles, than have ye fisshed fayre!
What mende ye, though that we booth appaire?

"Allas, he which that is my lord so deere,
That trewe man, that noble gentil knyght,
That naught desireth but youre frendly cheere,
I se hym dyen, ther he goth upryght,
And hasteth hym with al his fulle myght
For to ben slayn, if his fortune assente.
Allas, that God yow swich a beaute sente!

494

"If it be so that ye so cruel be
That of his deth yow liste nought to recche,
That is so trewe and worthi, as ye se,
Namoore than of a japer or a wrecche—
If ye be swich, youre beaute may nat strecche
To make amendes of so cruel a dede;
Avysement is good byfore the nede.

"Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!
Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no boote!
Wo worth that beaute that is routheles!
Wo worth that wight that tret ech undir foote!
And ye, that ben of beaute crop and roote,
If therwithal in yow ther be no routhe,
Than is it harm ye lyven, by my trouthe!

"And also think wel that this is no gaude;
For me were levere thow and I and he
Were hanged, than I sholde ben his baude,
As heigh as men myghte on us alle ysee!
I am thyn em; the shame were to me,
As wel as the, if that I sholde assente
Thorugh myn abet that he thyn honour shente.

"Now understond, for I yow nought requere
To bynde yow to hym thorugh no byheste,
But only that ye make hym bettre chiere
Than ye han doon er this, and moore feste,
So that his lif be saved atte leeste;
This al and som, and pleynly, oure entente.
God help me so, I nevere other mente!

"Lo, this requeste is naught but skylle, ywys,
Ne doute of resoun, pardee, is ther noon.
I sette the worste, that ye dreden this:
Men wolde wondren sen hym come or goon.
Ther-ayeins answere I thus anoon,
That every wight, but he be fool of kynde,
Wol deme it love of frendshipe in his mynde.

"What, who wol demen, though he se a man
To temple go, that he th'ymages eteth?
Thenk ek how wel and wisely that he kan
Governe hymself, that he no thyng foryeteth,
That where he cometh he pris and thank hym geteth;
And ek therto, he shal come here so selde,
What fors were it though al the town byhelde?

"Swych love of frendes regneth al this town;
And wre yow in that mantel evere moo,
And God so wys be my savacioun,
As I have seyd, youre beste is to do
But alwey, goode nece, to stynte his woo,
So lat youre daunger sucred ben a lite,
That of his deth ye be naught for to wite."

Criseyde, which that herde hym in this wise,
Thoughte, "I shal felen what he meneth, ywis."
"Now em," quod she, "what wolde ye devise?
What is youre reed I sholde don of this?"
"That is wel seyd," quod be. "Certein, best is 390
That ye hym love ayeyn for his lovynge,
As love for love is skilful guerdonynge.

"Thenk ek how elde wasteth every houre
In ech of yow a partie of beautee;
And therfore er that age the devoure,
Go love; for old, ther wol no wight of the.
Lat this proverbe a loore unto yow be:
To late ywar, quod Beaute, whan it paste;
And Elde daunteth Daunger at the laste.

"The kynges fool is wont to crien loude,
Whan that hym thinketh a womman berth hire hye,
'So longe mote ye lyve, and alle proude,
Til crowes feet be growe under youre yë,
And sende yow than a myrour in to prye,
In which that ye may se youre face a morwe!'
I bidde wisshe yow namore sorwe."

495

With this he stynte, and caste adown the heed,
And she began to breste a-wepe anoon,
And seyde, "Allas, for wo! Why nere I deed?
For of this world the feyth is al agoon.
Allas, what sholden straunge to me doon,
Whan he that for my beste frend I wende
Ret me to love, and sholde it me defende?

"Allas! I wolde han trusted, douteles,
That if that I, thorugh my dysaventure,
Hadde loved outher hym or Achilles,
Ector, or any mannes creature,
Ye nolde han had no mercy ne mesure
On me, but alwey had me in repreve.
This false world—allas!—who may it leve?

"What, is this al the joye and al the feste?
Is this youre reed? Is this my blisful cas?
Is this the verray mede of youre byheeste?
Is al this paynted proces seyd—allas!—
Right for this fyn? O lady myn, Pallas!
Thow in this dredful cas for me purveye,
For so astoned am I that I deye."

Wyth that she gan ful sorwfully to syke.
"A, may it be no bet?" quod Pandarus;
"By God, I shal namore come here this wyke,
And God toforn, that am mystrusted thus!
I se wel that ye sette lite of us,
Or of oure deth! Allas, I woful wrecche!
Might he yet lyve, of me is nought to recche.

"O cruel god, O dispitouse Marte,
O Furies thre of helle, on yow I crye!
So lat me nevere out of this hous departe,
If I mente harm or vilenye!
But sith I se my lord mot nedes dye,
And I with hym, here I me shryve, and seye
That wikkedly ye don us bothe deye.

"But sith it liketh yow that I be ded,
By Neptunus, that god is of the see,
Fro this forth shal I nevere eten bred
Til I myn owen herte blood may see;
For certeyn I wol deye as soone as he."
And up he sterte, and on his wey he raughte,
Tyl she agayn hym by the lappe kaughte.

Criseyde, which that wel neigh starf for feere,
So as she was the ferfulleste wight
That myghte be, and herde ek with hire ere
And saugh the sorwful ernest of the knyght,
And in his preier ek saugh noon unryght,
And for the harm that myghte ek fallen moore,
She gan to rewe and dredde hire wonder soore,

And thoughte thus: "Unhappes fallen thikke
Alday for love, and in swych manere cas
As men ben cruel in hemself and wikke;
And if this man sle here hymself—allas!—
In my presence, it wol be no solas.
What men wolde of hir deme I kan nat seye;
It nedeth me ful sleighly for to pleie."

And with a sorowful sik she sayde thrie,
"A, Lord! What me is tid a sory chaunce!
For myn estat lith in a jupartie,
And ek myn emes lif is in balaunce;
But natheles, with Goddes governaunce,
I shal so doon, myn honour shal I kepe,
And ek his lif"—and stynte for to wepe.

"Of harmes two, the lesse is for to chese;
Yet have I levere maken hym good chere
In honour, than myn emes lyf to lese.
Ye seyn, ye nothyng elles me requere?"
"No, wis," quod he, "myn owen nece dere."
"Now wel," quod she, "and I wol doon my peyne; 475
I shal myn herte ayeins my lust constreyne.

"But that I nyl nat holden hym in honde,
Ne love a man ne kan I naught ne may

496

Ayeins my wyl, but elles wol I fonde,
Myn honour sauf, plese hym fro day to day.
Therto nolde I nat ones han seyd nay,
But that I drede, as in my fantasye;
But cesse cause, ay cesseth maladie.

"And here I make a protestacioun
That in this proces if ye depper go,
That certeynly, for no salvacioun
Of yow, though that ye sterven bothe two,
Though al the world on o day be my fo,
Ne shal I nevere of hym han other routhe."
"I graunte wel," quod Pandare, "by my trowthe. 490

"But may I truste wel to yow," quod he,
"That of this thyng that ye han hight me here,
Ye wole it holden trewely unto me?"
"Ye, doutelees," quod she, "myn uncle deere."
"Ne that I shal han cause in this matere,"
Quod he, "to pleyne, or ofter yow to preche?
"Why, no, parde; what nedeth moore speche?"

Tho fellen they in other tales glade,
Tyl at the laste, "O good em," quod she tho,
"For his love, that us bothe made,
Tel me how first ye wisten of his wo.
Woot noon of it but ye?" He seyde, "No."
"Kan he wel speke of love?" quod she; "I preye
Tel me, for I the bet me shal purveye."

Tho Pandarus a litel gan to smyle,
And seyde, "By my trouthe, I shal yow telle.
This other day, naught gon ful longe while,
In-with the paleis gardyn, by a welle,
Gan he and I wel half a day to dwelle,
Right for to speken of an ordinaunce,
How we the Grekes myghten disavaunce.

"Soon after that bigonne we to lepe,
And casten with oure dartes to and fro,
Tyl at the laste he seyde he wolde slepe,
And on the gres adoun he leyde hym tho;
And I afer gan romen to and fro,
Til that I herde, as that I welk alone,
How he bigan ful wofully to grone.

"Tho gan I stalke hym softely byhynde,
And sikirly, the soothe for to seyne,
As I kan clepe ayein now to my mynde,
Right thus to Love he gan hym for to pleyne:
He seyde, 'Lord, have routhe upon my peyne,
Al have I ben rebell in myn entente;
Now, mea culpa, lord, I me repente!

"'O god, that at thi disposicioun
Ledest the fyn by juste purveiaunce
Of every wight, my lowe confessioun
Accepte in gree, and sende me swich penaunce
As liketh the, but from disesperaunce,
That may my goost departe awey fro the,
Thow be my sheld, for this benignite.

"'For certes, lord, so soore hath she me wounded,
That stood in blak, with lokyng of hire eyen,
That to myn hertes botme it is ysounded,
Thorugh which I woot that I moot nedes deyen.
This is the werste, I dar me nat bywreyen;
And wel the hotter ben the gledes rede,
That men hem wrien with asshen pale and dede.'

"Wyth that he smot his hed adown anon,
And gan to motre, I noot what, trewely.
And I with that gan stille awey to goon,
And leet therof as nothing wist had I,
And com ayein anon, and stood hym by,
And seyde, 'Awake, ye slepen al to longe!
It semeth nat that love doth yow longe,

"'That slepen so that no man may yow wake.
Who sey evere or this so dul a man?'
'Ye, frend,' quod he, 'do ye youre hedes ake
For love, and lat me lyven as I kan.'
But though that he for wo was pale and wan,

497

Yet made he tho as fresshe a countenaunce
As though he sholde have led the newe daunce.

"This passed forth til now, this other day,
It fel that I com romyng al allone
Into his chaumbre, and fond how that he lay
Upon his bed; but man so soore grone
Ne herde I nevere, and what that was his mone
Ne wist I nought; for, as I was comynge,
Al sodeynly he lefte his complaynynge.

"Of which I took somwat suspecioun,
And ner I com, and fond he wepte soore;
And God so wys be my savacioun,
As nevere of thyng hadde I no routhe moore;
For neither with engyn, ne with no loore,
Unnethes myghte I fro the deth hym kepe,
That yet fele I myn herte for hym wepe.

"And God woot, nevere sith that I was born
Was I so besy no man for to preche,
Ne nevere was to wight so depe isworn,
Or he me told who myghte ben his leche.
But now to yow rehercen al his speche,
Or alle his woful wordes for to sowne,
Ne bid me naught, but ye wol se me swowne.

"But for to save his lif, and elles nought,
And to noon harm of yow, thus am I dryven;
And for the love of God, that us hath wrought,
Swich cheer hym dooth that he and I may lyven!
Now have I plat to yow myn herte shryven,
And sith ye woot that myn entent is cleene,
Take heede therof, for I non yvel meene.

"And right good thrift, I prey to God, have ye,
That han swich oon ykaught withouten net!
And be ye wis as ye be fair to see,
Wel in the ryng than is the ruby set.
Ther were nevere two so wel ymet,
Whan ye ben his al hool as he is youre;
Ther myghty God graunte us see that houre!"

"Nay, therof spak I nought, ha, ha!" quod she;
"As helpe me God, ye shenden every deel!"
"O, mercy, dere nece," anon quod he,
"What so I spak, I mente naught but wel,
By Mars, the god that helmed is of steel!
Now beth naught wroth, my blood, my nece dere."
"Now wel," quod she, "foryeven be it here!" 595

With this he took his leve, and hom he wente;
And, Lord, he was glad and wel bygon!
Criseyde aros, no lenger she ne stente,
But streght into hire closet wente anon,
And set hire doun as stylle as any ston,
And every word gan up and down to wynde
That he had seyd, as it com hire to mynde,

And wex somdel astoned in hire thought
Right for the newe cas; but whan that she
Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought
Of peril why she ought afered be.
For man may love, of possibilite,
A womman so, his herte may tobreste,
And she naught love ayein, but if hire leste.

But as she sat allone and thoughte thus,
Ascry aros at scarmuch al withoute,
And men criden in the strete, "Se, Troilus
Hath right now put to flighte the Grekes route!"
With that gan al hire meyne for to shoute,
"A, go we se! Cast up the yates wyde!
For thorwgh this strete he moot to paleys ride;

"For other wey is to the yate noon
Of Dardanus, there opyn is the cheyne."
With that com he and al his folk anoon
Han esy pas rydyng, in routes tweyne,
Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne,
For which, men seyn, may nought destourbed be
That shal bityden of necessitee.

This Troilus sat on his baye steede
Al armed, save his hed, ful richely;
And wownded was his hors, and gan to blede,
On which he rood a pas ful softely.

498

But swich a knyghtly sighte trewely
As was on hym, was nought, withouten faille,
To loke on Mars, that god is of bataille.

So lik a man of armes and a knyght
He was to seen, fulfilled of heigh prowesse,
For bothe he hadde a body and a myght
To don that thing, as wel as hardynesse;
And ek to seen hym in his gere hym dresse,
So fressh, so yong, so weldy semed he,
It was an heven upon hym for to see.

His helm tohewen was in twenty places,
That by a tyssew heng his bak byhynde;
His sheeld todasshed was with swerdes and maces,
In which men myghte many an arwe fynde
That thirled hadde horn and nerf and rynde;
And ay the peple cryde, "Here cometh oure joye,
And, next his brother, holder up of Troye!"

For which he wex a litel reed for shame
When he the peple upon hym herde cryen,
That to byholde it was a noble game
How sobrelich he caste down his yën.
Criseyda gan al his chere aspien,
And leet it so softe in hire herte synke,
That to hireself she seyde, "Who yaf me drynke?"

For of hire owen thought she wex al reed,
Remembryng hire right thus, "Lo, this is he
Which that myn uncle swerith he moot be deed,
But I on hym have mercy and pitee."
And with that thought, for pure ashamed, she
Gan in hire bed to pulle, and that as faste,
Whil he and alle the peple forby paste,

And gan to caste and rollen up and down
Withinne hire thought his excellent prowesse,
And his estat, and also his renown,
His wit, his shap, and ek his gentilesse;
But moost hire favour was, for his distresse
Was al for hire, and thoughte it was a routhe
To sleen swich oon, if that he mente trouthe.

Now myghte som envious jangle thus:
"This was a sodeyn love; how myght it be
That she so lightly loved Troilus
Right for the firste syghte, ye, parde?"
Now whoso seith so, mote he nevere ythe!
For every thing a gynnyng hath it nede
Er al be wrought, withowten any drede.

For I sey nought that she so sodeynly
Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne
To like hym first, and I have told yow whi;
And after that, his manhod and his pyne
Made love withinne hire for to myne,
For which by proces and by good servyse
He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse.

And also blisful Venus, wel arrayed,
Sat in hire seventhe hous of hevene tho,
Disposed wel, and with aspectes payed,
To helpe sely Troilus of his woo.
And soth to seyne, she nas not al a foo
To Troilus in his nativitee;
God woot that wel the sonner spedde he.

Now lat us stynte of Troilus a throwe,
That rideth forth, and lat us torne faste
Unto Criseyde, that heng hire bed ful lowe
Ther as she sat allone, and gan to caste
Where on she wolde apoynte hire atte laste,
If it so were hire em ne wolde cesse
For Troilus upon hire for to presse.

And, Lord! So she gan in hire thought argue
In this matere of which I have yow told,
And what to doone best were, and what eschue,
That plited she ful ofte in many fold.

499

Now was hire herte warm, now was it cold;
And what she thoughte somwhat shal I write,
As to myn auctour listeth for t'endite.

She thoughte wel that Troilus persone
She knew by syghte, and ek his gentilesse,
And thus she seyde, "Al were it nat to doone
To graunte hym love, yet for his worthynesse
It were honour with pley and with gladnesse
In honestee with swich a lord to deele,
For myn estat, and also for his heele.

"Ek wel woot I my kynges sone is he,
And sith he hath to se me swich delit,
If I wolde outreliche his sighte flee,
Peraunter he myghte have me in dispit,
Thorugh whicch I myghte stonde in worse plit.
Now were I wis, me hate to purchace,
Withouten need, ther I may stonde in grace?

"In every thyng, I woot, ther lith mesure;
For though a man forbede dronkenesse,
He naught forbet that every creature
Be drynkeles for alwey, as I gesse.
Ek sith I woot for me is his destresse,
I ne aughte nat for that thing hym despise,
Sith it is so he meneth in good wyse.

"And ek I knowe of longe tyme agon
His thewes goode, and that he is nat nyce;
N"avantour, seith men, certein, he is noon;
To wis is he to doon so gret a vice;
Ne als I nyl hym nevere so cherice
That he may make avaunt, by juste cause,
He shal me nevere bynde in swich a clause.

"Now sette a caas: the hardest is, ywys,
Men myghten demen that he loveth me.
What dishonour were it unto me, this?
May ich hym lette of that? Why, nay, parde!
I knowe also, and alday heere and se,
Men loven wommen al biside hire leve,
And whan hem leste namore, lat hem byleve!

"I thenke ek how he able is for to have
Of al this noble town the thriftieste
To ben his love, so she hire honour save.
For out and out he is the worthieste,
Save only Ector, which that is the beste;
And yet his lif al lith now in my cure.
But swich is love, and ek myn aventure.

"Ne me to love, a wonder is it nought;
For wel woot I myself, so God me spede—
Al wolde I that noon wiste of this thought—
I am oon the faireste, out of drede,
And goodlieste, who that taketh hede,
And so men seyn, in al the town of Troie.
What wonder is though he of me have joye?

"I am myn owene womman, wel at ese—
I thank it God—as after myn estat,
Right yong, and stonde unteyd in lusty leese,
Withouten jalousie or swich debat:
Shal noon housbonde seyn to me 'Chek mat!'
For either they ben ful of jalousie,
Or maisterfull, or loven novelrie.

"What shal I doon? To what fyn lyve I thus?
Shal I nat love, in cas if that me leste?
What, pardieux! I am naught religious.
And though that I myn herte sette at reste
Upon this knyght, that is the worthieste,
And kepe alwey myn honour and my name,
By alle right, it may do me no shame."

But right as when the sonne shyneth brighte
In March, that chaungeth ofte tyme his face,
And that a cloude is put with wynd to flighte,
Which oversprat the sonne as for a space,
A cloudy thought gan thorugh hire soule pace,
That overspradde hire brighte thoughtes alle,
So that for feere almost she gan to falle.

500

That thought was this: "Allas! Syn I am free,
Sholde I now love, and put in jupartie
My sikernesse, and thrallen libertee?
Allas, how dorst I thenken that folie?
May I naught wel in other folk aspie
Hire dredfull joye, hire constreinte, and hire peyne?
Ther loveth noon, that she nath why to pleyne.

"For love is yet the mooste stormy lyf,
Right of hymself, that evere was bigonne;
For evere som mystrust or nice strif
Ther is in love, som cloude is over that sonne.
Therto we wrecched wommen nothing konne,
Whan us is wo, but wepe and sitte and thinke;
Oure wrecche is this, oure owen wo to drynke.

"Also thise wikked tonges ben so prest
To speke us harm; ek men ben so untrewe,
That right anon as cessed is hire lest,
So cesseth love, and forth to love a newe.
But harm ydoon is doon, whoso it rewe:
For though thise men for love hem first torende,
Ful sharp bygynnyng breketh ofte at ende.

"How ofte tyme hath it yknowen be
The tresoun that to wommen hath ben do!
To what fyn is swich love I kan nat see,
Or wher bycometh it, whan that it is ago.
Ther is no wight that woot, I trowe so,
Where it bycometh. Lo, no wight on it sporneth;
That erst was nothing, into nought it torneth.

"How bisy, if I love, ek most I be
To plesen hem that jangle of love, and dremen,
And coye hem, that they seye noon harm of me!
For though ther be no cause, yet hem semen
Al be for harm that folk hire frendes quemen;
And who may stoppen every wikked tonge,
Or sown of belles whil that thei ben ronge?"

And after that, hire thought gan for to clere,
And seide, "He which that nothing undertaketh,
Nothyng n"acheveth, be hym looth or deere."
And with an other thought hire herte quaketh;
Than slepeth hope, and after drede awaketh;
Now hoot, now cold; but thus, bitwixen tweye,
She rist hire up, and went hire for to pleye.

Adown the steyre anonright tho she wente
Into the gardyn with hire neces thre,
And up and down ther made many a wente—
Flexippe, she, Tharbe, and Antigone—
To pleyen that it joye was to see;
And other of hire wommen, a gret route,
Hire folowede in the gardyn al aboute.

This yerd was large, and rayled alle th'aleyes,
And shadewed wel with blosmy bowes grene,
And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes,
In which she walketh arm in arm bitwene,
Til at the laste Antigone the shene
Gan on a Troian song to singen cleere,
That it an heven was hire vois to here.

She seyde, "O Love, to whom I have and shal
Ben humble subgit, trewe in myn entente,
As I best kan, to yow, lord, yeve ich al
For everemo myn hertes lust to rente;
For nevere yet thi grace no wight sente
So blisful cause as me, my lif to lede
In alle joie and seurte out of drede.

"Ye, blisful god, han me so wel byset
In love, iwys, that al that bereth lif
Ymagynen ne kouthe how to be bet;
For, lord, withouten jalousie or strif,
I love oon which is moost ententif
To serven wel, unweri or unfeyned,
That evere was, and leest with harm desteyned.

"As he that is the welle of worthynesse,
Of trouthe grownd, mirour of goodlihed,

501

Of wit Apollo, stoon of sikernesse,
Of vertu roote, of lust fynder and hed,
Thorugh which is alle sorwe fro me ded—
Iwis, I love hym best, so doth he me;
Now good thrift have he, wherso that he be!

"Whom shulde I thanken but yow, god of Love,
Of al this blisse, in which to bathe I gynne?
And thanked be ye, lord, for that I love!
This is the righte lif that I am inne,
To flemen alle manere vice and synne:
This dooth me so to vertu for t'entende,
That day by day I in my wille amende.

"And whoso seith that for to love is vice,
Or thraldom, though he feele in it destresse,
He outher is envyous, or right nyce,
Or is unmyghty, for his shrewednesse,
To loven; for swich manere folk, I gesse,
Defamen Love, as nothing of hym knowe.
Thei speken, but thei benten nevere his bowe!

"What is the sonne wers, of kynde right,
Though that a man, for fieblesse of his yen,
May nought endure on it to see for bright?
Or love the wers, though wrecches on it crien?
No wele is worth, that may no sorwe dryen.
And forthi, who that hath an hed of verre,
Fro cast of stones war hym in the werre!

"But I with al myn herte and al my myght,
As I have seyd, wol love unto my laste
My deere herte and al myn owen knyght,
In which myn herte growen is so faste,
And his in me, that it shal evere laste.
Al dredde I first to love hym to bigynne,
Now woot I wel, ther is no peril inne."

And of hir song right with that word she stente,
And therwithal, "Now nece," quod Cryseyde,
"Who made this song now with so good entente?"
Antygone answerde anoon and seyde,
"Madame, ywys, the goodlieste mayde
Of gret estat in al the town of Troye,
And let hire lif in moste honour and joye."

"Forsothe, so it semeth by hire song,"
Quod tho Criseyde, and gan therwith to sike,
And seyde, "Lord, is ther swych blisse among
Thise loveres, as they konne faire endite?"
"Ye, wis," quod fresshe Antigone the white,
"For alle the folk that han or ben on lyve
Ne konne wel the blisse of love discryve.

"But wene ye that every wrecche woot
The parfit blisse of love? Why, nay, iwys!
They wenen all be love, if oon be hoot.
Do wey, do wey, they woot no thyng of this!
Men moste axe at seyntes if it is
Aught fair in hevene (Why? For they kan telle),
And axen fendes is it foul in helle."

Criseyde unto that purpos naught answerde,
But seyde, "Ywys, it wol be nyght as faste."
But every word which that she of hire herde,
She gan to prenten in hire herte faste,
And ay gan love hire lasse for t'agaste
Than it dide erst, and synken in hire herte,
That she wex somwhat able to converte.

The dayes honour, and the hevenes yë,
The nyghtes foo—al this clepe I the sonne—
Gan westren faste, and downward for to wrye,
As he that hadde his dayes cours yronne,
And white thynges wexen dymme and donne
For lak of lyght, and sterres for t'apere,
That she and alle hire folk in went yfeere.

So whan it liked hire to go to reste,
And voided weren thei that voiden oughte,
She seyde that to slepen wel hire leste.
Hire wommen soone til hire bed hire broughte.
Whan al was hust, than lay she stille and thoughte
Of al this thing; the manere and the wise
Reherce it nedeth nought, for ye ben wise.

502

A nyghtyngale, upon a cedre grene,
Under the chambre wal ther as she ley,
Ful loude song ayein the moone shene,
Peraunter in his briddes wise a lay
Of love, that made hire herte fressh and gay.
That herkned she so longe in good entente,
Til at the laste the dede slep hire hente.

And as she slep, anonright tho hire mette
How that an egle, fethered whit as bon,
Under hire brest his longe clawes sette,
And out hire herte he rente, and that anon,
And dide his herte into hire brest to gon—
Of which she nought agroos, ne nothyng smerte—
And forth he fleigh, with herte left for herte.

Now lat hire slepe, and we oure tales holde
Of Troilus, that is to paleis riden
Fro the scarmuch of the which I tolde,
And in his chaumbre sit and hath abiden
Til two or thre of his messages yeden
For Pandarus, and soughten hym ful faste,
Til they him founde and broughte him at the laste.

This Pandarus com lepyng in atones,
And seyde thus: "Who hath ben wel ibete
To-day with swerdes and with slynge-stones,
But Troilus, that hath caught hym an hete?"
And gan to jape, and seyde, "Lord, so ye swete!
But ris and lat us soupe and go to reste."
And he answerde hym, "Do we as the leste."

With al the haste goodly that they myghte
They spedde hem fro the soper unto bedde;
And every wight out at the dore hym dyghte,
And where hym liste upon his wey him spedde.
But Troilus, that thoughte his herte bledde
For wo, til that he herde som tydynge,
He seyde, "Frend, shal I now wepe or synge?"

Quod Pandarus, "Ly stylle and lat me slepe,
And don thyn hood; thy nedes spedde be!
And ches if thow wolt synge or daunce or lepe!
At shorte wordes, thow shal trowen me:
Sire, my nece wol do wel by the,
And love the best, by God and by my trouthe,
But lak of pursuyt make it in thi slouthe.

"For thus ferforth I have thi werk bigonne
Fro day to day, til this day by the morwe
Hire love of frendshipe have I to the wonne,
And therto hath she leyd hire feyth to borwe.
Algate a foot is hameled of thi sorwe!"
What sholde I lenger sermoun of it holde?
As ye han herd byfore, al he hym tolde.

But right as floures, thorugh the cold of nyght
Iclosed, stoupen on hire stalke lowe,
Redressen hem ayein the sonne bright,
And spreden on hire kynde cours by rowe,
Right so gan tho his eighen up to throwe
This Troilus, and seyde, "O Venus deere,
Thi myght, thi grace, yheried be it here!"

And to Pandare he held up bothe his hondes,
And seyde, "Lord, al thyn be that I have!
For I am hool, al brosten ben my bondes.
A thousand Troyes whoso that me yave,
Ech after other, God so wys me save,
Ne myghte me so gladen; lo, myn herte,
It spredeth so for joie it wol tosterte!

"But, Lord, how shall I doon? How shall I lyven?
Whan shal I next my deere herte see?
How shal this longe tyme awey be dryven
Til that thow be ayein at hire fro me?
Thow maist answer, 'Abid, abid,' but he
That hangeth by the nekke, soth to seyne
In gret disese abideth for the peyne."

"Al esily, now, for the love of Marte,"
Quod Pandarus, "for every thing hath tyme.
So longe abid til that the nyght departe,
For also siker as thow list here by me,

503

And God toforn, I wol be ther at pryme;
And forthi, werk somwhat as I shal seye,
Or on som other wight this charge leye.

"For, pardee, God woot I have evere yit
Ben redy the to serve, and to this nyght
Have I naught feyned, but emforth my wit
Don al thi lust, and shal with al my myght.
Do now as I shal seyn, and far aright;
And if thow nylt, wite al thiself thi care!
On me is nought along thyn yvel fare.

"I woot wel that thow wiser art than I
A thousand fold, but if I were as thow,
God help me so, as I wolde outrely
Of myn owen hond write hire right now
A lettre, in which I wolde hire tellen how
I ferde amys, and hire biseche of routhe.
Now help thiself, and leve it nought for slouthe!

"And I myself wol therwith to hire gon;
And whan thow woost that I am with hire there,
Worth thow upon a courser right anon—
Ye, hardily, right in thi beste gere—
And ryd forth by the place, as nought ne were,
And thow shalt fynde us, if I may, sittynge
At som wyndow, into the strete lokynge.

"And if the list, than maystow us salue;
And upon me make thow thi countenaunce;
But by thi lif, be war and faste eschue
To tarien ought—God shilde us fro meschaunce!
Rid forth thi wey, and hold thi governaunce;
And we shal speek of the somwhat, I trowe,
Whan thow art gon, to don thyn eris glowe!

"Towchyng thi lettre, thou art wys ynough.
I woot thow nylt it dygneliche endite,
As make it with thise argumentes rough;
Ne scryvenyssh or craftyly thow it write;
Biblotte it with thi teris ek a lite;
And if thow write a goodly word al softe,
Though it be good, reherce it nought to ofte.

"For though the beste harpour upon lyve
Wolde on the beste sowned joly harpe
That evere was, with alle his fyngres fyve
Touche ay o stryng, or ay o werbul harpe,
Were his nayles poynted nevere so sharpe,
It sholde maken every wight to dulle,
To here his glee, and of his strokes fulle.

"Ne jompre ek no discordant thyng yfeere,
As thus, to usen termes of phisik
In loves termes; hold of thi matere
The forme alwey, and do that it be lik;
For if a peyntour wolde peynte a pyk
With asses feet, and hedde it as an ape,
It cordeth naught, so were it but a jape."

This counseil liked wel to Troilus,
But, as a dredful lovere, he seyde this:
"Allas, my deere brother Pandarus,
I am ashamed for to write, ywys,
Lest of myn innocence I seyde amys,
Or that she nolde it for despit receyve;
Than were I ded: ther myght it nothyng weyve."

To that Pandare answered, "If the lest,
Do that I seye, and lat me therwith gon;
For by that Lord that formede est and west,
I hope of it to brynge answere anon
Of hire hond; and if that thow nylt noon,
Lat be, and sory mote he ben his lyve
Ayeins thi lust that helpeth the to thryve."

Quod Troilus, "Depardieux, ich assente!
Sith that the list, I wil arise and write;
And blisful God prey ich with good entente,
The viage, and the lettre I shal endite,

504

So spede it; and thow, Minerva, the white,
Yif thow me wit my lettre to devyse."
And sette hym down, and wrot right in this wyse:

First he gan hire his righte lady calle,
His hertes lif, his lust, his sorwes leche,
His blisse, and ek thise other termes alle
That in swich cas thise loveres alle seche;
And in ful humble wise, as in his speche,
He gan hym recomaunde unto hire grace;
To telle al how, it axeth muchel space.

And after this ful lowely he hire preyde
To be nought wroth, thogh he, of his folie,
So hardy was to hire to write, and seyde
That love it made, or elles most he die,
And pitousli gan mercy for to crye;
And after that he seyde—and leigh ful loude—
Hymself was litel worth, and lasse he koude;

And that she sholde han his konnyng excused
That litel was, and ek he dredde hire soo;
And his unworthynesse he ay acused;
And after that than gan he telle his woo—
But that was endeles, withouten hoo—
And seyde he wolde in trouthe alwey hym holde;
And radde it over, and gan the lettre folde.

And with his salte teris gan he bathe
The ruby in his signet, and it sette
Upon the wex deliverliche and rathe.
Therwith a thousand tymes er he lette
He kiste tho the lettre that he shette,
And seyde, "Lettre, a blisful destine
The shapyn is: my lady shal the see!"

This Pandare tok the lettre, and that bytyme
A-morwe, and to his neces paleis sterte,
And faste he swor that it was passed prime,
And gan to ape, and seyde, "Ywys, myn herte,
So fressh it is, although it sore smerte,
I may naught slepe nevere a Mayes morwe;
I have a joly wo, a lusty sorwe."

Criseyde, whan that she hire uncle herde,
With dredful herte, and desirous to here
The cause of his comynge, thus answerde:
"Now, by youre fey, myn uncle," quod she, "dere,
What manere wyndes gydeth yow now here?
Tel us youre joly wo and youre penaunce.
How ferforth be ye put in loves daunce?"

"By God," quod he, "I hoppe alwey byhynde!"
And she to laughe, it thoughte hire herte brest.
Quod Pandarus, "Loke alwey that ye fynde
Game in myn hood; but herkneth, if yow lest!
Ther is right now come into town a gest,
A Greek espie, and telleth newe thinges,
For which I come to telle yow tydynges.

"Into the gardyn go we, and ye shal here,
Al pryvely, of this a long sermoun."
With that they wenten arm in arm yfeere
Into the gardyn from the chaumbre down;
And whan that he so fer was that the sown
Of that he spak no man heren myghte,
He seyde hire thus, and out the lettre plighte:

"Lo, he that is al holy youres free
Hym recomaundeth lowely to youre grace,
And sente yow this lettre here by me.
Avyseth yow on it, whan ye han space,
And of som goodly answere yow purchace,
Or, helpe me God, so pleynly for to seyne,
He may nat longe lyven for his peyne."

Ful dredfully tho gan she stonden stylle,
And took it naught, but al hire humble chere
Gan for to chaunge, and seyde, "Scrit ne bille,
For love of God, that toucheth swich matere,
Ne bryng me noon; and also, uncle deere,
To myn estat have more reward, I preye,
Than to his lust! What sholde I more seye?

"And loketh now if this be resonable,
And letteth nought, for favour ne for slouthe,

505

To seyn a sooth; now were it covenable
To myn estat, by God and by youre trouthe,
To taken it, or to han of hym routhe,
In harmyng of myself, or in repreve?
Ber it ayein, for hym that ye on leve!"

This Pandarus gan on hire for to stare,
And seyde, "Now is this the grettest wondre
That evere I seigh! Lat be this nyce fare!
To dethe mot I smyten be with thondre,
If for the citee which that stondeth yondre,
Wolde I a lettre unto yow brynge or take
To harm of yow! What list yow thus it make?

"But thus ye faren, wel neigh alle and some,
That he that most desireth yow to serve,
Of hym ye recche leest wher he bycome,
And whethir that he lyve or elles sterve.
But for al that that ever I may deserve,
Refuse it naught," quod he, and hente hire faste,
And in hire bosom the lettre down he thraste,

And seyde hire, "Now cast it awey anon,
That folk may seen and gauren on us tweye."
Quod she, "I kan abyde til they be gon";
And gan to smyle, and seyde hym, "Em, I preye,
Swich answere as yow list, youreself purveye,
For trewely I nyl no lettre write."
"No? than wol I," quod he, "so ye endite."

Therwith she lough, and seyde, "Go we dyne."
And he gan at hymself to jape faste,
And seyde, "Nece, I have so gret a pyne
For love, that everich other day I faste—"
And gan his beste japes forth to caste,
And made hire so to laughe at his folye,
That she for laughter wende for to dye.

And whan that she was comen into halle,
"Now, em," quod she, "we wol go dyne anon."
And gan some of hire wommen to hire calle,
And streght into hire chambre gan she gon;
But of hire besynesses this was on—
Amonges othere thynges, out of drede—
Ful pryvely this lettre for to rede;

Avysed word by word in every lyne,
And fond no lak, she thoughte he koude good,
And up it putte, and wente hire in to dyne.
But Pandarus, that in a studye stood,
Er he was war, she took hym by the hood,
And seyde, "Ye were caught er that ye wiste."
"I vouche sauf," quod he. "Do what you liste."

