Troylus and Criseyde

Chaucer, Geoffrey

Troylus and Criseyde

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Geoffrey Chaucer

Troylus and Criseyde

Book I

Incipit liber primus

The double sorwe of Troylus to tellen,

That was the Kyng Priamus sone of Troye,

In lovynge, how his aventures fellen

Fro wo to wele, and after out of joye,

My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye.

Thesiphone, thow help me for t'endite

These woful vers, that wepen as I write.

To the clepe I, thow goddesse of torment,

Thow cruel Furie, sorwynge evere yn 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 cheere.

For I, that God of Loves servauntz serve,

Ne dar to Love, for myn unliklynesse,

Preyen for sped, al sholde I therfor sterve,

So fer am I fro his help in derknesse.

But natheles, if this may don gladnesse

Unto ony lovere, and his cause avayle,

Have he my thank, and myn be his travayle.

But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse,

If ony drope of pite in yow be,

Remembreth yow on passed hevynesse

That ye han felt, and on the adversite

Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye

Han felt that Love dorste yow displese,

Or ye han wonne hym with to grete an ese.

And preyeth for hem that ben yn the cas

Of Troylus, as ye may after here,

That Love hem brynge in hevene to solas.

And ek for me, preyeth to God so dere

That I have myght to shewe in som manere

Swych peyne and wo as Loves folk endure,

In Troylus unsely aventure.

And biddeth ek for hem that ben despeyred

In love, that nevere nyl recovered be,

And ek for hem that falsly ben apeyred

Thorugh wykked tonges, be it he or she;

Thus biddeth God, for his benignite,

So graunte hem soone out of this world to pace,

That ben despeyred 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 soule best avaunce,

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 deere.

Now herkneth with a good entencioun,

For now wol I gon streyght to my matere,

In which ye may the double sorwes here

Of Troylus, in lovynge of Criseyde,

And how that she forsok hym er she deyde.

Yt is wel wyst how that the Grekes stronge

In armes with a thousand shippes wente

To Troyewardes, and the cite longe

Assegeden, neigh ten yer er they stente;

And in diverse wyse and oon entente,

The raveshyng to wreken of Eleyne,

By Paris don, thei wroughten al hire peyne.

Now fil it so that in the town ther was

Dwellyng a lord of gret auctorite,

A gret devyn, that clepid was Calkas,

That in science so expert was that he

Knew wel that Troye sholde destroyed 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 swych a peple brynge

Thorugh which that Troye moste ben fordo,

He caste anoon out of the town to go.

For wel wyste he by sort that Troye sholde

Destroyed ben, ye, wolde whoso nolde.

For which for to departen softely

Took purpos ful this forknowyng wyse,

And to the Grekes ost ful pryvely

He stal anoon; and they in curteys wyse

Hym deden bothen worship and servyse,

In trust that he hath konnyng hem to rede

In every peril which that is to drede.

The noyse up ros, whanne it was first aspied,

Thorugh al the town, and generally was spoken

That Calkas, traitour fals, fled was and allyed

With hem of Grece; and casten to ben wroken

On hym that falsly hadde his feith so broken,

And seyden he and al his kyn at onys

Ben worthi for to brennen, fel and bones.

Now hadde Calkas left in this meschaunce,

Al unwist of this false and wikked dede,

His douhter, which that was in gret penaunce,

For of hire lyf she was ful sore in drede,

As she that nyste what was best to rede,

For bothe a wydewe was she and allone

Of ony frend to whom she dorste hire mone.

Criseyde was this lady name al right.

As to my dome, in al Troyes cyte

Nas non so fair, forpassyng every wyght

So angelik was hire natyf beaute

That lyk a thing inmortal semed she,

As doth an hevenysh parfit 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 nygh out of hire wit for sorwe and fere,

In widewes habit large of samyt broun,

On knees she fil byforn Ector adoun;

With pitous voys and tendrely wepynge,

His mercy bad, hireselven 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 gladed hire anon,

And seyde, »Lat youre fadres treson gon

Forth with mischaunce, and ye youreself in joye

Dwelleth with us, whil yow good lyst, in Troye.

And al th'onour that men may don yow have,

As ferforth as youre fader dwelled here,

Ye shul han, 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 wylle,

And took hire leve home and held hire stille.

And in hire hous she abod with swych meyne

As to hire honour nede was to holde,

And whil she was dwelled yn that cyte

Kepte hire estat, and bothe of yong and olde

Ful wel beloved, and wel men of hire tolde –

But whether that she children hadde or noon,

I rede it naught, therfore I late it goon.

The thinges fellen as thei don of werre

Bitwixen hem of Troye and Grekes ofte,

For som day boughten they of Troye it derre,

And eft the Grekes founde nothing softe

The folk of Troye; and thus Fortune on lofte

Now up, now down gan hem to whilen bothe

After hire cours, ay whil that thei were wrothe.

But how this town com to destruccion

Ne falleth naught to purpos me to telle,

For it were here a long digression

Fro my matere, and yow to long to dwelle.

But the Troian gestes as thei felle,

In Omer, or yn Dares, or in Dite,

Whoso that kan may rede hem as thei write.

But though that Grekes hem of Troye shetten,

And hire cyte bisegede al aboute,

Hire olde usage wolde thei not letten

As for to honoure hire goddes ful devoute;

But aldermost yn honour out of doute,

Thei hadde a relyk hight Palladion

That was hire tryst aboven everichon.

And so bifell, whan comen was the tyme

Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede

With newe grene of lusti ver the pryme,

And swoote smellen floures white and rede,

In sondry wyses shewed, as I rede,

The folk of Troye hire observaunces olde,

Palladiones feste for to holde.

