And whan this Troylus

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 Troye moste nedes twynne,

In remembraunce of hym and of his sorwe,

And she hym leyde ayen hire feyth to borwe

To kepe it ay! But now ful wel he wiste

Hys lady nas no lengere on to tryste.

 

He goth hym hom and gan ful soone sende

For Pandarus, and al this newe chaunce,

And of this broche, he told hym word and ende,

Compleynynge of hire hertes variaunce,

His longe love, his trouthe, and his penaunce;

And after deth, withouten wordes more,

Ful faste he cride, his reste hym to restore.

 

Thanne spak he thus, »O lady myn Criseyde,

Wher is youre feyth, and where is youre byheste?

Where is youre love? Where is youre trouthe?« he seyde.

»Of Diomede have ye now al this feste?

Allas, I wolde have trowed atte leste

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 or don amys,

So cruwel wende I not youre herte, ywys,

To sle me thus! Allas, youre name of trouthe

Is now fordon, and that is al my routhe.

 

Was there noon other broche yow lyste lete

To feffe with youre newe love,« quod he,

»But thilke broch that I, with terys 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 shewe 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

To unloven yow a quarter of a day.

In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway,

That ye that do 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, yf I have myght and space,

Yet shal I make, I hope, his sides blede.

O God,« quod he, »that oughtest taken hede

To fortheren trouthe and wronges to punyce,

Whi nyltow don a vengeaunce on this vice?

 

O Pandarus, that in dremes for to triste

Me blamed hast, and wont art ofte upbreyde,

Now maystow se thiself yf that thow lyste

How trewe is now thi nece, bryght Cryseyde!

In sondry formes, God it wot,« he seyde,

»The goddes shewen bothe joye and tene

In slep, and by my drem it is now sene.

 

And certeynly, withoute more speche,

From hennesforth, as ferforth as I may,

Myn owene 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 iserved,

That ye thus don, I have it nought deserved.«

 

This Pandarus, that alle these thynges herde,

And wist wel he seyde a soth of this,

He nought a word ayen to hym answerde,

For sory of his frendes sorwe he is,

And shamed for his nece hath don amys,

And stant astoned of these causes tweye

As stille as ston – a word ne koude he seye.

 

But at the laste thus he spak and seyde,

»My dere brother, I may the do no more.

What shulde I seyen? I hate, ywys, Criseyde,

And God wot I wol hate hire everemore.

And that thow me bysoughtest don of yore,

Havynge unto myn honour ne my reste

Right no reward, I dede al that the leste.

 

If I dede ought that myghte lyken the,

It is me lef; and of this treson now,

God wot that it a sorwe is unto me.

And dredles, for hertes ese of yow,

Right fayn wolde I amende it, wist I how.

And fro this world almyghti God I preye

Delyvere hire soon – I kan no more seye.«

 

Gret was the sorwe and pleynte of Troylus,

But forth hire cours Fortune ay gan to holde:

Criseyde loveth the sone of Tydeus,

And Troylus mot wepe in cares colde.

Swich is this world, whoso it kan biholde.

In ech estat is litel hertes reste.

God leve us for to take it for the beste!

 

In many cruwel batayle out of drede

Of Troylus, this ilke noble knyght,

As men may in these olde bokes rede,

Was sen his knyghthod and his grete myght.

And dredles, his yre, day and nyght,

Ful cruwely the Grekes ay aboughte;

And alwey most 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 wot, with many a cruwel hete

Gan Troylus upon his helm to bete.

But natheles, Fortune it nought ne wolde

Of others hond that eyther deyen sholde.

 

And yf I hadde ytaken for to writen

The armes of this ilke worthi man,

Than wolde ich of his batayles enditen,

But for that I to writen first bygan

Of his love, I have seyd as I kan –

His worthi dedes, whoso list hem here,

Red Dares, he kan telle hem alle yfere –

 

Bysechyng every lady bryght of hewe

And every gentil womman, what she be,

That al be that Criseyde was untrewe,

That for that gylt she be nat wroth with me –

Ye may hire gilte in other bokes se;

And gladlyer I wol write, yf yow leste,

Penelopees trouthe and goode Alceste.

 

Ne I sey not this alonly for these men,

But most for wommen that bytraysed be

Thorugh false folk – God yeve hem sorwe, amen! –

That with hire grete wit and subtilte

Bytrayse yow. And this commeveth me

To speke, and yn 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 yn som comedye.

But litel bok, no makyng thow n'envye,

But subgit be to alle poesye,

And kys the steppes where as thow seest pace

Virgile, Ovyde, Omer, Lukan, and Stace.

 

And for ther is so gret dyversite

In Englyssh and yn wrytyng of oure tonge,

So prey I God that noon myswryte the,

Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge.

And red wherso thow be, or elles songe,

That thow be understonde, God I beseche –

But yet to purpos of my rathere speche:

 

The wraththe, as I bigan yow for to seye,

Of Troylus the Grekes boughten dere,

For thousandys his hondes maden deye,

As he that was withouten any pere

Save Ector, yn his tyme, as I kan here.

But weylawey, save only Goddes wille,

Despitously hym slowh the fiers Achille.

 

And whan that he was slayn yn this manere,

His lighte gost ful blysfully is went

Up to the holughnesse of the eighte spere,

In convers lettynge everich element;

And ther he saugh with ful avysement

The erratyk sterres, herkenynge armonye

With sownes ful of hevenyssh melodye.

 

And doun from thennes faste he gan avyse

This litel spot of erthe, that with the se

Enbraced is, and fully gan despise

This wrecched world, and held al vanite

To respect of the pleyn felicite

That is yn hevene above; and at the laste,

Ther he was slayn his lokyng down he caste.

 

And yn 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 not laste,

And shulden 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 Troylus for love;

Swych 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 yn this wyse 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 fayre

This world that passeth soone as floures fayre.

 

And loveth hym, the which that right for love

Upon a cros, oure soules for to beye,

First starf, and ros, and sit yn hevene above;

For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,

That wole his herte al holly on hym leye.

And syn he best to love is, and most meke,

What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?

 

Lo here of payens corsed olde rytes;

Lo here what alle hire goddes may avayle;

Lo here these wrecched worldes appetites;

Lo here the fyn and guerdon for travayle

Of Jove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascayle!

Lo here the forme of olde clerkes speche

In poetrie, if ye hire bokes seche.

 

O moral Gower, this bok I directe

To the, and to the, philosophical Strode,

To vouchen sauf ther nede is to corecte

Of youre benygnites and zeles goode.

And to that sothefast 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 yn thre and two and oon,

Uncircumscript and al mayst circumscryve,

Us from visible and invysible foon

Defende, and to thy mercy everychon

So make us, Jesus, for thi mercy digne,

For love of mayde and moder thyn benigne.

Amen.

 

Explicit liber Troili et Criseide.

 

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