Tho wesshen they, and sette hem down, and ete;
And after noon ful sleighly Pandarus
Gan drawe hym to the wyndowe next the strete,
And seyde, "Nece, who hath araied thus
The yonder hous, that stant aforyeyn us?"
"Which hous?" quod she, and gan for to byholde,
And knew it wel, and whos it was hym tolde;

And fillen forth in speche of thynges smale,
And seten in the windowe bothe tweye.
Whan Pandarus saugh tyme unto his tale,
And saugh wel that hire folk were alle aweye,
"Now, nece myn, tel on," quod he; "I seye,
How liketh yow the lettre that ye woot?
Kan he theron? For, by my trouthe, I noot."

Therwith al rosy hewed tho wex she,
And gan to homme, and seyde, "So I trowe."
"Aquite hym wel, for Goddes love," quod he;
"Myself to medes wol the lettre sowe."
And held his hondes up, and sat on knowe;
"Now, goode nece, be it nevere so lite,
Yif me the labour it to sowe and plite."

"Ye, for I kan so writen," quod she tho;
"And ek I noot what I sholde to hym seye."
"Nay, nece," quod Pandare, "sey nat so.
Yet at the leeste thonketh hym, I preye,
Of his good wille, and doth hym nat to deye.

506

Now, for the love of me, my nece deere,
Refuseth nat at this tid my prayere!"

"Depardieux," quod she, "God leve al be well
God help me so, this is the firste lettre
That evere I wroot, ye, al or any del."
And into a closet, for t'avise hire bettre,
She wente allone, and gan hire herte unfettre
Out of desdaynes prisoun but a lite,
And sette hire down, and gan a lettre write,

Of which to telle in short is myn entente
Th'effect, as fer as I kan understonde.
She thanked hym of al that he wel mente
Towardes hire, but holden hym in honde
She nolde nought, ne make hireselven bonde
In love; but as his suster, hym to plese,
She wolde fayn to doon his herte an ese.

She shette it, and to Pandare in gan goon,
Ther as he sat and loked into the strete,
And down she sette hire by hym on a stoon
Of jaspre, upon a quysshyn gold-ybete,
And seyde, "As wisly help me God the grete,
I nevere dide thing with more peyne
Than writen this, to which ye me constreyne,"

And took it hym. He thonked hire and seyde,
"God woot, of thyng ful often looth bygonne
Comth ende good; and nece myn, Criseyde,
That ye to hym of hard now ben ywonne
Oughte he be glad, by God and yonder sonne;
For-whi men seith, 'Impressiounes lighte
Ful lightly ben ay redy to the flighte.'

"But ye han played tirant neigh to longe,
And hard was it youre herte for to grave.
Now stynte, that ye no lenger on it honge,
Al wolde ye the forme of daunger save,
But hasteth you to doon hym joye have;
For trusteth wel, to long ydoon hardnesse
Causeth despit ful often for destresse."

And right as they declamed this matere,
Lo, Troilus, right at the stretes ende,
Com rydyng with his tenthe som yfere,
Al softely, and thiderward gan bende
Ther as they sete, as was his way to wende
To paleis-ward; and Pandare hym aspide,
And seyde, "Nece, ysee who comth here ride!

"O fle naught in (he seeth us, I suppose),
Lest he may thynken that ye hym eschuwe."
"Nay, nay," quod she, and wex as red as rose.
With that he gan hire humbly to saluwe
With dredful chere, and oft his hewes muwe;
And up his look debonairly he caste,
And bekked on Pandare, and forth he paste.

God woot if he sat on his hors aright,
Or goodly was biseyn, that ilke day!
God woot wher he was lik a manly knyght!
What sholde I drecche, or telle of his aray?
Criseyde, which that alle thise thynges say,
To telle in short, hire liked al in-fere,
His persoun, his aray, his look, his chere,

His goodly manere, and his gentilesse,
So wel that nevere, sith that she was born,
Ne hadde she swych routh of his destresse;
And how so she hath hard ben here-byforn,
To God hope I, she hath now kaught a thorn,
She shal nat pulle it out this nexte wyke.
God sende mo swich thornes on to pike!

Pandare, which that stood hire faste by,
Felte iren hoot, and he bygan to smyte,
And seyde, "Nece, I pray yow hertely,
Tel me that I shal axen yow a lite:
A womman that were of his deth to wite,
Withouten his gilt, but for hire lakked routhe,
Were it wel doon?" Quod she, "Nay, by my trouthe!"

"God help me so," quod he, "ye sey me soth.
Ye felen wel youreself that I nought lye.

507

Lo, yond he rit!" Quod she, "Ye, so he doth!"
"Wel," quod Pandare, "as I have told yow thrie, 1285
Lat be youre nyce shame and youre folie,
And spek with hym in esyng of his herte;
Lat nycete nat do yow bothe smerte."

But theron was to heven and to doone.
Considered al thing it may nat be;
And whi? For speche; and it were ek to soone
To graunten hym so gret a libertee.
For pleynly hire entente, as seyde she,
Was for to love hym unwist, if she myghte,
And guerdoun hym with nothing but with sighte.

But Pandarus thought, "It shal nought be so,
Yif that I may; this nyce opynyoun
Shal nought be holden fully yeres two."
What sholde I make of this a long sermoun?
He moste assente on that conclusioun,
As for the tyme; and whan that it was eve,
And al was wel, he roos and tok his leve.

And on his wey ful faste homward he spedde,
And right for joye he felte his herte daunce;
And Troilus he fond allone abedde,
That lay, as do thise lovers, in a traunce
Bitwixen hope and derk disesperaunce.
But Pandarus, right at his in-comynge,
He song, as who seyth, "Somwhat I brynge,"

And seyde, "Who is in his bed so soone
Iburied thus?" "It am I, frend," quod he.
"Who, Troilus? Nay, help me so the moone,"
Quod Pandarus, "thow shalt arise and see
A charme that was sent right now to the,
The which kan helen the of thyn accesse,
If thow do forthwith al thi bisynesse."

"Ye, thorugh the myght of God," quod Troilus,
And Pandarus gan hym the lettre take,
And seyde, "Parde, God hath holpen us!
Have here a light, and loke on al this blake."
But ofte gan the herte glade and quake
Of Troilus, whil that he gan it rede,
So as the wordes yave hym hope or drede.

But finaly, he took al for the beste
That she hym wroot, for somwhat he byheld
On which hym thoughte he myghte his herte reste,
Al covered she tho wordes under sheld.
Thus to the more worthi part he held,
That what for hope and Pandarus byheste,
His grete wo foryede he at the leste.

But as we may alday oureselven see
Thorugh more wode or col, the more fir,
Right so encreese hope, of what it be,
Therwith ful ofte encresseth ek desir;
Or as an ook comth of a litil spir,
So thorugh this lettre which that she hym sente
Encrescen gan desir, of which he brente.

Wherfore I seye alwey, that day and nyght
This Troilus gan to desiren moore
Thanne he did erst, thorugh hope, and did his myght
To preessen on, as by Pandarus loore,
And writen to hire of his sorwes soore.
Fro day to day he leet it nought refreyde,
That by Pandare he wroot somwhat or seyde;

And dide also his other observaunces
That til a lovere longeth in this cas;
And after that thise dees torned on chaunces,
So was he outher glad or seyde "Allas!"
And held after his gistes ay his pas;
And after swiche answeres as he hadde,
So were his dayes sory outher gladde.

But to Pandare alwey was his recours,
And pitously gan ay tyl hym to pleyne,
And hym bisoughte of reed and som socours.
And Pandarus, that sey his woode peyne,
Wex wel neigh ded for routhe, sooth to seyne,

508

And bisily with al his herte caste
Som of his wo to slen, and that as faste;

And seyde, "Lord, and frend, and brother dere,
God woot that thi disese doth me wo.
But wiltow stynten al this woful cheere,
And, by my trouthe, er it be dayes two,
And God toforn, yet shal I shape it so,
That thow shalt come into a certeyn place,
There as thow mayst thiself hire preye of grace.

"And certeynly—I noot if thow it woost,
But tho that ben expert in love it seye—
It is oon of the thynges forthereth most,
A man to han a layser for to preye,
And siker place his wo for to bywreye;
For in good herte it mot som routhe impresse,
To here and see the giltlees in distresse.

"Peraunter thynkestow: though it be so,
That Kynde wolde don hire to bygynne
To have a manere routhe upon my woo,
Seyth Daunger, 'Nay, thow shalt me nevere wynne!'
So reulith hire hir hertes gost withinne,
That though she bende, yeet she stant on roote;
What in effect is this unto my boote?

"Thenk here-ayeins: whan that the stordy ook,
On which men hakketh ofte, for the nones,
Receyved hath the happy fallyng strook,
The greete sweigh doth it come al at ones,
As don thise rokkes or thise milnestones;
For swifter cours comth thyng that is of wighte,
Whan it descendeth, than don thynges lighte.

"And reed that boweth down for every blast,
Ful lightly, cesse wynd, it wol aryse;
But so nyl nought an ook, whan it is cast;
It nedeth me nought the longe to forbise.
Men shal rejoissen of a gret empryse
Acheved wel, and stant withouten doute,
Al han men ben the lenger theraboute.

"But, Troilus, yet telle me, if the lest,
A thing now which that I shal axen the:
Which is thi brother that thow lovest best,
As in thi verray hertes privetee?"
"Iwis, my brother Deiphebus," quod he.
"Now," quod Pandare, "er houres twyes twelve,
He shal the ese, unwist of it hymselve.

"Now lat m"alone, and werken as I may,"
Quod he; and to Deiphebus wente he tho,
Which hadde his lord and grete frend ben ay;
Save Troilus, no man he loved so.
To telle in short, withouten wordes mo,
Quod Pandarus, "I pray yow that ye be
Frend to a cause which that toucheth me."

"Yis, parde," quod Deiphebus, "wel thow woost,
In al that evere I may, and God tofore,
Al nere it but for man I love moost,
My brother Troilus; but sey wherfore
It is; for sith that day that I was bore,
I nas, ne nevere mo to ben I thynke,
Ayeins a thing that myghte the forthynke."

Pandare gan hym thanke, and to hym seyde,
"Lo, sire, I have a lady in this town,
That is my nece, and called is Criseyde,
Which some men wolden don oppressioun,
And wrongfully han hire possessioun;
Wherfore I of youre lordship yow biseche
To ben oure frend, withouten more speche."

Deiphebus hym answerde, "O, is nat this,
That thow spekest of to me thus straungely,
Criseda, my frend? He seyde, "Yis."
"Than nedeth," quod Deiphebus, "hardyly,
Namore to speke, for trusteth wel that I
Wol be hire champioun with spore and yerde;
I roughte nought though alle hire foos it herde.

"But tel me how—thow woost of this matere—
It myghte best avaylen." "Now lat se,"

509

Quod Pandarus; "if ye, my lord so dere,
Wolden as now do this honour to me,
To preyen hire to-morwe, lo, that she
Come unto yow, hire pleyntes to devise,
Hire adversaries wolde of it agrise.

"And yif I more dorste preye as now,
And chargen yow to han so gret travaille,
To han some of youre bretheren here with yow,
That myghten to hire cause bet availle,
Than wot I wel she myghte nevere faille
For to ben holpen, what at youre instaunce,
What with hire other frendes governaunce."

Deiphebus, which that comen was of kynde
To alle honour and bounte to consente,
Answerd, "It shal be don; and I kan fynde
Yet grettere help to this in myn entente.
What wiltow seyn if I for Eleyne sente
To speke of this? I trowe it be the beste,
For she may leden Paris as hire leste.

"Of Ector, which that is my lord, my brother,
It nedeth naught to preye hym frend to be;
For I have herd hym, o tyme and ek oother,
Speke of Cryseyde swich honour that he
May seyn no bet, swich hap to hym hath she.
It nedeth naught his helpes for to crave;
He shal be swich, right as we wol hym have.

"Spek thow thiself also to Troilus
On my byhalve, and prey hym with us dyne."
"Syre, al this shal be don," quod Pandarus,
And took his leve, and nevere gan to fyne,
But to his neces hous, as streyght as lyne,
He com; and fond hire fro the mete arise,
And sette hym down, and spak right in this wise:

He seide, "O verray God, so have I ronne!
Lo, nece myn, se ye nought how I swete?
I not wheither ye the more thank me konne.
Be ye naught war how false Poliphete
Is now aboute eftsones for to plete,
And brynge on yow advocacies newe?"
"I, no!" quod she, and chaunged al hire hewe.

"What is he more aboute, me to drecche
And don me wrong? What shal I doon, allas?
Yet of hymself nothing ne wolde I recche,
Nere it for Antenor and Eneas,
That ben his frendes in swich manere cas.
But, for the love of God, myn uncle deere,
No fors of that; lat hym han al yfeere,

"Withouten that I have ynough for us."
"Nay," quod Pandare, "it shal nothing be so.
For I have ben right now at Deiphebus,
At Ector, and myn oother lordes moo,
And shortly maked ech of hem his foo,
That, by my thrift, he shal it nevere wynne,
For aught he kan, whan that so he bygynne."

And as thei casten what was best to doone,
Deiphebus, of his owen curteisie,
Com hire to preye, in his propre persone,
To holde hym on the morwe compaignie
At dyner, which she nolde nought denye,
But goodly gan to his preier obeye.
He thonked hire, and went upon his weye.

Whan this was don, this Pandare up anon,
To telle in short, and forth gan for to wende
To Troilus, as stille as any ston;
And al this thyng he tolde hym, word and ende,
And how that he Deiphebus gan to blende,
And seyde hym, "Now is tyme, if that thow konne,
To bere the wel tomorwe, and al is wonne.

"Now spek, now prey, now pitously compleyne;
Lat nought for nyce shame, or drede, or slouthe!
Somtyme a man mot telle his owen peyne.
Bileve it, and she shal han on the routhe:
Thow shalt be saved by thi feyth, in trouthe.
But wel woot I thow art now in drede,
And what it is, I leye, I kan arede.

510

"Thow thynkest now, 'How sholde I don al this?
For by my cheres mosten folk aspie
That for hire love is that I fare amys;
Yet hadde I levere unwist for sorwe dye.'
Now thynk nat so, for thow dost gret folie;
For I right now have founden o manere
Of sleyghte, for to coveren al thi cheere.

"Thow shalt gon over nyght, and that bylyve,
Unto Deiphebus hous as the to pleye,
Thi maladie awey the bet to dryve—
For-whi thow semest sik, soth for to seye.
Sone after that, down in thi bed the leye,
And sey thow mayst no lenger up endure,
And ly right there, and byd thyn aventure.

"Sey that thi fevre is wont the for to take
The same tyme, and lasten til a-morwe;
And lat se now how wel thow kanst it make,
For, parde, sik is he that is in sorwe.
Go now, farwel! And Venus here to borwe,
I hope, and thow this purpos holde ferme,
Thi grace she shal fully ther conferme."

Quod Troilus, "Iwis, thow nedeles
Conseilest me that siklich I me feyne,
For I am sik in ernest, douteles,
So that wel neigh I sterve for the peyne."
Quod Pandarus, "Thow shalt the bettre pleyne,
And hast the lasse need to countrefete,
For hym men demen hoot that men seen swete.

"Lo, hold the at thi triste cloos, and I
Shal wel the deer unto thi bowe dryve."
Therwith he took his leve al softely,
And Troilus to paleis wente blyve.
So glad ne was he nevere in al his lyve,
And to Pandarus reed gan al assente,
And to Deiphebus hous at nyght he wente.

What nedeth yow to tellen al the cheere
That Deiphebus unto his brother made,
Or his accesse, or his sikliche manere,
How men gan hym with clothes for to lade
Whan he was leyd, and how men wolde hym glade?
But al for nought; he held forth ay the wyse
That ye han herd Pandare er this devyse.

But certayn is, er Troilus hym leyde,
Deiphebus had hym preied over-nyght
To ben a frend and helpyng to Criseyde.
God woot that he it graunted anon-right,
To ben hire fulle frend with al his myght.
But swich a nede was to preye hym thenne,
As for to bidde a wood man for to renne!

The morwen com, and neighen gan the tyme
Of meeltid, that the faire queene Eleyne
Shoop hire to ben, an houre after the prime,
With Deiphebus, to whom she nolde feyne;
But as his suster, homly, soth to seyne,
She com to dyner in hire pleyne entente.
But God and Pandare wist al what this mente.

Com ek Criseyde, al innocent of this,
Antigone, hire suster Tarbe also.
But fle we now prolixitee best is,
For love of God, and lat us faste go
Right to th'effect, withouten tales mo,
Whi al this folk assembled in this place;
And lat us of hire saluynges pace.

Gret honour did hem Deiphebus, certeyn,
And fedde hem wel with al that myghte like;
But evere mo "Allas!" was his refreyn,
"My goode brother Troilus, the syke,
Lith yet"—and therwithal he gan to sike;
And after that, he peyned hym to glade
Hem as he myghte, and cheere good he made.

Compleyned ek Eleyne of his siknesse
So feythfully that pite was to here,
And every wight gan waxen for accesse
A leche anon, and seyde, "In this manere
Men curen folk."—"This charme I wol yow leere."
But ther sat oon, al list hire nought to teche,
That thoughte, "Best koud I yet ben his leche."

511

After compleynte, hym gonnen they to preyse,
As folk don yet whan som wight hath bygonne
To preise a man, and up with pris hym reise
A thousand fold yet heigher than the sonne:
"He is, he kan, that fewe lordes konne."
And Pandarus, of that they wolde afferme,
He naught forgat hire preisynge to conferme.

Herde al this thyng Criseyde wel inough,
And every word gan for to notifie;
For which with sobre cheere hire herte lough.
For who is that ne wolde hire glorifie,
To mowen swich a knyght don lyve or dye?
But al passe I, lest ye to longe dwelle;
For for o fyn is al that evere I telle.

The tyme com fro dyner for to ryse,
And as hem aughte, arisen everichon.
And gonne a while of this and that devise.
But Pandarus brak al that speche anon,
And seide to Deiphebus, "Wol ye gon,
If it youre wille be, as I yow preyde,
To speke here of the nedes of Criseyde?"

Eleyne, which that by the hond hire held,
Took first the tale, and seyde, "Go we blyve";
And goodly on Criseyde she biheld,
And seyde, "Joves lat hym nevere thryve
That doth yow harm, and brynge hym soone of lyve,
And yeve me sorwe, but he shal it rewe,
If that I may, and alle folk be trewe!"

"Tel thow thi neces cas," quod Deiphebus
To Pandarus, "for thow kanst best it telle."
"My lordes and my ladys, it stant thus:
What sholde I lenger," quod he, "do yow dwelle?"
He rong hem out a proces lik a belle
Upon hire foo that highte Poliphete,
So heynous that men myghten on it spete.

Answerde of this ech werse of hem than other,
And Poliphete they gonnen thus to warien:
"Anhonged be swich oon, were he my brother!
And so he shal, for it ne may nought varien!"
What shold I lenger in this tale tarien?
Pleynliche, alle at ones, they hire highten
To ben hire help in al that evere they myghten.

Spak than Eleyne, and seyde, "Pandarus,
Woot ought my lord, my brother, this matere—
I meene Ector—or woot it Troilus?"
He seyde, "Ye, but wole ye now me here?
Me thynketh this, sith that Troilus is here,
It were good, if that ye wolde assente,
She tolde hireself hym al this er she wente.

"For he wol have the more hir grief at herte,
By cause, lo, that she a lady is;
And, by youre leve, I wol but in right sterte
And do yow wyte, and that anon, iwys,
If that he slepe, or wol ought here of this."
And in he lepte, and seyde hym in his ere,
"God have thi soule, ibrought have I thi beere!"

To smylen of this gan tho Troilus,
And Pandarus, withouten rekenynge,
Out wente anon to Eleyne and Deiphebus,
And seyde hem, "So ther be no taryinge,
Ne moore prees, he wol wel that ye brynge
Criseda, my lady, that is here;
And as he may enduren, he wol here.

"But wel ye woot, the chaumbre is but lite,
And fewe folk may lightly make it warm;
Now loketh ye (for I wol have no wite
To brynge in prees that myghte don hym harm,
Or hym disesen, for my bettre arm)
Wher it be bet she bide til eft-sonys;
Now loketh ye that knowen what to doon is.

"I sey for me, best is, as I kan knowe,
That no wight in ne wente but ye tweye,
But it were I, for I kan in a throwe
Reherce hire cas unlik that she kan seye;
And after this she may hym ones preye

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To ben good lord, in short, and take hire leve.
This may nought muchel of his ese hym reve.

"And ek, for she is straunge, he wol forbere
His ese, which that hym thar nought for yow;
Ek oother thing that toucheth nought to here
He wol yow telle—I woot it wel right now—
That secret is, and for the townes prow."
And they, that nothyng knewe of his entente,
Withouten more, to Troilus in they wente.

Eleyne, in al hire goodly softe wyse,
Gan hym salue, and wommanly to pleye,
And seyde, "Iwys, ye moste alweies arise!
Now faire brother, beth al hool, I preye!"
And gan hire arm right over his shulder leye,
And hym with al hire wit to reconforte;
As she best koude, she gan hym to disporte.

So after this quod she, "We yow biseke,
My deere brother Deiphebus and I,
For love of God—and so doth Pandare eke—
To ben good lord and frend, right hertely,
Unto Criseyde, which that certeynly
Receyveth wrong, as woot weel here Pandare,
That kan hire cas wel bet than I declare."

This Pandarus gan newe his tong affile,
And al hire cas reherce, and that anon.
Whan it was seyd, soone after in a while,
Quod Troilus, "As sone as I may gon,
I wol right fayn with al my myght ben oon
Have God my trouthe—hire cause to sustene."
"Good thrift have ye!" quod Eleyne the queene.

Quod Pandarus, "And it youre wille be
That she may take hire leve, er that she go?"
"O, elles God forbede it," tho quod he,
"If that she vouche sauf for to do so."
And with that word quod Troilus, "Ye two,
Deiphebus and my suster lief and deere,
To yow have I to speke of o matere,

"To ben avysed by youre reed the bettre—"
And fond, as hap was, at his beddes hed
The copie of a tretys and a lettre
That Ector hadde hym sent to axen red
If swych a man was worthi to ben ded,
Woot I nought who; but in a grisly wise
He preyede hem anon on it avyse.

Deiphebus gan this lettre for t'onfolde
In ernest greet; so did Eleyne the queene;
And romyng outward, faste it gonne byholde,
Downward a steire, into an herber greene.
This ilke thing they redden hem bitwene,
And largely, the mountance of an houre,
Thei gonne on it to reden and to poure.

Now lat hem rede, and torne we anon
To Pandarus, that gan ful faste prye
That al was wel, and out he gan to gon
Into the grete chaumbre, and that in hye,
And seyde, "God save al this compaynye!
Com, nece myn; my lady queene Eleyne
Abideth yow, and ek my lordes tweyne.

"Rys, take with yow youre nece Antigone,
Or whom yow list; or no fors; hardyly
The lesse prees, the bet; com forth with me,
And loke that ye thonken humblely
Hem alle thre, and whan ye may goodly
Youre tyme se, taketh of hem youre leeve,
Lest we to longe his restes hym byreeve."

Al innocent of Pandarus entente,
Quod tho Criseyde, "Go we, uncle deere";
And arm in arm inward with hym she wente,
Avysed wel hire wordes and hire cheere;
And Pandarus, in ernestful manere,
Seyde, "Alle folk, for Goddes love, I preye,
Stynteth right here, and softely yow pleye.

513

"Avyseth yow what folk ben hire withinne, 1730
And in what plit oon is, God hym amende!"
And inward thus, "Ful softely bygynne,
Nece, I conjure and heighly yow defende,
On his half which that soule us alle sende,
And in the vertu of corones tweyne,
Sle naught this man, that hath for yow this peyne!

"Fy on the devel! Thynk which oon he is,
And in what plit he lith; com of anon!
Thynk al swich taried tyde, but lost it nys.
That wol ye bothe seyn, whan ye ben oon.
Secoundely, ther yet devyneth noon
Upon yow two; come of now, if ye konne!
While folk is blent, lo, al the tyme is wonne.

"In titeryng, and pursuyte, and delayes,
The folk devyne at waggyng of a stree;
And though ye wolde han after mirye dayes,
Than dar ye naught. And whi? For she, and she
Spak swych a word; thus loked he, and he!
Las, tyme ilost! I dar nought with yow dele.
Com of, therfore, and bryngeth hym to hele!"

But now to yow, ye loveres that ben here,
Was Troilus nought in a kankedort,
That lay, and myghte whisprynge of hem here,
And thoughte, "O Lord, right now renneth my sort
Fully to deye, or han anon comfort!"
And was the firste tyme he shulde hire preye
Of love; O myghty God, what shal he seye?

Explicit secundus liber

BOOK III

Incipit prohemium tercii libri.

O blisful light of which the bemes clere
Adorneth al the thridde heven faire!
O sonnes lief, O Joves doughter deere,
Plesance of love, O goodly debonaire,
In gentil hertes ay redy to repaire!
O veray cause of heele and of gladnesse,
Iheryed be thy myght and thi goodnesse!

In hevene and helle, in erthe and salte see
Is felt thi myght, if that I wel descerne,
As man, brid, best, fissh, herbe, and grene tree
Thee fele in tymes with vapour eterne.
God loveth, and to love wol nought werne,
And in this world no lyves creature
Withouten love is worth, or may endure.

Ye Joves first to thilke effectes glade,
Thorugh which that thynges lyven alle and be,
Comeveden, and amorous him made
On mortal thyng, and as yow list, ay ye
Yeve hym in love ese or adversitee,

514

And in a thousand formes down hym sente
For love in erthe, and whom yow liste he hente.

Ye fierse Mars apaisen of his ire,
And as yow list, ye maken hertes digne;
Algates hem that ye wol sette a-fyre,
They dreden shame, and vices they resygne;
Ye do hem corteys be, fresshe and benigne;
And heighe or lowe, after a wight entendeth,
The joies that he hath, youre myght it sendeth.

Ye holden regne and hous in unitee;
Ye sothfast cause of frendship ben also;
Ye knowe al thilke covered qualitee
Of thynges, which that folk on wondren so,
Whan they kan nought construe how it may jo
She loveth hym, or whi he loveth here,
As whi this fissh, and naught that, comth to were.

Ye folk a lawe han set in universe,
And this knowe I by hem that lovers be,
That whoso stryveth with yow hath the werse.
Now, lady bryght, for thi benignite,
At reverence of hem that serven the,
Whos clerc I am, so techeth me devyse
Som joye of that is felt in thi servyse.

Ye in my naked herte sentement
Inhielde, and do me shewe of thy swetnesse.
Caliope, thi vois be now present,
For now is nede: sestow nought my destresse,
How I mot telle anonright the gladnesse
Of Troilus, to Venus heryinge?
To which gladnesse, who nede hath, God hym brynge!

Explicit prohemium tercii libri.

Incipit liber tercius.

Lay al this mene while Troilus,
Recordyng his lesson in this manere:
"Mafay," thoughte he, "thus wol I sey, and thus;
Thus wol I pleyne unto my lady dere;
That word is good, and this shal be my cheere;
This nyl I nought foryeten in no wise."
God leve hym werken as he kan devyse!

And, Lord, so that his herte gan to quappe,
Heryng hire come, and shorte for to sike!
And Pandarus, that ledde hire by the lappe,
Com ner, and gan in at the curtyn pike,
And seyde, "God do boot on alle syke!
Se who is here yow comen to visite:
Lo, here is she that is youre deth to wite."

Therwith it semed as he wepte almost.
"Ha, a," quod Troilus so reufully,
"Wher me be wo, O myghty God, thow woost!
Who is al ther? I se nought trewely."
"Sire," quod Criseyde, "it is Pandare and I."
"Ye, swete herte? Allas, I may nought rise,
To knele and do yow honour in som wyse."

And dressed hym upward, and she right tho
Gan bothe hire hondes softe upon hym leye.
"O, for the love of God, do ye nought so
To me," quod she, "I! What is this to seye?
Sire, comen am I to yow for causes tweye:
First, yow to thonke, and of youre lordshipe eke
Continuance I wolde yow biseke."

This Troilus, that herde his lady preye
Of lordshipe hym, wax neither quyk ne ded,

515

Ne myghte o word for shame to it seye,
Although men sholde smyten of his hed.
But Lord, so he wex sodeynliche red,
And sire, his lessoun, that he wende konne
To preyen hire, is thorugh his wit ironne.

Criseyde al this aspied wel ynough,
For she was wis, and loved hym nevere the lasse,
Al nere he malapert, or made it tough,
Or was to bold, to synge a fool a masse.
But whan his shame gan somwhat to passe,
His resons, as I may my rymes holde,
I yow wol telle, as techen bokes olde.

In chaunged vois, right for his verray drede,
Which vois ek quook, and therto his manere
Goodly abaist, and now his hewes rede,
Now pale, unto Criseyde, his lady dere,
With look down cast and humble iyolden chere,
Lo, the alderfirste word that hym asterte
Was, twyes, "Mercy, mercy, swete herte!"

And stynte a while, and whan he myghte out brynge,
The nexte word was, "God woot, for I have,
As ferforthly as I have had konnynge,
Ben youres al, God so my soule save,
And shal til that I, woful wight, be grave!
And though I dar, ne kan, unto yow pleyne,
Iwis, I suffre nought the lasse peyne.

"Thus muche as now, O wommanliche wif,
I may out brynge, and if this yow displese,
That shal I wreke upon myn owen lif
Right soone, I trowe, and do youre herte an ese,
If with my deth youre wreththe may apese.
But syn that ye han herd me somwhat seye,
Now recche I nevere how soone that I deye."

Therwith his manly sorwe to biholde
It myghte han mad an herte of stoon to rewe;
And Pandare wep as he to water wolde,
And poked evere his nece new and newe,
And seyde, "Wo bygon ben hertes trewe!
For love of God, make of this thing an ende,
Or sle us both at ones er ye wende."

"I, what?" quod she, "by God and by my trouthe, 120
I not nat what ye wilne that I seye."
"I, what?" quod he, "That ye han on hym routhe,
For Goddes love, and doth hym nought to deye!"
"Now than thus," quod she, "I wolde hym preye
To telle me the fyn of his entente.
Yet wist I nevere wel what that he mente."

"What that I mene, O swete herte deere?"
Quod Troilus, "O goodly, fresshe free,
That with the stremes of youre eyen cleere
Ye wolde somtyme frendly on me see,
And thanne agreen that I may ben he,
Withouten braunche of vice on any wise,
In trouthe alwey to don yow my servise,

"As to my lady right and chief resort,
With al my wit and al my diligence;
And I to han, right as yow list, comfort,
Under yowre yerde, egal to myn offence,
As deth, if that I breke youre defence;
And that ye deigne me so muchel honoure
Me to comanden aught in any houre;

"And I to ben youre—verray, humble, trewe,
Secret, and in my paynes pacient,
And evere mo desiren fresshly newe
To serve, and ben ylike diligent,
And with good herte al holly youre talent
Receyven wel, how sore that me smerte;
Lo, this mene I, myn owen swete herte."

Quod Pandarus, "Lo, here an hard requeste,
And resonable, a lady for to werne!

516

Now, nece myn, by natal Joves feste,
Were I a god, ye sholden sterve as yerne,
That heren wel this man wol nothing yerne
But youre honour, and sen hym almost sterve,
And ben so loth to suffren hym yow serve."

With that she gan hire eyen on hym caste
Ful esily and ful debonairly,
Avysyng hire, and hied nought to faste
With nevere a word, but seyde hym softely,
"Myn honour sauf, I wol wel trewely,
And in swich forme as he gan now devyse,
Receyven hym fully to my servyse,

"Bysechyng hym, for Goddes love, that he
Wolde, in honour of trouthe and gentilesse,
As I wel mene, ek menen wel to me,
And myn honour with wit and bisynesse
Ay kepe; and if I may don hym gladnesse,
From hennesforth, iwys, I nyl nought feyne.
Now beth al hool; no lenger ye ne pleyne.

"But natheles, this warne I yow," quod she,
"A kynges sone although ye be, ywys,
Ye shal namore han sovereignete
Of me in love, than right in that cas is;
N"y nyl forbere, if that ye don amys,
To wratthe yow; and whil that ye me serve,
Chericen yow right after ye disserve.

"And shortly, deere herte and al my knyght,
Beth glad, and draweth yow to lustinesse,
And I shal trewely, with al my myght,
Youre bittre tornen al into swetenesse.
If I be she that may yow do gladnesse,
For every wo ye shal recovere a blisse"—
And hym in armes took, and gan hym kisse.

Fil Pandarus on knees, and up his eyen
To heven threw, and held his hondes highe:
"Immortal god," quod he, "that mayst nought deyen, 185
Cupide I mene, of this mayst glorifie;
And Venus, thow mayst maken melodie!
Withouten hond, me semeth that in the towne,
For this merveille ich here ech belle sowne.

"But ho! namore as now of this matere;
For-whi this folk wol comen up anon,
That han the lettre red; lo, I hem here.
But I conjure the, Criseyde, anon,
And to, thow Troilus, whan thow mayst goon,
That at myn hous ye ben at my warnynge,
For I ful well shal shape youre comynge;

"And eseth there youre hertes right ynough;
And lat se which of yow shal bere the belle
To speke of love aright!"—therwith he lough—
"For ther have ye a leiser for to telle."
Quod Troilus, "How longe shal I dwelle,
Er this be don?" Quod he, "Whan thow mayst ryse,
This thyng shal be right as I yow devyse."

With that Eleyne and also Deiphebus
Tho comen upward, right at the steires ende;
And Lord, so thanne gan gronen Troilus,
His brother and his suster for to blende.
Quod Pandarus, "It tyme is that we wende.
Tak, nece myn, youre leve at alle thre,
And lat hem speke, and cometh forth with me."

She took hire leve at hem ful thriftily,
As she wel koude, and they hire reverence
Unto the fulle diden, hardyly,
And wonder wel speken, in hire absence,
Of hire in preysing of hire excellence—
Hire governaunce, hire wit, and hire manere
Comendeden, it joie was to here.

Now lat hire wende unto hire owen place,
And torne we to Troilus ayein,
That gan ful lightly of the lettre pace
That Deiphebus hadde in the gardyn seyn;
And of Eleyne and hym he wolde feyn
Delivered ben, and seyde that hym leste
To slepe, and after tales have reste.

Eleyne hym kiste, and took hire leve blyve,
Deiphebus ek, and hom wente every wight;
And Pandarus, as faste as he may dryve,
To Troilus tho com, as lyne right,

517

And on a paillet al that glade nyght
By Troilus he lay, with mery chere,
To tale; and wel was hem they were yfeere.

Whan every wight was voided but they two,
And alle the dores weren faste yshette,
To telle in short, withouten wordes mo,
This Pandarus, withouten any lette,
Up roos, and on his beddes syde hym sette,
And gan to speken in a sobre wyse
To Troilus, as I shal yow devyse:

"Myn alderlevest lord, and brother deere,
God woot, and thow, that it sat me so soore,
Whan I the saugh so langwisshyng to-yere
For love, of which thi wo wax alwey moore,
That I, with al my myght and al my loore,
Have evere sithen don my bisynesse
To brynge the to joye out of distresse,

"And have it brought to swich plit as thow woost,
So that thorugh me thow stondest now in weye
To faren wel; I sey it for no bost,
And wostow whi? For shame it is to seye:
For the have I bigonne a gamen pleye
Which that I nevere do shal eft for other,
Although he were a thousand fold my brother.

"That is to seye, for the am I bicomen,
Bitwixen game and ernest, swich a meene
As maken wommen unto men to comen;
Al sey I nought, thow wost wel what I meene.
For the have I my nece, of vices cleene,
So fully maad thi gentilesse triste,
That al shal ben right as thiselven liste.