And to the temple yn al hire beste wyse,

In general there went many a wight,

To herknen of Palladion the servyse,

And namely so many a lusti knyght,

So many a lady fresch, and mayden bright,

Ful wel arayed, bothe meste and leste,

Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.

Among these othere folk was Criseyda,

In widewes habit blak. But natheles,

Right as oure first lettre is now an A,

In beaute first so stod she makeles.

Hire goodly lokyng gladede al the prees.

Nas nevere yet thing seyn to ben preysed derre,

Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre,

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichone

That hire behelden in hire blake wede.

And yet she stod ful lowe and stille allone,

Byhynden other folk, in litel brede,

And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede,

Symple of atyre and debonaire of chere,

With ful assuryd lokyng and manere.

This Troylus, as he was wont to gyde

His yonge knyghtes, ladde hem up and doun

In thilke large temple on every syde,

Byholding ay the ladyes of the toun,

Now here, now there, for no devocioun

Hadde he to noon, to reven hym his reste,

But gan to preyse and lakken whom hym leste.

And yn his walk ful faste he gan to wayten

If knyght or squyer of his compaignie

Gan for to sike, or lete his eien beyten

On any woman that he koude aspye,

He wolde smyle and holden it folye,

And sey hym thus, »God wot, she slepeth softe

For love of the, whan thou turnest ofte.

I have herd told, pardieux, of youre lyvynge,

Ye loveres, and youre lewede observaunces,

And swich labour as folk han yn wynnynge

Of love, and yn the kepyng which doutaunces;

And whan youre prey is lost, woo and penaunces.

O verray fooles, nyce and blynde be ye!

Ther nys not oon kan war by other be.«

And with that word he gan caste up the browe

Ascaunces, »Lo, is this nought wysely spoken?«

At which the God of Love gan loken rowe

Right for despit, and shop for to ben wroken,

And kyd anoon his bowe nas not broken,

For sodeynly he hit hym at the fulle –

And yet as proud a pekok kan he pulle.

O blynde world, O blynde entencioun!

How often falleth al th'effect contraire

Of surquidrie and foul presumpcioun;

For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire.

This Troylus is clomben on the staire,

And litel weneth that he most descenden –

But alday faileth thyng that foles wenden.

As proude Bayard gynneth for to skyppe

Out of the wey, so priketh hym his corn,

Til he a lasshe have of the longe whippe,

Than thenketh he, »Though I praunce al byforn,

First yn 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 ferse and proude knyght:

Though he a worthi kynges sone were,

And wende nothing hadde had swych myght

Ayens his wil that shold his herte stere,

Yet with a lok his herte wax afere,

That he that now was most in pride above

Wax sodeynly most subget unto love.

Forthi ensample taketh of this man,

Ye wyse, 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 bifalle

That Love is he that alle thing may bynde,

For may no man fordo the lawe of kynde.

That this be soth hath preved and doth yet,

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 yn degre –

This was and is and yet men shal it se.

And trewelich it sit wel to be so,

For alderwisest han therwith ben plesed,

And thei that han ben aldermost in wo

With love han ben comforted most and esed;

And ofte it hath the cruel herte apesed,

And worthi folk maad worthier of name,

And causeth most to dreden vice and shame.

Now sith it may not goodly be withstonde,

And is a thyng so vertuous yn kynde,

Refuseth not to Love for to be bonde,

Syn as hymselven lyste he may yow bynde.

The yerde is bet that bowen wole and wynde

Than that that brest, and therfor I yow rede

To folowen hym that so wel kan yow lede.

But for to tellen forth yn special

As of this kynges sone of which I tolde,

And letten other thing collateral,

Of hym thenk I my tale forth to holde,

Bothe of his joies and of his cares colde,

And al his werk, as touchyng this matere,

For I it gan, I wil therto refere.

Withinne the temple he went hym forth pleyinge,

This Troylus, of every wyght aboute,

On this lady and now on that lokynge,

Where so she were of towne 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 hire bet biholde yn thrifty wyse.

»O mercy God,« thoughte he, »wher hastow woned,

That art so fair and goodly to devyse?«

Therwith his herte gan to sprede and ryse,

And softe sighed lest men myghte hym here,

And caught ayen his firste pleyinge chere.

She nas not with the leste of hire stature,

But alle hire lymes so wel answerynge

Weren to womanhode that creature

Was nevere lasse mannyssh in semynge.

And ek the pure wyse of hire mevynge

Shewed wel that men myght in hire gesse

Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse.

To Troylus right wonder wel with alle

Gan for to lyke hire mevynge and hire chere,

Which somdel deynous was, for she leet falle

Hire look a lite aside in swych manere,

Ascaunces, »What, may I nat stonden here?«

And after that hire lokynge gan she lyghte,

That nevere thought hym seen to fair a sighte.

And of hire look yn hym ther gan to quyken

So gret desir and such affeccioun

That in his hertes botme gan to stiken

Of hire his fixe and depe impressioun.

And though he erst hadde poured up and doun,

He was to glad his hornes yn to shrynke –

Unnethes wyste 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 eyen,

That sodeynly hym thoughte he felte dyen

Right with hire look the spirit in his herte.

Blyssyd be Love that kan thus folk converte!

She, this in blak, lykynge to Troylus

Over al thyng, he stood for to byholde;

Ne his desir, ne wherfor he stod thus,

He neither chere ne made, ne worde tolde;

But from afer, his manere for to holde,

On other thing his look somtyme he caste,

And eft on hire, while that the servise laste.

And after this, not fullych al awhaped,

Out of the temple al esilych he wente,

Repentynge hym that he hadde evere yjaped

Of Loves folk, lest fully the descente

Of scorn fille on hymself. But what he mente,

Lest it were wyst on any maner side,

His wo he gan dissimulen and hide.

