University of Virginia Library

XXX. THE LASTE EPISTLE OF CRESEYD TO TROYALUS.

Healthe, healthe to worthy troylus dothe
His sometyme Cresyed send,
If so she may whose lothed lyfe
and lynes at ones must end.
My wish vnseene was but to see
The ones before my deathe,
Which sight vnawares yet longe desyred
Dothe stopp my vitall breathe:
For destinies hathe me well assured
My rewfull race is ronne,
And Atropos with sythe in hande
Is redye to vndone
The fatall threid that Lashesses
and Clotho once did Twyne,
And hightes to haste my welcome deathe
And longe desyred fyne.
The cruell goddes to Creaseyda
Vnfrindlye foes have beyne,
That would to god some sauage beaste
had me devoured cleane.
When I of Troye was calld a chylde,
And Phrigia soyle I sawe,
Would [that] the earthe my little lymms
Into hir wombe had drawe.
Then should no poet haue the cause
Faire Creyseydes treuthe to blame,
nor after this with ladyes falce
Remember Creseydes name;
Ne yet no mann his fickle dame
With Creseyd should vpbraid,
Nor by examples bringe me in
Howe Troyolus was betrayde.
But would to god that Hecuba
Had Priamus will fulfilld,
And Paris as the Prophetts had
Vnlucky ladd had killd;
Or ells that he with Oenon yet
Had taried still in Ide,
And lyke a Sheperd fed his flocke
by old Flamanders syde,
And not for Priams sonne beyne know,
nor Hectors brother namde.
But O! the fates, the froward fates,
hath thus his fortune framde
That he the Swellinge seas should sayle,
And Menelaus wyfe
By rape should bringe, & breid tweene Greekes
And Troians mortall stryfe;
Which in thend, as godes forbidd,
Should tourne in flashye flame
The princely pallace, Illion braue,
Of moste renowme & fame.
O! rather wish I that the songe
Of sousinge seas had drencht
The leiches twayne, & all the fyre
Of loue by water quencht.
Then should no greater Eageon sandes
With shearing shipp haue sought,
Mo thousande barged to thy shore,
O Troya towne, haue brought;
Then should my father Calcas not
His natyve soyle haue fledd,
When he to Tenidos was sent
To seeke Appolloes neid;
And then my haples husband had
Not stand in deadly feilde,
In sight amongst the furious Greekes
All armed vnder sheilde;
Then should myne honour haue beyne kept,
Myne honestye vnfoulde.
But Troyalus thou didst that defend
As well as thester colde:
For thou most trewe, most pacient was,
Moste secret to thy loue,
That euer ladye had ere this
Or after this may proove;
For .3. yeares space no lyffe but one,
One loue that did espye.
But why doe I thus wish & woulde?
I waste but tyme therby;
All thinges that womans prayse should bringe
In me is quyte defyled,
That ought a worthy ladye haue
A Grekisk kinge hathe spoylde;
That shrouded is the shyninge light
As night dothe blisfull daye.
So curse I may the hatefull hower,
Yea, well it curse I maye,
That Anthono by chance of warr
And force of greekes was take,
For whom they me & Thoas sende
A full exchange to make.
Was ther no other pledge, allas!
Or was it me they seike?
Why might not for a Troiayne duke
Suffise a kinge, a Greik?
Nay, mans provision was it not:
It was the deadlye doome
The fates ay from my birthe did threat
Vppon my head should come.
Than out on all these dreyry dames
That destenyes dothe dispyse!
And out on Fortune, fy on hope,
The weauer of my woes!
And now you angry nimphes whose plagues
I feile vppon me ryffe,
Your hate from hence can harme me nought,
Except ye lengthe me lyfe.
But, O my Troylus, if I darr
Vsurpe this phrase aright,
Howe could thy knightly harte consent,
Or eyes abyde the sight,
To see me vnder Diomedes guarde
From Troy to Greikes so stray?
Why slewest thou not thy mortall foe,
And fled with me awaye?
No, thou extemed myne honour soe
Myne honestye to blott;
Thou was affrayde, or ells thou shouldst
Haue done it well, I wote.
For thou no sooner tooke thy loue
Of me, nor from me went,
When Diomede with his sleated lipps
Hathe faste my bridle hent.
And then he sharpes his subtill will,
And faste his brayne he fyles,
And tipps his tongue with Rethoricks sweit,
Bewitchinge me with wyles,
And layethe me forthe his loue alonge,
he no persuasion spares.
Sometymes he Piteous tears dothe shedd,
Some tyme as madd he stayres;
Then dothe he bragg of Parentes stout,
And in these eares of myne
He ringes me out his royall race,
And tells his stately lyne.
Of Meliagers force he boastes,
And howe the Bore he smightes,
And howe his father Tedeus slewe
Well armed fiftye knightes.
Then dothe he promise Golden hills,
Nowe hight me giftes full large,
Forthwith he swears to make me Quene
of Callidon & Arge.
But looke, even as the whiskinge wyndes
Of Borias blasting boulde
Amid the playne & champion feildes
May take no staye or holde,
His talke so one eare fills & out
At t'other streight dothe goe:
For then I was to Troyalus vowed,
I swore to loue no moe.