"But God, that al woot, take I to witnesse,
That nevere I this for coveitise wroughte,
But oonly for t'abregge that distresse
For which wel neigh thow deidest, as me thoughte.
But, goode brother, do now as the oughte,
For Goddes love, and kep hire out of blame,
Syn thow art wys, and save alwey hire name.

"For wel thow woost, the name as yet of here
Among the peeple, as who seyth, halwed is;
For that man is unbore, I dar wel swere,
That evere wiste that she dide amys.
But wo is me, that I, that cause al this,
May thynken that she is my nece deere,
And I hire em, and traitour ek yfeere!

"And were it wist that I, thorugh myn engyn,
Hadde in my nece yput this fantasie,
To doon thi lust and holly to ben thyn,
Whi, al the world upon it wolde crie,
And seyn that I the werste trecherie
Dide in this cas, that evere was bigonne,
And she forlost, and thow right nought ywonne.

"Wherfore, er I wol ferther gon a pas,
The preie ich eft, althogh thow shuldest deye,
That privete go with us in this cas;
That is to seyn, that thow us nevere wreye;
And be nought wroth, though I the ofte preye
To holden secree swich an heigh matere,
For skilfull is, thow woost wel, my praiere.

"And thynk what wo ther hath bitid er this,
For makyng of avantes, as men rede;
And what meschaunce in this world yet ther is,
Fro day to day, right for that wikked dede;
For which thise wise clerkes that ben dede
Han evere yet proverbed to us yonge
That 'firste vertu is to kepe tonge.'

"And nere it that I wilne as now t'abregge
Diffusioun of speche, I koude almoost
A thousand olde stories the allegge
Of wommen lost through fals and foles bost.
Proverbes kanst thiself ynowe and woost
Ayeins that vice, for to ben a labbe,
Al seyde men soth as often as thei gabbe.

"O tonge, allas, so often here-byforn
Hath mad ful many a lady bright of hewe
Seyd 'Weilaway, the day that I was born!'

518

And many a maydes sorwe for to newe;
And for the more part, al is untrewe
That men of yelpe, and it were brought to preve.
Of kynde non avauntour is to leve.

"Avauntour and a lyere, al is on;
As thus: I pose, a womman grante me
Hire love, and seith that other wol she non,
And I am sworn to holden it secree,
And after I go telle it two or thre—
Iwis, I am avauntour at the leeste,
And lyere, for I breke my biheste.

"Now loke thanne, if they be nought to blame,
Swich manere folk—what shal I clepe hem, what?—
That hem avaunte of wommen, and by name,
That nevere yet bihyghte hem this ne that,
Ne knewe hem more than myn olde hat!
No wonder is, so God me sende hele,
Though wommen dreden with us men to dele.

"I sey nought this for no mistrust of yow,
Ne for no wis-man, but for foles nyce,
And for the harm that in the werld is now,
As wel for folie ofte as for malice;
For wel woot I, in wise folk that vice
No womman drat, if she be wel avised;
For wyse ben by foles harm chastised.

"But now to purpos; leve brother deere,
Have al this thyng that I have seyd in mynde,
And kep the clos, and be now of good cheere,
For at thi day thow shalt me trewe fynde.
I shal thi proces set in swych a kynde,
And God toforn, that it shal the suffise,
For it shal be right as thow wolt devyse.

"For wel I woot, thow menest wel, parde;
Therfore I dar this fully undertake.
Thow woost ek what thi lady graunted the,
And day is set the chartres up to make.
Have now good nyght, I may no lenger wake;
And bid for me, syn thow art now in blysse,
That God me sende deth or soone lisse."

Who myghte tellen half the joie or feste
Which that the soule of Troilus tho felte,
Heryng th'effect of Pandarus byheste?
His olde wo, that made his herte swelte,
Gan tho for joie wasten and tomelte,
And al the richesse of his sikes sore
At ones fledde; he felte of hem namore.

But right so as thise holtes and thise hayis,
That han in wynter dede ben and dreye,
Revesten hem in grene whan that May is,
Whan every lusty liketh best to pleye;
Right in that selve wise, soth to seye,
Wax sodeynliche his herte ful of joie,
That gladder was ther nevere man in Troie.

And gan his look on Pandarus up caste
Ful sobrely, and frendly for to se,
And seyde, "Frend, in Aperil the laste—
As wel thow woost, if it remembre the—
How neigh the deth for wo thow fownde me,
And how thow dedest al thi bisynesse
To knowe of me the cause of my destresse.

"Thow woost how longe ich it forbar to seye
To the, that art the man that I best triste;
And peril non was it to the bywreye,
That wist I wel; but telle me, if the liste,
Sith I so loth was that thiself it wiste,
How dorst I mo tellen of this matere,
That quake now, and no wight may us here?

"But natheles, by that God I the swere,
That, as hym list, may al this world governe—
And, if I lye, Achilles with his spere
Myn herte cleve, al were my lif eterne,
As I am mortal, if I late or yerne
Wolde it bewreye, or dorst, or sholde konne,
For al the good that God made under sonne—

"That rather deye I wolde, and determyne,
As thynketh me, now stokked in prisoun,
In wrecchidnesse, in filthe, and in vermyne,
Caytif to cruel kyng Agamenoun;

519

And this in all the temples of this town
Upon the goddes alle, I wol the swere
To-morwe day, if that it liketh here.

"And that thow hast so muche ido for me
That I ne may it nevere more disserve,
This know I wel, al myghte I now for the
A thousand tymes on a morwe sterve.
I kan namore, but that I wol the serve
Right as thi sclave, whider so thow wende,
For evere more, unto my lyves ende.

"But here, with al myn herte, I the biseche
That nevere in me thow deme swich folie
As I shal seyn: me thoughte by thi speche
That this which thow me dost for compaignie,
I sholde wene it were a bauderye.
I am nought wood, al if I lewed be!
It is nought so, that woot I wel, parde!

"But he that gooth for gold or for ricchesse
On swich message, calle hym what the list;
And this that thow doost, calle it gentilesse,
Compassioun, and felawship, and trist.
Departe it so, for wyde-wher is wist
How that ther is diversite requered
Bytwixen thynges like, as I have lered.

"And that thow knowe I thynke nought ne wene
That this servise a shame be or jape,
I have my faire suster Polixene,
Cassandre, Eleyne, or any of the frape—
Be she nevere so fair or wel yshape,
Tel me which thow wilt of everychone,
To han for thyn, and lat me thanne allone.

"But, sith thow hast don me this servyse
My lif to save and for non hope of mede,
So for the love of God, this grete emprise
Perfourme it out, for now is moste nede;
For heigh and lough, withowten any drede,
I wol alwey thyn hestes alle kepe.
Have now good nyght, and lat us bothe slepe."

Thus held hym ech of other wel apayed,
That al the world ne myghte it bet amende;
And on the morwe, whan they were arayed,
Ech to his owen nedes gan entende.
But Troilus, though as the fir he brende
For sharp desir of hope and of plesaunce,
He nought forgat his goode governaunce,

But in hymself with manhod gan restreyne
Ech racle dede and ech unbridled cheere,
That alle tho that lyven, soth to seyne,
Ne sholde han wist, by word or by manere,
What that he mente, as touchyng this matere.
From every wight as fer as is the cloude
He was, so wel dissimilen he koude.

And al the while which that I yow devyse,
This was his lif: with all his fulle myght,
By day, he was in Martes heigh servyse—
This is to seyn, in armes as a knyght;
And for the more part, the longe nyght
He lay and thoughte how that he myghte serve
His lady best, hire thonk for to deserve.

Nil I naught swere, although he lay ful softe,
That in his thought he nas somwhat disesed,
Ne that he torned on his pilwes ofte,
And wold of that hym missed han ben sesed.
But in swich cas men is nought alwey plesed,
For aught I woot, namore than was he;
That kan I deme of possibilitee.

But certeyn is, to purpos for to go,
That in this while, as writen is in geeste,
He say his lady somtyme, and also
She with hym spak, whan that she dorst or leste;
And by hire bothe avys, as was the beste,
Apoynteden full warly in this nede,
So as they durste, how they wolde procede.

But it was spoken in so short a wise,
In swich await alwey, and in swich feere,
Lest any wight devynen or devyse
Wolde of hem two, or to it laye an ere,
That al this world so leef to hem ne were
As that Cupide wolde hem grace sende
To maken of hire speche aright an ende.

520

But thilke litel that they spake or wroughte,
His wise goost took ay of al swych heede,
It semed hire he wiste what she thoughte
Withouten word, so that it was no nede
To bidde hym ought to doon, or ought forbeede;
For which she thought that love, al come it late,
Of alle joie hadde opned hire the yate.

And shortly of this proces for to pace,
So wel his werk and wordes he bisette,
That he so ful stood in his lady grace,
That twenty thousand tymes, er she lette,
She thonked God that evere she with hym mette.
So koude he hym governe in swich servyse,
That al the world ne myght it bet devyse.

For whi she fond hym so discret in al,
So secret, and of swich obeisaunce,
That wel she felte he was to hire a wal
Of stiel, and sheld from every displesaunce;
That to ben in his goode governaunce,
So wis he was, she was namore afered—
I mene, as fer as oughte ben requered.

And Pandarus, to quike alwey the fir,
Was evere ylike prest and diligent;
To ese his frend was set al his desir.
He shof ay on, he to and fro was sent;
He lettres bar whan Troilus was absent;
That nevere man, as in his frendes nede,
Ne bar hym bet than he, withouten drede.

But now, paraunter, som man wayten wolde
That every word, or soonde, or look, or cheere
Of Troilus that I rehercen sholde,
In al this while unto his lady deere—
I trowe it were a long thyng for to here—
Or of what wight that stant in swich disjoynte,
His wordes alle, or every look, to poynte.

For sothe, I have naught herd it don er this
In story non, ne no man here, I wene;
And though I wolde, I koude nought, ywys;
For ther was som epistel hem bitwene,
That wolde, as seyth myn autour, wel contene
Neigh half this book, of which hym liste nought write.
How sholde I thanne a lyne of it endite?

But to the grete effect: than sey I thus,
That stondyng in concord and in quiete,
Thise ilke two, Criseyde and Troilus,
As I have told, and in this tyme swete—
Save only often myghte they nought mete,
Ne leiser have hire speches to fulfelle—
That it bifel right as I shal yow telle:

That Pandarus, that evere dide his myght
Right for the fyn that I shal speke of here,
As for to bryngen to his hows som nyght
His faire nece and Troilus yfere,
Wheras at leiser al this heighe matere,
Touchyng here love, were at the fulle upbounde,
Hadde out of doute a tyme to it founde.

For he with gret deliberacioun
Hadde every thyng that herto myght availle
Forncast and put in execucioun,
And neither left for cost ne for travaille.
Come if hem list, hem sholde no thyng faille;
And for to ben in ought aspied there,
That, wiste he wel, an impossible were.

Dredeles, it cler was in the wynd
Of every pie and every lette-game;
Now al is wel, for al the world is blynd
In this matere, bothe fremde and tame.
This tymbur is al redy up to frame;
Us lakketh nought but that we witen wolde
A certeyn houre, in which she comen sholde.

And Troilus, that al this purveiaunce
Knew at the fulle, and waited on it ay,
Hadde hereupon ek mad gret ordinaunce,
And found his cause, and therto his aray,
If that he were missed, nyght or day,

521

Ther-while he was aboute this servyse,
That he was gon to don his sacrifise,

And moste at swich a temple allone wake,
Answered of Apollo for to be;
And first to sen the holy laurer quake,
Er that Apollo spak out of the tree,
To telle hym next whan Grekes sholde flee—
And forthy lette hym no man, God forbede,
But prey Apollo helpen in this nede.

Now is ther litel more for to doone,
But Pandare up and, shortly for to seyne,
Right sone upon the chaungynge of the moone,
Whan lightles is the world a nyght or tweyne,
And that the wolken shop hym for to reyne,
He streght o morwe unto his nece wente—
Ye han wel herd the fyn of his entente.

Whan he was com, he gan anon to pleye
As he was wont, and of hymself to jape;
And finaly he swor and gan hire seye,
By this and that, she sholde hym nought escape,
Ne lenger don hym after hire to cape;
But certeynly she moste, by hire leve,
Come soupen in his hous with hym at eve.

At which she lough, and gan hire faste excuse,
And seyde, "It reyneth; lo, how sholde I gon?"
"Lat be," quod he, "ne stant nought thus to muse.
This moot be don! Ye shal be ther anon.
So at the laste herof they fille aton,
Or elles, softe he swor hire in hire ere,
He nolde nevere comen ther she were.

Soone after this, she to hym gan to rowne,
And axed hym if Troilus were there.
He swor hire nay, for he was out of towne,
And seyde, "Nece, I pose that he were;
Yow thurste nevere han the more fere;
For rather than men myghte hym ther aspie,
Me were levere a thousand fold to dye."

Nought list myn auctour fully to declare
What that she thoughte whan he seyde so,
That Troilus was out of towne yfare,
As if he seyde therof soth or no;
But that, withowten await, with hym to go,
She graunted hym, sith he hire that bisoughte
And, as his nece, obeyed as hire oughte.

But natheles, yet gan she hym biseche,
Although with hym to gon it was no fere,
For to ben war of goosissh poeples speche,
That dremen thynges whiche as nevere were,
And wel avyse hym whom he broughte there;
And seyde hym, "Em, syn I moste on yow triste,
Loke al be wel, and do now as yow liste."

He swor hire yis, by stokkes and by stones,
And by the goddes that in hevene dwelle,
Or elles were hym levere, soule and bones,
With Pluto kyng as depe ben in helle
As Tantalus—what sholde I more telle?
Whan al was wel, he roos and took his leve,
And she to soper com, whan it was eve,

With a certein of hire owen men,
And with hire faire nece Antigone,
And other of hire wommen nyne or ten.
But who was glad now, who, as trowe ye,
But Troilus, that stood and myght it se
Thorughout a litel wyndow in a stewe,
Ther he bishet syn mydnyght was in mewe,

Unwist of every wight but of Pandare?
But to the point: now whan that she was come,
With alle joie and alle frendes fare
Hire em anon in armes hath hire nome,
And after to the soper, alle and some,
Whan tyme was, ful softe they hem sette.
God woot, ther was no deynte for to fette!

522

And after soper gonnen they to rise,
At ese wel, with herte fresshe and glade;
And wel was hym that koude best devyse
To liken hire, or that hire laughen made:
He song; she pleyde; he tolde tale of Wade.
But at the laste, as every thyng hath ende,
She took hire leve, and nedes wolde wende.

But O Fortune, executrice of wierdes,
O influences of thise hevenes hye!
Soth is, that under God ye ben oure hierdes,
Though to us bestes ben the causez wrie.
This mene I now: for she gan homward hye,
But execut was al bisyde hire leve
The goddes wil, for which she moste bleve.

The bente moone with hire hornes pale,
Saturne, and Jove, in Cancro joyned were,
That swych a reyn from heven gan avale
That every maner womman that was there
Hadde of that smoky reyn a verray feere;
At which Pandare tho lough, and seyde thenne,
"Now were it tyme a lady to gon henne!

"But goode nece, if I myghte evere plese
Yow any thyng, than prey ich yow," quod he,
"To don myn herte as now so gret an ese
As for to dwelle here al this nyght with me,
For-whi this is youre owen hous, parde.
For by my trouthe, I sey it nought a-game,
To wende as now, it were to me a shame."

Criseyde, which that koude as muche good
As half a world, took hede of his preiere;
And syn it ron, and al was on a flod,
She thoughte, "As good chep may I dwellen here,
And graunte it gladly with a frendes chere,
And have a thonk, as grucche and thanne abide;
For hom to gon, it may nought wel bitide."

"I wol," quod she, "myn uncle lief and deere;
Syn that yow list, it skile is to be so.
I am right glad with yow to dwellen here;
I seyde but a-game I wolde go."
"Iwys, graunt mercy, nece," quod he tho,
"Were it a game or no, soth for to telle,
Now am I glad, syn that yow list to dwelle."

Thus al is wel; but tho bigan aright
The newe joie and al the feste agayn.
But Pandarus, if goodly hadde he myght,
He wolde han hyed hire to bedde fayn,
And seyde, "Lord, this is an huge rayn!
This were a weder for to slepen inne—
And that I rede us soon to bygynne.

"And nece, woot ye wher I wol yow leye,
For that we shul nat liggen far asonder,
And for ye neither shullen, dar I seye,
Heren noyse of reynes nor of thonder?
By God, right in my litel closet yonder.
And I wol in that outer hous allone
Be wardein of youre wommen everichone.

"And in this myddel chambre that ye se
Shal youre wommen slepen, wel and softe;
And there I seyde shal youreselven be;
And if ye liggen wel to-nyght, com ofte,
And careth nought what weder is alofte.
The wyn anon, and whan so that yow leste,
So go we slepe: I trowe it be the beste."

Ther nys no more, but hereafter soone,
The voide dronke, and travers drawe anon,
Gan every wight that hadde nought to done
More in the place out of the chaumbre gon.
And evere mo so sterneliche it ron,
And blew therwith so wondirliche loude,
That wel neigh no man heren other koude.

Tho Pandarus, hire em, right as hym oughte,
With wommen swiche as were hire most aboute,
Ful glad unto hire beddes syde hire broughte,
And took his leve, and gan ful lowe loute,
And seyde, "Here at this closet dore withoute,
Right overthwart, youre wommen liggen alle,
That whom yow list of hem ye may here calle."

523

So whan that she was in the closet leyd,
And alle hire wommen forth by ordinaunce
Abedde weren, ther as I have seyd,
Ther was nomore to skippen nor to traunce,
But boden go to bedde, with meschaunce,
If any wight was steryng anywhere,
And lat hem slepen that abedde were.

But Pandarus, that wel koude ech a deel
Th'olde daunce, and every point therinne,
Whan that he sey that alle thyng was wel,
He thought he wolde upon his werk bigynne,
And gan the stuwe doore al softe unpynne;
And stille as stoon, withouten lenger lette,
By Troilus adown right he hym sette,

And shortly to the point right for to gon,
Of al this werk he tolde hym word and ende,
And seyde, "Make the redy right anon,
For thow shalt into hevene blisse wende."
"Now, blisful Venus, thow me grace sende!"
Quod Troilus, "For nevere yet no nede
Hadde ich er now, ne halvendel the drede."

Quod Pandarus, "Ne drede the nevere a deel,
For it shal be right as thow wolt desire;
So thryve I, this nyght shal I make it weel,
Or casten al the gruwel in the fire."
"Yet, blisful Venus, this nyght thow me enspire,"
Quod Troilus, "As wys as I the serve,
And evere bet and bet shal, til I sterve.

"And if ich hadde, O Venus ful of myrthe,
Aspectes badde of Mars or of Saturne,
Or thow combust or let were in my birthe,
Thy fader prey al thilke harm disturne
Of grace, and that I glad ayein may turne,
For love of hym thow lovedest in the shawe—
I meene Adoun, that with the boor was slawe.

"O Jove ek, for the love of faire Europe,
The which in forme of bole awey thow fette,
Now help! O Mars, thow with thi blody cope,
For love of Cipris, thow me nought ne lette!
O Phebus, thynk whan Dane hireselven shette
Under the bark, and laurer wax for drede;
Yet for hire love, O help now at this nede!

"Mercurie, for the love of Hierse eke,
For which Pallas was with Aglawros wroth,
Now help! And ek Diane, I the biseke
That this viage be nought to the looth!
O fatal sustren which, er any cloth
Me shapen was, my destine me sponne,
So helpeth to this werk that is bygonne!"

Quod Pandarus, "Thow wrecched mouses herte,
Artow agast so that she wol the bite?
Wy! Don this furred cloke upon thy sherte,
And folwe me, for I wol have the wite.
But bid, and lat me gon biforn a lite."
And with that word he gan undon a trappe,
And Troilus he brought in by the lappe.

The sterne wynd so loude gan to route
That no wight oother noise myghte heere;
And they that layen at the dore withoute,
Ful sikerly they slepten alle yfere;
And Pandarus, with a ful sobre cheere,
Goth to the dore anon, withouten lette,
Ther as they laye, and softely it shette.

And as he com ayeynward pryvely,
His nece awook, and axed, "Who goth there?"
"My dere nece," quod he, "it am I.
Ne wondreth nought, ne have of it no fere."

524

And ner he com and seyde hire in hire ere,
"No word, for love of God, I yow biseche!
Lat no wight risen and heren of oure speche."

"What, which wey be ye comen, benedicite?"
Quod she; "And how, unwist of hem alle?"
"Here at this secre trappe-dore," quod he.
Quod tho Criseyde, "Lat me som wight calle!"
"I! God forbede that it sholde falle,"
Quod Pandarus, "that ye swich folye wroughte!
They myghte demen thyng they nevere er thoughte.

"It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake,
Ne yeve a wight a cause to devyne:
Youre wommen slepen alle, I undertake,
So that, for hem, the hous men myghte myne,
And slepen wollen til the sonne shyne.
And whan my tale brought is to an ende,
Unwist, right as I com, so wol I wende.

"Now, nece myn, ye shul wel understonde,"
Quod he, "so as ye wommen demen alle,
That for to holde in love a man in honde,
And hym hire lief and deere herte calle,
And maken hym an howve above a calle—
I meene, as love another in this while—
She doth hireself a shame and hym a gyle.

"Now, wherby that I telle yow al this:
Ye woot youreself, as wel as any wight,
How that youre love al fully graunted is
To Troilus, the worthieste knyght,
Oon of this world, and therto trouthe yplight,
That, but it were on hym along, ye nolde
Hym nevere falsen while ye lyven sholde.

"Now stant it thus, that sith I fro yow wente,
This Troilus, right platly for to seyn,
Is thorugh a goter, by a pryve wente,
Into my chaumbre come in al this reyn,
Unwist of every manere wight, certeyn,
Save of myself, as wisly have I joye,
And by that feith I shal Priam of Troie.

"And he is come in swich peyne and distresse
That, but he be al fully wood by this,
He sodeynly mot falle into wodnesse,
But if God helpe; and cause whi this is:
He seith hym told is of a frend of his,
How that ye sholden love oon hatte Horaste;
For sorwe of which this nyght shal ben his laste."

Criseyde, which that al this wonder herde,
Gan sodeynly aboute hire herte colde,
And with a sik she sorwfully answerde,
"Allas! I wende, whoso tales tolde,
My deere herte wolde me nought holde
So lightly fals! Allas, conceytes wronge,
What harm they don! For now lyve I to longe!

"Horaste! Allas, and falsen Troilus?
I knowe hym nought, God helpe me so!" quod she.
"Allas, what wikked spirit tolde hym thus?
Now certes, em, tomorwe and I hym se,
I shal therof as ful excusen me,
As evere dide womman, if hym like."
And with that word she gan ful soore sike.

"O God," quod she, "so worldly selynesse,
Which clerkes callen fals felicitee,
Imedled is with many a bitternesse!
Ful angwissous than is, God woot," quod she,
"Condicioun of veyn prosperitee:
For either joies comen nought yfeere,
Or elles no wight hath hem alwey here.

"O brotel wele of mannes joie unstable!
With what wight so thow be, or how thow pleye,
Either he woot that thow, joie, art muable,
Or woot it nought; it mot ben oon of tweye.
Now if he woot it nought, how may he seye
That he hath verray joie and selynesse,
That is of ignoraunce ay in derknesse?

"Now if he woot that joie is transitorie,
As every joye of worldly thyng mot flee,
Than every tyme he that hath in memorie,

525

The drede of lesyng maketh hym that he
May in no perfit selynesse be;
And if to lese his joie he sette a myte,
Than semeth it that joie is worth ful lite.

"Wherfore I wol diffyne in this matere,
That trewely, for aught I kan espie,
Ther is no verray weele in this world heere.
But O thow wikked serpent, jalousie,
Thow mysbyleved envyous folie,
Why hastow Troilus mad to me untriste,
That nevere yet agylte hym, that I wiste?"

Quod Pandarus, "Thus fallen is this cas—"
"Wy! Uncle myn," quod she, "who tolde hym this?
Why doth my deere herte thus, allas?"
"Ye woot, ye, nece myn," quod he, "what is.
I hope al shal be wel that is amys,
For ye may quenche al this, if that yow leste—
And doth right so, for I holde it the beste."

"So shal I do to-morwe, ywys," quod she,
"And God toforn, so that it shal suffise."
"To-morwe? Allas, that were a fair!" quod he;
"Nay, nay, it may nat stonden in this wise,
For, nece myn, thus writen clerkes wise,
That peril is with drecchyng in ydrawe;
Nay, swiche abodes ben nought worth an hawe.

"Nece, alle thyng hath tyme, I dar avowe;
For whan a chaumbre afire is or an halle,
Wel more nede is, it sodeynly rescowe
Than to dispute and axe amonges alle
How this candel in the strawe is falle.
A, benedicite! For al among that fare
The harm is don, and fare-wel feldefare!

"And nece myn—ne take it naught agrief—
If that ye suffre hym al nyght in this wo,
God help me so, ye hadde hym nevere lief!
That dar I seyn, now ther is but we two.
But wel I woot that ye wol nat do so;
Ye ben to wys to doon so gret folie,
To putte his lif al nyght in jupertie.

"Hadde I hym nevere lief? by God, I weene
Ye hadde nevere thyng so lief!" quod she.
"Now by my thrift," quod he, "that shal be seene!
For syn ye make this ensaumple of me,
If ich al nyght wolde hym in sorwe se,
For al the tresour in the town of Troie,
I bidde God I nevere mote have joie.

"Now loke thanne, if ye that ben his love
Shul putte his lif al night in jupertie
For thyng of nought, now by that God above,
Naught oonly this delay comth of folie,
But of malice, if that I shal naught lie.
What! Platly, and ye suffre hym in destresse,
Ye neyther bounte don ne gentilesse."

Quod tho Criseyde, "Wol ye don o thyng
And ye therwith shal stynte al his disese?
Have heere, and bereth hym this blewe ryng,
For ther is nothyng myghte hym bettre plese,
Save I myself, ne more hys herte apese;
And sey my deere herte that his sorwe,,
Is causeles; that shal be sene to-morwe."

"A ryng?" quod he, "Ye haselwodes shaken!
Ye, nece myn, that ryng moste han a stoon
That myghte dede men alyve maken;
And swich a ryng trowe I that ye have non.
Discrecioun out of youre hed is gon;
That fele I now," quod he, "and that is routhe.
O tyme ilost, wel maistow corsen slouthe!

"Woot ye not wel that noble and heigh corage
Ne sorweth nought, ne stynteth ek, for lite?
But if a fool were in a jalous rage,
I nolde setten at his sorwe a myte,
But feffe hym with a fewe wordes white
Anothir day, whan that I myghte hym fynde;
But this thyng stant al in another kynde.

"This is so gentil and so tendre of herte
That with his deth he wol his sorwes wreke;

526

For trusteth wel, how sore that hym smerte,
He wol to yow no jalous wordes speke.
And forthi, nece, er that his herte breke,
So speke youreself to hym of this matere,
For with o word ye may his herte stere.

"Now have I told what peril he is inne,
And his comynge unwist is to every wight;
Ne, parde, harm may ther be non, ne synne:
I wol myself be with yow al this nyght.
Ye knowe ek how it is youre owen knyght,
And that bi right ye moste upon hym triste,
And I al prest to fecche hym whan yow liste."

This accident so pitous was to here,
And ek so like a sooth at prime face,
And Troilus hire knyght to hir so deere,
His prive comyng, and the siker place,
That though that she did hym as thanne a grace,
Considered alle thynges as they stoode,
No wonder is, syn she did al for goode.

Criseyde answerde, "As wisly God at reste
My soule brynge, as me is for hym wo!
And em, iwis, fayn wolde I don the beste,
If that ich hadde grace to do so;
But whether that ye dwelle or for hym go,
I am, til God me bettre mynde sende,
At dulcarnoun, right at my wittes ende."

Quod Pandarus, "Yee, nece, wol ye here?
Dulcarnoun called is 'flemyng of wrecches':
It semeth hard, for wrecches wol nought lere,
For verray slouthe or other wilfull tecches;
This seyd by hem that ben nought worth two fecches;
But ye ben wis, and that we han on honde
Nis neither hard, ne skilful to withstonde."

"Than, em," quod she, "doth herof as yow list.
But er he com, I wil up first arise,
And for the love of God, syn al my trist
Is on yow two, and ye ben bothe wise,
So werketh now in so discret a wise
That I honour may have, and he plesaunce:
For I am here al in youre governaunce."

"That is wel seyd," quod he, "my nece deere.
Ther good thrift on that wise gentil herte!
But liggeth stille, and taketh hym right here—
It nedeth nought no ferther for hym sterte.
And ech of yow ese otheres sorwes smerte,
For love of God! And Venus, I the herye;
For soone hope I we shul ben alle merye."

This Troilus ful soone on knees hym sette
Ful sobrely, right be hyre beddes hed,
And in his beste wyse his lady grette.
But Lord, so she wex sodeynliche red!
Ne though men sholde smyten of hire hed,
She kouthe nought a word aright out brynge
So sodeynly, for his sodeyn comynge.

But Pandarus, that so wel koude feele
In every thyng, to pleye anon bigan,
And seyde, "Nece, se how this lord kan knele!
Now for youre trouthe, se this gentil man!"
And with that word he for a quysshen ran,
And seyde, "Kneleth now, while that yow leste;
There God youre hertes brynge soone at reste!"

Kan I naught seyn, for she bad hym nought rise,
If sorwe it putte out of hire remembraunce,
Or elles that she took it in the wise
Of dewete, as for his observaunce;
But wel fynde I she dede hym this plesaunce,
That she hym kiste, although she siked sore,
And bad hym sitte adown withouten more.

Quod Pandarus, "Now wol ye wel bigynne.
Now doth hym sitte, goode nece deere,
Upon youre beddes syde al ther withinne,
That ech of yow the bet may other heere."
And with that word he drow hym to the feere,
And took a light, and fond his contenaunce,
As for to looke upon an old romaunce.

Criseyde, that was Troilus lady right,
And cler stood on a ground of sikernesse,

527

Al thoughte she hire servant and hire knyght
Ne sholde of right non untrouthe in hire gesse,
Yet natheles, considered his distresse,
And that love is in cause of swich folie,
Thus to hym spak she of his jalousie:

"Lo, herte myn, as wolde the excellence
Of love, ayeins the which that no man may—
Ne oughte ek—goodly make resistence,
And ek bycause I felte wel and say
Youre grete trouthe and servise every day,
And that youre herte al myn was, soth to seyne,
This drof me for to rewe upon youre peyne.

"And youre goodnesse have I founde alwey yit,
Of which, my deere herte and al my knyght,
I thonke it yow, as fer as I have wit,
Al kan I nought as muche as it were right;
And I, emforth my connyng and my might,
Have and ay shal, how sore that me smerte,
Ben to yow trewe and hool with a myn herte,

"And dredeles, that shal be founde at preve.
But, herte myn, what al this is to seyne
Shal wel be told, so that ye nought yow greve,
Though I to yow right on youreself compleyne,
For therwith mene I fynaly the peyne
That halt youre herte and myn in hevynesse
Fully to slen, and every wrong redresse.

"My goode myn, noot I for-why ne how
That jalousie, allas, that wikked wyvere,
Thus causeles is cropen into yow,
The harm of which I wolde fayn delyvere.
Allas, that he, al hool or of hym slyvere,
Shuld han his refut in so digne a place;
Ther Jove hym sone out of youre herte arace!

"But O, thow Jove, O auctour of nature,
Is this an honour to thi deyte,
That folk ungiltif suffren hire injure,
And who that giltif is, al quyt goth he?
O, were it lefull for to pleyn on the,
That undeserved suffrest jalousie,
Of that I wolde upon the pleyne and crie!

"Ek al my wo is this, that folk now usen
To seyn right thus, 'Ye, jalousie is love!'
And wolde a busshel venym al excusen,
For that o greyn of love is on it shove.
But that woot heighe God that sit above,
If it be likkere love, or hate, or grame;
And after that, it oughte bere his name.

"But certeyn is, som manere jalousie
Is excusable more than som, iwys;
As whan cause is, and som swich fantasie
With piete so wel repressed is
That it unnethe doth or seyth amys,
But goodly drynketh up al his distresse
And that excuse I, for the gentilesse;

"And som so ful of furie is and despit
That it sourmounteth his repressioun.
But herte myn, ye be nat in that plit,
That thonke I God; for which youre passioun
I wol nought calle it but illusioun
Of habundaunce of love and besy cure,
That doth youre herte this disese endure.

"Of which I am right sory but nought wroth;
But, for my devoir and youre hertes reste,
Wherso yow list, by ordal or by oth,
By sort, or in what wise so yow leste,
For love of God, lat preve it for the beste;
And if that I be giltif, do me deye!
Allas, what myght I more don or seye?"

With that a fewe brighte teris newe
Owt of hire eighen fille, and thus she seyde,
"Now God, thow woost, in thought ne dede untrewe
To Troilus was nevere yet Criseyde."
With that here heed down in the bed she leyde,
And with the sheete it wreigh, and sighte soore,
And held hire pees; nought o word spak she more.

528

But now help God to quenchen al this sorwe!
So hope I that he shal, for he best may.
For I have seyn of a ful misty morwe
Folowen ful ofte a myrie someris day;
And after wynter foloweth grene May;
Men sen alday, and reden ek in stories,
That after sharpe shoures ben victories.

This Troilus, whan he hire wordes herde,
Have ye no care, hym liste nought to slepe;
For it thoughte hym no strokes of a yerde
To heere or seen Criseyde, his lady, wepe;
But wel he felt aboute his herte crepe,
For everi tere which that Criseyde asterte,
The crampe of deth to streyne hym by the herte.

And in his mynde he gan the tyme acorse
That he com there, and that, that he was born;
For now is wikke torned into worse,
And al that labour he hath don byforn,
He wende it lost; he thoughte he nas but lorn.
"O Pandarus," thoughte he, "allas, thi wile
Serveth of nought, so weylaway the while!"

And therwithal he heng adown the heed,
And fil on knees, and sorwfully he sighte.
What myghte he seyn? He felte he nas but deed,
For wroth was she that sholde his sorwes lighte.
But natheles, whan that he speken myghte,
Than seyde he thus, "God woot that of this game,
Whan al is wist, than am I nought to blame."

Therwith the sorwe so his herte shette
That from his eyen fil there nought a tere,
And every spirit his vigour in knette,
So they astoned or oppressed were.
The felyng of his sorwe, or of his fere,
Or of aught elles, fled was out of towne;
And down he fel al sodeynly a-swowne.

This was no litel sorwe for to se;
But al was hust, and Pandare up as faste;
"O nece, pes, or we be lost!" quod he,
"Beth naught agast!" But certeyn, at the laste,
For this or that, he into bed hym caste,
And seyde, "O thef, is this a mannes herte?"
And of he rente al to his bare sherte,

And seyde, "Nece, but ye helpe us now,
Allas, youre owen Troilus is lorn!"
"Iwis, so wolde I, and I wiste how,
Ful fayn," quod she. "Allas, that I was born!"
"Yee, nece, wol ye pullen out the thorn
That stiketh in his herte?" quod Pandare.
"Sey 'Al foryeve,' and stynt is al this fare!"

"Ye, that to me," quod she, "ful levere were
Than al the good the sonne aboute gooth."
And therwithal she swor hym in his ere,
"Iwys, my deere herte, I am nought wroth,
Have here my trouthe!" and many an other oth.
"Now speke to me, for it am I, Criseyde!"
But al for nought; yit myght he nought abreyde.