Whan he was fro the temple thus departed,

He streyght anoon unto his paleys turneth,

Right with hire look thorugh-shoten and thorugh-darted,

Al feyneth he yn lust that he sojorneth;

And al his speche and cher 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 yn lest,

Ye loveres, for the konnyngeste of yow,

That serveth most ententiflych and best,

Hym tyt as often harm therof as prow.

Youre hire is quyt ayeyn, ye God wot how –

Nought wel for wel, but scorn for good service.

In feith, youre ordre is ruled in good wyse!

In nouncerteyn ben alle youre observaunces,

But it a sely fewe poyntes be.

Ne nothing asketh so grete attendaunces

As doth youre lay, and that knowe alle ye.

But that is not 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 wole it mysconstrue,

And deme it harm yn hire opinyoun;

And yet if she for other enchesoun

Be wroth, than shalt thou han a groyn anoon.

Lord, wel is hym that may ben of yow oon!«

But for al this, whanne he say his tyme,

He held his pes; noon other bote hym gayned.

For love bygan his fetheres so to lyme

That wel unnethe unto his folk he feyned

That other besy nedes hym destrayned;

For wo was hym that what to doon he nyste,

But bad his folk to gon wher that hem lyste.

And whan that he in chambre was allone,

He down upon his beddes feet hym sette,

And first he gan to syke and eft to grone,

And thoughte ay on hire so withouten lette,

That as he sat and wok his spirit mette

That he hire saw a-temple, and al the wyse

Right of hire lok, and gan it newe avyse.

Thus gan he make a myrrour of his mynde,

In which he saugh alle holly hire figure,

And that he wel koude yn his herte fynde.

It was to hym a right good aventure

To love swych on, and yf he dede his cure

To serven hire yet myghte he falle in grace,

Or elles for on of hire servauntz pace;

Ymagynge that travaylle nor grame

Ne myghte for so goodly on be lorn

As she, ne hym for his desir no shame,

Al were it wist, but yn prys and upborn

Of alle lovers wel more than byforn.

Thus argumented he yn his gynnynge,

Ful unavysed of his wo comynge.

Thus tok 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 wyde yblowe

Yelt bittre fruyt, though swete seed be sowe.

And over all this, yet muche 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 anoon 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 nought only the sentence,

As writ myn auctour called Lollyus,

But pleynly, save oure tonge deference,

I dar wel seyn yn al that Troylus

Seyde yn his song, lo every word right thus

As I shal seyn; and whoso lyst it here,

Lo next this vers he may it fynden here.

Cantus Troili

»If no love is, O God, what fele I so?

And if love is, what thyng and which is he?

If love be good, from whenes cometh my wo?

If it be wykke, a wonder thenketh me

Whenne every torment and adversite

That cometh of hym may to me savory thynke,

For ay thurst I, the more that ich it drynke.

And yf that at myn owene lust I brenne,

Fro whennes cometh my waylyng and my pleynte?

If harm agree me, wherto pleyne I thanne? –

I not; ne whi unweri that I feynte.

O quyke deth, O swete harm so queynte,

How may of the yn me swich quantite,

But if that I consente that it be?

And if that I consente, I wrongfully

Compleyne, iwys. Thus possed to and fro,

Al sterles withinne a bot am I

Amyd the see, bitwixen wyndes two

That in contrarye stonden evere mo.

Allas, what is this wondre maladye?

For hete of cold, for cold of hete, I deye.«

And to the God of Love thus seyde he

With pitous vois, »O lord, now youres is

My spirit, which that aughte youre be.

Yow thank I, lord, that han me brought to this,

But whether goddesse or womman, iwys,

She be, I not, which that ye do me serve;

But as hire man I wol ay leve and sterve.

Ye stonden yn hire eyen myghtily,

As yn a place unto your vertu digne,

Wherfore, my lord, if my servyse or I

May lyke yow, so both to me benygne;

For myn estat royal here I resigne

Into hire hond, and with ful humble chere

Bycome hire man, as to my lady dere.«

In hym ne deyned spare blood royal

The fyr of love – the wherfro God me blysse –

Ne hym forbar in no degre, for al

His vertu or his excellent prowesse,

But held hym as his thral lowe yn distresse,

And brende hym so in sondry wyse ay newe,

That sixty tyme a day he loste his hewe.

So muche day by day his owene thought

For lust to hire gan quyken and encrese,

That every other charge he sett at nought.

Forthi ful ofte his hote fyr to cese,

To seen hire goodly look he gan to prese,

For therby to ben esed wel he wende –

And ay the ner he was, the more he brende.

For ay the ner the fyr, the hotter is –

This, trowe I, knoweth al this compaignye.

But were he fer or neer, I dar seye this,

By nyght or day, for wysdom or folye,

His herte, which that is his brestes eye,

Was ay on hire that fairer was to sene

Than evere was Eleyne or Polixene.

Ek of the day ther passed nought an houre

That to hymself a thousand tymes 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 lyf is lost but ye wole on me rewe.«

Alle other dredes weren from hym fledde,

Bothe of th'assege and his salvacioun;

Ne yn hym desir noon other fownes bredde

But argumentes to this conclusioun,

That she of hym wolde han compassioun,

And he to be hire man while he may dure.

Lo, here his lyf, and from the deth his cure.

The shoures sharpe felle of armes preve,

That Ector or his othere bretheren diden,

Ne made hym oonly therfore ones meve;

And yet was he wherso men wente or riden

Founde oon the beste, and lengest tyme abyden

Ther peril was, and dide ek such travayle

In armes, that to thenke it was mervayle.