And thus he prates me on the waye,
Till of the Grekish hoste
We had a sight: he seinge then
His mynde in vayne was loste,
Did hartely pray & me intreat,
As humblie as he can,
T'accept him as my seruant. Lo!
What should I doe? as then
I tooke him, so his painted wordes
So muche did me abuse.
But Troyalus, O moste worthy knight!
Of the I craue excuse.
Too hastye thou may thinke I was,
I might haue yet delayed.
Allas! to hastye may I saye—
What travells longe thou made
And Pandarus, eare ye could bringe
The half of this to passe!
His cursinges weighe me downe to hell,
I feile ther payse, allas!
Nowe, nowe my witt, wher be your help
Some apte excuse to make?
All wemen can devyse at will,
Yet myne, allas! are slacke.
But what excuse may me availe?
My consience is attaint;
For shame I feile my blood to faile,
My dyenge lym̄es are faynte.
And nowe amidd the campe of Greekes
We came, & as we paste,
Myne aged father, glad to se
me, ledd me in as faste.
Thatredes wreakfull brethern bothe
Doe muche my bewtye prayse,
The Lordes of Greece me welcomes bring,
The soldiers on me gaze.
Assoone as Phœbus on the moone
From coutche did clymbe the skyes,
Sir Diomede to the Tent Ilay
With spedy pace him plyes;
And faste he prayes, desyres, intreates
Me him some signe to plight,
Wherby he might be knowne my man,
My seruant, or my knight.
And kyndenes dothe he on me threape,
As all were his at firste,
But yet he frustrate was as then,
Althoughe his harte should burste.
But then my father tolde me that
I must still ther soiourne,
And me assurd I neuer shoulde
To Troye againe retourne.
Then caste I in my troubled mynde
That Troyalus I had lorne,
Who sorrowed then but Cresyda
As ta fountaine he should tourne;
No consolacion could I fynde.
And then considderinge well
Howe I a woman was alone,
And dayly fortunes fell,
What happs might chance me I ne knewe,
I studyed this full longe;
My father olde, Sir Troyalus loste,
Then must I beare eche wronge.
Nowe this, nowe that, I ryfle vpp
Within my buissy brayne;
Whyles will I with my father staye,
Whyles steale to Troye againe.
A sevenight thus I liued—huge fight
was dayly still without,
Stronge garde within—eche thinge presentes
Vnto my harte a doubte.
I pondringe thus, thou sent the Greik,
Sir Diomeid, to his tent,
With woundes profounde & lardge which thou
In Irefull rage him lent;
To whom I came not myndinge evill,
But frindely him to veiwe,
And tooke my leave, lest he anon
Did fresh his mater shewe,
And me besought in humble wyse
To rewe vppon his smarte.
I, reckless wight, to soone, allas!
Did hight him then my harte.
Thou demed full lyte of all this fare,
Thou thoght I was none suche,
Till that on Diomeds cote of armes
Thou spyed the little bruche.
For after that full oft thou wouldste
With Creseyd him vprayde,
And for my sake, as was me tolde,
Thou haste him sore outrayde;
With thawked armes & helme to dasht,
With speare full sharpe Igrounde,
Scarce curable thou pearst his fleshe
With many a grevous wounde.
Why on this traytour stay I thus?
The goddes me on him wreake.
Let fate worke on: lyfe leaves my limms,
Even scarcely may I speake.
He falsed hathe his faithe to me,
And light lied me, allas!
Of force the courte I left, & to
My fathers house did passe.
The crewell godes not yet content
With me to make accordd,
My luringe face they leaper made,
To se me men abhord.
To hospitall by night I stole
My self from sight to saue,
Wher me was giuen a clappinge dishe
My wretched cromms to crave,
As thou me foundst, when as thou caste
Thy golde into my lapp.
Wouldst thou, O Troyalus, thought ther should
haue chanst me suche mishapp?
Ye famous painters wonted were
To drawe with coulers pure
The forme of thinge, with dainty hande,
For euermore endure;
And ye ingrauers, purposely,
Suche artes as erste were paste,
Did beate in massy marble stronge
Eternally to laste;
But loue in mowld of memory
Imprintes in perfitt harte
The loued, so that deathe it self
Can noght the same devert.
As nowe by the, O Troyalus deare,
I plainely may appeare,
Dothe ought resemble yet the shape
That Cresyade once did beare?
It cannot be: but nowe, but nowe,
My ghost must hence depart,
I feile the stinge of gaspinge deathe
Dothe strayne me by the harte.
No gratefull token may I send,
My golden giftes are scante;
My harte to send thou might refuse,
And say it truthe dothe wante.
Except a ringe nought ells I haue
Which thou me gave that night
That ioyned was our hartes in one,
And faythe to others plight;
The which I send in Paper lapte,
Bewashed with my teares,
By him that beares my latest lynes
And funerall that heares.
But this had I almoste forgott,
So troubleth deathe my mynde,
That thou voutchsafe tentere the corps
That of thyne armes hathe wynde,
And on my Tombe some Epitaphe
Engraue as lykes the beste.
So fayre the well!—this lipers knight
Can showe of me the rest.