Therwith his pous and paumes of his hondes
They gan to frote, and wete his temples tweyne;
And to deliveren hym fro bittre bondes
She ofte hym kiste; and shortly for to seyne,
Hym to revoken she did al hire peyne;
And at the laste, he gan his breth to drawe,
And of his swough sone after that adawe,

And gan bet mynde and reson to hym take,
But wonder soore he was abayst, iwis;
And with a sik, whan he gan bet awake,
He seyde, "O mercy, God, what thyng is this?"
"Why do ye with youreselven thus amys?"
Quod tho Criseyde, "Is this a mannes game?
What, Troilus, wol ye do thus for shame?"

And therwithal hire arm over hym she leyde,
And al foryaf, and ofte tyme hym keste.
He thonked hire, and to hire spak, and seyde
As fil to purpos for his herte reste;
And she to that answerde hym as hire leste,
And with hire goodly wordes hym disporte
She gan, and ofte his sorwes to comforte.

529

Quod Pandarus, "For aught I kan aspien,
This light, nor I, ne serven here of nought.
Light is nought good for sike folkes yen!
But, for the love of God, syn ye ben brought
In thus good plit, lat now no hevy thought
Ben hangyng in the hertes of yow tweye"—
And bar the candel to the chymeneye.

Soone after this, though it no nede were,
Whan she swiche othes as hire leste devyse
Hadde of hym take, hire thoughte tho no fere,
Ne cause ek non to bidde hym thennes rise.
Yet lasse thyng than othes may suffise
In many a cas, for every wyght, I gesse,
That loveth wel, meneth but gentilesse.

But in effect she wolde wite anon
Of what man, and ek wheer, and also why
He jalous was, syn ther was cause non;
And ek the sygne that he took it by,
She badde hym that to telle hire bisily,
Or elles, certeyn, she bar hym on honde
That this was don of malice, hire to fonde.

Withouten more, shortly for to seyne,
He most obeye unto his lady heste;
And for the lasse harm, he moste feyne.
He seyde hire, whan she was at swich a feste,
She myght on hym han loked at the leste—
Noot I nought what, al deere ynough a rysshe,
As he that nedes most a cause fisshe.

And she answerde, "Swete, al were it so,
What harm was that, syn I non yvel mene?
For, by that God that bought us bothe two,
In alle thyng is myn entente cleene.
Swiche argumentes ne ben naught worth a beene.
Wol ye the childissh jalous contrefete?
Now were it worthi that ye were ybete."

Tho Troilus gan sorwfully to sike
Lest she be wroth, hym thoughte his herte deyde—
And seyde, "Allas, upon my sorwes sike
Have mercy, swete herte myn, Criseyde!
And if that in tho wordes that I seyde
Be any wrong, I wol no more trespace.
Doth what yow list; I am al in youre grace."

And she answerde, "Of gilt misericorde!
That is to seyn, that I foryeve al this;
And evere more on this nyght yow recorde,
And beth wel war ye do namore amys."
"Nay, dere herte myn," quod he, "iwys!"
"And now," quod she, "that I have don yow smerte,
Foryeve it me, myn owene swete herte."

This Troilus, with blisse of that supprised,
Putte al in Goddes hand, as he that mente
Nothing but wel; and sodeynly avysed,
He hire in armes faste to hym hente.
And Pandarus with a ful good entente
Leyde hym to slepe, and seyde, "If ye be wise,
Swouneth nought now, lest more folk arise!"

What myghte or may the sely larke seye,
Whan that the sperhauk hath it in his foot?
I kan namore; but of thise ilke tweye—
To whom this tale sucre be or soot—
Though that I tarie a yer, somtyme I moot,
After myn auctour, tellen hire gladnesse,
As wel as I have told hire hevynesse.

Criseyde, which that felte hire thus itake,
As writen clerkes in hire bokes olde,
Right as an aspes leef she gan to quake,
Whan she hym felte hire in his armes folde.
But Troilus, al hool of cares colde,
Gan thanken tho the bryghte goddes sevene;
Thus sondry peynes bryngen folk in hevene.

This Troilus in armes gan hire streyne,
And seyde, "O swete, as evere mot I gon,
Now be ye kaught; now is ther but we tweyne!
Now yeldeth yow, for other bote is non!"
To that Criseyde answerde thus anon,
"Ne hadde I er now, my swete herte deere,
Ben yolde, ywis, I were now nought heere!"

530

O, sooth is seyd, that heled for to be
As of a fevre or other gret siknesse,
Men moste drynke, as men may ofte se,
Ful bittre drynke; and for to han gladnesse
Men drynken ofte peyne and gret distresse—
I mene it here, as for this aventure,
That thorugh a peyne hath founden al his cure.

And now swetnesse semeth more swete,
That bitternesse assaied was byforn;
For out of wo in blisse now they flete;
Non swich they felten sithen they were born.
Now is this bet than bothe two be lorn.
For love of God, take every womman heede
To werken thus, if it comth to the neede.

Criseyde, al quyt from every drede and tene,
As she that juste cause hadde hym to triste,
Made hym swych feste it joye was to sene,
Whan she his trouthe and clene entente wiste;
And as aboute a tree, with many a twiste,
Bytrent and writh the swote wodebynde,
Gan ech of hem in armes other wynde.

And as the newe abaysed nyghtyngale,
That stynteth first whan she bygynneth to synge,
Whan that she hereth any herde tale,
Or in the hegges any wyght stirynge,
And after siker doth hire vois out rynge,
Right so Criseyde, whan hire drede stente,
Opned hire herte and tolde hym hire entente.

And right as he that seth his deth yshapen,
And dyen mot, in ought that he may gesse,
And sodeynly rescous doth hym escapen,
And from his deth is brought in sykernesse,
For al this world, in swych present gladnesse
Was Troilus, and hath his lady swete.
With worse hap God lat us nevere mete!

Hire armes smale, hire streghte bak and softe,
Hire sydes longe, flesshly, smothe, and white
He gan to stroke, and good thrift bad ful ofte
Hire snowissh throte, hire brestes rounde and lite.
Thus in this hevene he gan hym to delite,
And thetwithal a thousand tyme hire kiste,
That what to don, for joie unnethe he wiste.

Than seyde he thus: "O Love, O Charite!
Thi moder ek, Citheria the swete,
After thiself next heried be she—
Venus mene I, the wel-willy planete!—
And next that, Imeneus, I the grete,
For nevere man was to yow goddes holde
As I, which ye han brought fro cares colde.

"Benigne Love, thow holy bond of thynges,
Whoso wol grace and list the nought honouren,
Lo, his desir wol fle withouten wynges;
For noldestow of bownte hem socouren
That serven best and most alwey labouren,
Yet were al lost, that dar I wel seyn, certes,
But if thi grace passed oure desertes.

"And for thow me, that koude leest disserve
Of hem that noumbred ben unto thi grace,
Hast holpen, ther I likly was to sterve,
And me bistowed in so heigh a place
That thilke boundes may no blisse pace,
I kan namore; but laude and reverence
Be to thy bounte and thyn excellence!"

And therwithal Criseyde anon he kiste,
Of which certein she felte no disese,
And thus seyde he: "Now wolde God I wiste,
Myn herte swete, how I yow myght plese!
What man," quod he, "was evere thus at ese
As I, on which the faireste and the beste
That evere I say deyneth hire herte reste?

"Here may men seen that mercy passeth right;
Th'experience of that is felt in me,
That am unworthi to so swete a wight.
But herte myn, of youre benignite,
So thynketh, though that I unworthi be,
Yet mot I nede amenden in som wyse,
Right thorugh the vertu of youre heigh servyse.

531

"And for the love of God, my lady deere,
Syn God hath wrought me for I shall yow serve—
As thus I mene: he wol ye be my steere,
To do me lyve, if that yow liste, or sterve—
So techeth me how that I may disserve
Youre thonk, so that I thorugh myn ignoraunce
Ne do no thyng that yow be displesaunce.

"For certes, fresshe wommanliche wif,
This dar I seye, that trouth and diligence,
That shal ye fynden in me al my lif;
Ny wol nat, certein, breken youre defence;
And if I do, present or in absence,
For love of God, lat sle me with the dede,
If that it like unto youre wommanhede."

"Iwys," quod she, "myn owen hertes list,
My ground of ese, and al myn herte deere,
Gramercy, for on that is al my trist!
But lat us falle awey fro this matere,
For it suffiseth, this that seyd is heere,
And at o word, withouten repentaunce,
Welcome, my knyght, my pees, my suffisaunce!"

Of hire delit or joies oon the leeste
Were impossible to my wit to seye;
But juggeth ye that han ben at the feste
Of swich gladnesse, if that hem liste pleye!
I kan namore, but thus thise ilke tweye
That nyght, bitwixen drede and sikernesse,
Felten in love the grete worthynesse.

O blisful nyght, of hem so longe isought,
How blithe unto hem bothe two thow weere!
Why nad I swich oon with my soule ybought,
Ye, or the leeste joie that was theere?
Awey, thow foule daunger and thow feere,
And lat hem in this hevene blisse dwelle,
That is so heigh that al ne kan I telle!

But sooth is, though I kan nat tellen al,
As kan myn auctour, of his excellence,
Yet have I seyd, and God toforn, and shal
In every thyng, al holly his sentence;
And if that ich, at Loves reverence,
Have any word in eched for the beste,
Doth therwithal right as youreselven leste.

For myne wordes, heere and every part,
I speke hem alle under correccioun
Of yow that felyng han in loves art,
And putte it al in youre discrecioun
To encresse or maken dymynucioun
Of my langage, and that I yow biseche.
But now to purpos of my rather speche.

Thise ilke two, that ben in armes laft,
So loth to hem asonder gon it were,
That ech from other wenden ben biraft,
Or elles—lo, this was hir mooste feere—
That al this thyng but nyce dremes were;
For which ful ofte ech of hem seyde, "O swete,
Clippe ich yow thus, or elles I it meete?"

And Lord! So he gan goodly on hire se
That nevere his look ne bleynte from hire face,
And seyde, "O deere herte, may it be
That it be soth, that ye ben in this place?"
"Yee, herte myn, God thank I of his grace,"
Quod tho Criseyde, and therwithal hym kiste,
That where his spirit was, for joie he nyste.

This Troilus ful ofte hire eyen two
Gan for to kisse, and seyde, "O eyen clere,
It weren ye that wroughte me swich wo,
Ye humble nettes of my lady deere!
Though ther be mercy writen in youre cheere,
God woot, the text ful hard is, soth, to fynde!
How koude ye withouten bond me bynde?"

Therwith he gan hire faste in armes take,
And wel a thousand tymes gan he syke—
Naught swiche sorwfull sikes as men make
For wo, or elles when that folk ben sike,
But esy sykes, swiche as ben to like,
That shewed his affeccioun withinne;
Of swiche sikes koude he nought bilynne.

Soone after this they spake of sondry thynges,
As fel to purpos of this aventure,
And pleyinge entrechaungeden hire rynges,
Of whiche I kan nought tellen no scripture;
But wel I woot, a broche, gold and asure,

532

In which a ruby set was lik an herte,
Criseyde hym yaf, and stak it on his sherte.

Lord, trowe ye a coveytous or a wreccbe,
That blameth love and halt of it despit,
That of tho pens that he kan mokre and kecche
Was evere yit yyeven hym swich delit
As is in love, in o poynt, in som plit?
Nay, douteles, for also God me save,
So perfit joie may no nygard have.

They wol seyn "Yis," but Lord, so they lye,
Tho besy wrecches, ful of wo and drede!
Thei callen love a woodnesse or folie,
But it shall falle hem as I shal yow rede:
They shal forgon the white and ek the rede,
And lyve in wo, ther God yeve hem meschaunce,
And every lovere in his trouthe avaunce!

As wolde God tho wrecches that dispise
Servise of love hadde erys also longe
As hadde Mida, ful of coveytise,
And therto dronken hadde as hoot and stronge
As Crassus did for his affectis wronge,
To techen hem that they ben in the vice,
And loveres nought, although they bolde hem nyce.

Thise ilke two of whom that I yow seye,
Whan that hire hertes wel assured were,
Tho gonne they to speken and to pleye,
And ek rehercen how, and whan, and where
Thei knewe hem first, and every wo and feere
That passed was; but al swich hevynesse—
I thank it God—was torned to gladnesse.

And evere mo, when that hem fel to speke
Of any wo of swich a tyme agoon,
With kissyng al that tale sholde breke
And fallen in a newe joye anoon;
And diden al hire myght, syn they were oon,
For to recoveren blisse and ben at eise,
And passed wo with joie contrepeise.

Resoun wol nought that I speke of slep,
For it acordeth nought to my matere.
God woot, they took of that ful litel kep!
But lest this nyght, that was to hem so deere,
Ne sholde in veyn escape in no manere,
It was byset in joie and bisynesse
Of al that souneth into gentilesse.

But whan the cok, comune astrologer,
Gan on his brest to bete and after crowe,
And Lucyfer, the dayes messager,
Gan for to rise and out hire bemes throwe,
And estward roos—to hym that koude it knowe—
Fortuna Major, that anoon Criseyde,
With herte soor, to Troilus thus seyde:

"Myn hertes lif, my trist, al my plesaunce,
That I was born, allas, what me is wo,
That day of us moot make disseveraunce!
For tyme it is to ryse and hennes go,
Or ellis I am lost for evere mo!
O nyght, allas, why nyltow over us hove
As longe as whan Almena lay by Jove?

"O blake nyght, as folk in bokes rede,
That shapen art by God this world to hide
At certeyn tymes wyth thi derke wede,
That under that men myghte in reste abide,
Wel oughten bestes pleyne and folk the chide,
That there as day wyth labour wolde us breste,
That thow thus fleest, and deynest us nought reste.

"Thow doost, allas, to shortly thyn office,
Thow rakle nyght! Ther God, maker of kynde,
The, for thyn haste and thyn unkynde vice,
So faste ay to oure hemysperie bynde
That nevere more under the ground thow wynde!
For now, for thow so hiest out of Troie,
Have I forgon thus hastili my joie!"

533

This Troilus, that with tho wordes felte,
As thoughte hym tho, for piëtous distresse
The blody teris from his herte melte,
As he that nevere yet swich hevynesse
Assayed hadde, out of so gret gladnesse,
Gan therwithal Criseyde, his lady deere,
In armes streyne, and seyde in this manere:

"O cruel day, accusour of the joie
That nyght and love han stole and faste iwryen,
Acorsed be thi comyng into Troye,
For every bore hath oon of thi bryghte yën!
Envyous day, what list the so to spien?
What hastow lost? Why sekestow this place?
Ther God thi light so quenche, for his grace!

"Allas, what have thise loveris the agylt,
Dispitous day? Thyn be the peyne of helle!
For many a lovere hastow slayn, and wilt;
Thy pourynge in wol nowher lat hem dwelle.
What profrestow thi light here for to selle?
Go selle it hem that smale selys grave;
We wol the nought; us nedeth no day have."

And ek the sonne, Titan, gan he chide,
And seyde, "O fool, wel may men the dispise,
That hast the dawyng al nyght by thi syde,
And suffrest hire so soone up fro the rise
For to disese loveris in this wyse.
What, holde youre bed ther, thow, and ek thi Morwe!
I bidde God, so yeve yow bothe sorwe!"

Therwith ful soore he syghte, and thus he seyde:
"My lady right, and of my wele or wo
The welle and roote, O goodly myn Criseyde,
And shal I rise, allas, and shal I so?
Now fele I that myn herte moot a-two,
For how sholde I my lif an houre save,
Syn that with yow is al the lif ich have?

"What shal I don? For, certes, I not how,
Ne whan, allas, I shal the tyme see
That in this plit I may ben eft with yow;
And of my lif, God woot how that shal be,
Syn that desir right now so streyneth me
That I am ded anon, but I retourne.
How sholde I longe, allas, fro yow sojourne?

"But natheles, myn owen lady bright,
Were it so that I wiste outrely
That I, youre humble servant and youre knyght,
Were in youre herte iset so fermely
As ye in myn—the which thyng, trewely,
Me levere were than thise worldes tweyne—
Yet sholde I bet enduren al my peyne."

To that Criseyde answerde right anon,
And with a sik she seyde, "O herte deere,
The game, ywys, so ferforth now is gon
That first shal Phebus fallen fro his speere,
And everich egle ben the dowves feere,
And everich roche out of his place sterte,
Er Troilus oute of Criseydes herte.

"Ye hen so depe in-with myn herte grave,
That, though I wolde it torne out of my thought,
As wisly verray God my soule save,
To dyen in the peyne, I koude nought.
And, for the love of God that us bath wrought,
Lat in youre brayn non other fantasie
So crepe that it cause me to dye!

"And that ye me wolde han as faste in mynde
As I have yow, that wolde I yow biseche;
And if I wiste sothly that to fynde,
God myghte nought a poynt my joies eche.
But herte myn, withouten more speche,
Beth to me trewe, or ellis were it routhe,
For I am thyn, by God and by my trouthe!

"Beth glad, forthy, and lyve in sikernesse!
Thus seyde I nevere er this, ne shal to mo;
And if to yow it were a gret gladnesse
To torne ayeyn soone after that ye go,
As fayn wolde I as ye that it were so,
As wisly God myn herte brynge at reste!"
And hym in armes tok, and ofte keste.

534

Agayns his wil, sith it mot nedes be,
This Troilus up ros, and faste hym cledde,
And in his armes took his lady free
An hondred tyme, and on his wey hym spedde;
And with swich voys as though his herte bledde,
He seyde, "Farwel, dere herte swete;
Ther God us graunte sownde and soone to mete!"

To which no word for sorwe she answerde,
So soore gan his partyng hire distreyne;
And Troilus unto his paleys ferde,
As wo-bygon as she was, soth to seyne.
So harde hym wrong of sharp desir the peyne
For to ben eft there he was in plesaunce,
That it may nevere out of his remembraunce.

Retorned to his real paleys soone,
He softe into his bed gan for to slynke,
To slepe longe, as he was wont to doone.
But al for nought; he may wel ligge and wynke,
But slep ne may ther in his herte synke,
Thynkyng how she for whom desir hym brende
A thousand fold was worth more than he wende.

And in his thought gan up and down to wynde
Hire wordes alle, and every countenaunce,
And fermely impressen in his mynde
The leeste point that to him was plesaunce;
And verraylich of thilke remembraunce
Desir al newe hym brende, and lust to brede
Gan more than erst, and yet took he non hede.

Criseyde also, right in the same wyse,
Of Troilus gan in hire herte shette
His worthynesse, his lust, his dedes wise,
His gentilesse, and how she with hym mette,
Thonkyng Love he so wel hire bisette,
Desiryng eft to han hire herte deere
In swicb a plit, she dorste make hym cheere.

Pandare, o-morwe, which that comen was
Unto his nece and gan hire faire grete,
Seyde, "Al this nyght so reyned it, allas,
That al my drede is that ye, nece swete,
Han litel laiser had to slepe and mete.
Al nyght," quod he, "hath reyn so do me wake,
That som of us, I trowe, hire hedes ake."

And ner he com, and seyde, "How stant it now
This mury morwe? Nece, how kan ye fare?"
Criseyde answerde, "Nevere the bet for yow,
Fox that ye ben! God yeve youre herte kare!
God help me so, ye caused al this fare,
Trowe I," quod she, "for al youre wordes white.
O, whoso seeth yow knoweth yow ful lite."

With that she gan hire face for to wrye
With the shete, and wax for shame al reed;
And Pandarus gan under for to prie,
And seyde, "Nece, if that I shal be ded,
Have here a swerd and smyteth of myn hed!"
With that his arm al sodeynly he thriste
Under hire nekke, and at the laste hire kyste.

I passe al that which chargeth nought to seye.
What! God foryaf his deth, and she al so
Foryaf, and with here uncle gan to pleye,
For other cause was ther noon than so.
But of this thing right to the effect to go:
Whan tyme was, hom til here hous she wente,
And Pandarus hath fully his entente.

Now torne we ayeyn to Troilus,
That resteles ful longe abedde lay,
And pryvely sente after Pandarus,
To hym to com in al the haste he may.
He com anon—nought ones seyde he nay—
And Troilus ful sobrely he grette,
And down upon his beddes syde hym sette.

This Troilus, with al th'affeccioun
Of frendes love that herte may devyse,
To Pandarus on knowes fil adown,
And er that he wolde of the place arise
He gan hym thonken in his beste wise
An hondred sythe, and gan the tyme blesse
That he was born, to brynge hym fro destresse.

He seyde, "O frend of frendes the alderbeste
That evere was, the sothe for to telle,

535

Thow hast in hevene ybrought my soule at reste
Fro Flegitoun, the fery flood of helle,
That, though I myght a thousand tymes selle
Upon a day my lif in thi servise,
It myghte naught a moote in that suffise.

"The sonne, which that al the world may se,
Saugh nevere yet my lif, that dar I leye,
So inly fair and goodly as is she
Whos I am al, and shal, tyl that I deye.
And that I thus am hires, dar I seye,
That thanked be the heighe worthynesse
Of Love, and ek thi kynde bysynesse.

"Thus hastow me no litel thing yyive,
For which to the obliged be for ay
My lif. And whi? For thorugh thyn help I lyve,
Or elles ded hadde I ben many a day."
And with that word down in his bed he lay,
And Pandarus ful sobrely hym herde
Tyl al was seyd, and than he thus answerde:

"My deere frend, if I have don for the
In any cas, God wot, it is me lief,
And am as glad as man may of it be,
God help me so; but tak now nat a-grief
That I shal seyn: be war of this meschief,
That, there as thow now brought art in thy blisse,
That thow thiself ne cause it nat to misse.

"For of fortunes sharpe adversitee
The worste kynde of infortune is this,
A man to han ben in prosperitee,
And it remembren whan it passed is.
Th'art wis ynough; forthi do nat amys:
Be naught to rakel, theigh thow sitte warme,
For if thow be, certeyn it wol the harme.

"Thow art at ese, and hold the wel therinne;
For also seur as reed is every fir,
As gret a craft is kepe wel as wynne.
Bridle alwey wel thi speche and thi desir,
For worldly joie halt nought but by a wir.
That preveth wel, it brest al day so ofte;
Forthi nede is to werken with it softe."

Quod Troilus, "I hope, and God toforn,
My deere frend, that I shal so me beere
That in my gylt ther shal nothyng be lorn,
N"y nyl nought rakle as for to greven heere.
It nedeth naught this matere ofte stere;
For wystestow myn herte wel, Pandare,
God woot, of this thow woldest litel care."

Tho gan he telle hym of his glade nyght,
And wherof first his herte dred, and how,
And seyde, "Frend, as I am trewe knyght,
And by that feyth I shal to God and yow,
I hadde it nevere half so hote as now;
And ay the more that desir me biteth
To love hire best, the more it me deliteth.

"I not myself naught wisly what it is,
But now I feele a newe qualitee—
Yee, al another than I dide er this."
Pandare answerd, and seyde thus, that "he
That ones may in hevene blisse be,
He feleth other weyes, dar I leye,
Than thilke tyme he first herde of it seye."

This is o word for al: this Troilus
Was nevere ful to speke of this matere,
And for to preisen unto Pandarus
The bounte of his righte lady deere,
And Pandarus to thanke and maken cheere.
This tale ay was span-newe to bygynne,
Til that the nyght departed hem atwynne.

Soon after this, for that Fortune it wolde,
Icomen was the blisful tyme swete
That Troilus was warned that he sholde,
There he was erst, Criseyde his lady mete,
For which he felte his herte in joie flete
And feithfully gan alle the goddes herie.
And lat se now if that he kan be merie!

And holden was the forme and al the wise
Of hire commyng, and of his also,

536

As it was erst, which nedeth nought devyse.
But pleynly to th'effect right for to go:
In joie and suerte Pandarus hem two
Abedde brought, whan that hem bothe leste,
And thus they ben in quyete and in reste.

Nought nedeth it to yow, syn they ben met,
To axe at me if that they blithe were;
For if it erst was wel, tho was it bet
A thousand fold; this nedeth nought enquere.
Ago was every sorwe and every feere;
And bothe, ywys, they hadde, and so they wende,
As muche joie as herte may comprende.

This is no litel thyng of for to seye;
This passeth every wit for to devyse;
For ech of hem gan otheres lust obeye.
Felicite, which that thise clerkes wise
Comenden so, ne may nought here suffise;
This joie may nought writen be with inke;
This passeth al that herte may bythynke.

But cruel day—so wailaway the stounde!—
Gan for t'aproche, as they by sygnes knewe,
For which hem thoughte feelen dethis wownde.
So wo was hem that chaungen gan hire hewe,
And day they gonnen to despise al newe,
Callyng it traitour, envyous, and worse,
And bitterly the dayes light thei corse.

Quod Troilus, "Allas, now am I war
That Piros and tho swifte steedes thre,
Which that drawen forth the sonnes char,
Han gon som hi-path in dispit of me;
That maketh it so soone day to be;
And for the sonne hym hasteth thus to rise,
Ne shal I nevere don hire sacrifise."

But nedes day departe hem moste soone,
And whan hire speche don was and hire cheere,
They twynne anon, as they were wont to doone,
And setten tyme of metyng eft yfeere;
And many a nyght they wroughte in this manere,
And thus Fortune a tyme ledde in joie
Criseyde and ek this kynges sone of Troie.

In suffisaunce, in blisse, and in singynges,
This Troilus gan al his lif to lede.
He spendeth, jousteth, maketh festeynges;
He yeveth frely ofte, and chaungeth wede,
And held aboute hym alwey, out of drede,
A world of folk, as com hym wel of kynde,
The fresshest and the beste he koude fynde;

That swich a vois was of hym and a stevene,
Thorughout the world, of honour and largesse,
That it up rong unto the yate of hevene;
And, as in love, he was in swich gladnesse
That in his herte he demed, as I gesse,
That ther nys lovere in this world at ese
So wel as he; and thus gan love hym plese.

The goodlihede or beaute which that kynde
In any other lady hadde yset
Kan nought the montance of a knotte unbynde
Aboute his herte of al Criseydes net.
He was so narwe ymasked and yknet,
That it undon on any manere syde,
That nyl naught ben, for aught that may bitide.

And by the hond ful ofte he wolde take
This Pandarus, and into gardyn lede,
And swich a feste and swich a proces make
Hym of Criseyde, and of hire wommanhede,
And of hire beaute, that withouten drede
It was an hevene his wordes for to here;
And thanne he wolde synge in this manere:

Canticus Troili.

"Love, that of erthe and se hath governaunce,
Love, that his hestes hath in hevene hye,
Love, that with an holsom alliaunce
Halt peples joyned, as hym lest hem gye,
Love, that knetteth lawe of compaignie,
And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle,
Bynd this acord, that I have told and telle.

"That, that the world with feith which that is stable
Diverseth so his stowndes concordynge,

537

That elementz that ben so discordable
Holden a bond perpetuely durynge,
That Phebus mote his rosy day forth brynge,
And that the mone hath lordshipe over the nyghtes:
Al this doth Love, ay heried be his myghtes!—

"That, that the se, that gredy is to flowen,
Constreyneth to a certeyn ende so
His flodes that so fiersly they ne growen
To drenchen erthe and al for evere mo;
And if that Love aught lete his bridel go,
Al that now loveth asondre sholde lepe,
And lost were al that Love halt now to-hepe.

"So wolde God, that auctour is of kynde,
That with his bond Love of his vertu liste
To cerclen hertes alle and faste bynde,
That from his bond no wight the wey out wiste;
And hertes colde, hem wolde I that he twiste
To make hem love, and that hem liste ay rewe
On hertes sore, and kepe hem that ben trewe!"

In alle nedes for the townes werre
He was, and ay, the first in armes dyght,
And certeynly, but if that bokes erre,
Save Ector most ydred of any wight;
And this encrees of hardynesse and myght
Com hym of love, his ladies thank to wynne,
That altered his spirit so withinne.

In tyme of trewe, on haukyng wolde he ride,
Or elles honte boor, beer, or lyoun;
The smale bestes leet he gon biside.
And whan that he com ridyng into town,
Ful ofte his lady from hire wyndow down,
As fressh as faukoun comen out of muwe,
Ful redy was hym goodly to saluwe.

And moost of love and vertu was his speche,
And in despit hadde alle wrecchednesse;
And douteles, no nede was hym biseche
To honouren hem that hadde worthynesse,
And esen hem that weren in destresse;
And glad was he if any wyght wel ferde,
That lovere was, whan he it wiste or herde.

For soth to seyne, he lost held every wyght,
But if he were in Loves heigh servise—
I mene folk that oughte it ben of right.
And over al this, so wel koude he devyse
Of sentement and in so unkouth wise
Al his array, that every lovere thoughte
That al was wel, what so he seyde or wroughte.

And though that he be come of blood roial,
Hym liste of pride at no wight for to chace;
Benigne he was to ech in general,
For which he gat hym thank in every place.
Thus wolde Love—yheried be his grace!—
That Pride, Envye, Ire, and Avarice
He gan to fle, and everich other vice.

Thow lady bryght, the doughter to Dyone,
Thy blynde and wynged sone ek, daun Cupide,
Yee sustren nyne ek, that by Elicone
In hil Pernaso listen for t'abide,
That ye thus fer han deyned me to gyde—
I kan namore, but syn that ye wol wende,
Ye heried ben for ay withouten ende!

Thorugh yow have I seyd fully in my song
Th'effect and joie of Troilus servise,
Al be that ther was som disese among,
As to myn auctour listeth to devise.
My thridde bok now ende ich in this wyse,
And Troilus in lust and in quiete
Is with Criseyde, his owen herte swete.

Explicit liber tercius.

538

BOOK IV

Incipit prohemium quarti libri

But al to litel, weylaway the whyle,
Lasteth swicb joie, ythonked be Fortune,
That semeth trewest whan she wol bygyle
And kan to fooles so hire song entune
That she hem hent and blent, traitour comune!
And whan a wight is from hire whiel ythrowe,
Than laugheth she, and maketh hym the mowe.

From Troilus she gan hire brighte face
Awey to writhe, and tok of hym non heede,
But caste hym clene out of his lady grace,
And on hire whiel she sette up Diomede;
For which myn herte right now gynneth blede,
And now my penne, allas, with which I write,
Quaketh for drede of that I moste endite.

For how Criseyde Troilus forsook—
Or at the leeste, how that she was unkynde—
Moot hennesforth ben matere of my book,
As writen folk thorugh which it is in mynde.
Allas, that they sholde evere cause fynde
To speke hire harm! And if they on hire lye,
Iwis, hemself sholde han the vilanye.

O ye Herynes, Nyghtes doughtren thre,
That endeles compleignen evere in pyne,
Megera, Alete, and ek Thesiphone,
Thow cruel Mars ek, fader to Quyryne,
This ilke ferthe book me helpeth fyne,
So that the losse of lyf and love yfeere
Of Troilus be fully shewed heere.

Explicit prohemium quarti libri.

Incipit liber quartus.

Liggyng in oost, as I have seyd er this,
The Grekes stronge aboute Troie town,
Byfel that, whan that Phebus shynyng is
Upon the brest of Hercules lyoun,
That Ector, with ful many a bold baroun,
Caste on a day with Grekis for to fighte,
As he was wont, to greve hem what he myghte.

Not I how longe or short it was bitwene
This purpos and that day they issen mente,
But on a day, wel armed, brighte, and shene,
Ector and many a worthi wight out wente,
With spere in honde and bigge bowes bente;
And in the herd, withouten lenger lette,
Hire fomen in the feld hem faste mette.

The longe day, with speres sharpe igrounde,
With arwes, dartes, swerdes, maces felle,
They fighte and bringen hors and man to grounde,
And with hire axes out the braynes quelle.
But in the laste shour, soth for to telle,
The folk of Troie hemselven so mysledden
That with the worse at nyght homward they fledden.

At which day was taken Antenore,
Maugre Polydamas or Monesteo,
Santippe, Sarpedoun, Polynestore,
Polite, or ek the Trojan daun Rupheo,
And other lasse folk as Phebuseo;

539

So that,for harm,that day the folk of Troie
Dredden to lese a gret part of hire joie.

Of Priamus was yeve, at Grek requeste,
A tyme of trewe, and tho they gonnen trete
Hire prisoners to chaungen, meste and leste,
And for the surplus yeven sommes grete.
This thing anon was couth in every strete,
Bothe in th'assege, in town, and everywhere,
And with the firste it com to Calkas ere.

Whan Calkas knew this tretis sholde holde,
In consistorie among the Grekes soone
He gan in thringe forth with lordes olde,
And sette hym there as he was wont to doone;
And with a chaunged face hem bad a boone,
For love of God, to don that reverence,
To stynte noyse and yeve hym audience.

Than seyde he thus: "Lo, lordes myn, ich was
Troian, as it is knowen out of drede;
And, if that yow remembre, I am Calkas,
That alderfirst yaf comfort to youre nede,
And tolde wel how that ye shulden spede.
For dredeles, thorugh yow shal in a stownde
Ben Troie ybrend and beten down to grownde.

"And in what forme, or in what manere wise,
This town to shende, and al youre lust t'acheve,
Ye han er this wel herd me yow devyse;
This knowe ye, my lordes, as I leve.
And for the Grekis weren me so leeve,
I com myself in my propre persone,
To teche in this how yow was best to doone.

"Havyng unto my tresor ne my rente
Right no resport, to respect of youre ese,
Thus al my good I lefte and to yow wente,
Wenyng in this yow lordes for to plese.
But al that los ne doth me no disese.
I vouchesauf as wisly have I joie,
For yow to lese al that I have in Troie,

"Save of a doughter that I lefte, allas,
Slepyng at hom, whan out of Troie I sterte.
O sterne, O cruel fader that I was!
How myghte I have in that so hard an herte?
Allas, I ne hadde ibrought hire in hire sherte!
For sorwe of which I wol nought lyve tomorwe,
But if ye lordes rewe upon my sorwe.

"For by that cause I say no tyme er now
Hire to delivere, ich holden have my pees;
But now or nevere, if that it like yow,
I may hire have right soone, douteles.
O help and grace amonges al this prees!
Rewe on this olde caytif in destresse,
Syn I thorugh yow have al this hevynesse.

"Ye have now kaught and fetered in prisoun
Troians ynowe, and if youre willes be,
My child with oon may han redempcioun;
Now for the love of God and of bounte,
Oon of so fele, allas, so yive hym me!
What nede were it this preiere for to werne,
Syn ye shul bothe han folk and town as yerne?

"On peril of my lif, I shal nat lye;
Appollo hath me told it feithfully;
I have ek founde it be astronomye,
By sort, and by augurye ek, trewely,
And dar wel say, the tyme is faste by
That fire and flaumbe on al the town shal sprede,
And thus shal Troie torne to asshen dede.

"For certein, Phebus and Neptunus bothe,
That makeden the walles of the town,
Ben with the folk of Troie alwey so wrothe
That they wol brynge it to confusioun,
Right in despit of kyng Lameadoun;
Bycause he nolde payen hem here hire,
The town of Troie shal ben set on-fire."

Tellyng his tale alwey, this olde greye,
Humble in his speche and in his lokyng eke,
The salte teris from his eyen tweye
Ful faste ronnen down by either cheke.

540

So longe he gan of socour hem biseke
That, for to hele hym of his sorwes soore,
They yave hym Antenor, withouten moore.

But who was glad ynough but Calkas tho?
And of this thyng ful soone his nedes leyde
On hem that sholden for the tretis go,
And hem for Antenor ful ofte preyde
To bryngen hom kyng Toas and Criseyde.
And whan Priam his save-garde sente,
Th'embassadours to Troie streight they wente.

The cause itold of hire comyng, the olde
Priam, the kyng, ful soone in general
Let her-upon his parlement to holde,
Of which th'effect rehercen yow I shal.
Th'embassadours hen answerd for fynal;
Th'eschaunge of prisoners and al this nede
Hem liketh wel, and forth in they procede.