But for non hate he to the Grekes hadde,

Ne also for the rescous of the town,

Ne made hym thus yn armes for to madde,

But oonly, lo, for this conclusioun,

To lyken hire the bet for his renoun.

Fro day to day yn armes so he spedde

That the Grekes as the deth hym dredde.

And fro this forth tho refte hym love his sleep,

And made his mete his foo, and ek his sorwe

Gan multiplie, that whoso took keep,

It shewed in his hewe bothe eve and morwe.

Therfor a title he gan hym for to borwe

Of other syknesse, lest of hym men wende

That the hote fyr of love hym brende,

And seyde he hadde a fevere and ferde amys.

But how it was, certeyn, kan I not seye,

If that his lady understod not this,

Or feynede hire she nyste, oon of the tweye.

But wel I rede that by no manere weye

Ne semed it as that she of hym roughte,

Nor of his peyne, or whatsoevere he thoughte.

But thanne felt this Troylus such wo

That he was wel neigh wood, for ay his drede

Was this, that she som wyght hadde loved so

That nevere of hym she wolde han taken hede.

For which hym thoughte he felt his herte blede,

Ne of his wo ne dorste he nat bygynne

To tellen hir for al this world to wynne.

But whanne he hadde a space fro his care,

Thus to hymself ful ofte he gan to pleyne;

He seyde, »O fool, now art thow in the snare,

That whilom japedest at loves peyne.

Now artow hent, now gnaw thin owen cheyne.

Thow were ay wont eche lovere reprehende

Of thing fro which thow kanst the nought defende.

What wol now every lovere seyn of the

If this be wist, but evere yn thyn absence

Laughen yn skorn, and seyn, ›Lo, ther goth he

That is the man of so gret sapience;

That held us loveres lest yn reverence.

Now, thonked be God, he may goon in the daunce

Of hem that Love lyst febely for to avaunce.‹

But O thow woful Troylus, God wolde,

Syn thow most loven thurgh thy destene,

That thow beset were on swych oon that sholde

Know al thi wo, al lakked hire pite.

But also cold yn love towardes the

Thi lady is as frost in wynter mone,

And thow fordon as snow yn fyre is soone.

God wolde I were aryved in the port

Of deth, to which my sorwe wil me lede!

A, Lord, to me it were gret comfort.

Than were I quyt of langwysshyng in drede.

For be myn hidde sorwe iblowe on brede,

I shal byjaped ben a thousand tyme

More than that fol of whos folye men ryme.

But now help, God, and ye, swete for whom

I pleyne, icaught, ye, nevere wyght so faste!

O mercy, dere herte, and help me from

The deth, for I while that my lyf may laste,

More than myself, wol love yow to my laste.

And with som frendly look gladeth me, swete,

Though nevere more thyng ye me byhete.«

Thise wordes and ful many an other to

He spak, and called evere yn his compleynte

Hire name, for to tellen hire his woo,

Til neigh that he in salte teres dreynte.

Al was for nought; she herde nought his pleynte.

And whan that he bithought on that folye,

A thousandfold his wo gan multiplie.

Bywayling yn his chambre thus allone,

A frend of his that called was Pandare

Com onys in unwar and herde hym grone,

And say his frend in swych distresse and care.

»Allas,« quod he, »who causeth al this fare?

O mercy God, what unhap may this mene?

Han now thus soone Grekes maad yow lene?

Or hastow som remors of conscience,

And art now fallen yn som devocioun,

And waylest for thi synne and thyn offence,

And hast for ferde caught attricioun?

God save hem that byseged han oure toun,

That so kan leye oure jolyte on presse,

And brynge oure lusty folk to holynesse!«

These wordes seyde he for the nones alle

That with swych thing he myght hym angry maken,

And with an angre don his wo to falle

As for the tyme, and his corage awaken.

But wel he wiste, as fer as tonges spaken,

Ther nas a man of grettere hardinesse

Thanne he, ne more desirede worthinesse.

»What cas,« quod Troylus, »or what aventure

Hath gided the to se me langwysshynge,

That am refus of every creature?

But for the love of God, at my preyinge,

Go hennes awey, for certes my deyinge

Wol the dishese, and I mot nedes deye.

Therfor go wey; ther is na more to seye.

But if thou wene I be thus sike for drede,

It is not so, and therfore scorne nought.

Ther is another thing I take of hede

Wel more than ought 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 sorwe and routhe,

Ful often seyde, »Allas, what may this be?

Now, frend,« quod he, »yf evere love or trouthe

Hath ben, or is, bytwyxen the and me,

Ne do thou nevere such a cruelte

To hide fro thi frend so gret a care.

Wostow nought wel that it am I, Pandare?

I wole parten with the al thyn 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

Hyd not thi wo fro me, but telle it blyve.«

Than gan this Troylus sorwfully to syke,

And seyde hym thus, »God leve it be my beste

To telle it the; for sith it may the lyke,

Yet wol I telle it thowh myn herte breste.

And wel wot I thow mayst don me no reste,

But lest thow deme I truste not to the,

Now herke, frend, for thus it stant with me.

Love, ayens the which whoso defendeth

Hymselven most hym alderlest avayleth,

With desespeir so sorwfully me offendeth

That streyght unto the deth myn herte fayleth,

Therto desir so brennyngly me assayleth,

That to ben slayn it were a gretter joye

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 hyd it wel, I telle it nevere to mo.

For harmes myghte folwen mo than two

If it were wyst; but be thou in gladnesse,

And lat me sterve unknowe of my distresse.«

»How hastow thus unkyndely and longe

Hid this fro me, thow fool?« quod Pandarus.

»Paraunter thow myghte after swych on longe

That myn avys anoon may helpen us.«

»This were a wonder thyng,« quod Troylus.

»Thow koudest nevere yn love thynselven wysse.

How devel maystow bryngen me to blysse?«

»Ye, Troilus, now herke,« quod Pandare,

»Though I be nyce, it happeth ofte so

That on that excesse doth ful yvele fare

By good counseyl kan kepe his frend therfro.

I have myself ek seyn a blynd man go

Ther as he fel that koude loke wyde.

A fool may ek ofte a wys man gyde.

A wheston is no kervyng instrument,

But yet it maketh sharpe kervyng tolys.

And there thow wost that I have ought myswent,

Eschewe thou that, for swych thyng to the scole is –

Thus ofte wyse men ben war by folys.

If thou do so, thi wit is wel bywared.

By his contrari is everything declared.

For how myght evere swetnesse have be knowe

To hym that nevere tasted bitternesse?

Ne no man may be inly glad, I trowe,

That nevere was yn sorwe or som distresse.

Ek 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,

Grevaunces oughte konne, and wel the more

Counsayllen the of that thow art amayed.

Ek the ne oughte not ben yvel apayed,

Thowh I desire with the for to bere

Thyn hevy charge – it shal the lasse dere.

I wot wel that it fareth thus by me

As to thi brother Parys: an hierdesse

Which that icleped was Oenone

Wrot yn a compleynt of hire hevynesse.

Ye say the lettre that she wrot, I gesse?«

»Nay nevere yet, ywis,« quod Troylus.

»Now,« quod Pandare, »herkene, it was thus:

›Phebus, that first fond art of medecyne,‹

Quod she, ›and koude in every wyghtes care

Remede and red by erbess he knew fyne;

Yet to hymself his konnyng was ful bare,

For love hadde hym so bounden yn a snare,

Al for the doughter of the kyng Amete,

That al his craft ne koude his sorwe bete‹.

Ryght so fare I, unhappily for me.

I love oon best, and that me smerteth sore,

And yet peraunter kan I rede the,

And not myself – repreve me no more.

I have no cause, I wot wel, for to sore

As doth an hauk that lysteth for to pleye.

But to thyn help yet somwhat kan I seye.

And of o thyng right siker maystow be,

That certayn, for to dyen in the peyne,

That I shal nevere more discoveren the.

Ne by my trouthe, I kepe not restreyne

The fro thi love, they that it were Eleyne

That is thi brotheres wif, if ich it wyste –

Be what she be, and love hire as the liste!

Therfore, as a frend, fullich yn me assure,

And telle me plat what is thyn enchesoun

And final cause of wo that ye endure?

For douteth nothyng, myn entencioun

Nys nought to yow of reprehencioun,

To speke as now, for no wyght may bireve

A man to love tyl that hym lyst to leve.

And weteth wel that bothe two ben vices:

Mystrusten alle, or elles alle leve.

But wel I wot, the meene of it no vice is,

For for to trusten sum wight is a preve

Of trouth; and forthi wolde I fayn remeve

Thy wrong conseyte, and do the som wyght tryste

Thi wo to telle – and telle me, yf thow lyste.

Thise wyse seyth, ›Wo hym that is allone,

For, and he falle, he hath noon helpe to ryse‹.

And sith thou hast a felawe, tel thi moone;

For this nys not, yn certeyn, the nexte wyse

To wynnen love, as techen us the wyse –

To walwe and wepe as Niobe the queene,

Whos terys yet yn marbel ben yseene.

Lat be thi wepyng and thi drerynesse,

And lat us lyssen wo with other speche.

So may thy woful tyme seme lesse.

Delite not in wo thi wo for to seche,

As doon these foles that hire sorwes eche

With sorwe when they han mysaventure,

And lysten nought to sechen other cure.

Men seyn, to wrecche is consolacioun

To have another felawe yn his peyne.

That oughte wel ben oure opynyoun,

For bothe thow and I, of love we pleyne.

So ful of sorwe am I, soth for to seyne,

That certaynly no more harde grace

May sitte on me, forwhi ther is no space.

If God wol, thou art not agast of me

Lest I wold of thi lady the bygyle.

Thow wost thiself whom that I love, parde,

As I best kan, gon sithen longe while.

And sith thow wost I do it for no wyle,

And sithen I am he in whom thou tristest most,

Tel me sumwhat syn al my wo thow wost.«

Yet Troylus for al this no word seyde,

But longe he lay as stylle as he ded were;

And after this with sikynge he abreyde,

And to Pandarus voys he lente his eere,

And up his eyen caste he, that in feere

Was Pandarus lest that in frenesye

He sholde falle or elles soone dye,

And cride, »Awake!« ful wonderly and sharpe.

»What, slombrestow as yn a lytargie?

Or artow lyk an asse to the harpe,

That hereth soun whan men the strenges plye,

But yn his mynde of that no melodye

May synken hym to glade, for that he

So dul is of his bestialite?«

And with that Pandare of his wordes stente,

And Troylus yet hym nothyng answerde,

Forwhy to telle nas not his entente

To nevere man for whom that he so ferde.

For it is seyd, man maketh ofte a yerde

With which the makere is hymself ybeten

In sondry manere – as thise wyse treten;

And namelich yn his counseyl tellynge

That toucheth love, that oughte ben secre,

For of hymself it wol ynough out sprynge

But yf that it the bet governed be.

Ek somtyme it is a craft to seme fle

Fro thyng which yn effect men hunte faste –

Al this gan Troylus in his herte caste.