This Troilus was present in the place
Whan axed was for Antenor Criseyde,
For which ful soone chaungen gan his face,
As he that with tho wordes wel neigh deyde.
But natheles he no word to it seyde,
Lest men sholde his affeccioun espye;
With mannes herte he gan his sorwes drye,

And ful of angwissh and of grisly drede
Abod what lordes wolde unto it seye;
And if they wolde graunte—as God forbede—
Th'eschaunge of hire, than thoughte he thynges tweye:
First, how to save hire honour, and what weye
He myghte best th'eschaunge of hire withstonde.
Ful faste he caste how al this myghte stonde.

Love hym made al prest to don hire byde,
And rather dyen than she sholde go;
But Resoun seyde bym, on that other syde,
"Withouten assent of hire ne do nat so,
Lest for thi werk she wolde be thy fo,
And seyn that thorugh thy medlynge is iblowe
Youre bother love, ther it was erst unknowe."

For which he gan deliberen, for the beste,
That though the lordes wolde that she wente,
He wolde lat hem graunte what hem leste,
And telle his lady first what that they mente;
And whan that she hadde seyd hym hire entente,
Therafter wolde he werken also blyve,
Theigh al the world ayeyn it wolde stryve.

Ector, which that wel the Grekis herde,
For Antenor how they wolde han Criseyde,
Gan it withstonde, and sobrely answerde:
"Syres, she nys no prisonere," he seyde;
"I not on yow who that this charge leyde,
But, on my part, ye may eftsone hem telle,
We usen here no wommen for to selle."

The noyse of peple up stirte thanne at ones,
As breme as blase of strawe iset on-fire;
For infortune it wolde, for the nones,
They sholden hire confusioun desire.
"Ector," quod they, "what goost may yow enspyre
This womman thus to shilde and don us leese
Daun Antenor—a wrong wey now ye chese—

"That is so wys and ek so bold baroun?
And we han nede to folk, as men may se.
He is ek oon the grettest of this town.
O Ector, lat tho fantasies be!
O kyng Priam," quod they, "thus sygge we,
That al oure vois is to forgon Criseyde."
And to deliveren Antenor they preyde.

O Juvenal, lord, trewe is thy sentence,
That litel wyten folk what is to yerne,
That they ne fynde in hire desir offence;
For cloude of errour let hem to discerne
What best is. And lo, here ensample as yerne:
This folk desiren now deliveraunce
Of Antenor, that brought hem to meschaunce,

541

For he was after traitour to the town
Of Troye. Allas, they quytte hym out to rathe!
O nyce world, lo, thy discrecioun!
Criseyde, which that nevere dide hem scathe,
Shal now no lenger in hire blisse bathe;
But Antenor, he shal com hom to towne,
And she shal out; thus seyden here and howne.

For which delibered was by parlement
For Antenor to yelden out Criseyde,
And it pronounced by the president,
Altheigh that Ector "nay" ful ofte preyde.
And fynaly, what wight that it withseyde,
It was for nought; it moste ben and sholde,
For substaunce of the parlement it wolde.

Departed out of parlement echone,
This Troilus, withouten wordes mo,
Unto his chambre spedde hym faste allone,
But if it were a man of his or two
The which he bad out faste for to go
Bycause he wolde slepen, as he seyde,
And hastily upon his bed hym leyde.

And as in wynter leves ben biraft,
Ech after other, til the tree be bare,
So that ther nys but bark and braunche ilaft,
Lith Troilus, byraft of ech welfare,
Ibounden in the blake bark of care,
Disposed wood out of his wit to breyde,
So sore hym sat the chaungynge of Criseyde.

He rist hym up, and every dore he shette,
And wyndow ek, and tho this sorwful man
Upon his beddes syde adown hym sette,
Ful lik a ded ymage, pale and wan;
And in his brest the heped wo bygan
Out breste, and he to werken in this wise
In his woodnesse, as I shal yow devyse.

Right as the wylde bole bygynneth sprynge,
Now her, now ther, idarted to the herte,
And of his deth roreth in compleynynge,
Right so gan he aboute the chambre sterte,
Smytyng his brest ay with his fistes smerte;
His hed to the wal, his body to the grounde
Ful ofte he swapte, hymselven to confounde.

His eyen two, for piece of herte,
Out stremeden as swifte welles tweye;
The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte
His speche hym refte; unnethes myghte he seye,
"O deth, allas, why nyltow do me deye?
Acorsed be that day which that Nature
Shop me to ben a lyves creature!"

But after, whan the furie and al the rage,
Which that his herte twiste and faste threste,
By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan aswage,
Upon his bed he leyde hym down to reste.
But tho bygonne his teeris more out breste,
That wonder is the body may suffise
To half this wo which that I yow devyse.

Than seyde he thus: "Fortune, allas the while!
What have I don? What have I thus agylt?
How myghtestow for rowthe me bygile?
Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt?
Shal thus Creiseyde awey, for that thow wilt?
Allas, how maistow in thyn herte fynde
To ben to me thus cruwel and unkynde?

"Have I the nought honoured al my lyve,
As thow wel woost, above the goddes alle?
Whi wiltow me fro joie thus deprive?
O Troilus, what may men now the calle
But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle
Into miserie, in which I wol bewaille
Criseyde—allas!—til that the breth me faille?

"Allas, Fortune, if that my lif in joie
Displesed hadde unto thi foule envye,
Why ne haddestow my fader, kyng of Troye,
Byraft the lif, or don my bretheren dye,
Or slayn myself, that thus compleyne and crye
I, combre-world, that may of nothyng serve,
But evere dye and nevere fulli sterve.

542

"If that Criseyde allone were me laft,
Nought roughte I whiderward thow woldest me steere;
And hire, allas, than hastow me biraft.
But everemore, lo, this is thi manere,
To reve a wight that most is to hym deere,
To preve in that thi gerful violence.
Thus am I lost; ther helpeth no diffence.

"O verrey lord, O Love! O god, allas!
That knowest best myn herte and al my thought,
What shal my sorwful lif don in this cas,
If I forgo that I so deere have bought?
Syn ye Criseyde and me han fully brought
Into youre grace, and bothe oure hertes seled,
How may ye suffre, allas, it be repeled?

"What shal I don? I shal, while I may dure
On lyve in torment and in cruwel peyne
This infortune or this disaventure,
Allone as I was born, iwys, compleyne;
Ne nevere wol I seen it shyne or reyne,
But ende I wol, as Edippe, in derknesse
My sorwful lif, and dyen in distresse.

"O wery goost, that errest to and fro,
Why nyltow fleen out of the wofulleste
Body that evere myghte on grounde go?
O soule, lurkynge in this wo, unneste,
Fle forth out of myn herte, and lat it breste,
And folowe alwey Criseyde, thi lady dere.
Thi righte place is now no lenger here.

"O woful eyen two, syn youre disport
Was al to sen Criseydes eyen brighte,
What shal ye don but, for my discomfort,
Stonden for naught, and wepen out youre sighte,
Syn she is queynt that wont was yow to lighte?
In vayn fro this forth have ich eyen tweye
Ifourmed, syn youre vertu is aweye.

"O my Criseyde, O lady sovereigne
Of thilke woful soule that thus crieth,
Who shal now yeven comfort to my peyne?
Allas, no wight. But whan myn herte dieth,
My spirit, which that so unto yow hieth,
Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve;
Forthi no fors is, though the body sterve.

"O ye loveris, that heigh upon the whiel
Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure,
God leve that ye fynde ay love of stiel,
And longe mote youre lif in joie endure!
But whan ye comen by my sepulture,
Remembreth that youre felawe resteth there;
For I loved ek, though ich unworthi were.

"O oold, unholsom, and myslyved man—
Calkas I mene—allas, what eiled the
To ben a Grek, syn thow art born Troian?
O Calkas, which that wolt my bane be,
In corsed tyme was thow born for me!
As wolde blisful Jove, for his joie,
That I the hadde wher I wolde, in Troie!"

A thousand sikes, hotter than the gleede,
Out of his brest ech after other wente,
Medled with pleyntes new, his wo to feede,
For which his woful teris nevere stente;
And shortly, so his peynes hym torente,
And wex so mat, that joie nor penaunce
He feleth non, but lith forth in a traunce.

Pandare, which that in the parlement
Hadde herd what every lord and burgeys seyde,
And how ful graunted was by oon assent
For Antenor to yelden so Criseyde,
Gan wel neigh wood out of his wit to breyde,
So that for wo he nyste what he mente,
But in a rees to Troilus he wente.

A certeyn knyght that for the tyme kepte
The chambre door undide it hym anon;
And Pandare, that ful tendreliche wepte,

543

Into the derke chambre, as stille as ston,
Toward the bed gan softely to gon,
So confus that he nyste what to seye;
For verray wo his wit was neigh aweye.

And with his chiere and lokyng al totorn
For sorwe of this, and with his armes folden,
He stood this woful Troilus byforn,
And on his pitous face he gan byholden.
But Lord, so ofte gan his herte colden,
Seyng his frend in wo, whos hevynesse
His herte slough, as thoughte hym, for destresse.

This woful wight, this Troilus, that felte
His frend Pandare ycomen hym to se,
Gan as the snow ayeyn the sonne melte;
For which this sorwful Pandare, of pitee,
Gan for to wepe as tendreliche as he;
And specheles thus ben thise ilke tweye,
That neither myghte o word for sorwe seye.

But at the laste this woful Troilus,
Neigh ded for smert, gan bresten out to rore,
And with a sorwful noise he seyde thus,
Among hise sobbes and his sikes sore:
"Lo, Pandare, I am ded, withouten more.
Hastow nat herd at parlement," he seyde,
"For Antenor how lost is my Criseyde?"

This Pandarus, ful ded and pale of hewe,
Ful pitously answerde and seyde, "Yis!
As wisly were it fals as it is trewe,
That I have herd, and woot al how it is.
O mercy, God, who wolde have crowed this?
Who wolde have wend that in so litel a throwe
Fortune oure joie wold han overthrowe?

"For in this world ther is no creature,
As to my dom, that ever saugh ruyne
Straunger than this, thorugh cas or aventure.
But who may al eschue, or al devyne?
Swich is this world! Forthi I thus diffyne:
Ne trust no wight to fynden in Fortune
Ay propretee; hire yiftes ben comune.

"But telle me this: whi thow art now so mad
To sorwen thus? Whi listow in this wise,
Syn thi desir al holly hastow had,
So that, by right, it oughte ynough suffise?
But I, that nevere felte in my servyse
A frendly cheere or lokyng of an eye,
Lat me thus wepe and wailen til I deye.

"And over al this, as thow wel woost thiselve,
This town is ful of ladys al aboute;
And, to my doom, fairer than swiche twelve
As evere she was, shal I fynde in som route—
Yee, on or two, withouten any doute.
Forthi be glad, myn owen deere brother!
If she be lost, we shal recovere an other.

"What! God forbede alwey that ech plesaunce
In o thyng were and in non other wight!
If oon kan synge, an other kan wel daunce;
If this be goodly, she is glad and light;
And this is fair, and that kan good aright.
Ech for his vertu holden is for deere,
Both heroner and faucoun for ryvere.

"And ek, as writ Zanzis, that was ful wys,
""The newe love out chaceth ofte the olde""; 415
And upon newe cas lith newe avys.
Thenk ek, thi lif to saven artow holde.
Swich fir, by proces, shal of kynde colde,
For syn it is but casuel plesaunce,
Som cas shal putte it out of remembraunce;

"For also seur as day comth after nyght,
The newe love, labour, or oother wo,
Or elles selde seynge of a wight,
Don olde affecciouns alle over-go.
And, for thi part, thow shalt have oon of tho
T'abregge with thi bittre peynes smerte;
Absence of hire shal dryve hire out of herte."

Thise wordes seyde he for the nones alle,
To help his frend, lest he for sorwe deyde;
For douteles, to don his wo to falle,

544

He roughte nought what unthrift that he seyde.
But Troilus, that neigh for sorwe deyde,
Took litel heede of al that evere he mente—
Oon ere it herde, at tother out it wente—

But at the laste answerde, and seyde, "Frend,
This lechecraft, or heeled thus to be,
Were wel sittyng, if that I were a fend—
To traysen a wight that trewe is unto me!
I pray God lat this conseil nevere ythe;
But do me rather sterve anon-right here,
Er I thus do as thow me woldest leere!

"She that I serve, iwis, what so thow seye,
To whom myn herte enhabit is by right,
Shal han me holly hires til that I deye.
For Pandarus, syn I have trouthe hire hight,
I wol nat ben untrewe for no wight,
But as hire man I wol ay lyve and sterve,
And nevere other creature serve.

"And ther thow seist thow shalt as faire fynde
As she, lat be; make no comparisoun
To creature yformed here by kynde!
O leve Pandare, in conclusioun,
I wol nat ben of thyn opynyoun
Touchyng al this. For which I the biseche,
So hold thi pees; thow sleest me with thi speche!

"Thow biddest me I shulde love another
Al fresshly newe, and lat Criseyde go!
It lith nat in my power, leeve brother;
And though I myght, I wolde nat do so.
But kanstow playen raket, to and fro,
Nettle in, dok out, now this, now that, Pandare?
Now foule falle hire for thi wo that care!

"Thow farest ek by me, thow Pandarus,
As he that, whan a wight is wo bygon,
He cometh to hym a paas and seith right thus:
""Thynk nat on smert, and thow shalt fele non.""
Thow moost me first transmewen in a ston,
And reve me my passiones alle,
Er thow so lightly do my wo to falle.

"The deth may wel out of my brest departe
The lif, so longe may this sorwe myne,
But fro my soule shal Criseydes darte
Out nevere mo; but down with Proserpyne,
Whan I am ded, I wol go wone in pyne,
And ther I wol eternaly compleyne
My wo, and how that twynned be we tweyne.

"Thow hast here made an argument for fyn,
How that it sholde a lasse peyne be
Criseyde to forgon, for she was myn
And lyved in ese and in felicite.
Whi gabbestow, that seydest unto me
That ""hym is wors that is fro wele ythrowe,
Than he hadde erst noon of that wele yknowe""?

"But tel me now, syn that the thynketh so light
To changen so in love ay to and fro,
Whi hastow nat don bisily thi myght
To chaungen hire that doth the al thi wo?
Whi nyltow lete hire fro thyn herte go?
Whi nyltow love an other lady swete,
That may thyn herte setten in quiete?

"If thou hast had in love ay yet myschaunce
And kanst it not out of thyn herte dryve,
I, that levede yn lust and in plesaunce
With here, as muche as creature on lyve,
How sholde I that foryete, and that so blyve?
O, where hastow ben hid so longe in muwe,
That kanst so wel and formely arguwe?

"Nay, God wot, nought worth is al thi red,
For which, for what that evere may byfalle,
Withouten wordes mo, I wol be ded.
O deth, that endere art of sorwes alle,
Com now, syn I so ofte after the calle;
For sely is that deth, soth for to seyne,
That, ofte ycleped, cometh and endeth peyne.

545

"Wel wot I, whil my lyf was in quyete, 505
Er thow me slowe, I wolde have yeven hire;
But now thi comynge is to me so swete
That in this world I nothing so desire.
O deth, syn with this sorwe I am a-fyre,
Thou other do me anoon yn teris drenche,
Or with thi colde strok myn hete quenche.

"Syn that thou sleest so fele in sondry wyse
Ayens hire wil, unpreyed, day and nyght,
Do me at my requeste this service:
Delyvere now the world—so dostow right—
Of me, that am the wofulleste wyght
That evere was; for tyme is that I sterve,
Syn in this world of right nought may I serve."

This Troylus in teris gan distille,
As licour out of a lambyc ful faste;
And Pandarus gan holde his tunge stille,
And to the ground his eyen doun he caste.
But natheles, thus thought he at the laste:
"What! Parde, rather than my felawe deye,
Yet shal I somwhat more unto hym seye."

And seyde, "Frend, syn thow hast swych distresse,
And syn the list myn argumentz to blame,
Why nylt thiselven helpen don redresse
And with thy manhod letten al this grame?
Go ravysshe here! Ne kanstow nat, for shame?
And other lat here out of towne fare,
Or hold here stille, and leve thi nyce fare.

"Artow in Troie, and hast non hardyment
To take a womman which that loveth the
And wolde hireselven ben of thyn assent?
Now is nat this a nyce vanitee?
Ris up anon, and lat this wepyng be,
And kith thow art a man; for in this houre
I wol ben ded, or she shal bleven oure."

To this answerde hym Troilus ful softe,
And seyde, "Parde, leve brother deere,
Al this have I myself yet thought ful ofte,
And more thyng than thow devysest here.
But whi this thing is laft, thow shalt wel here;
And whan thow me hast yeve an audience,
Therafter maystow telle al thi sentence.

"First, syn thow woost this town hath al this werre
For ravysshyng of wommen so by myght,
It sholde nought be suffred me to erre,
As it scant now, ne don so gret unright.
I sholde han also blame of every wight,
My fadres graunt if that I so withstoode,
Syn she is chaunged for the townes goode.

"I have ek thought, so it were hire assent,
To axe hire at my fader, of his grace;
Than thynke I this were hire accusement,
Syn wel I woot I may hire nought purchace;
For syn my fader, in so heigh a place
As parlement hath hire eschaunge enseled,
He nyl for me his lettre be repeled.

"Yet drede I moost hire herte to perturbe
With violence, if I do swich a game;
For if I wolde it openly desturbe,
It mooste be disclaundre to hire name.
And me were levere ded than hire diffame—
As nolde God but if I sholde have
Hire honour levere than my lif to save!

"Thus am I lost, for aught that I kan see.
For certeyn is, syn that I am hire knyght,
I moste hire honour levere han than me
In every cas, as lovere ought of right.
Thus am I with desir and reson twight:
Desir for to destourben hire me redeth,
And reson nyl nat; so myn herte dredeth."

Thus wepyng that he koude nevere cesse,
He seyde, "Allas, how shal I, wrecche, fare?
For wel fele I alwey my love encresse,
And hope is lasse and lasse alway, Pandare.
Encressen ek the causes of my care.
So weilaway, whi nyl myn herte breste?
For, as in love, ther is but litel reste."

546

Pandare answerde, "Frend, thow maist, for me,
Don as the list; but hadde ich it so hoote,
And thyn estat, she sholde go with me,
Though al this town cride on this thyng by note.
I nolde sette at al that noys a grote!
For whan men han wel cryd, than wol they rowne;
Ek wonder last but nyne nyght nevere in towne.

"Devyne nat in resoun ay so depe
Ne preciously, but help thiself anon.
Bet is that othere than thiselven wepe,
And namely, syn ye two ben al on,
Ris up, for by myn hed, she shal not goon!
And rather be in blame a lite ifounde
Than sterve here as a gnat, withouten wounde.

"It is no rape, in my dom, ne no vice,
Hire to witholden that ye love moost;
Peraunter she myghte holde the for nyce
To late hire go thus unto the Grekis oost.
Thenk ek Fortune, as wel thiselven woost,
Helpeth hardy man unto his enprise,
And weyveth wrecches for hire cowardise.

"And though thy lady wolde a lite hire greve,
Thow shalt thiself thi pees hereafter make;
But as for me, certeyn, I kan nat leve
That she wolde it as now for yvel take.
Whi sholde thanne of ferd thyn herte quake?
Thenk ek how Paris hath, that is thi brother,
A love; and whi shaltow nat have another?

"And Troilus, o thyng I dar the swere:
That if Criseyde, which that is thi lief,
Now loveth the as wel as thow dost here,
God help me so, she nyl nat take a-grief,
Theigh thow do boote anon in this meschief;
And if she wilneth fro the for to passe,
Thanne is she fals; so love hire wel the lasse.

"Forthi tak herte, and thynk right as a knyght:
Thorugh love is broken al day every lawe.
Kith now somwhat thi corage and thi myght;
Have mercy on thiself for any awe.
Lat nat this wrecched wo thyn herte gnawe,
But manly sette the world on six and sevene;
And if thow deye a martyr, go to hevene!

"I wol myself ben with the at this dede,
Theigh ich and al my kyn upon a stownde
Shulle in a strete as dogges liggen dede,
Thorugh-girt with many a wid and blody wownde;
In every cas I wol a frend be founde.
And if the list here sterven as a wrecche,
Adieu, the devel spede hym that it recche!"

This Troilus gan with tho wordes quyken,
And seyde, "Frend, graunt mercy, ich assente.
But certeynly thow maist nat so me priken,
Ne peyne non ne may me so tormente,
That, for no cas, it is nat myn entente,
At shorte wordes, though I deyen sholde,
To ravysshe hire, but if hireself it wolde."

"Whi, so mene I," quod Pandare, "al this day.
But telle me thanne, hastow hire wil assayed,
That sorwest thus?" And he answerde hym, "Nay." 640
"Wherof artow," quod Pandare, "thanne amayed,
That nost nat that she wol ben yvele appayed
To ravysshe hire, syn thow hast nought ben there,
But if that Jove tolde it in thyn ere?

"Forthi ris up, as nought ne were, anon,
And wassh thi face, and to the kyng thow wende,
Or he may wondren whider thow art goon.
Thow most with wisdom hym and othere blende,
Or, upon cas, he may after the sende
Er thow be war; and shortly, brother deere,
Be glad, and lat me werke in this matere,

"For I shal shape it so, that sikerly
Thow shalt this nyght som tyme, in som manere,
Come speken with thi lady pryvely,
And by hire wordes ek, and by hire cheere,

547

Thow shalt ful sone aperceyve and wel here
Al hire entente, and in this cas the beste.
And far now wel, for in this point I reste."

The swifte Fame, which that false thynges
Egal reporteth lik the thynges trewe,
Was thorughout Troie yfled with preste wynges
Fro man to man, and made this tale al newe,
How Calkas doughter, with hire brighte hewe,
At parlement, withouten wordes more,
Ygraunted was in chaunge of Antenore.

The whiche tale anon-right as Criseyde
Hadde herd, she, which that of hire fader roughte,
As in this cas, right nought, ne whan he deyde,
Ful bisily to Jupiter bisoughte
Yeve hem meschaunce that this tretis broughte;
But shortly, lest thise tales sothe were,
She dorst at no wight asken it, for fere.

As she that hadde hire herte and al hire mynde
On Troilus iset so wonder faste
That al this world ne myghte hire love unbynde,
Ne Troilus out of hire herte caste,
She wol ben his, while that hire lif may laste.
And thus she brenneth both in love and drede,
So that she nyste what was best to reede.

But as men seen in towne and al aboute
That wommen usen frendes to visite,
So to Criseyde of wommen com a route,
For pitous joie, and wenden hire delite;
And with hire tales, deere ynough a myte,
Thise wommen, which that in the cite dwelle,
They sette hem down and seyde as I shall telle.

Quod first that oon, "I am glad, trewely,
Bycause of yow, that shal youre fader see."
Another seyde, "Ywis, so nam nat I,
For al to litel hath she with us be."
Quod tho the thridde, "I hope, ywis, that she
Shal bryngen us the pees on every syde,
That, whan she goth, almyghty God hire gide!"

Tho wordes and tho wommanysshe thynges,
She herde hem right as though she thennes were;
For God it woot, hire herte on othir thyng is.
Although the body sat among hem there,
Hire advertence is alwey elleswhere,
For Troilus ful faste hire soule soughte;
Withouten word, on hym alwey she thoughte.

Thise wommen, that thus wenden hire to plese,
Aboute naught gonne alle hire tales spende.
Swich vanyte ne kan don hire non ese,
As she that al this mene while brende
Of other passioun than that they wende,
So that she felte almost hire herte dye
For wo and wery of that compaignie.

For which no lenger myghte she restreyne
Hir teeris, so they gonnen up to welle,
That yaven signes of the bittre peyne
In which hir spirit was, and moste dwelle,
Remembryng hir, fro heven into which helle
She fallen was, syn she forgoth the syghte
Of Troilus, and sorwfully she sighte.

And thilke fooles sittynge hire aboute
Wenden that she wepte and siked sore
Bycause that she sholde out of that route
Departe, and nevere pleye with hem more.
And they that hadde yknowen hire of yore
Seigh hire so wepe and thoughte it kyndenesse,
And ech of hem wepte ek for hire destresse.

And bisyly they gonnen hire comforten
Of thyng, God woot, on which she litel thoughte;
And with hire tales wenden hire disporten,
And to be glad they often hire bysoughte;
But swich an ese therwith they hire wroughte,
Right as a man is esed for to feele
For ache of hed to clawen hym on his heele!

But after al this nyce vanyte
They toke hire leve, and hom they wenten alle.
Criseyde, ful of sorwful piece,
Into hire chambre up went out of the halle,
And on hire bed she gan for ded to falle,
In purpos nevere thennes for to rise;
And thus she wroughte, as I shal yow devyse.

Hire ownded heer, that sonnyssh was of hewe,
She rente, and ek hire fyngeres longe and smale

548

She wrong ful ofte, and bad God on hire rewe,
And with the deth to doon boote on hire bale.
Hire hewe, whilom bright, that tho was pale,
Bar witnesse of hire wo and hire constreynte;
And thus she spak, sobbyng in hire compleynte:

"Allas," quod she, "out of this regioun
I, woful wrecche and infortuned wight,
And born in corsed constellacioun,
Moot goon and thus departen fro my knyght!
Wo worth, allas, that ilke dayes light
On which I saugh hym first with eyen tweyne,
That causeth me, and ich hym, al this peyne!"

Therwith the teris from hire eyen two
Down fille, as shour in Aperil ful swithe;
Hire white brest she bet, and for the wo
After the deth she cryed a thousand sithe,
Syn he that wont hire wo was for to lithe
She moot forgon; for which disaventure
She held hireself a forlost creature.

She seyde, "How shal he don, and ich also?
How sholde I lyve if that I from hym twynne?
O deere herte eke, that I love so,
Who shal that sorwe slen that ye ben inne?
O Calkas, fader, thyn be al this synne!
O moder myn, that cleped were Argyve,
Wo worth that day that thow me bere on lyve!

"To what fyn sholde I lyve and sorwen thus?
How sholde a fissh withouten water dure?
What is Criseyde worth, from Troilus?
How sholde a plaunte or lyves creature
Lyve withouten his kynde noriture?
For which ful ofte a by-word here I seye,
That ""rooteles moot grene soone deye."" 770

"I shal doon thus—syn neither swerd ne darte
Dar I noon handle, for the crueltee—
That ilke day that I from yow departe,
If sorwe of that nyl nat my bane be:
Thanne shal no mete or drynke come in me
Til I my soule out of my breste unshethe,
And thus myselven wol I don to dethe.

"And, Troilus, my clothes everychon
Shul blake ben in tokenyng, herte swete,
That I am as out of this world agon,
That wont was yow to setten in quiete;
And of myn ordre, ay til deth me mete,
The observance evere, in youre absence,
Shal sorwe ben, compleynt, and abstinence.

"Myn herte and ek the woful goost therinne
Byquethe I with youre spirit to compleyne
Eternaly, for they shal nevere twynne;
For though in erthe ytwynned be we tweyne,
Yet in the feld of pite, out of peyne,
That highte Elisos, shal we ben yfeere,
As Orpheus and Erudice, his feere.

"Thus, herte myn, for Antenor, allas,
I soone shal be chaunged, as I wene.
But how shul ye don in this sorwful cas?
How shal youre tendre herte this sustene?
But, herte myn, foryete this sorwe and tene,
And me also; for sothly for to seye,
So ye wel fare, I recche naught to deye."

How myghte it evere yred ben or ysonge,
The pleynte that she made in hire destresse?
I not; but, as for me, my litel tonge,
If I discryven wolde hire hevynesse,
It sholde make hire sorwe seme lesse
Than that it was, and childisshly deface
Hire heigh compleynte, and therfore ich it pace.

Pandare, which that sent from Troilus
Was to Criseyde—as ye han herd devyse
That for the beste it was acorded thus,
And he ful glad to doon hym that servyse—
Unto Criseyde, in a ful secree wise,
Ther as she lay in torment and in rage,
Com hire to telle al hoolly his message,

And fond that she hireselven gan to trete
Ful pitously, for with hire salte teris
Hire brest, hire face, ybathed was ful wete;

549

The myghty tresses of hire sonnysshe heeris
Unbroiden hangen al aboute hire eeris,
Which yaf hym verray signal of martire
Of deth, which that hire herte gan desire.

Whan she hym saugh, she gan for shame anon
Hire tery face atwixe hire armes hide;
For which this Pandare is so wo-bygon
That in the hous he myghte unnethe abyde,
As he that pite felt on every syde;
For if Criseyde hadde erst compleyned soore,
Tho gan she pleyne a thousand tymes more.

And in hire aspre pleynte thus she seyde:
"Pandare first of joies mo than two
Was cause causyng unto me, Criseyde,
That now transmewed ben in cruel wo.
Wher shal I seye to yow welcom or no,
That alderfirst me broughte unto servyse
Of love—allas!—that endeth in swich wise?

"Endeth than love in wo? Ye, or men lieth,
And alle worldly blisse, as thynketh me.
The ende of blisse ay sorwe it occupieth;
And whoso troweth nat that it so be,
Lat hym upon me, woful wrecche, ysee,
That myself hate and ay my burthe acorse,
Felyng alwey fro wikke I go to worse.

"Whoso me seeth, he seeth sorwe al atonys—
Peyne, torment, pleynte, wo, distresse!
Out of my woful body harm ther noon is,
As angwissh, langour, cruel bitternesse,
Anoy, smert, drede, fury, and ek siknesse.
I trowe, ywys, from hevene teeris reyne
For pite of myn aspre and cruel peyne."

"And thow, my suster, ful of discomfort,"
Quod Pandarus, "what thynkestow to do?
Whi ne hastow to thyselven som resport?
Whi wiltow thus thiself, allas, fordo?
Leef al this werk, and tak now heede to
That I shal seyn; and herkne of good entente
This which by me thi Troilus the sente."

Tornede hire tho Criseyde, a wo makynge
So gret that it a deth was for to see.
"Allas," quod she, "what wordes may ye brynge?
What wol my deere herte seyn to me,
Which that I drede nevere mo to see?
Wol he han pleynte or teris er I wende?
I have ynough, if he therafter sende!"

She was right swich to seen in hire visage
As is that wight that men on beere bynde;
Hire face, lik of Paradys the ymage,
Was al ychaunged in another kynde.
The pleye, the laughter, men was wont to fynde
On hire, and ek hire joies everichone,
Ben fled; and thus lith now Criseyde allone.

Aboute hire eyen two a purpre ryng
Bytrent, in sothfast tokenyng of hire peyne,
That to biholde it was a dedly thyng;
For which Pandare myghte nat restreyne
The teeris from his eighen for to reyne;
But natheles, as he best myghte, he seyde
From Troilus thise wordes to Criseyde:

"Lo, nece, I trowe ye han herd al how
The kyng with othere lordes, for the beste,
Hath mad eschaunge of Antenor and yow,
That cause is of this sorwe and this unreste.
But how this cas dooth Troilus moleste,
That may non erthly mannes tonge seye—
As he that shortly shapith hym to deye.

"For which we han so sorwed, he and I,
That into litel bothe it hadde us slawe;
But thorugh my conseyl this day finaly
He somwhat is fro wepynge now withdrawe,
And semeth me that he desireth fawe
With yow to ben al nyght, for to devyse
Remedie in this, if ther were any wyse.

"This, short and pleyn, th'effect of my message,
As ferforth as my wit kan comprehende,
For ye that ben of torment in swich rage
May to no long prologe as now entende.
And hereupon ye may answere hym sende;

550

And for the love of God, my nece deere,
So lef this wo er Troilus be here!"

"Gret is my wo," quod she, and sighte soore
As she that feleth dedly sharp distresse;
"But yit to me his sorwe is muchel more,
That love hym bet than he hymself, I gesse.
Allas, for me hath he swich hevynesse?
Kan he for me so pitously compleyne?
Iwis, his sorwe doubleth al my peyne.

"Grevous to me, God woot, is for to twynne,"
Quod she, "but yet it harder is to me
To sen that sorwe which that he is inne;
For wel I woot it wol my bane be,
And deye I wol in certeyn," tho quod she;
"But bid hym come, er deth, that thus me threteth,
Dryve out that goost which in myn herte beteth."

Thise wordes seyd, she on hire armes two
Fil gruf, and gan to wepen pitously.
Quod Pandarus, "Allas, whi do ye so,
Syn wel ye woot the tyme is faste by
That he shal come? Aris up hastily,
That he yow nat bywopen thus ne fynde,
But ye wole have him wood out of his mynde.

"For wiste he that ye ferde in this manere,
He wolde hymselven sle; and if I wende
To han this fare, he sholde nat come here
For al the good that Priam may dispende.
For to what fyn he wolde anon pretende,
That knowe ich wel; and forthi yet I seye:
So lef this sorwe, or platly he wol deye.

"And shapeth yow his sorwe for t'abregge,
And nought encresse, leeve nece swete!
Beth rather to hym cause of flat than egge,
And with som wisdom ye his sorwe bete.
What helpeth it to wepen ful a strete,
Or though ye bothe in salte teeris dreynte?
Bet is a tyme of cure ay than of pleynte.

"I mene thus: whan ich hym hider brynge,
Syn ye be wise and bothe of oon assent,
So shapeth how destourbe youre goynge,
Or come ayeyn soon after ye be went.
Wommen ben wise in short avysement;
And lat sen how youre wit shal now availle,
And that that I may helpe, it shal nat faille."

"Go," quod Criseyde, "and uncle, trewely,
I shal don al my myght me to restreyne
From wepyng in his sighte, and bisily
Hym for to glade I shal don al my peyne,
And in myn herte seken every veyne.
If to his sore ther may be fonden salve,
It shal nat lakke, certeyn, on my halve."

Goth Pandarus, and Troilus he soughte
Til in a temple he fond hym al allone,
As he that of his lif no lenger roughte;
But to the pitouse goddes everichone
Ful tendrely he preyde and made his mone,
To doon hym sone out of this world to pace,
For wel he thoughte ther was non other grace.

And shortly, al the sothe for to seye,
He was so fallen in despeir that day,
That outrely he shop hym for to deye.
For right thus was his argument alway:
He seyde he nas but lorn, weylaway!
"For al that comth, comth by necessitee:
Thus to ben lorn, it is my destinee.

"For certeynly, this wot I wel," he seyde,
"That forsight of divine purveyaunce
Hath seyn alwey me to forgon Criseyde,
Syn God seeth every thyng, out of doutaunce,
And hem disponyth, thorugh his ordinaunce,
In hire merites sothly for to be,
As they shul comen by predestyne.

"But natheles, allas, whom shal I leeve?
For ther ben grete clerkes many oon
That destyne thorugh argumentes preve;
And som men seyn that nedely ther is noon,
But that fre chois is yeven us everychon.
O, welaway! So sleighe arn clerkes olde
That I not whos opynyoun I may holde.

"For som men seyn, if God seth al biforn—
Ne God may nat deceyved ben, parde—

551

Than moot it fallen, theigh men hadde it sworn,
That purveiance hath seyn before to be.
Wherfore I sey, that from eterne if he
Hath wist byforn oure thought ek as oure dede,
We han no fre chois, as thise clerkes rede.

"For other thought, nor other dede also,
Myghte nevere ben, but swich as purveyaunce,
Which may nat ben deceyved nevere mo,
Hath feled byforn, withouten ignoraunce.
For if ther myghte ben a variaunce
To writhen out fro Goddis purveyinge,
Ther nere no prescience of thyng comynge,

"But it were rather an opynyoun
Uncerteyn, and no stedfast forseynge;
And certes, that were an abusioun,
That God sholde han no parfit cler wytynge
More than we men that han doutous wenynge.
But swich an errour upon God to gesse
Were fals and foul, and wikked corsednesse.

"Ek this is an opynyoun of some
That han hire top ful heighe and smothe yshore:
They seyn right thus, that thyng is nat to come
For that the prescience hath seyn byfore
That it shal come; but they seyn that therfore
That it shal come, therfore the purveyaunce
Woot it byforn, withouten ignoraunce;

"And in this manere this necessite
Retorneth in his part contrarie agayn.
For nedfully byhoveth it nat to bee
That thilke thynges fallen in certayn
That ben purveyed; but nedly, as they sayn,
Byhoveth it that thynges whiche that falle,
That they in certayn ben purveyed alle.

"I mene as though I laboured me in this
To enqueren which thyng cause of which thyng be:
As wheither that the prescience of God is
The certeyn cause of the necessite
Of thynges that to comen ben, parde,
Or if necessite of thyng comynge
Be cause certeyn of the purveyinge.

"But now n"enforce I me nat in shewynge
How the ordre of causes stant; but wel woot I
That it byhoveth that the byfallynge
Of thynges wist byfore certeynly
Be necessarie, al seme it nat therby
That prescience put fallynge necessaire
To thyng to come, al falle it foule or faire.

"For if ther sitte a man yond on a see,
Than by necessite bihoveth it
That, certes, thyn opynyoun sooth be
That wenest or conjectest that he sit.
And further over now ayeynward yit,
Lo, right so is it of the part contrarie,
As thus—now herkne, for I wol nat tarie:

"I sey that if the opynyoun of the
Be soth, for that he sitte, than sey I this:
That he mot sitten by necessite;
And thus necessite in eyther is.
For in hym, nede of sittynge is, ywys,
And in the, nede of soth; and thus, forsothe,
There mot necessite ben in yow bothe.

"But thow mayst seyn, the man sit nat therfore
That thyn opynyoun of his sittynge soth is,
But rather, for the man sit ther byfore,
Therfore is thyn opynyoun soth, ywis.
And I seye, though the cause of soth of this
Comth of his sittyng, yet necessite
Is entrechaunged, both in hym and the.

"Thus in this same wise, out of doutaunce,
I may wel maken, as it semeth me,
My resonyng of Goddes purveyaunce
And of the thynges that to comen be;
By which resoun men may wel yse
That thilke thynges that in erthe falle,
That by necessite they comen alle.

"For although that for thyng shal come, ywys,
Therfore is it purveyed, certeynly—
Nat that it comth for it purveyed is—

552

Yet natheles, bihoveth it nedfully
That thing to come be purveyd, trewely,
Or elles, thynges that purveyed be,
That they bitiden by necessite.

"And this suffiseth right ynough, certeyn,
For to destruye oure fre chois every del.
But now is this abusioun, to seyn
That fallyng of the thynges temporel
Is cause of Goddes prescience eternel.
Now trewely, that is a fals sentence,
That thyng to come sholde cause his prescience.

"What myght I wene, and I hadde swich a thought,
But that God purveyeth thyng that is to come
For that it is to come, and ellis nought?
So myghte I wene that thynges alle and some
That whilom ben byfalle and overcome
Ben cause of thilke sovereyne purveyaunce
That forwoot al withouten ignoraunce.

"And over al this, yet sey I more herto:
That right as whan I wot ther is a thyng,
Iwys, that thyng moot nedfully be so;
Ek right so, whan I woot a thyng comyng,
So mot it come; and thus the bifallyng
Of thynges that ben wist bifore the tyde,
They mowe nat ben eschued on no syde."

Thanne seyde he thus: "Almyghty Jove in trone,
That woost of al thys thyng the sothfastnesse,
Rewe on my sorwe: or do me deyen sone,
Or bryng Criseyde and me fro this destresse!"
And whil he was in al this hevynesse,
Disputyng with hymself in this matere,
Com Pandare in, and seyde as ye may here:

"O myghty God," quod Pandarus, "in trone,
I! Who say evere a wis man faren so?
Whi, Troilus, what thinkestow to doone?
Hastow swich lust to ben thyn owen fo?
What, parde, yet is nat Criseyde ago!
Whi list the so thiself fordoon for drede
That in thyn hed thyne eyen semen dede?

"Hastow nat lyved many a yer byforn
Withouten hire, and ferd ful wel at ese?
Artow for hire and for noon other born?
Hath Kynde the wrought al only hire to plese?
Lat be, and thynk right thus in thi disese:
That, in the dees right as ther fallen chaunces,
Right so in love ther come and gon plesaunces.

"And yet this is a wonder most of alle,
Whi thow thus sorwest, syn thow nost nat yit,
Touchyng hire goyng, how that it shal falle,
Ne yif she kan hireself destourben it.
Thow hast nat yet assayed al hire wit.
A man may al bytyme his nekke beede
Whan it shal of, and sorwen at the nede.

"Forthi tak hede of that I shall seye:
I have with hire yspoke and longe ybe,
So as acorded was bitwixe us tweye;
And evere mor me thynketh thus, that she
Hath somwhat in hire hertes privete
Wherwith she kan, if I shal right arede,
Destourbe al this of which thow art in drede.

"For which my counseil is, whan it is nyght
Thow to hire go and make of this an ende;
And blisful Juno thorugh hire grete myght
Shal, as I hope, hire grace unto us sende.
Myn herte seyth, 'Certeyn, she shal nat wende.'
And forthi put thyn herte a while in reste,
And hold this purpos, for it is the beste."

This Troilus answerd, and sighte soore:
"Thow seist right wel, and I wol don right so."
And what hym liste, he seyde unto it more.
And whan that it was tyme for to go,
Ful pryvely hymself, withouten mo,
Unto hire com, as he was wont to doone;
And how they wroughte, I shal yow tellen soone.

Soth is, that whan they gonnen first to mete,
So gan the peyne hire hertes for to twiste
That neyther of hem other myghte grete,
But hem in armes toke, and after kiste.
The lasse woful of hem bothe nyste
Wher that he was, ne myghte o word out brynge,
As I seyde erst, for wo and for sobbynge.

553

The woful teeris that they leten falle
As bittre weren, out of teris kynde,
For peyne, as is ligne aloes or galle—
So bittre teeris weep nought, as I fynde,
The woful Mirra thorugh the bark and rynde—
That in this world ther nys so hard an herte
That nolde han rewed on hire peynes smerte.

But whan hire woful weri goostes tweyne
Retourned ben ther as hem oughte dwelle,
And that somwhat to wayken gan the peyne
By lengthe of pleynte, and ebben gan the welle
Of hire teeris, and the herte unswelle,
With broken vois, al hoors forshright, Criseyde
To Troilus thise ilke wordes seyde:

"O Jove, I deye, and mercy I beseche!
Help, Troilus!" And therwithal hire face
Upon his brest she leyde and loste speche—
Hire woful spirit from his propre place,
Right with the word, alwey o poynt to pace.
And thus she lith with hewes pale and grene,
That whilom fressh and fairest was to sene.

This Troilus, that on hire gan biholde,
Clepyng hire name—and she lay as for ded—
Without answere, and felte hire lymes colde,
Hire eyen throwen upward to hire hed,
This sorwful man kan now noon other red,
But ofte tyme hire colde mowth he kiste.
Wher hym was wo, God and hymself it wiste!

He rist hym up, and long streght he hire leyde;
For signe of lif, for aught he kan or may,
Kan he non fynde in nothyng on Criseyde,
For which his song ful ofte is "weylaway!"
But whan he saugh that specheles she lay,
With sorweful vois and herte of blisse al bare
He seyde how she was fro this world yfare.

So after that he longe hadde hire compleyned,
His hondes wrong, and seyd that was to seye
And with his teeris salt hire brest byreyned,
He gan tho teeris wypen of ful dreye,
And pitously gan for the soule preye,
And seyde, "O Lord, that set art in thi trone,
Rewe ek on me, for I shal folwe hire sone!"

She cold was, and withouten sentement
For aught he woot, for breth ne felte he non,
And this was hym a pregnant argument
That she was forth out of this world agon.
And whan he say ther was non other woon,
He gan hire lymes dresse in swich manere
As men don hem that shal ben layd on beere.

And after this, with sterne and cruel herte,
His swerd anon out of his shethe he twighte
Hymself to slen, how sore that hym smerte,
So that his soule hire soule folwen myghte
Ther as the doom of Mynos wolde it dighte,
Syn Love and cruel Fortune it ne wolde
That in this world he lenger lyven sholde.

Than seyde he thus, fulfild of heigh desdayn:
"O cruel Jove, and thow, Fortune adverse,
This al and som: that falsly have ye slayn
Criseyde, and syn ye may do me no werse,
Fy on youre myght and werkes so dyverse!
Thus cowardly ye shul me nevere wynne;
Ther shal no deth me fro my lady twynne.

"For I this world, syn ye have slayn hire thus,
Wol lete and folwe hire spirit low or hye.
Shal nevere lovere seyn that Troilus
Dar nat for fere with his lady dye;
For certeyn I wol beere hire compaignie.
But syn ye wol nat suffre us lyven here,
Yet suffreth that oure soules ben yfere.

"And thow, cite, which that I leve in wo,
And thow Priam, and bretheren alle yfeere
And thow, my moder, farwel, for I go;
And Atropos, make redy thow my beere;
And thow, Criseyde, o swete herte deere
Receyve now my spirit!" wolde he seye,
With swerd at herte, al redy for to deye

554

But as God wolde, of swough therwith sh"abreyde,
And gan to sike, and "Troilus" she cride;
And he answerde, "Lady myn, Criseyde,
Lyve ye yet?" and leet his swerd down glide.
"Ye, herte myn, that thonked be Cipride!"
Quod she; and therwithal she soore syghte,
And he bigan conforte hire as he myghte,

Took hire in armes two, and kiste hire ofte,
And hire to glade he did al his entente;
For which hire goost, that flikered ay o-lofte,
Into hire woful herte ayeyn it wente.
But at the laste, as that hire eye glente
Asyde, anon she gan his swerd espie,
As it lay bare, and gan for fere crye,

And asked hym, whi he it hadde out drawe.
And Troilus anon the cause hire tolde,
And how hymself therwith he wolde han slawe;
For which Criseyde upon hym gan biholde,
And gan hym in hire armes faste folde,
And seyde, "O mercy, God! Lo, which a dede!
Allas, how neigh we weren bothe dede!

"Than if I nadde spoken, as grace was,
Ye wolde han slayn youreself anon?" quod she.
"Yee, douteles"; and she answerde, "Allas,
For by that ilke Lord that made me,
I nolde a forlong wey on lyve have be
After youre deth, to han ben crowned queene
Of al that lond the sonne on shyneth sheene.

"But with this selve swerd, which that here is,
Myselve I wolde han slawe," quod she tho.
"But hoo, for we han right ynough of this,
And lat us rise, and streght to bedde go,
And there lat us speken of oure wo;
For, by the morter which that I se brenne,
Knowe I ful wel that day is nat far henne."

Whan they were in hire bed, in armes folde,
Naught was it lik tho nyghtes here-byforn.
For pitously ech other gan byholde,
As they that hadden al hire blisse ylorn,
Bywaylinge ay the day that they were born;
Til at the laste this sorwful wight, Criseyde,
To Troilus thise ilke wordes seyde:

"Lo, herte myn, wel woot ye this," quod she,
"That if a wight alwey his wo compleyne
And seketh nought how holpen for to be,
It nys but folie and encrees of peyne;
And syn that here assembled be we tweyne
To fynde boote of wo that we ben inne,
It were al tyme soone to bygynne.

"I am a womman, as ful wel ye woot,
And as I am avysed sodeynly,
So wol I telle yow, whil it is hoot.
Me thynketh thus: that nouther ye nor I
Ought half this wo to maken, skilfully;
For ther is art ynough for to redresse
That yet is mys, and slen this hevynesse.

"Soth is, the wo, the which that we ben inne,
For aught I woot, for nothyng ellis is
But for the cause that we sholden twynne.
Considered al, ther nys namore amys.
But what is thanne a remede unto this,
But that we shape us soone for to meete?
This al and som, my deere herte sweete.

"Now, that I shal wel bryngen it aboute
To come ayeyn, soone after that I go,
Therof am I no manere thyng in doute;
For, dredeles, withinne a wowke or two
I shal ben here; and that it may be so
By alle right and in a wordes fewe,
I shal yow wel an heep of weyes shewe.

"For which I wol nat make long sermoun—
For tyme ylost may nought recovered be—
But I wol gon to my conclusioun,
And to the beste, in aught that I kan see.
And for the love of God, foryeve it me
If I speke aught ayeyns youre hertes reste;
For trewely, I speke it for the beste,

"Makyng alwey a protestacioun
That now thise wordes which that I shal seye
Nis but to shewen yow my mocioun

555

To fynde unto oure help the beste weye;
And taketh it non other wise, I preye,
For in effect, what so ye me comaunde,
That wol I don, for that is no demaunde.

"Now herkneth this: ye han wel understonde
My goyng graunted is by parlement
So ferforth that it may nat be withstonde
For al this world, as by my jugement.
And syn ther helpeth non avisement
To letten it, lat it passe out of mynde,
And lat us shape a bettre wey to fynde.

"The soth is this: the twynnyng of us tweyne
Wol us disese and cruelich anoye,
But hym byhoveth somtyme han a peyne
That serveth Love, if that he wol have joye.
And syn I shal no ferther out of Troie
Than I may ride ayeyn on half a morwe,
It oughte lesse causen us to sorwe;

"So as I shal not so ben hid in muwe,
That day by day, myn owne herte deere—
Syn wel ye woot that it is now a trewe—
Ye shal ful wel al myn estat yheere.
And er that trewe is doon, I shal ben heere;
And thanne have ye both Antenore ywonne
And me also. Beth glad now, if ye konne,

"And thenk right thus: 'Criseyde is now agon.
But what, she shal come hastiliche ayeyn!'
And whanne, allas? By God, lo, right anon,
Er dayes ten, this dar I saufly seyn.
And than at erste shal we be so feyn,
So as we shal togideres evere dwelle,
That al this world ne myghte oure blisse telle.

"I se that oft-tyme, there as we ben now,
That for the beste, oure counseyl for to hide,
Ye speke nat with me, nor I with yow
In fourtenyght, ne se yow go ne ride.
May ye naught ten dayes thanne abide,
For myn honour, in swich an aventure?
Iwys, ye mowen ellis lite endure!

"Ye knowe ek how that al my kyn is heere,
But if that onliche it my fader be,
And ek myn othere thynges alle yfeere,
And nameliche, my deere herte, ye,
Whom that I nolde leven for to se
For al this world, as wyd as it hath space,
Or ellis se ich nevere Joves face!

"Whi trowe ye my fader in this wise
Coveyteth so to se me, but for drede
Lest in this town that folkes me despise
Because of hym, for his unhappy dede?
What woot my fader what lif that I lede?
For if he wiste in Troie how wel I fare,
Us neded for my wendyng nought to care.

"Ye sen that every day ek, more and more,
Men trete of pees, and it supposid is
That men the queene Eleyne shal restore,
And Grekis us restoren that is mys;
So, though ther nere comfort non but this,
That men purposen pees on every syde,
Ye may the bettre at ese of herte abyde.

"For if that it be pees, myn herte deere
The nature of the pees moot nedes dryve
That men moost entrecomunen yfeere,
And to and fro ek ride and gon as blyve
Alday as thikke as been fleen from an hyve,
And every wight han liberte to bleve
Whereas hym liste the bet, withouten leve.

"And though so be that pees ther may be non,
Yet hider, though ther nevere pees ne were,
I moste come; for whider sholde I gon,
Or how, meschaunce, sholde I dwelle there
Among tho men of armes evere in feere?
For which, as wisly God my soule rede,
I kan nat sen wherof ye sholden drede.

"Have here another wey, if it so be
That al this thyng ne may yow nat suffise:
My fader, as ye knowen wel, parde,
Is old, and elde is ful of coveytise,
And I right now have founden al the gise,

556

Withouten net, wherwith I shal hym hente.
And herkeneth how, if that ye wol assente:

"Lo, Troilus, men seyn that hard it is
The wolf ful and the wether hool to have;
This is to seyn, that men ful ofte, iwys,
Mote spenden part the remenant for to save;
For ay with gold men may the herte grave
Of hym that set is upon coveytise;
And how I mene, I shal it yow devyse:

"The moeble which that I have in this town
Unto my fader shal I take, and seye
That right for trust and for savacioun
It sent is from a frend of his or tweye,
The whiche frendes ferventliche hym preye
To senden after more, and that in hie,
Whil that this town stant thus in jupartie.

"And that shal ben an huge quantite—
Thus shal I seyn—but lest it folk espide,
This may be sent by no wyght but by me.
I shal ek shewen hym, yf pees bytyde,
What frendes that ich have on every syde
Toward the court, to don the wrathe pace
Of Priamus and don hym stonde in grace.

"So what for o thyng and for other, swete,
I shal hym so enchaunten with my sawes
That right in hevene his sowle is, shal he mete;
For al Appollo, or his clerkes lawes,
Or calkullynge, avayleth nought thre hawes;
Desir of gold shal so his soule blende
That, as me lyst, I shal wel make an ende.

"And yf he wolde ought by hys sort it preve
If that I lye, in certayn I shal fonde
Distorben hym and plukke hym by the sleve,
Makynge his sort, and beren hym on honde
He hath not wel the goddes understonde;
For goddes speken in amphibologies,
And for o soth they tellen twenty lyes.

"Ek, 'Drede fond first goddes, I suppose'—
Thus shal I seyn—and that his coward herte
Made hym amys the goddes text to glose,
Whan he for fered out of Delphos sterte.
And but I make hym soone to converte
And don my red withinne a day or tweye,
I wol to yow oblige me to deye."

And treweliche, as writen wel I fynde
That al this thyng was seyd of good entente,
And that hire herte trewe was and kynde
Towardes hym, and spak right as she mente,
And that she starf for wo neigh whan she wente,
And was in purpos evere to be trewe:
Thus writen they that of hire werkes knewe.

This Troilus, with herte and erys spradde,
Herde al this thyng devysen to and fro,
And verrayliche him semed that he hadde
The selve wit; but yet to late hire go
His herte mysforyaf hym evere mo;
But fynaly, he gan his herte wreste
To trusten hire, and took it for the beste.

For which the grete furie of his penaunce
Was queynt with hope, and therwith hem bitwene
Bigan for joie th'amorouse daunce;
And as the briddes, whanne the sonne is shene,
Deliten in hire song in leves grene,
Right so the wordes that they spake yfeere
Delited hem, and made hire hertes clere.

But natheles, the wendyng of Criseyde,
For al this world, may nat out of his mynde,
For which ful ofte he pitously hire preyde
That of hire heste he myghte hire trewe fynde,
And seyde hire, "Certes, if ye be unkynde,
And but ye come at day set into Troye,
Ne shal I nevere have hele, honour, ne joye.

"For also soth as sonne uprist o-morwe
And God so wisly thow me, woful wrecche,

557

To reste brynge out of this cruel sorwe!—
I wol myselven sle if that ye drecche.
But of my deeth though litel be to recche,
Yet, er that ye me causen so to smerte,
Dwelle rather here, myn owen swete herte.

"For trewely, myn owne lady deere,
Tho sleghtes yit that I have herd yow stere
Ful shaply ben to faylen alle yfeere.
For thus men seyth 'That on thenketh the beere,
But al another thenketh his ledere.'
Youre syre is wys; and seyd is, out of drede,
'Men may the wise atrenne, and naught atrede.'

"It is ful hard to halten unespied
Byfore a crepel, for he kan the craft;
Youre fader is in sleght as Argus eyed;
For al be that his moeble is hym biraft,
His olde sleighte is yet so with hym laft
Ye shal nat blende hym for youre wommanhede,
Ne feyne aright; and that is al my drede.

"I not if pees shal evere mo bitide;
But pees or no, for ernest ne for game,
I woot, syn Calkas on the Grekis syde
Hath ones ben and lost so foule his name,
He dar nomore come here ayeyn for shame;
For which that wey, for aught I kan espie,
To trusten on nys but a fantasie.

"Ye shal ek sen, youre fader shal yow glose
To ben a wif; and as he kan wel preche,
He shal som Grek so preyse and wel alose
That ravysshen he shal yow with his speche,
Or do yow don by force as he shal teche;
And Troilus, of whom ye nyl han routhe,
Shal causeles so sterven in his trouthe!

"And over al this, youre fader shal despise
Us alle, and seyn this cite nys but lorn,
And that th'assege nevere shal aryse,
For-whi the Grekis han it alle sworn
Til we be slayn and down oure walles torn.
And thus he shal yow with his wordes fere,
That ay drede I that ye wol bleven there.

"Ye shal ek seen so many a lusty knyght
Among the Grekis, ful of worthynesse,
And ech of hem with herte, wit, and myght
To plesen yow don al his bisynesse,
That ye shul dullen of the rudenesse
Of us sely Troians, but if routhe
Remorde yow, or vertu of youre trouthe.

"And this to me so grevous is to thynke
That fro my brest it wol my soule rende;
Ne dredeles, in me ther may nat synke
A good opynyoun, if that ye wende,
For whi youre fadres sleghte wol us shende.
And if ye gon, as I have told yow yore,
So thenk I n"am but ded, withoute more.

"For which, with humble, trewe, and pitous herte,
A thousand tymes mercy I yow preye;
So rueth on myn aspre peynes smerte,
And doth somwhat as that I shal yow seye,
And lat us stele awey bitwixe us tweye;
And thynk that folie is, whan man may chese,
For accident his substaunce ay to lese.

"I mene thus: that syn we mowe er day
Wel stele awey and ben togidere so,
What wit were it to putten in assay,
In cas ye sholden to youre fader go,
If that ye myghten come ayeyn or no?
Thus mene I: that it were a gret folie
To putte that sikernesse in jupertie.

"And vulgarly to speken of substaunce
Of tresour, may we bothe with us lede
Inough to lyve in honour and plesaunce
Til into tyme that we shal ben dede;
And thus we may eschuen al this drede.

558

For everich other wey ye kan recorde,
Myn herte, ywys, may therwith naught acorde.

"And hardily, ne dredeth no poverte,
For I have kyn and frendes elleswhere
That, though we comen in oure bare sherte,
Us sholde neyther lakken gold ne gere,
But ben honured while we dwelten there.
And go we anon; for as in myn entente,
This is the beste, if that ye wole assente."

Criseyde, with a sik, right in this wise
Answerde, "Ywys, my deere herte trewe,
We may wel stele awey, as ye devyse,
And fynden swich unthrifty weyes newe,
But afterward ful soore it wol us rewe.
And helpe me God so at my mooste nede,
As causeles ye suffren al this drede!

"For thilke day that I for cherisynge
Or drede of fader, or for other wight,
Or for estat, delit, or for weddynge,
Be fals to yow, my Troilus, my knyght,
Saturnes doughter, Juno, thorugh hire myght,
As wood as Athamante do me dwelle
Eternalich in Stix, the put of helle!

"And this on every god celestial
I swere it yow, and ek on ech goddesse,
On every nymphe and deite infernal,
On satiry and fawny more and lesse,
That halve goddes ben of wildernesse;
And Attropos my thred of lif tobreste
If I be fals! Now trowe me if yow leste!

"And thow, Symois, that as an arwe clere
Thorugh Troie rennest downward to the se,
Ber witnesse of this word that seyd is here:
That thilke day that ich untrewe be
To Troilus, myn owene herte fre,
That thow retourne bakward to thi welle,
And I with body and soule synke in helle!

"But that ye speke, awey thus for to go
And leten alle youre frendes, God forbede
For any womman that ye sholden so,
And namely syn Troie hath now swich nede
Of help. And ek of o thyng taketh hede:
If this were wist, my lif lay in balaunce,
And youre honour; God shilde us fro meschaunce!

"And if so be that pees heere-after take,
As alday happeth after anger game,
Whi, Lord, the sorwe and wo ye wolden make,
That ye ne dorste come ayeyn for shame!
And er that ye juparten so youre name,
Beth naught to hastif in this hoote fare,
For hastif man ne wanteth nevere care.

"What trowe ye the peple ek al aboute
Wolde of it seye? It is ful light t'arede.
They wolden seye, and swere it out of doute,
That love ne drof yow naught to don this dede,
But lust voluptuous and coward drede.
Thus were al lost, ywys, myn herte deere,
Youre honour, which that now shyneth so clere.

"And also thynketh on myn honeste,
That floureth yet, how foule I sholde it shende,
And with what filthe it spotted sholde be,
If in this forme I sholde with yow wende.
Ne though I lyved unto the werldes ende,
My name sholde I nevere ayeynward wynne;
Thus were I lost, and that were routhe and synne.

"And forthi sle with resoun al this hete!
Men seyn, 'The suffrant overcomith,' parde;
Ek 'Whoso wol han lief he lief moot lete.'
Thus maketh vertu of necessite
By pacience, and thynk that lord is he
Of Fortune ay that naught wole of hire recche,
And she ne daunteth no wight but a wrecche.

"And trusteth this: that certes, herte swete,
Er Phebus suster, Lucina the sheene,
The Leoun passe out of this Ariete,
I wol ben here, withouten any wene.
I mene, as helpe me Juno, hevenes quene,

559

The tenthe day, but if that deth m"assaile,
I wol yow sen withouten any faille."

"And now, so this be soth," quod Troilus,
"I shal wel suffre unto the tenthe day,
Syn that I se that nede it mot be thus.
But for the love of God, if it be may,
So late us stelen priveliche away;
For evere in oon, as for to lyve in reste,
Myn herte seyth that it wol be the beste."

"O mercy, God, what lif is this?" quod she.
"Allas, ye sle me thus for verray tene!
I se wel now that ye mystrusten me,
For by youre wordes it is wel yseene.
Now for the love of Cinthia the sheene,
Mistrust me nought thus causeles, for routhe,
Syn to be trewe I have yow plight my trouthe.

"And thynketh wel that somtyme it is wit
To spende a tyme, a tyme for to wynne;
Ne, parde, lorn am I naught fro yow yit,
Though that we ben a day or two atwynne.
Drif out the fantasies yow withinne,
And trusteth me, and leveth ek youre sorwe,
Or here my trouthe: I wol naught lyve tyl morwe.

"For if ye wiste how soore it doth me smerte,
Ye wolde cesse of this; for, God, thow wost,
The pure spirit wepeth in myn herte
To se yow wepen that I love most,
And that I mot gon to the Grekis oost.
Ye, nere it that I wiste remedie
To come ayeyn, right here I wolde dye!

"But certes, I am naught so nyce a wight
That I ne kan ymaginen a wey
To come ayeyn that day that I have hight.
For who may holde a thing that wol awey?
My fader naught, for al his queynte pley!
And by my thrift, my wendyng out of Troie
Another day shal torne us alle to joie.

"Forthi with al myn herte I yow biseke,
If that yow list don ought for my preyere,
And for that love which that I love yow eke,
That er that I departe fro yow here,
That of so good a confort and a cheere
I may yow sen that ye may brynge at reste
Myn herte, which that is o poynt to breste.

"And over al this I prey yow," quod she tho,
"Myn owene hertes sothfast suffisaunce,
Syn I am thyn al hol, withouten mo,
That whil that I am absent, no plesaunce
Of oother do me fro youre remembraunce;
For I am evere agast, forwhy men rede
That love is thyng ay ful of bisy drede.

"For in this world ther lyveth lady non,
If that ye were untrewe—as God defende!—
That so bitraised were or wo-bigon
As I, that alle trouthe in yow entende.
And douteles, if that ich other wende,
I ner but ded; and er ye cause fynde,
For Goddes love, so beth me naught unkynde!"

To this answerde Troilus and seyde,
"Now God, to whom ther nys no cause ywrye,
Me glade, as wys I nevere unto Criseyde,
Syn thilke day I saugh hire first with yë,
Was fals, ne nevere shal til that I dye.
At shorte wordes, wel ye may me leve.
I kan na more; it shal be founde at preve."

"Grant mercy, goode myn, iwys!" quod she,
"And blisful Venus lat me nevere sterve
Er I may stonde of plesaunce in degree
To quyte hym wel that so wel kan deserve;
And while that God my wit wol me conserve,
I shal so don, so trewe I have yow founde,
That ay honour to me-ward shal rebounde.

"For trusteth wel that youre estat roial,
Ne veyn delit, nor only worthinesse
Of yow in werre or torney marcial,
Ne pompe, array, nobleye, or ek richesse
Ne made me to rewe on youre destresse,
But moral vertu, grounded upon trouthe—
That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe!

"Eke gentil herte and manhod that ye hadde,
And that ye hadde, as me thoughte, in despit
Every thyng that souned into badde,
As rudenesse and poeplissh appetit,

560

And that youre resoun bridlede youre delit,
This made, aboven every creature,
That I was youre, and shal while I may dure.

"And this may lengthe of yeres naught fordo,
Ne remuable Fortune deface.
But Juppiter, that of his myght may do
The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace
Or nyghtes ten to meten in this place,
So that it may youre herte and myn suffise!
And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye rise."

And after that they longe ypleyned hadde,
And ofte ykist, and streite in armes folde,
The day gan rise, and Troilus hym cladde,
And rewfullich his lady gan byholde,
As he that felte dethes cares colde,
And to hire grace he gan hym recomaunde.
Wher hym was wo, this holde I no demaunde.

For mannes hed ymagynen ne kan,
N'entendement considere, ne tonge telle
The cruele peynes of this sorwful man,
That passen every torment down in helle.
For whan he saugh that she ne myghte dwelle,
Which that his soule out of his herte rente,
Withouten more out of the chaumbre he wente.

Explicit liber quartus.

BOOK V
Incipit liber quintus.

Aprochen gan the fatal destyne
That Joves hath in disposicioun,
And to yow, angry Parcas, sustren thre,
Committeth to don execucioun;
For which Criseyde moste out of the town,
And Troilus shal dwellen forth in pyne
Til Lachesis his thred no lenger twyne.

The gold-tressed Phebus heighe on-lofte
Thries hadde alle with his bemes cleene
The snowes molte, and Zepherus as ofte
Ibrought ayeyn the tendre leves grene,
Syn that the sone of Ecuba the queene
Bigan to love hire first for whom his sorwe
Was al that she departe sholde a-morwe.

Ful redy was at prime Diomede
Criseyde unto the Grekis oost to lede,
For sorwe of which she felt hire herte blede,
As she that nyste what was best to rede.
And trewely, as men in bokes rede,
Men wiste nevere womman han the care,
Ne was so loth out of a town to fare.

This Troilus, withouten reed or loore,
As man that hath his joies ek forlore,
Was waytyng on his lady evere more
As she that was the sothfast crop and more
Of al his lust or joies heretofore.
But Troilus, now far-wel al thi joie,
For shaltow nevere sen hire eft in Troie!

561

Soth is that while he bood in this manere,
He gan his wo ful manly for to hide,
That wel unnethe it sene was in his chere;
But at the yate ther she sholde out ride,
With certeyn folk he hoved hire t'abide,
So wo-bigon, al wolde he naught hym pleyne,
That on his hors unnethe he sat for peyne.

For ire he quook, so gan his herte gnawe,
Whan Diomede on horse gan hym dresse,
And seyde to hymself this ilke sawe:
"Allas," quod he, "thus foul a wrecchednesse,
Whi suffre ich it? Whi nyl ich it redresse?
Were it nat bet atones for to dye
Than evere more in langour thus to drye?

"Why nyl I make atones riche and pore
To have inough to doone er that she go?
Why nyl I brynge al Troie upon a roore?
Whi nyl I slen this Diomede also?
Why nyl I rather with a man or two
Stele hire away? Whi wol I this endure?
Whi nyl I helpen to myn owen cure?"

But why he nolde don so fel a dede,
That shal I seyn, and whi hym liste it spare:
He hadde in herte alweyes a manere drede
Lest that Criseyde, in rumour of this fare,
Sholde han ben slayn; lo, this was al his care.
And ellis, certeyn, as I seyde yore,
He hadde it don, withouten wordes more.

Criseyde, whan she redy was to ride,
Ful sorwfully she sighte, and seyde "Allas!"
But forth she moot, for aught that may bitide;
Ther is non other remedie in this cas.
And forth she rit ful sorwfully a pas.
What wonder is, though that hire sore smerte,
Whan she forgoth hire owen swete herte?

This Troilus, in wise of curteysie,
With hauk on honde and with an huge route
Of knyghtes, rood and did hire companye,
Passyng al the valeye fer withoute,
And ferther wolde han riden, out of doute,
Ful fayn, and wo was hym to gon so sone;
But torne he moste, and it was ek to done.

And right with that was Antenor ycome
Out of the Grekis oost, and every wight
Was of it glad, and seyde he was welcome.
And Troilus, al nere his herte light,
He peyned hym with al his fulle myght
Hym to withholde of wepyng atte leeste,
And Antenor he kiste and made feste.

And therwithal he moste his leve take,
And caste his eye upon hire pitously,
And neer he rood, his cause for to make,
To take hire by the honde al sobrely.
And Lord, so she gan wepen tendrely!
And he ful softe and sleighly gan hire seye,
"Now holde youre day, and do me nat to deye."

With that his courser torned he aboute
With face pale, and unto Diomede
No word he spak, ne non of al his route;
Of which the sone of Tideus took hede,
As he that koude more than the crede
In swich a craft, and by the reyne hire hente;
And Troilus to Troie homward he wente.

This Diomede, that ledde hire by the bridel,
Whan that he saugh the folk of Troie aweye,
Thoughte, "Al my labour shal nat ben on ydel,
If that I may, for somwhat shal I seye,
For at the werste it may yet shorte oure weye.
I have herd seyd ek tymes twyes twelve,
'He is a fool that wol foryete hymselve.'"

But natheles, this thoughte he wel ynough,
That "Certeynlich I am aboute nought,
If that I speke of love or make it tough;
For douteles, if she have in hire thought
Hym that I gesse, he may nat ben ybrought
So soon awey; but I shal fynde a meene
That she naught wite as yet shal what I mene."

562

This Diomede, as he that koude his good,
Whan tyme was, gan fallen forth in speche
Of this and that, and axed whi she stood
In swich disese, and gan hire ek biseche
That if that he encresse myghte or eche
With any thyng hire ese, that she sholde
Comaunde it hym, and seyde he don it wolde.

For treweliche he swor hire as a knyght
That ther nas thyng with which he myghte hire plese,
That he nolde don his peyne and al his myght
To don it, for to don hire herte an ese;
And preyede hire she wolde hire sorwe apese,
And seyde, "Iwis, we Grekis kan have joie
To honouren yow as wel as folk of Troie."

He seyde ek thus: "I woot yow thynketh straunge—
No wonder is, for it is to yow newe—
Th'aquayntaunce of thise Troianis to chaunge
For folk of Grece, that ye nevere knewe.
But wolde nevere God but if as trewe
A Grek ye sholde among us alle fynde
As any Troian is, and ek as kynde.

"And by the cause I swor yow right, lo, now,
To ben youre frend, and helply, to my myght,
And for that more aquayntaunce ek of yow
Have ich had than another straunger wight,
So fro this forth, I pray yow, day and nyght
Comaundeth me, how soore that me smerte,
To don al that may like unto youre herte;

"And that ye me wolde as youre brother trete,
And taketh naught my frendshipe in despit;
And though youre sorwes be for thynges grete—
Not I nat whi—but out of more respit
Myn herte hath for t'amende it gret delit;
And if I may youre harmes nat redresse,
I am right sory for youre hevynesse,

"For though ye Troians with us Grekes wrothe
Han many a day ben, alwey yet, parde,
O god of Love in soth we serven bothe.
And for the love of God, my lady fre,
Whomso ye hate, as beth nat wroth with me,
For trewely, ther kan no wyght yow serve
That half so loth youre wratthe wold disserve.

"And nere it that we ben so neigh the tente
Of Calcas, which that sen us bothe may,
I wolde of this yow telle al myn entente—
But this enseled til anothir day.
Yeve me youre hond; I am, and shal ben ay,
God helpe me so, while that my lyf may dure,
Youre owene aboven every creature.