But natheles, whan he hadde herd hym crye

»Awake,« he gan to syke wonder sore,

And seyde, »Frend, though that I stille lye,

I am not def. Now pes and cry no more,

For I have herd thi wordes and thi lore;

But suffre me my myschef to bywayle,

For thi proverbes may me nought avayle.

Nor other cure canstow noon for me.

Eke I nyl not be cured; I wol deye.

What knowe I of the queene Niobe?

Lat be thyne olde ensamples, I the preye.«

»No,« quod tho Pandarus, »therfore I seye,

Such is delit of foles to bywepe

Hire wo, but seken bote thei ne kepe.

Now knowe I that ther reson yn the fayleth.

But telle me, yf I wyste what she were

For whom that the al this mysaunter ayleth?

Dorstestow that I telle in hire eere

Thi wo, sith thow darst not 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 bisily,« quod Pandarus,

»As though myn owen lyf lay on this nede?«

»No, certes, brother,« quod this Troylus.

»And why?« – »For that thow sholdest nevere spede.«

»Wostow that wel?« – »Ye, that is out of drede,«

Quod Troylus. »For al that evere ye konne,

She nyl to no swych wrecche as I be wonne.«

Quod Pandarus, »Allas, what may this be,

That thow despered art thus causeles?

What, lyveth not thi lady, bendiste?

How wostow so that thow art graceles?

Such yvel is not alwey boteles.

Why, put not impossible thus thi cure,

Syn thyng to come is oft yn aventure.

I graunte wel that thow endurest wo

As sharp as doth he Ticius yn helle,

Whos stomak foughles tiren everemo,

That highte volturis, as bokes telle.

But I may not endure that thow dwelle

In so unskilful an opynyoun

That of thi wo is no curacioun.

But ones nyltow for thy coward herte,

And for thyn ire and folessh wilfulnesse,

For wantrust, tellen of thi sorwes smerte,

Ne to thyn owen help do bysynesse

As muche as speke a resoun more or lesse,

But lyest as he that lest of nothyng recche –

What womman koude loven such a wrecche?

What may she demen other of thi deth,

If thou thus deye and she not whi it is,

But that for fere is yolden up thi breth,

For Grekes han byseged us, ywys?

Lord, which a thonk then shaltow han of this!

Thus wol she seyn, and al the toun atones,

›The wrecche is ded, the devil have his bones!‹

Thow mayst allone here wepe and crie and knele,

But love a womman that she wot it nought,

And she wole quyte that thow shalt not fele –

Unknowe, unkyst, and lost, that is unsought.

What, many a man hath love ful dere ybought

Twenty wynter that his lady wyste,

That nevere yet his lady mouth he kyste.

What, shulde he therfore fallen in despeyr,

Or be recreaunt for his owene tene,

Or slen hymself, al be his lady feyr?

Nay, nay, but evere yn oon be fressh and greene

To serve and love hys dere hertes queene,

And thenk it is a guerdoun hire to serve

A thowsandfold more than he kan deserve.«

And of that word tok hede Troylus,

And thought anoon what folye he was inne,

And how that hym soth seyde Pandarus,

That for to slen hymself myght he nat wynne,

But bothe doon unmanhod and a synne,

And of his deth his lady nought to wyte,

For of his wo, God woot, she knew ful lyte.

And with that thought he gan ful sore syke,

And seyde, »Allas, what is me best to do?«

To whom Pandare answerde, »Yf the lyke,

The beste is that thow telle me al thi wo.

And have my trowthe, but thow it fynde so

I be thi bote or that it be ful longe,

To pieces do me drawe and sithen honge.«

»Ye, so thow seyst,« quod Troylus tho, »allas,

But God wot, it is not the rather so.

Ful hard were it to helpen yn this cas,

For wel fynde I that Fortune is my fo,

Ne alle the men that riden konne or go

May of hire cruel whiel the harm wythstonde,

For as hire lyst she pleyeth with free and bonde.«

Quod Pandarus, »Than blamestow Fortune

For thow art wroth? Ye, now at erst I se.

Wostow not wel that Fortune ys comune

To every maner wight yn som degre?

And yet thow hast this comfort, lo, parde,

That as hire joyes moten overgone,

So mote hire sorwes passen everychone.

For yf hire whiel stynte anythyng to torne,

Thanne cessed she Fortune anoon to be.

Now, sith hire whiel by no wey may sojourne,

What wostow if hire mutabilite

Ryght as thiselven lyst wol don by the,

Or that she be not fer fro thyn helpynge?

Paraunter thow hast cause for to synge.

And therfore wostow what I the beseche?

Lat be thi wo and turnyng to the grounde,

For whoso lyst have helyng of his leche,

To hym byhoveth first unwrye his wounde.

To Cerberus yn helle ay be I bounde,

Were it for my suster, al thy sorwe,

By my wil she sholde al be thyn tomorwe.

Lok up, I seye, and telle me what she is,

Anoon that I may goon aboute thin nede.

Knowe ich hire ought? For my love, telle me this.

Thenne wolde I hopen rather for to spede.«

Tho gan the veyne of Troylus to blede,

For he was hit and wax al red for shame.

»Aha,« quod Pandare, »here bygynneth game.«

And with that word he gan hym for to shake,

And seyde, »Thef, thow shalt hire name telle.«

But tho gan sely Troylus for to quake

As though men sholde han lad hym into helle,

And seyde, »Allas, of al my wo the welle,

Than is my swete fo called Criseyde.«

And wel neygh with the word for fere he deyde.

And whan that Pandare herd hire name nevene,

Lord, he was glad, and seyde, »Frend so dere,

Now fare aright, for Joves name yn hevene.

Love hath beset the wel; be of good chere.

For of good name and wysdom and manere

She hath ynough, and ek of gentilesse –

If she be fayr, thow wost thyself, I gesse.