"Thus seyde I nevere er now to womman born,
For God myn herte as wisly glade so,
I loved never womman here-biforn
As paramours, ne nevere shal no mo.
And for the love of God, beth nat my fo,
Al kan I naught to yow, my lady deere,
Compleyne aright, for I am yet to leere.

"And wondreth nought, myn owen lady bright,
Though that I speke of love to yow thus blyve;
For I have herd er this of many a wight,
Hath loved thyng he nevere saigh his lyve.
Ek I am nat of power for to stryve
Ayeyns the god of Love, but hym obeye
I wole alwey; and mercy I yow preye.

"Ther ben so worthi knyghtes in this place,
And ye so fayr, that everich of hem alle
Wol peynen hym to stonden in youre grace.
But myghte me so faire a grace falle,
That ye me for youre servant wolde calle,
So lowely ne so trewely yow serve
Nil non of hem as I shal til I sterve."

Criseyde unto that purpos lite answerde,
As she that was with sorwe oppressed so
That, in effect, she naught his tales herde
But here and ther, now here a word or two.
Hire thoughte hire sorwful herte brast a-two,
For whan she gan hire fader fer espie
Wel neigh down of hire hors she gan to sye.

But natheles she thonketh Diomede
Of al his travaile and his goode cheere,

563

And that hym list his frendshipe hire to bede; 185
And she accepteth it in good manere,
And wol do fayn that is hym lief and dere,
And tristen hym she wolde, and wel she myghte,
As seyde she; and from hire hors sh'alighte.

Hire fader hath hire in his armes nome,
And twenty tyme he kiste his doughter sweete,
And seyde, "O deere doughter myn, welcome!"
She seyde ek she was fayn with hym to mete,
And stood forth muwet, milde, and mansuete.
But here I leve hire with hire fader dwelle,
And forth I wol of Troilus yow telle.

To Troie is come this woful Troilus,
In sorwe aboven alle sorwes smerte,
With feloun look and face dispitous.
Tho sodeynly doun from his hors he sterte,
And thorugh his paleis, with a swollen herte,
To chaumbre he wente; of nothyng took he hede,
Ne non to hym dar speke a word for drede.

And ther his sorwes that he spared hadde
He yaf an issue large, and "Deth!" he criede;
And in his throwes frenetik and madde
He corseth Jove, Appollo, and ek Cupide;
He corseth Ceres, Bacus, and Cipride,
His burthe, hymself, his fate, and ek nature,
And, save his lady, every creature.

To bedde he goth, and walwith ther and torneth
In furie, as doth he Ixion in helle,
And in this wise he neigh til day sojorneth.
But tho bigan his herte a lite unswelle
Thorugh teris, which that gonnen up to welle,
And pitously he cryde upon Criseyde,
And to hymself right thus he spak, and seyde,

"Wher is myn owene lady, lief and deere?
Wher is hire white brest? Wher is it, where?
Wher ben hire armes and hire eyen cleere
That yesternyght this tyme with me were?
Now may I wepe allone many a teere,
And graspe aboute I may, but in this place,
Save a pilowe, I fynde naught t'enbrace.

"How shal I do? Whan shal she come ayeyn?
I not, allas, whi lete ich hire to go;
As wolde God ich hadde as tho ben sleyn!
O herte myn, Criseyde, O swete fo!
O lady myn, that I love and na mo,
To whom for evermo myn herte I dowe,
Se how I dye, ye nyl me nat rescowe!

"Who seth yow now, my righte lode-sterre?
Who sit right now or stant in youre presence?
Who kan conforten now youre hertes werre?
Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audience?
Who speketh for me right now in myn absence?
Allas, no wight; and that is al my care,
For wel woot I, as yvele as I ye fare.

"How sholde I thus ten dayes ful endure,
Whan I the firste nyght have al this tene?
How shal she don ek, sorwful creature?
For tendernesse, how shal she sustene
Swich wo for me? O pitous, pale, grene
Shal ben youre fresshe, wommanliche face
For langour, er ye torne unto this place."

And whan he fil in any slomberynges,
Anon bygynne he sholde for to grone
And dremen of the dredefulleste thynges
That myghte ben; as mete he were allone
In place horrible makyng ay his mone,
Or meten that he was amonges alle
His enemys, and in hire hondes falle.

And therwithal his body sholde sterte,
And with the stert al sodeynliche awake,
And swich a tremour fele aboute his herte
That of the fere his body sholde quake;
And therwithal he sholde a noyse make,
And seme as though he sholde falle depe
From heighe o-lofte; and thanne he wolde wepe,

564

And rewen on hymself so pitously
That wonder was to here his fantasie.
Another tyme he sholde myghtyly
Conforte hymself, and sein it was folie
So causeles swich drede for to drye;
And eft bygynne his aspre sorwes newe,
That every man myght on his sorwes rewe.

Who koude telle aright or ful discryve
His wo, his pleynt, his langour, and his pyne?
Naught alle the men that han or ben on lyve.
Thow, redere, maist thiself ful wel devyne
That swich a wo my wit kan nat diffyne;
On ydel for to write it sholde I swynke,
Whan that my wit is wery it to thynke.

On hevene yet the sterres weren seene,
Although ful pale ywoxen was the moone,
And whiten gan the orisonte shene
Al estward, as it wont is for to doone;
And Phebus with his rosy carte soone
Gan after that to dresse hym up to fare
Whan Troilus hath sent after Pandare.

This Pandare, that of al the day biforn
Ne myghte han comen Troilus to se,
Although he on his hed it hadde sworn—
For with the kyng Priam al day was he,
So that it lay nought in his libertee
Nowher to gon—but on the morwe he wente
To Troilus, whan that he for hym sente.

For in his herte he koude wel devyne
That Troilus al nyght for sorwe wook;
And that he wolde telle hym of his pyne,
This knew he wel ynough, withoute book.
For which to chaumbre streght the wey he took,
And Troilus tho sobrelich he grette,
And on the bed ful sone he gan hym sette.

"My Pandarus," quod Troilus, "the sorwe
Which that I drye I may nat longe endure.
I trowe I shal nat lyven tyl to-morwe
For which I wolde alweys, on aventure,
To the devysen of my sepulture
The forme; and of my moeble thow dispone
Right as the semeth best is for to done.

"But of the fir and flaumbe funeral
In which my body brennen shal to glede,
And of the feste and pleyes palestral
At my vigile, I prey the, tak good hede
That be wel; and offre Mars my steede,
My swerd, myn helm; and, leve brother deere,
My sheld to Pallas yef, that shyneth cleere.

"The poudre in which myn herte ybrend shal torne,
That preye I the thow take and it conserve
In a vessell that men clepeth an urne,
Of gold, and to my lady that I serve,
For love of whom thus pitouslich I sterve,
So yeve it hire, and do me this plesaunce,
To preyen hire kepe it for a remembraunce.

"For wele I fele, by my maladie
And by my dremes now and yore ago,
Al certeynly that I mot nedes dye.
The owle ek, which that hette Escaphilo,
Hath after me shright al thise nyghtes two.
And god Mercurye, of me now, woful wrecche,
The soule gyde, and whan the liste, it fecche!"

Pandare answerde and seyde, "Troilus,
My deere frend, as I have told the yore,
That it is folye for to sorwen thus,
And causeles, for which I kan namore.
But whoso wil nought trowen reed ne loore,
I kan nat sen in hym no remedie,
But lat hym worthen with his fantasie.

"But, Troilus, I prey the, tel me now
If that thow trowe er this that any wight
Hath loved paramours as wel as thow?
Ye, God woot, and fro many a worthi knyght
Hath his lady gon a fourtenyght,
And he nat yet made halvendel the fare.
What nede is the to maken al this care?

565

"Syn day by day thow maist thiselven se
That from his love, or ellis from his wif,
A man mot twynnen of necessite—
Ye, though he love hire as his owene lif—
Yet nyl he with hymself thus maken strif.
For wel thou woost, my leve brother deere,
That alwey frendes may nat ben yfeere.

"How don this folk that seen hire loves wedded
By frendes myght, as it bitit ful ofte,
And sen hem in hire spouses bed ybedded?
God woot, they take it wisly, faire, and softe,
Forwhi good hope halt up hire herte o-lofte.
And for they kan a tyme of sorwe endure,
As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure.

"So shuldestow endure, and laten slide
The tyme, and fonde to ben glad and light.
Ten dayes nys so longe nought t'abide.
And syn she the to comen hath bihyght,
She nyl hire heste breken for no wight.
For dred the nat that she nyl fynden weye
To come ayein; my lif that dorste I leye.

"Thi swevnes ek and al swich fantasie
Drif out and lat hem faren to meschaunce,
For they procede of thi malencolie
That doth the fele in slep al this penaunce.
A straw for alle swevenes signifiaunce!
God helpe me so, I counte hem nought a bene!
Ther woot no man aright what dremes mene.

"For prestes of the temple tellen this,
That dremes ben the revelatiouns
Of goddes, and as we! they telle, ywis,
That they ben infernals illusiouns;
And leches seyn that of complexiouns
Proceden they, or fast, or glotonye.
Who woot in soth thus what thei signifie?

"Ek oother seyn that thorugh impressiouns,
As if a wight hath faste a thyng in mynde,
That therof cometh swiche avysiouns;
And other seyn, as they in bokes fynde,
That after tymes of the yer, by kynde,
Men dreme, and that th'effect goth by the moone.
But leve no drem, for it is nought to doone.

"Wel worthe of dremes ay thise olde wives,
And treweliche ek augurye of thise fowles,
For fere of which men wenen lese here lyves,
As revenes qualm, or shrichyng of thise owles.
To trowen on it bothe fals and foul is.
Allas, allas, so noble a creature
As is a man shal dreden swich ordure!

"For which with al myn herte I the biseche,
Unto thiself that al this thow foryyve;
And ris now up withowten more speche,
And lat us caste how forth may best be dryve
This tyme, and ek how fresshly we may lyve
Whan that she comth, the which shal be right soone.
God helpe me so, the beste is thus to doone.

"Ris, lat us speke of lusty lif in Troie
That we han led, and forth the tyme dryve;
And ek of tyme comyng us rejoie,
That bryngen shal oure blisse now so blyve;
And langour of thise twyes dayes fyve
We shal therwith so foryete or oppresse
That wel unneth it don shal us duresse.

"This town is ful of lordes al aboute,
And trewes lasten al this mene while.
Go we pleye us in some lusty route
To Sarpedoun, nat hennes but a myle;
And thus thow shalt the tyme wel bygile,
And dryve it forth unto that blisful morwe
That thow hire se, that cause is of thi sorwe.

"Now ris, my deere brother Troilus,
For certes it non honour is to the
To wepe and in thi bedde to jouken thus;

566

For trewelich, of o thyng trust to me:
If thow thus ligge a day, or two, or thre,
The folk wol seyn that thow for cowardise
The feynest sik, and that thow darst nat rise!"

This Troilus answerde, "O brother deere,
This knowen folk that han ysuffred peyne,
That though he wepe and make sorwful cheere
That feleth harm and smert in every veyne,
No wonder is; and though ich evere pleyne,
Or alwey wepe, I am no thyng to blame,
Syn I have lost the cause of al my game.

"But syn of fyne force I mot arise,
I shal arise as soone as evere I may;
And God, to whom myn herte I sacrifice,
So sende us hastely the tenthe day!
For was ther nevere fowel so fayn of May
As I shal ben whan that she comth in Troie
That cause is of my torment and my joie.

"But whider is thi reed," quod Troilus,
"That we may pleye us best in al this town?"
"By God, my conseil is," quod Pandarus,
"To ride and pleye us with kyng Sarpedoun."
So longe of this they speken up and down
Til Troilus gan at the laste assente
To rise, and forth to Sarpedoun they wente.

This Sarpedoun, as he that honourable
Was evere his lyve, and ful of heigh largesse,
With al that myghte yserved ben on table
That deynte was, al coste it gret richesse,
He fedde hem day by day, that swich noblesse,
As seyden bothe the mooste and ek the leeste,
Was nevere er that day wist at any feste.

Nor in this world ther is non instrument
Delicious, thorugh wynd or touche of corde,
As fer as any wight hath evere ywent,
That tonge telle or herte may recorde,
That at that feste it nas wel herd acorde;
Ne of ladys ek so fair a compaignie
On daunce, er tho, was nevere iseye with ië.

But what availeth this to Troilus,
That for his sorwe nothyng of it roughte?
For evere in oon his herte pietous
Ful bisyly Criseyde, his lady, soughte.
On hire was evere al that his herte thoughte,
Now this, now that, so faste ymagenynge
That glade, iwis, kan hym no festeyinge.

Thise ladies ek that at this feste ben,
Syn that he saugh his lady was aweye,
It was his sorwe upon hem for to sen,
Or for to here on instrumentes pleye.
For she that of his herte berth the keye
Was absent, lo, this was his fantasie—
That no wight sholde maken melodie.

Nor ther nas houre in al the day or nyght,
Whan he was there as no wight myghte hym heere,
That he ne seyde, "O lufsom lady bryght,
How have ye faren syn that ye were here?
Welcome, ywis, myn owne lady deere!"
But weylaway, al this nat but a maze.
Fortune his howve entended bet to glaze!

The lettres ek that she of olde tyme
Hadde hym ysent, he wolde allone rede
An hondred sithe atwixen noon and prime,
Refiguryng hire shap, hire wommanhede,
Withinne his herte, and every word or dede
That passed was; and thus he drof t'an ende
The ferthe day, and seyde he wolde wende.

And seyde, "Leve brother Pandarus,
Intendestow that we shal here bleve
Til Sarpedoun wol forth congeyen us?
Yet were it fairer that we toke oure leve.
For Goddes love, lat us now soone at eve
Oure leve take, and homward lat us torne,
For treweliche, I nyl nat thus sojourne."

Pandare answerde, "Be we comen hider
To fecchen fir and rennen hom ayein?
God help me so, I kan nat tellen whider

567

We myghte gon, if I shal sothly seyn,
Ther any wight is of us more feyn
Than Sarpedoun; and if we hennes hye
Thus sodeynly, I holde it vilanye.

"Syn that we seyden that we wolde bleve
With hym a wowke, and now, thus sodeynly,
The ferthe day to take of hym owre leve—
He wolde wondren on it, trewely!
Lat us holden forth oure purpos fermely;
And syn that ye bihighten hym to bide,
Holde forward now, and after lat us ride."

Thus Pandarus, with alle peyne and wo,
Made hym to dwelle; and at the wikes ende
Of Sarpedoun they toke hire leve tho,
And on hire wey they spedden hem to wende.
Quod Troilus, "Now Lord me grace sende,
That I may fynden at myn hom-comynge
Criseyde comen!" And therwith gan he synge.

"Ye, haselwode!" thoughte this Pandare,
And to hymself ful softeliche he seyde,
"God woot, refreyden may this hote fare,
Er Calkas sende Troilus Criseyde!"
But natheles, he japed thus, and pleyde,
And swor, ywys, his herte hym wel bihighte
She wolde come as soone as evere she myghte.

Whan they unto the paleys were ycomen
Of Troilus, they doun of hors alighte,
And to the chambre hire wey than han they nomen;
And into tyme that it gan to nyghte
They spaken of Criseÿde the brighte;
And after this, whan that hem bothe leste,
They spedde hem fro the soper unto reste.

On morwe, as soone as day bygan to clere,
This Troilus gan of his slep t'abrayde,
And to Pandare, his owen brother deere,
"For love of God," ful pitously he sayde,
"As go we sen the palais of Criseyde;
For syn we yet may have namore feste,
So lat us sen hire paleys atte leeste."

And therwithal, his meyne for to blende,
A cause he fond in towne for to go,
And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende.
But Lord, this sely Troilus was wo!
Hym thoughte his sorwful herte braste a-two.
For whan he saugh hire dores spered alle,
Wel neigh for sorwe adoun he gan to falle.

Therwith, whan he was war and gan biholde
How shet was every wyndow of the place,
As frost, hym thoughte, his herte gan to colde;
For which with chaunged dedlich pale face,
Withouten word, he forthby gan to pace,
And as God wolde, he gan so faste ride
That no wight of his contenance espide.

Than seide he thus: "O paleys desolat,
O hous of houses whilom best ihight,
O paleys empty and disconsolat,
O thow lanterne of which queynt is the light,
O paleys, whilom day, that now art nyght,
Wel oughtestow to falle, and I to dye,
Syn she is went that wont was us to gye!

"O paleis, whilom crowne of houses alle
Enlumyned with sonne of alle blisse!
O ryng, fro which the ruby is out falle,
O cause of wo, that cause hast ben of lisse!
Yet, syn I may no bet, fayn wolde I kisse
Thy colde dores, dorste I for this route;
And farwel shryne, of which the seynt is oute!"

Therwith he caste on Pandarus his yë
With chaunged face, and pitous to biholde;
And whan he myghte his tyme aright aspie,
Ay as he rood to Pandarus he tolde
His newe sorwe and ek his joies olde,
So pitously and with so ded an hewe
That every wight myghte on his sorwe rewe.
Fro thennesforth he rideth up and down,
And every thyng com hym to remembraunce
As he rood forby places of the town

568

In which he whilom hadde al his plesaunce.
"Lo, yonder saugh ich last my lady daunce;
And in that temple, with hire eyen cleere,
Me kaughte first my righte lady dere.

"And yonder have I herd ful lustyly
My dere herte laugh; and yonder pleye
Saugh ich hire ones ek ful blisfully;
And yonder ones to me gan she seye,
'Now goode swete, love me wel, I preye';
And yond so goodly gan she me biholde
That to the deth myn herte is to hire holde.

"And at that corner, in the yonder hous,
Herde I myn alderlevest lady deere
So wommanly, with vois melodious,
Syngen so wel, so goodly, and so cleere
That in my soule yet me thynketh ich here
The blisful sown; and in that yonder place
My lady first me took unto hire grace."

Thanne thoughte he thus: "O blisful lord Cupide,
Whan I the proces have in my memorie
How thow me hast wereyed on every syde,
Men myght a book make of it, lik a storie.
What nede is the to seke on me victorie,
Syn I am thyn and holly at thi wille?
What joie hastow thyn owen folk to spille?

"Wel hastow, lord, ywroke on me thyn ire,
Thow myghty god, and dredefull for to greve!
Now mercy, lord! Thow woost wel I desire
Thi grace moost of alle lustes leeve,
And lyve and dye I wol in thy byleve;
For which I n'axe in guerdoun but o bone—
That thow Criseyde ayein me sende sone.

"Destreyne hire herte as faste to retorne
As thow doost myn to longen hire to see;
Than woot I wel that she nyl naught sojorne.
Now blisful lord, so cruel thow ne be
Unto the blood of Troie, I preye the,
As Juno was unto the blood Thebane,
For which the folk of Thebes caughte hire bane."

And after this he to the yates wente
Ther as Criseyde out rood a ful good paas,
And up and down ther made he many a wente,
And to hymself ful ofte he seyde, "Allas,
Fro hennes rood my blisse and my solas!
As wolde blisful God now, for his joie,
I myghte hire sen ayeyn come into Troie!

"And to the yonder hille I gan hire gyde,
Allas, and ther I took of hire my leve!
And yond I saugh hire to hire fader ride,
For sorwe of which myn herte shal tocleve;
And hider hom I com whan it was eve,
And here I dwelle out cast from alle joie,
And shal, til I may sen hire eft in Troie."

And of hymself ymagened he ofte
To ben defet, and pale, and waxen lesse
Than he was wont, and that men seyden softe,
"What may it be? Who kan the sothe gesse
Whi Troilus hath al this hevynesse?"
And al this nas but his malencolie,
That he hadde of hymself swich fantasie.

Another tyme ymaginen he wolde
That every wight that wente by the weye
Hadde of hym routhe, and that they seyen sholde,
"I am right sory Troilus wol deye."
And thus he drof a day yet forth or tweye,
As ye have herd; swich lif right gan he lede
As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede.

For which hym likede in his songes shewe
Th'enchesoun of his wo, as he best myghte;
And made a song of wordes but a fewe,
Somwhat his woful herte for to lighte;
And whan he was from every mannes syghte,
With softe vois he of his lady deere,
That absent was, gan synge as ye may heere:

Canticus Troili.

"O sterre, of which I lost have al the light,
With herte soor wel oughte I to biwaille
That evere derk in torment, nyght by nyght,
Toward my deth with wynd in steere I saille;
For which the tenthe nyght, if that I faille

569

The gydyng of thi bemes bright an houre,
My ship and me Caribdis wol devoure."

This song whan he thus songen hadde, soone
He fil ayeyn into his sikes olde;
And every nyght, as was his wone to doone,
He stood the brighte moone to byholde,
And al his sorwe he to the moone tolde,
And seyde, "Ywis, whan thow art horned newe,
I shal be glad, if al the world be trewe!

"I saugh thyn hornes olde ek by the morwe
Whan hennes rood my righte lady dere
That cause is of my torment and my sorwe;
For which, O brighte Latona the clere,
For love of God, ren faste aboute thy spere!
For whan thyne hornes newe gynnen sprynge,
Than shal she come that may my blisse brynge."

The dayes moore and lenger every nyght
Than they ben wont to be, hym thoughte tho,
And that the sonne went his cours unright
By lenger weye than it was wont to do;
And seyde, "Ywis, me dredeth evere mo
The sonnes sone, Pheton, be on lyve,
And that his fader carte amys he dryve."

Upon the walles faste ek wolde he walke,
And on the Grekis oost he wolde se;
And to hymself right thus he wolde talke:
"Lo, yonder is myn owene lady free,
Or ellis yonder, ther tho tentes be;
And thennes comth this eyr, that is so soote
That in my soule I fele it doth me boote.

"And hardily, this wynd that more and moore
Thus stoundemele encresseth in my face
Is of my ladys depe sikes soore.
I preve it thus: for in noon other place
Of al this town, save onliche in this space,
Fele I no wynd that sowneth so lik peyne;
It seyth, 'Allas! Whi twynned be we tweyne?'"

This longe tyme he dryveth forth right thus
Til fully passed was the nynthe nyght;
And ay bisyde hym was this Pandarus,
That bisily did al his fulle myght
Hym to conforte and make his herte light,
Yevyng hym hope alwey the tenthe morwe
That she shal come and stynten al his sorwe.

Upon that other syde ek was Criseyde,
With wommen fewe, among the Grekis stronge,
For which ful ofte a day "Allas," she seyde
"That I was born! Wel may myn herte longe
After my deth, for now lyve I to longe.
Allas, and I ne may it nat amende,
For now is wors than evere yet I wende!

"My fader nyl for nothyng do me grace
To gon ayeyn, for naught I kan hym queme;
And if so be that I my terme pace,
My Troilus shal in his herte deme
That I am fals, and so it may wel seme:
Thus shal ich have unthonk on every side—
That I was born so weilaway the tide!

"And if that I me putte in jupartie
To stele awey by nyght, and it bifalle
That I be kaught, I shal be holde a spie;
Or elles—lo, this drede I moost of alle—
If in the hondes of som wrecche I falle,
I nam but lost, al be myn herte trewe.
Now, myghty God, thow on my sorwe rewe!"

Ful pale ywoxen was hire brighte face,
Hire lymes lene, as she that al the day
Stood, whan she dorste, and loked on the place
Ther she was born, and ther she dwelt hadde ay;
And al the nyght wepyng, allas, she lay.
And thus despeired, out of alle cure,
She ladde hire lif, this woful creature.

Ful ofte a day she sighte ek for destresse,
And in hireself she wente ay purtraynge
Of Troilus the grete worthynesse,
And al his goodly wordes recordynge
Syn first that day hire love bigan to springe.
And thus she sette hire woful herte afire
Thorugh remembraunce of that she gan desire.

570

In al this world ther nys so cruel herte
That hire hadde herd compleynen in hire sorwe
That nolde han wepen for hire peynes smerte,
So tendrely she weep, bothe eve and morwe.
Hire nedede no teris for to borwe!
And this was yet the werste of al hire peyne:
Ther was no wight to whom she dorste hire pleyne.

Ful rewfully she loked upon Troie,
Biheld the toures heigh and ek the halles;
"Allas," quod she, "the plesance and the joie,
The which that now al torned into galle is,
Have ich had ofte withinne yonder walles!
O Troilus, what dostow now?" she seyde.
"Lord, wheyther thow yet thenke upon Criseyde?

"Allas, I ne hadde trowed on youre loore
And went with yow, as ye me redde er this!
Than hadde I now nat siked half so soore.
Who myghte han seyd that I hadde don amys
To stele awey with swich oon as he ys?
But al to late comth the letuarie
Whan men the cors unto the grave carie.

"To late is now to speke of that matere.
Prudence, allas, oon of thyne eyen thre
Me lakked alwey, er that I come here!
On tyme ypassed wel remembred me,
And present tyme ek koud ich wel ise,
But future tyme, er I was in the snare,
Koude I nat sen; that causeth now my care.

"But natheles, bityde what bityde,
I shal to-morwe at nyght, by est or west,
Out of this oost stele in som manere syde,
And gon with Troilus where as hym lest.
This purpos wol ich holde, and this is best.
No fors of wikked tonges janglerie,
For evere on love han wrecches had envye.

"For whoso wol of every word take hede,
Or reulen hym by every wightes wit,
Ne shal he nevere thryven, out of drede;
For that som men blamen evere yit,
Lo, other manere folk comenden it.
And as for me, for al swich variaunce,
Felicite clepe I my suffissaunce.

"For which, withouten any wordes mo,
To Troie I wole, as for conclusioun."
But God it wot, er fully monthes two,
She was ful fer fro that entencioun!
For bothe Troilus and Troie town
Shal knotteles thorughout hire herte slide;
For she wol take a purpos for t'abide.

This Diomede, of whom yow telle I gan,
Goth now withinne hymself ay arguynge,
With al the sleghte and al that evere he kan,
How he may best, with shortest taryinge,
Into his net Criseydes herte brynge.
To this entent he koude nevere fyne;
To fisshen hire he leyde out hook and lyne.

But natheles, wel in his herte he thoughte
That she nas nat withoute a love in Troie,
For nevere sythen he hire thennes broughte
Ne koude he sen hire laughe or maken joie.
He nyst how best hire herte for t'acoye;
"But for t'asay," he seyde, "naught n'agreveth,
For he that naught n'asaieth naught n'acheveth."

Yet seyde he to hymself upon a nyght,
"Now am I nat a fool, that woot wel how
Hire wo for love is of another wight,
And hereupon to gon assaye hire now?
I may wel wite it nyl nat ben my prow,
For wise folk in bookes it expresse,
'Men shal nat wowe a wight in hevynesse.'

"But whoso myghte wynnen swich a flour
From hym for whom she morneth nyght and day,

571

He myghte seyn he were a conquerour."
And right anon, as he that bold was ay,
Thoughte in his herte, "Happe how happe may,
Al sholde I dye, I wol hire herte seche!
I shal namore lesen but my speche."

This Diomede, as bokes us declare,
Was in his nedes prest and corageous,
With sterne vois and myghty lymes square,
Hardy, testif, strong, and chivalrous
Of dedes, lik his fader Tideus.
And som men seyn he was of tonge large;
And heir he was of Calydoigne and Arge.

Criseyde mene was of hire stature;
Therto of shap, of face, and ek of cheere,
Ther myghte ben no fairer creature.
And ofte tymes this was hire manere:
To gon ytressed with hire heres clere
Doun by hire coler at hire bak byhynde,
Which with a thred of gold she wolde bynde;

And, save hire browes joyneden yfeere,
Ther nas no lak, in aught I kan espien.
But for to speken of hire eyen cleere,
Lo, trewely, they writen that hire syen
That Paradis stood formed in hire yën.
And with hire riche beaute evere more
Strof love in hire ay, which of hem was more.

She sobre was, ek symple, and wys withal,
The best ynorisshed ek that myghte be,
And goodly of hire speche in general,
Charitable, estatlich, lusty, fre;
Ne nevere mo ne lakked hire pite;
Tendre-herted, slydynge of corage;
But trewely, I kan nat telle hire age.

And Troilus wel woxen was in highte,
And complet formed by proporcioun
So wel that kynde it nought amenden myghte;
Yong, fressh, strong, and hardy as lyoun;
Trewe as stiel in ech condicioun;
Oon of the beste entecched creature
That is or shal whil that the world may dure.

And certeynly in storye it is yfounde
That Troilus was nevere unto no wight,
As in his tyme, in no degree secounde
In durryng don that longeth to a knyght.
Al myghte a geant passen hym of myght,
His herte ay with the first and with the beste
Stood paregal, to durre don that hym leste.

But for to tellen forth of Diomede:
It fel that after, on the tenthe day
Syn that Criseyde out of the citee yede,
This Diomede, as fressh as braunche in May,
Com to the tente ther as Calkas lay,
And feyned hym with Calkas han to doone;
But what he mente, I shal yow tellen soone.

Criseyde, at shorte wordes for to telle,
Welcomed hym and down hym by hire sette
And he was ethe ynough to maken dwelle!
And after this, withouten longe lette,
The spices and the wyn men forth hem fette;
And forth they speke of this and that yfeere,
As frendes don, of which som shal ye heere.

He gan first fallen of the werre in speche
Bitwixe hem and the folk of Troie town;
And of th'assege he gan hire ek biseche
To telle hym what was hire opynyoun;
Fro that demaunde he so descendeth down
To axen hire if that hire straunge thoughte
The Grekis gise and werkes that they wroughte;

And whi hire fader tarieth so longe
To wedden hire unto som worthy wight.
Criseyde, that was in hire peynes stronge
For love of Troilus, hire owen knyght,
As ferforth as she konnyng hadde or myght
Answerde hym tho; but as of his entente,
It semed nat she wiste what he mente.

572

But natheles, this ilke Diomede
Gan in hymself assure, and thus he seyde:
"If ich aright have taken of yow hede,
Me thynketh thus, O lady myn, Criseyde,
That syn I first hond on youre bridel leyde,
Whan ye out come of Troie by the morwe,
Ne koude I nevere sen yow but in sorwe.

"Kan I nat seyn what may the cause be,
But if for love of som Troian it were,
The which right sore wolde athynken me
That ye for any wight that dwelleth there
Sholden spille a quarter of a tere
Or pitously youreselven so bigile—
For dredeles, it is nought worth the while.

"The folk of Troie, as who seyth, alle and some
In prisoun ben, as ye youreselven se;
Nor thennes shal nat oon on-lyve come
For al the gold atwixen sonne and se.
Trusteth wel, and understondeth me,
Ther shal nat oon to mercy gon on-lyve,
Al were he lord of worldes twiës fyve!

"Swich wreche on hem for fecchynge of Eleyne
Ther shal ben take, er that we hennes wende,
That Manes, which that goddes ben of peyne,
Shal ben agast that Grekes wol hem shende,
And men shul drede, unto the worldes ende,
From hennesforth to ravysshen any queene,
So cruel shal oure wreche on hem be seene.

"And but if Calkas lede us with ambages—
That is to seyn, with double wordes slye,
Swiche as men clepen a word with two visages—
Ye shal wel knowen that I naught ne lie,
And al this thyng right sen it with youre yë,
And that anon, ye nyl nat trowe how sone;
Now taketh hede, for it is for to doone.

"What! Wene ye youre wise fader wolde
Han yeven Antenor for yow anon,
If he ne wiste that the cite sholde
Destroied ben? Whi, nay, so mote I gon!
He knew ful wel ther shal nat scapen oon
That Troian is; and for the grete feere
He dorste nat ye dwelte lenger there.

"What wol ye more, lufsom lady deere?
Lat Troie and Troian fro youre herte pace!
Drif out that bittre hope, and make good cheere,
And clepe ayeyn the beaute of youre face
That ye with salte teris so deface,
For Troie is brought in swich a jupartie
That it to save is now no remedie.

"And thenketh wel, ye shal in Grekis fynde
A moore parfit love, er it be nyght,
Than any Troian is, and more kynde,
And bet to serven yow wol don his myght.
And if ye vouchesauf, my lady bright,
I wol ben he to serven yow myselve,
Yee, levere than he kyng of Greces twelve!"

And with that word he gan to waxen red,
And in his speche a litel wight he quok,
And caste asyde a litel wight his hed,
And stynte a while; and afterward he wok,
And sobreliche on hire he threw his lok,
And seyde, "I am, al be it yow no joie,
As gentil man as any wight in Troie.

"For if my fader Tideus," he seyde,
"Ilyved hadde, ich hadde ben er this
Of Calydoyne and Arge a kyng, Criseyde!
And so hope I that I shal yet, iwis.
But he was slayn—allas, the more harm is!—
Unhappily at Thebes al to rathe,
Polymyte and many a man to scathe.

"But herte myn, syn that I am youre man—
And ben the first of whom I seche grace—
To serve yow as hertely as I kan,
And evere shal whil I to lyve have space,
So, er that I departe out of this place,
Ye wol me graunte that I may to-morwe,
At bettre leyser, telle yow my sorwe."

What sholde I telle his wordes that he seyde?
He spak inough for o day at the meeste.
It preveth wel; he spak so that Criseyde

573

Graunted on the morwe, at his requeste,
For to speken with hym at the leeste
So that he nolde speke of swich matere.
And thus to hym she seyde, as ye may here,

As she that hadde hire herte on Troilus
So faste that ther may it non arace;
And strangely she spak, and seyde thus:
"O Diomede, I love that ilke place
Ther I was born; and Joves, for his grace,
Delyvere it soone of al that doth it care!
God, for thy myght, so leve it wel to fare!

"That Grekis wolde hire wrath on Troie wreke,
If that they myght, I knowe it wel, iwis;
But it shal naught byfallen as ye speke,
And God toforn! And forther over this,
I woot my fader wys and redy is,
And that he me hath bought, as ye me tolde,
So deere, I am the more unto hym holde.

"That Grekis ben of heigh condicioun
I woot ek wel; but certeyn, men shal fynde
As worthi folk withinne Troie town,
As konnyng, and as parfit, and as kynde,
As ben bitwixen Orkades and Inde;
And that ye koude wel yowre lady serve,
I trowe ek wel, hire thank for to deserve.

"But as to speke of love, ywis," she seyde,
"I hadde a lord, to whom I wedded was,
The whos myn herte al was, til that he deyde;
And other love, as help me now Pallas,
Ther in myn herte nys, ne nevere was.
And that ye ben of noble and heigh kynrede,
I have wel herd it tellen, out of drede.

"And that doth me to han so gret a wonder
That ye wol scornen any womman so.
Ek, God woot, love and I ben fer ysonder!
I am disposed bet, so mot I go,
Unto my deth, to pleyne and maken wo.
What I shal after don I kan nat seye;
But trewelich, as yet me list nat pleye.

"Myn herte is now in tribulacioun,
And ye in armes bisy day by day.
Herafter, whan ye wonnen han the town,
Peraventure so it happen may
That whan I se that nevere yit I say
Than wol I werke that I nevere wroughte!
This word to yow ynough suffisen oughte.

"To-morwe ek wol I speken with yow fayn,
So that ye touchen naught of this matere.
And whan yow list, ye may come here ayayn;
And er ye gon, thus muche I sey yow here:
As help me Pallas with hire heres clere,
If that I sholde of any Grek han routhe,
It sholde be youreselven, by my trouthe!

"I say nat therfore that I wol yow love,
Ny say nat nay; but in conclusioun,
I mene wel, by God that sit above!"
And therwithal she caste hire eyen down,
And gan to sike, and seyde, "O Troie town,
Yet bidde I God in quiete and in reste
I may yow sen, or do myn herte breste."

But in effect, and shortly for to seye,
This Diomede al fresshly newe ayeyn
Gan pressen on, and faste hire mercy preye;
And after this, the sothe for to seyn,
Hire glove he took, of which he was ful feyn;
And finaly, whan it was woxen eve
And al was wel, he roos and tok his leve.