Ne nevere saw I a more bounteuous

Of hire estat, ne a gladder, ne of speche

A frendliour, ne a more gracious

For to do wel, ne lasse hadde nede to seche

What for to doon; and al this bet to eche

In honour, to as fer as she may strecche,

A kynges herte semeth by hires a wrecche.

And forthy loke of good comfort thou be,

For certainly, the firste poynt is this,

Of noble corage and wel ordayne,

A man to have pees with himself, ywis.

So oughtest thou, for nought but good it is

To loven wel and in a worthy place.

The oughte nat to clepe it hap, but grace.

And also thenk and therwith glade the

That sith thy lady vertuous is al,

So foloweth it that there is som pite

Amonges alle thyse other in general;

And forthy se that thow in special

Requere not that is ayen hire name,

For vertu streccheth not hymself to shame.

But wel is me that evere I was born

That thou biset art yn so good a place,

For by my trouthe, yn love I dorste have sworn

The sholde nevere han tyd so fayr a grace.

And wostow whi? For thow were wont to chace

At Love yn scorn, and for despit hym calle

Seynt Idyot, lord of these foles alle.

How ofte hastow mad thi nyce japes

And seyd that Loves servantz everychone

Of nycete ben verray Goddes apes;

And some wole mucche hire mete allone,

Lyggyng 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 toke on hem for the colde,

More than ynough, so seydestow ful ofte;

And som han feyned ofte tyme and tolde

How that they wake whan thei slepen softe –

And thus thei wolde han brought hemself alofte,

And natheles were under at the laste.

Thus seidestow, and japedest ful faste.

Yet seidestow that for the more part

These loveres wolden speke in general,

And thoughte that it was a siker art

For faylyng for to assayn overal.

Now may I jape of the if that I shal;

But natheles, though that I sholde deye,

That thow art none of tho I dorste saye.

Now beet thi brest and seye to God of Love,

›Thi grace, lord, for now I me repente

If I mysspak, for now myself I love.‹

Thus sey with al thyn herte yn good entente.«

Quod Troylus, »A, lord, I me consente,

And pray to the my japes thow foryeve,

And I shal nevere more whil I leve.«

»Thow seyst wel,« quod Pandarus, »and now I hope

That thow the goddes wrathe hast al apesed;

And sithen that thow hast wepen 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 ground that bereth the wedys wykke

Bereth eke these holsome herbes as ful ofte;

Next the foule netle, rough and thikke,

The rose waxeth swote and smothe and softe;

And next the valey is the hil alofte;

And next the derke nyght the glade morwe –

And also joye is next the fyn of sorwe.

Now loke that atempre be thy brydel,

And for the beste ay suffre to the tyde,

Or elles alle oure labour is on ydel:

He hasteth wel that wisely kan abyde.

Be diligent and trewe, and ay wel hide,

Be lusty, fre, persevere yn thyn servyce,

And al is wel if thou werk in this wyse.

But he that departed is yn every place

Is nowher hool, as writen clerkes wyse.

What wonder is though swich on have no grace?

Ek wostow how it fareth on som service –

As plaunte a tre or herbe yn sondry wyse,

And on the morwe pulle it up as blyve –

No wonder is though it mow nevere thrive.

And sith that God of Love hath the bystowed

In place digne unto thi worthynesse,

Stond faste, for to good port hastow rowed.

And of thyself, for any hevynesse,

Hope alwey wel; for but if drerynesse

Or over-haste oure bothe labour shende,

I hope of this to maken a good ende.

And wostow whi I am the lasse afered

Of this matere with my nece trete?

For this have I herd seyd of wyse ylered:

Was nevere man ne womman yet bygete

That was unapt to suffren loves hete,

Celestial, or elles love of kynde –

Forthi som grace I hope in hire to fynde.

And for to speke of hire in special,

Hire beaute to bythynke and hire youthe,

It sit hire nought to be celestial

As yet, though that hire lyste bothe and kouthe;

But trewly, it sate hire wel right nowthe

A worthy knyght to loven and cherice –

And but she do I holde it for a vice.

Wherfore I am and wole ben ay redy

To peyne me to do yow this servyse.

For bothe yow to plese thus hope I

Herafterward, for ye beth bothe wyse

And konne it counseyl kepe in such a wyse

That no man shal of it the wiser be.

And so we may ben gladed alle thre.

For by my trowthe, I have right now of the

A good conceyte yn 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 best post, I leve,

Of al his lay, and most his foos to greve.

Ensample whi, se now these wyse clerkes

That erren aldermost ayen the lawe,

And ben converted from hire wikked werkes

Thorugh grace of God that lyst hem to hym drawe,

Than arn thei folk that han most God in awe,

And strengest feythed ben, I understonde,

And konne an errour alderbest withstonde.«

Whanne Troylus had herd Pandare assentyd

To ben his help yn lovyng of Cryseyde,

Wex of his wo, as who seyth, untormentyd,

But hotter weex his love, and thus he seyde

With sobre chere although his herte pleyde,

»Now blyssful Venus, help er that I sterve!

Of the, Pandare, I may som thank deserve.

But, dere frend, how shal myn wo be lesse

Til this be don? And, good, eke telle me thisse:

How wyltow seyn of me and my destresse,

Lest she be wroth – this drede I most, iwysse –

Or nyl nat heren or trowen how it ysse?

Al this drede I, and ek for the manere

Of the, hire em, she nyl no swych thyng here.«

Quod Pandarus, »Thou hast a ful grete care

Lest that the cherl may falle out of the mone!

Whi, Lord, I hate of the thi nyce fare.

Whi, entremete of that thow hast to done.