The brighte Venus folwede and ay taughte
The wey ther brode Phebus down alighte;
And Cynthea hire char-hors overraughte
To whirle out of the Leoun, if she myghte;
And Signifer his candels sheweth brighte
Whan that Criseyde unto hire bedde wente
Inwith hire fadres faire brighte tente,

Retornyng in hire soule ay up and down
The wordes of this sodeyn Diomede,
His grete estat, and perel of the town,
And that she was allone and hadde nede
Of frendes help; and thus bygan to brede
The cause whi, the sothe for to telle,
That she took fully purpos for to dwelle.

574

The morwen com, and gostly for to speke,
This Diomede is come unto Criseyde;
And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke,
So wel he for hymselven spak and seyde
That alle hire sikes soore adown he leyde;
And finaly, the sothe for to seyne,
He refte hire of the grete of al hire peyne.

And after this the storie telleth us
That she hym yaf the faire baye stede
The which he ones wan of Troilus;
And ek a broche—and that was litel nede—
That Troilus was, she yaf this Diomede.
And ek, the bet from sorwe hym to releve,
She made hym were a pencel of hire sleve.

I fynde ek in stories elleswhere,
Whan thorugh the body hurt was Diomede
Of Troilus, tho wep she many a teere
Whan that she saugh his wyde wowndes blede,
And that she took, to kepen hym, good hede;
And for to helen hym of his sorwes smerte,
Men seyn—I not—that she yaf hym hire herte.

But trewely, the storie telleth us,
Ther made nevere womman moore wo
Than she, whan that she falsed Troilus.
She seyde, "Allas, for now is clene ago
My name of trouthe in love, for everemo!
For I have falsed oon the gentileste
That evere was, and oon the worthieste!

"Allas, of me, unto the worldes ende,
Shal neyther ben ywriten nor ysonge
No good word, for thise bokes wol me shende.
O, rolled shal I ben on many a tonge!
Thorughout the world my belle shal be ronge!
And wommen moost wol haten me of alle.
Allas, that swich a cas me sholde falle!

"Thei wol seyn, in as muche as in me is,
I have hem don deshonour, weylaway!
Al be I nat the first that dide amys,
What helpeth that to don my blame awey?
But syn I se ther is no bettre way,
And that to late is now for me to rewe,
To Diomede algate I wol be trewe.

"But, Troilus, syn I no bettre may,
And syn that thus departen ye and I,
Yet prey I God, so yeve yow right good day,
As for the gentileste, trewely,
That evere I say, to serven feythfully,
And best kan ay his lady honour kepe."
And with that word she brast anon to wepe.

"And certes yow ne haten shal I nevere;
And frendes love, that shal ye han of me,
And my good word, al sholde I lyven evere.
And trewely I wolde sory be
For to seen yow in adversitee;
And gilteles, I woot wel, I yow leve.
But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve."

But trewely, how longe it was bytwene
That she forsok hym for this Diomede,
Ther is non auctour telleth it, I wene.
Take every man now to his bokes heede,
He shal no terme fynden, out of drede.
For though that he bigan to wowe hire soone,
Er he hire wan, yet was ther more to doone.

Ne me ne list this sely womman chyde
Forther than the storye wol devyse.
Hire name, allas, is publysshed so wide
That for hire gilt it oughte ynough suffise.
And if I myghte excuse hire any wise,
For she so sory was for hire untrouthe,
Iwis, I wolde excuse hire yet for routhe.

This Troilus, as I byfore have told,
Thus driveth forth, as wel as he hath myght;
But often was his herte hoot and cold,
And namely that ilke nynthe nyght,
Which on the morwe she hadde hym bihight
To com ayeyn. God woot, ful litel reste
Hadde he that nyght—nothyng to slepe hym leste.

The laurer-crowned Phebus with his heete
Gan, in his cours ay upward as he wente,
To warmen of the est se the wawes weete,

575

And Nysus doughter song with fressh entente,
Whan Troilus his Pandare after sente;
And on the walles of the town they pleyde,
To loke if they kan sen aught of Criseyde.

Tyl it was noon they stoden for to se
Who that ther come, and every maner wight
That com fro fer, they seyden it was she—
Til that thei koude knowen hym aright.
Now was his herte dul, now was it light.
And thus byjaped stonden for to stare
Aboute naught this Troilus and Pandare.

To Pandarus this Troilus tho seyde,
"For aught I woot, byfor noon, sikirly,
Into this town ne comth nat here Criseyde.
She hath ynough to doone, hardyly,
To wynnen from hire fader, so trowe I.
Hire olde fader wol yet make hire dyne
Er that she go—God yeve his herte pyne!"

Pandare answerede, "It may wel be, certeyn.
And forthi lat us dyne, I the byseche,
And after noon than maystow come ayeyn."
And hom they go, withoute more speche,
And comen ayeyn—but longe may they seche
Er that they fynde that they after cape.
Fortune hem bothe thenketh for to jape!

Quod Troilus, "I se wel now that she
Is taried with hire olde fader so,
That er she come, it wol neigh even be.
Com forth; I wol unto the yate go.
Thise porters ben unkonnyng evere mo,
And I wol don hem holden up the yate
As naught ne were, although she come late."

The day goth faste, and after that com eve,
And yet com nought to Troilus Criseyde.
He loketh forth by hegge, by tre, by greve,
And fer his hed over the wal he leyde;
And at the laste he torned hym and seyde,
"By God, I woot hire menyng now, Pandare!
Almoost, ywys, al newe was my care.

"Now douteles, this lady kan hire good;
I woot she meneth riden pryvely.
I comende hire wisdom, by myn hood!
She wol nat maken peple nycely
Gaure on hire whan she comth, but softely
By nyghte into the town she thenketh ride.
And, deere brother, thynk nat longe t'abide.

"We han naught elles for to don, ywis.
And Pandarus, now woltow trowen me?
Have here my trouthe, I se hire! Yond she is!
Heve up thyn eyen, man! Maistow nat se?"
Pandare answerde, "Nay, so mote I the!
Al wrong, by God! What saistow, man? Where arte?
That I se yond nys but a fare-carte."

"Allas, thow seyst right soth," quod Troilus.
"But, hardily, it is naught al for nought
That in myn herte I now rejoysse thus;
It is ayeyns som good I have a thought.
Not I nat how, but syn that I was wrought
Ne felte I swich a comfort, dar I seye;
She comth to-nyght, my lif that dorste I leye!"

Pandare answerde, "It may be, wel ynough," 1170
And held with hym of al that evere he seyde.
But in his herte he thoughte, and softe lough,
And to hymself ful sobreliche he seyde,
"From haselwode, there joly Robyn pleyde,
Shal come al that thow abidest heere.
Ye, fare wel al the snow of ferne yere!"

The warden of the yates gan to calle
The folk which that withoute the yates were,
And bad hem dryven in hire bestes alle,
Or all the nyght they moste bleven there.
And fer withinne the nyght, with many a teere,
This Troilus gan homward for to ride,
For wel he seth it helpeth naught t'abide.

But natheles, he gladed hym in this:
He thought he misacounted hadde his day,

576

And seyde, "I understonde have al amys.
For thilke nyght I last Criseyde say,
She seyde, 'I shal ben here, if that I may,
Er that the moone, O deere herte swete,
The Leoun passe, out of this Ariete.'

"For which she may yet holde al hire byheste."
And on the morwe unto the yate he wente,
And up and down, by west and ek by este,
Upon the walles made he many a wente.
But al for nought; his hope alwey hym blente.
For which at nyght, in sorwe and sikes sore,
He wente hym hom, withouten any more.

His hope al clene out of his herte fledde;
He nath wheron now lenger for to honge;
But for the peyne hym thoughte his herte bledde,
So were his throwes sharpe and wonder stronge;
For whan he saugh that she abood so longe,
He nyste what he juggen of it myghte,
Syn she hath broken that she hym bihighte.

The thridde, ferthe, fifte, sexte day
After tho dayes ten of which I tolde,
Bitwixen hope and drede his herte lay,
Yet somwhat trustyng on hire hestes olde.
But whan he saugh she nolde hire terme holde,
He kan now sen non other remedie
But for to shape hym soone for to dye.

Therwith the wikked spirit, God us blesse,
Which that men clepeth woode jalousie,
Gan in hym crepe, in al this hevynesse;
For which, by cause he wolde soone dye,
He ne et ne drank, for his malencolye,
And ek from every compaignye he fledde:
This was the lif that al the tyme he ledde.

He so defet was, that no manere man
Unneth hym myghte knowen ther he wente;
So was he lene, and therto pale and wan,
And feble, that he walketh by potente;
And with his ire he thus hymselve shente.
But whoso axed hym wherof hym smerte,
He seyde his harm was al aboute his herte.

Priam ful ofte, and ek his moder deere,
His bretheren and his sustren gonne hym freyne
Whi he so sorwful was in al his cheere,
And what thyng was the cause of al his peyne;
But al for naught. He nolde his cause pleyne,
But seyde he felte a grevous maladie
Aboute his herte, and fayn he wolde dye.

So on a day he leyde hym doun to slepe,
And so byfel that yn his slep hym thoughte
That in a forest faste he welk to wepe
For love of here that hym these peynes wroughte;
And up and doun as he the forest soughte,
He mette he saugh a bor with tuskes grete,
That slepte ayeyn the bryghte sonnes hete.

And by this bor, faste in his armes folde,
Lay, kyssyng ay, his lady bryght, Criseyde.
For sorwe of which, whan he it gan byholde,
And for despit, out of his slep he breyde,
And loude he cride on Pandarus, and seyde:
"O Pandarus, now know I crop and roote.
I n'am but ded; ther nys noon other bote.

"My lady bryght, Criseyde, hath me bytrayed,
In whom I trusted most of ony wight.
She elliswhere hath now here herte apayed.
The blysful goddes thorugh here grete myght
Han in my drem yshewed it ful right.
Thus yn my drem Criseyde have I byholde"—
And al this thing to Pandarus he tolde.

"O my Criseyde, allas, what subtilte,
What newe lust, what beaute, what science,
What wratthe of juste cause have ye to me?
What gilt of me, what fel experience
Hath fro me raft, allas, thyn advertence?
O trust, O feyth, O depe asseuraunce!
Who hath me reft Criseyde, al my plesaunce?

"Allas, whi leet I you from hennes go,
For which wel neigh out of my wit I breyde?
Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?
God wot, I wende, O lady bright, Criseyde,
That every word was gospel that ye seyde!

577

But who may bet bigile, yf hym lyste,
Than he on whom men weneth best to triste?

"What shal I don, my Pandarus, allas?
I fele now so sharp a newe peyne,
Syn that ther lith no remedye in this cas,
That bet were it I with myn hondes tweyne
Myselven slowh alwey than thus to pleyne;
For thorugh the deth my wo sholde han an ende,
Ther every day with lyf myself I shende."

Pandare answerde and seyde, "Allas the while
That I was born! Have I nat seyd er this,
That dremes many a maner man bigile?
And whi? For folk expounden hem amys.
How darstow seyn that fals thy lady ys
For any drem, right for thyn owene drede?
Lat be this thought; thow kanst no dremes rede.

"Peraunter, ther thow dremest of this boor,
It may so be that it may signifie
Hire fader, which that old is and ek hoor,
Ayeyn the sonne lith o poynt to dye,
And she for sorwe gynneth wepe and crie,
And kisseth hym, ther he lith on the grounde:
Thus sholdestow thi drem aright expounde!"

"How myghte I than don," quod Troilus,
"To knowe of this, yee, were it nevere so lite?"
"Now seystow wisly," quod this Pandarus;
"My red is this: syn thow kanst wel endite,
That hastily a lettre thow hire write,
Thorugh which thow shalt wel bryngyn it aboute
To know a soth of that thow art in doute.

"And se now whi: for this I dar wel seyn,
That if so is that she untrewe be,
I kan nat trowen that she wol write ayeyn.
And if she write, thow shalt ful sone yse
As wheither she hath any liberte
To come ayeyn; or ellis in som clause,
If she be let, she wol assigne a cause.

"Thow hast nat writen hire syn that she wente,
Nor she to the; and this I dorste laye,
Ther may swich cause ben in hire entente
That hardily thow wolt thiselven saye
That hire abod the best is for yow twaye.
Now writ hire thanne, and thow shalt feele sone
A soth of al. Ther is namore to done."

Acorded ben to this conclusioun,
And that anon, thise ilke lordes two;
And hastily sit Troilus adown,
And rolleth in his herte to and fro
How he may best descryven hire his wo.
And to Criseyde, his owen lady deere,
He wrot right thus, and seyde as ye may here:

Litera Troili.

"Right fresshe flour, whos I ben have and shal,
Withouten part of elleswhere servyse,
With herte, body, lif, lust, thought, and al,
I, woful wyght, in everich humble wise
That tonge telle or herte may devyse,
As ofte as matere occupieth place,
Me recomaunde unto youre noble grace.

"Liketh yow to witen, swete herte,
As ye wel knowe, how longe tyme agon
That ye me lefte in aspre peynes smerte,
Whan that ye wente, of which yet boote non
Have I non had, but evere wors bigon
Fro day to day am I, and so mot dwelle,
While it yow list, of wele and wo my welle.

"For which to yow, with dredful herte trewe,
I write, as he that sorwe drifth to write,
My wo, that everich houre encresseth newe,
Compleynyng, as I dar or kan endite.
And that defaced is, that may ye wite
The teris which that fro myn eyen reyne,
That wolden speke, if that they koude, and pleyne.

"Yow first biseche I, that youre eyen clere
To loke on this defouled ye nat holde;
And over al this, that ye, my lady deere,
Wol vouchesauf this lettre to byholde;

578

And by the cause ek of my cares colde
That sleth my wit, if aught amys m"asterte,
Foryeve it me, myn owen swete herte!

"If any servant dorste or oughte of right
Upon his lady pitously compleyne,
Thanne wene I that ich oughte be that wight,
Considered this, that ye thise monthes tweyne
Han taried, ther ye seyden, soth to seyne,
But dayes ten ye nolde in oost sojourne—
But in two monthes yet ye nat retourne.

"But for as muche as me moot nedes like
Al that yow liste, I dar nat pleyne moore,
But humblely, with sorwful sikes sike,
Yow write ich myn unresty sorwes soore,
Fro day to day desiryng evere moore
To knowen fully, if youre wille it weere,
How ye han ferd and don whil ye be theere;

"The whos welfare and hele ek God encresse
In honour swich that upward in degree
It growe alwey, so that it nevere cesse.
Right as youre herte ay kan, my lady free,
Devyse, I prey to God so moot it be,
And graunte it that ye soone upon me rewe,
As wisly as in al I am yow trewe.

"And if yow liketh knowen of the fare
Of me, whos wo ther may no wit discryve,
I kan namore hut, chiste of every care,
At wrytyng of this lettre I was on-lyve,
Al redy out my woful gost to dryve,
Which I delaye, and holde hym yet in honde,
Upon the sighte of matere of youre sonde.

"Myn eyen two, in veyn with which I se,
Of sorwful teris salte arn waxen welles;
My song, in pleynte of myn adversitee;
My good, in harm; myn ese ek woxen helle is;
My joie, in wo; I kan sey yow naught ellis,
But torned is—for which my lif I warie—
Everich joie or ese in his contrarie;

"Which with youre comyng hom ayeyn to Troie
Ye may redresse, and more a thousand sithe
Than evere ich hadde encressen in me joie.
For was ther nevere herte yet so blithe
To han his lif as I shal ben as swithe
As I yow se; and though no manere routhe
Commeve yow, yet thynketh on youre trouthe.

"And if so be my gilt hath deth deserved,
Or if yow list namore upon me se,
In guerdoun yet of that I have yow served,
Byseche I yow, myn owen lady free,
That hereupon ye wolden write me,
For love of God, my righte lode-sterre,
That deth may make an ende of al my werre;

"If other cause aught doth yow for to dwelle,
That with youre lettre ye me recomforte;
For though to me youre absence is an helle,
With pacience I wol my wo comporte,
And with youre lettre of hope I wol desporte.
Now writeth, swete, and lat me thus nat pleyne;
With hope, or deth, delivereth me fro peyne.

"Iwis, myne owene deere herte trewe,
I woot that whan ye next upon me se,
So lost have I myn hele and ek myn hewe,
Criseyde shal nought konne knowen me.
Iwys, myn hertes day, my lady free,
So thursteth ay myn herte to byholde
Youre beute, that my lif unnethe I holde.

"I say namore, al have I for to seye
To yow wel more than I telle may;
But wheither that ye do me lyve or deye,
Yet praye I God, so yeve yow right good day!
And fareth wel, goodly, faire, fresshe may,
As she that lif or deth may me comande!
And to youre trouthe ay I me recomande,

"With hele swich that, but ye yeven me
The same hele, I shal non hele have.
In yow lith, whan yow liste that it so be,
The day in which me clothen shal my grave;
In yow my lif, in yow myght for to save

579

Me fro disese of alle peynes smerte;
And far now wel, myn owen swete herte!

Le vostre T."

This lettre forth was sent unto Criseyde,
Of which hire answere in effect was this:
Ful pitously she wroot ayeyn, and seyde,
That also sone as that she myghte, ywys,
She wolde come, and mende al that was mys.
And fynaly she wroot and seyde hym thenne,
She wolde come, ye, but she nyste whenne.

But in hire lettre made she swich festes
That wonder was, and swerth she loveth hym best,
Of which he fond but botmeles bihestes.
But Troilus, thow maist now, est or west,
Pipe in an ivy lef, if that the lest!
Thus goth the world. God shilde us fro meschaunce,
And every wight that meneth trouthe avaunce!

Encressen gan the wo fro day to nyght
Of Troilus, for tarying of Criseyde;
And lessen gan his hope and ek his myght,
For which al down he in his bed hym leyde.
He ne eet, ne dronk, ne slep, ne word seyde,
Ymagynyng ay that she was unkynde,
For which wel neigh he wex out of his mynde.

This drem, of which I told have ek byforn,
May nevere outen of his remembraunce.
He thought ay wel he hadde his lady lorn,
And that Joves of his purveyaunce
Hym shewed hadde in slep the signifiaunce
Of hire untrouthe and his disaventure,
And that the boor was shewed hym in figure.

For which he for Sibille his suster sente,
That called was Cassandre ek al aboute,
And al his drem he tolde hire er he stente,
And hire bisoughte assoilen hym the doute
Of the stronge boor with tuskes stoute;
And fynaly, withinne a litel stounde,
Cassandre hym gan right thus his drem expounde:

She gan first smyle, and seyde, "O brother deere,
If thow a soth of this desirest knowe,
Thow most a fewe of olde stories heere,
To purpos how that Fortune overthrowe
Hath lordes olde, thorugh which, withinne a throwe,
Thow wel this boor shalt knowe, and of what kynde
He comen is, as men in bokes fynde.

"Diane, which that wroth was and in ire
For Grekis nolde don hire sacrifice,
Ne encens upon hire auter sette afire,
She, for that Grekis gonne hire so despise,
Wrak hire in a wonder cruel wise;
For with a boor as gret as ox in stalle
She made up frete hire corn and vynes alle.

"To sle this boor was al the contre raysed,
Amonges which ther com, this boor to se,
A mayde, oon of this world the beste ypreysed;
And Meleagre, lord of that contree,
He loved so this fresshe mayden free
That with his manhod, er he wolde stente,
This boor he slough, and hire the hed he sente;

"Of which, as olde bokes tellen us,
Ther ros a contek and a gret envye;
And of this lord descended Tideus
By ligne, or ellis olde bookes lye.
But how this Meleagre gan to dye
Thorugh his moder, wol I yow naught telle,
For al to longe it were for to dwelle."

She tolde ek how Tideus, er she stente,
Unto the stronge citee of Thebes,
To cleymen kyngdom of the citee, wente,
For his felawe, daun Polymytes,

580

Of which the brother, daun Ethiocles,
Ful wrongfully of Thebes held the strengthe;
This tolde she by proces, al by lengthe.

She tolde ek how Hemonydes asterte,
Whan Tideus slough fifty knyghtes stoute.
She tolde ek alle the prophecyes by herte,
And how that seven kynges with hire route
Bysegeden the citee al aboute;
And of the holy serpent, and the welle,
And of the furies, al she gan hym telle;

Of Archymoris brennynge and the pleyes,
And how Amphiorax fil thorugh the grounde,
How Tideus was sleyn, lord of Argeyes,
And how Ypomedoun in litel stounde
Was dreynt, and ded Parthonope of wownde;
And also how Capaneus the proude
With thonder-dynt was slayn, that cride loude.

She gan ek telle hym how that eyther brother,
Ethiocles and Polymyte also,
At a scarmuche ech of hem slough other,
And of Argyves wepynge and hire wo;
And how the town was brent, she tolde ek tho;
And so descendeth down from gestes olde
To Diomede, and thus she spak and tolde:

"This ilke boor bitokneth Diomede,
Tideus sone, that down descended is
Fro Meleagre, that made the boor to blede;
And thy lady, wherso she be, ywis,
This Diomede hire herte hath, and she his.
Wep if thow wolt, or lef, for out of doute,
This Diomede is inne, and thow art oute."

"Thow seyst nat soth," quod he, "thow sorceresse,
With al thy false goost of prophecye!
Thow wenest ben a gret devyneresse!
Now sestow nat this fool of fantasie
Peyneth hire on ladys for to lye?
Awey!" quod he. "Ther Joves yeve the sorwe!
Thow shalt be fals, peraunter, yet tomorwe!

"As wel thow myghtest lien on Alceste,
That was of creatures, but men lye,
That evere weren, kyndest and the beste!
For whan hire housbonde was in jupertye
To dye hymself but if she wolde dye,
She ches for hym to dye and gon to helle,
And starf anon, as us the bokes telle."

Cassandre goth, and he with cruel herte
Foryat his wo, for angre of hire speche;
And from his bed al sodeynly he sterte,
As though al hool hym hadde ymad a leche.
And day by day he gan enquere and seche
A sooth of this with al his fulle cure;
And thus he drieth forth his aventure.

Fortune, which that permutacioun
Of thynges hath, as it is hire comitted
Thorugh purveyaunce and disposicioun
Of heighe Jove, as regnes shal be flitted
Fro folk in folk, or when they shal he smytted,
Gan pulle awey the fetheres brighte of Troie
Fro day to day, til they ben bare of joie.

581

Among al this, the fyn of the parodie
Of Ector gan aprochen wonder blyve.
The fate wolde his soule sholde unbodye,
And shapen hadde a mene it out to dryve,
Ayeyns which fate hym helpeth nat to stryve;
But on a day to fighten gan he wende,
At which—allas!—he caughte his lyves ende.

For which me thynketh every manere wight
That haunteth armes oughte to biwaille
The deth of hym that was so noble a knyght;
For as he drough a kyng by th'aventaille,
Unwar of this, Achilles thorugh the maille
And thorugh the body gan hym for to ryve;
And thus this worthi knyght was brought of lyve.

For whom, as olde bokes tellen us,
Was mad swich wo that tonge it may nat telle,
And namely, the sorwe of Troilus,
That next hym was of worthynesse welle;
And in this wo gan Troilus to dwelle
That, what for sorwe, and love, and for unreste,
Ful ofte a day he bad his herte breste.

But natheles, though he gan hym dispaire,
And dradde ay that his lady was untrewe,
Yet ay on hire his herte gan repaire.
And as thise lovers don, he soughte ay newe
To gete ayeyn Criseyde, brighte of hewe;
And in his herte he wente hire excusynge,
That Calkas caused al hire tariynge.

And ofte tyme he was in purpos grete
Hymselven lik a pilgrym to desgise
To seen hire; but he may nat contrefete
To ben unknowen of folk that weren wise,
Ne fynde excuse aright that may suffise
If he among the Grekis knowen were;
For which he wep ful ofte and many a tere.

To hire he wroot yet ofte tyme al newe
Ful pitously—he lefte it nought for slouthe—
Bisechyng hire that sithen he was trewe,
That she wol come ayeyn and holde hire trouthe.
For which Criseyde upon a day, for routhe—
I take it so—touchyng al this matere,
Wrot hym ayeyn, and seyde as ye may here:

Litera Criseydis.

"Cupides sone, ensample of goodlyheede,
O swerd of knyghthod, sours of gentilesse,
How myght a wight in torment and in drede
And heleles, yow sende as yet gladnesse?
I herteles, I sik, I in destresse!
Syn ye with me, nor I with yow, may dele,
Yow neyther sende ich herte may nor hele.

"Youre lettres ful, the papir al ypleynted,
Conceyved hath myn hertes pietee.
I have ek seyn with teris al depeynted
Youre lettre, and how that ye requeren me
To come ayeyn, which yet ne may nat be;
But whi, lest that this lettre founden were,
No mencioun ne make I now, for feere.

"Grevous to me, God woot, is youre unreste,
Youre haste, and that the goddes ordinaunce
It semeth nat ye take it for the beste.
Nor other thyng nys in youre remembraunce,
As thynketh me, but only youre plesaunce.
But beth nat wroth, and that I yow biseche;
For that I tarie is al for wikked speche.

"For I have herd wel moore than I wende,
Touchyng us two, how thynges han ystonde,
Which I shal with dissymelyng amende.
And beth nat wroth, I have ek understonde
How ye ne do but holden me in honde.
But now no force. I kan nat in yow gesse
But alle trouthe and alle gentilesse.

"Come I wole; but yet in swich disjoynte
I stonde as now that what yer or what day
That this shal be, that kan I naught apoynte.
But in effect I pray yow, as I may,
Of youre good word and of youre frendship ay;

582

For trewely, while that my lif may dure,
As for a frend ye may in me assure.

"Yet preye ich yow, on yvel ye ne take
That it is short which that I to yow write:
I dar nat, ther I am, wel, lettres make,
Ne nevere yet ne koude I wel endite.
Ek gret effect men write in place lite;
Th'entente is al, and nat the lettres space,
And fareth now wel. God have yow in his grace!

La vostre C."

This Troilus this lettre thoughte al straunge
Whan he it saugh, and sorwfullich he sighte;
Hym thoughte it lik a kalendes of chaunge.
But fynaly, he ful ne trowen myghte
That she ne wolde hym holden that she hyghte?
For with ful yvel wille list hym to leve
That loveth wel, in swich cas, though hym greve.

But natheles men seyen that at the laste,
For any thyng, men shal the soothe se;
And swich a cas bitidde, and that as faste,
That Troilus wel understod that she
Nas nought so kynde as that hire oughte be.
And fynaly, he woot now out of doute
That al is lost that he hath ben aboute.

Stood on a day in his malencolie
This Troilus, and in suspecioun
Of hire for whom he wende for to dye.
And so bifel that thorughout Troye town,
As was the gise, iborn was up and down
A manere cote-armure, as seith the storie,
Byforn Deiphebe, in signe of his victorie;

The whiche cote, as telleth Lollius,
Deiphebe it hadde rent fro Diomede
The same day. And whan this Troilus
It saugh, he gan to taken of it hede,
Avysyng of the lengthe and of the brede,
And al the werk; but as he gan byholde,
Ful sodeynly his herte gan to colde,

As he that on the coler fond withinne
A broch that he Criseyde yaf that morwe
That she from Troie moste nedes twynne;
In remembraunce of hym and of his sorwe.
And she hym leyde ayeyn hire feith to borwe
To kepe it ay! But now ful wel he wiste,
His lady nas no lenger on to triste.

He goth hym hom and gan ful soone sende
For Pandarus, and al this newe chaunce,
And of this broche, he tolde hym word and ende,
Compleynyng of hire hertes variaunce,
His longe love, his trouthe, and his penaunce.
And after deth, withouten wordes moore,
Ful faste he cride, his reste hym to restore.

Than spak he thus, "O lady myn, Criseyde,
Where is youre feith, and where is youre biheste?
Where is youre love? Where is youre trouthe?" he seyde.
"Of Diomede have ye now al this feeste!
Allas, I wolde han trowed atte leeste
That syn ye nolde in trouthe to me stonde,
That ye thus nolde han holden me in honde!

"Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?
Allas, I nevere wolde han wend, er this,
That ye, Criseyde, koude han chaunged so;
Ne, but I hadde agilt and don amys,
So cruel wende I nought youre herte, ywis,
To sle me thus! Allas, youre name of trouthe
Is now fordon, and that is al my routhe.

"Was ther non other broch yow liste lete
To feffe with youre newe love," quod he,
"But thilke broch that I, with teris wete,
Yow yaf as for a remembraunce of me?
Non other cause, allas, ne hadde ye
But for despit, and ek for that ye mente
Al outrely to shewen youre entente.

"Thorugh which I se that clene out of youre mynde
Ye han me cast—and I ne kan nor may,
For al this world, withinne myn herte fynde

583

To unloven yow a quarter of a day!
In corsed tyme I born was, weilaway,
That yow, that doon me al this wo endure,
Yet love I best of any creature!

"Now God," quod he, "me sende yet the grace
That I may meten with this Diomede!
And trewely, if I have myght and space,
Yet shal I make, I hope, his sydes blede.
O God," quod he, "that oughtest taken heede
To fortheren trouthe, and wronges to punyce,
Whi nyltow don a vengeaunce of this vice?

"O Pandarus, that in dremes for to triste
Me blamed hast, and wont art oft upbreyde,
Now maistow sen thiself, if that the liste,
How trewe is now thi nece, bright Criseyde!
In sondry formes, God it woot," he seyde,
"The goddes shewen bothe joie and tene
In slep, and by my drem it is now sene.

"And certeynly, withouten moore speche,
From hennesforth, as ferforth as I may,
Myn owen deth in armes wol I seche;
I recche nat how soone be the day!
But trewely, Criseyde, swete may,
Whom I have ay with al my myght yserved,
That ye thus doon, I have it nat deserved."

This Pandarus, that al thise thynges herde,
And wiste wel he seyde a soth of this,
He nought a word ayeyn to hym answerde;
For sory of his frendes sorwe he is,
And shamed for his nece hath don amys,
And stant, astoned of thise causes tweye,
As stille as ston; a word ne kowde he seye.

But at the laste thus he spak, and seyde:
"My brother deer, I may do the namore.
What sholde I seyen? I hate, ywis, Cryseyde;
And, God woot, I wol hate hire evermore!
And that thow me bisoughtest don of yoore,
Havyng unto myn honour ne my reste
Right no reward, I dide al that the leste.

"If I dide aught that myghte liken the,
It is me lief; and of this tresoun now,
God woot that it a sorwe is unto me!
And dredeles, for hertes ese of yow,
Right fayn I wolde amende it, wiste I how.
And fro this world, almyghty God I preye
Delivere hire soon! I kan namore seye."

Gret was the sorwe and pleynte of Troilus,
But forth hire cours Fortune ay gan to holde.
Criseyde loveth the sone of Tideus,
And Troilus moot wepe in cares colde.
Swich is this world, whoso it kan byholde;
In ech estat is litel hertes reste.
God leve us for to take it for the beste!

In many cruel bataille, out of drede,
Of Troilus, this ilke noble knyght,
As men may in thise olde bokes rede,
Was seen his knyghthod and his grete myght;
And dredeles, his ire, day and nyght,
Ful cruwely the Grekis ay aboughte;
And alwey moost this Diomede he soughte.

And ofte tyme, I fynde that they mette
With blody strokes and with wordes grete,
Assayinge how hire speres weren whette;
And, God it woot, with many a cruel hete
Gan Troilus upon his helm to bete!
But natheles, Fortune it naught ne wolde
Of oothers hond that eyther deyen sholde.

And if I hadde ytaken for to write
The armes of this ilke worthi man,
Than wolde ich of his batailles endite;
But for that I to writen first bigan
Of his love, I have seyd as I kan—
His worthi dedes, whoso list hem heere,
Rede Dares, he kan telle hem alle ifeere—

Bysechyng every lady bright of hewe,
And every gentil womman, what she be,
That al be that Criseyde was untrewe,
That for that gilt she be nat wroth with me.
Ye may hire gilt in other bokes se;
And gladlier I wol write, yif yow leste,
Penolopees trouthe and good Alceste.

N'y sey nat this al oonly for thise men,
But moost for wommen that bitraised be

585

Thorugh false folk—God yeve hem sorwe, amen!—
That with hire grete wit and subtilte
Bytraise yow. And this commeveth me
To speke, and in effect yow alle I preye,
Beth war of men, and herkneth what I seye!

Go, litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye,
Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye,
So sende myght to make in som comedye!
But litel book, no makyng thow n'envie,
But subgit be to alle poesye;
And kis the steppes where as thow seest pace
Virgile, Ovide, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.

And for ther is so gret diversite
In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge,
So prey I God that non myswrite the,
Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge;
And red wherso thow be, or elles songe,
That thow be understonde, God I biseche!
But yet to purpos of my rather speche:

The wrath, as I bigan yow for to seye,
Of Troilus the Grekis boughten deere,
For thousandes his hondes maden deye,
As he that was withouten any peere,
Save Ector, in his tyme, as I kan heere.
But—weilawey, save only Goddes wille,
Despitously hym slough the fierse Achille.

And whan that he was slayn in this manere,
His lighte goost ful blisfully is went
Up to the holughnesse of the eighthe spere,
In convers letyng everich element;
And ther he saugh with ful avysement
The erratik sterres, herkenyng armonye
With sownes ful of hevenyssh melodie.

And down from thennes faste he gan avyse
This litel spot of erthe that with the se
Embraced is, and fully gan despise
This wrecched world, and held al vanite
To respect of the pleyn felicite
That is in hevene above; and at the laste,
Ther he was slayn his lokyng down he caste,

And in hymself he lough right at the wo
Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste,
And dampned al oure werk that foloweth so
The blynde lust, the which that may nat laste,
And sholden al oure herte on heven caste;
And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,
Ther as Mercurye sorted hym to dwelle.

Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love!
Swich fyn hath al his grete worthynesse!
Swich fyn hath his estat real above!
Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse!
Swych fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse!
And thus bigan his lovyng of Criseyde,
As I have told, and in this wise he deyde.

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with youre age,
Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte,
And of youre herte up casteth the visage
To thilke God that after his ymage
Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire,
This world that passeth soone as floures faire.

And loveth hym the which that right for love
Upon a crois, oure soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene above;
For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al holly on hym leye.
And syn he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feynede loves for to seke?

Lo here, of payens corsed olde rites!
Lo here, what alle hire goddes may availle!
Lo here, thise wrecched worldes appetites!
Lo here, the fyn and guerdoun for travaille
Of Jove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascaille!

585

Lo here, the forme of olde clerkis speche
In poetrie, if ye hire bokes seche.

O moral Gower, this book I directe
To the and to the, philosophical Strode,
To vouchen sauf, ther nede is, to correcte,
Of youre benignites and zeles goode.
And to that sothfast Crist, that starf on rode,
With al myn herte of mercy evere I preye,
And to the Lord right thus I speke and seye:

Thow oon, and two, and thre, eterne on lyve,
That regnest ay in thre, and two, and oon,
Uncircumscript, and al maist circumscrive,
Us from visible and invisible foon
Defende, and to thy mercy, everichon,
So make us, Jesus, for thi mercy, digne,
For love of mayde and moder thyn benigne.
Amen.

Explicit liber Troili et Criseydis.

588

University of Virginia Library

Troilus and Criseyde

BOOK I

Canticus Troili.

BOOK II

Incipit prohemium secundi libri.

Incipit liber secundus.

BOOK III

Incipit prohemium tercii libri.

Incipit liber tercius.

Canticus Troili.

BOOK IV

Incipit prohemium quarti libri

Incipit liber quartus.

BOOK V Incipit liber quintus.

Canticus Troili.

Litera Troili.

Le vostre T."

Litera Criseydis.

La vostre C."

BOOK V
Incipit liber quintus.