For Goddes love, I bydde the a bone:

So lat me allone, 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 folye

That to my lady I desiren sholde

That toucheth harm or ony vilenye,

For dredles me were levere dye

Than she of me ought elles understode

But that that myghte sownen ynto gode.«

Tho lough this Pandare and anoon answerde,

»And I thi borwh? Fy, no wyght doth but so.

I roughte nought though that she stod and herde

How that thow seyst. But farewel, I wol go.

Adieu. Be glad. God spede us bothe two.

Yeve me this labour and this besynesse,

And of my spede be thyn al that swetnesse.«

Tho Troylus gan doun on knees to falle,

And Pandare yn his armes hente faste,

And seyde, »Now fy on the Grekes alle.

Yet, parde, God shal helpe us atte laste.

And dredeles, yf that my lyf may laste,

And God toforn, lo, som of hem shal smerte;

And yet m'athynketh that this avant me asterte.

Now, Pandare, I kan no more seye,

But thow wys, thow wost, thow mayst, thow art al!

My lyf, my deth, hool yn thyn hond I leye.

Help now!« – Quod he, »Yis, by my trouthe I shal.«

»God yelde the, frend, and this yn special,«

Quod Troylus, »that thou me recomaunde

To hire that to the deth me may comaunde.«

This Pandarus, tho desirous to serve

His fulle frend, thenne seyde yn this manere,

»Fairwel, and thenk I wole thi thank deserve,

Have here my trouthe, and that thou shalt wel here.« –

And went his wey, thenkyng on this matere,

And how he best myghte hire beseche of grace,

And fynde a tyme therto, and a place.

For every wyght that hath an hows to founde

Ne renneth nought the werk for to bygynne

With rakel hond, but he wol byde a stounde,

And send his hertes lyne out fro withinne

Alderfirst his purpos for to wynne.

Al this Pandare yn his herte thoughte,

And caste his werk ful wysly or he wroughte.

But Troylus lay tho no lengere down,

But up anoon upon his stede bay,

And in the feld he pleyde tho lyoun.

Wo was that Grek that with hym mette that day!

And yn the town his manere tho forth ay

So goodly was, and gat hym so yn grace,

That eche hym loved that loked on his face.

For he bycom the frendlyeste wyght,

The gentileste, and ek the moste fre,

The thriftieste and oon the beste knyght

That yn his tyme was or myghte be.

Dede were his japes and his cruelte,

His heighe port, and his manere estraunge –

And ech of tho gan for a vertu chaunge.

Now lat us stynte of Troylus a stounde,

That fareth lyk a man that hurt is sore,

And is somdel of akynge of his wounde

Ilissed wel, but heled no deel moore,

And as an esy pacient the lore

Abit of hym that goth aboute his cure.

And thus he drieth forth his aventure.

Explicit liber primus.

Book II

Incipit prohemium secundi libri.

Owt of these blake wawes for to sayle,

O wynd, O wynd, the weder gynneth clere,

For in this see the bot hath swych travaylle

Of my connyng that unneth I it stere –

This see clepe I the tempestous matere

Of disesper that Troilus was inne –

But now of hope the kalendes bygynne.

O lady myn, that called art Cleo,

Thow be my sped 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 tunge it write.

Wherfore I nel have neyther thank ne blame

Of al this werk, but pray yow mekely,

Disblameth me if ony word be lame,

For as myn auctour seyde, so sey I.

Ek though I speke of love unfelyngly,

No wonder is, for it nothyng of newe is;

A blynd man kan not juggen wel in hewys.

Ye knowe ek that in forme of speche is chaunge

Withinne a thousand yer, and wordes tho

That hadden prys now wonder nyce and straunge

Us thenketh hem, and yet they spake hem so,

And sped as wel in love as men now do.

Eke for to wynnen love in sondry ages,

In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And forthi if it happe yn ony wyse

That here be ony lovere yn this place,

That herkneth as the story wol devyse,

How Troylus com to hys lady grace,

And thenketh, »So nold I nat love purchace,«

Or wondreth on his speche or his doynge,

I not, but it is me no wonderynge;

For every wyght which that to Rome went

Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere.

Ek in some lond were al the game shent

If that thei ferde yn love as men don here,

As thus, in open doyng or in chere,

In vysitynge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes;

Forthi men seyn, ech contre hath his lawes.

Ek scarsly ben ther in this place thre

That han yn love seyd lyk and don yn al,

For to thi purpos this may lyken the,

And the right nought; yet al is seyd or shal.

Ek som men grave in tre, some in ston wal,

As it bitit. But syn I have bigonne,

Myn auctour shal I folwe if I konne.

Explicit prohemium secundi libri.

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 bytydde,

As I shal synge, on Mayes day the thridde,

That Pandarus, for al his wyse 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 grene.

So shop it that hym fil that day a tene

In love, for which yn wo to bedde he wente,

And made er it was day ful many a wente.

The swalwe Proigne with a sorowful lay,

Whan morwe com gan make hire waymentynge,

Whi she forshapen was; and ever lay

Pandare abedde, half yn a slomberynge,

Til she so neigh hym made hire cheterynge,

How Tireux 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 done

From Troylus, and ek his gret emprise,

And cast and knew yn good plyt was the mone

To don viage, and tok his weye ful sone

Unto his neces palays ther bysyde.

Now Janus, god of entre, thow hym gyde!

Whan he was come unto his neces place,

»Wher is my lady?« to hire folk seyde he.

And they hym tolde, and he yn forth gan pace,

And fond two othere ladyes sette, and she,

Withinne a paved parlour, and thei thre

Herden a mayden reden hem the geste

Of the sege of Thebes while hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, »Madame, God yow see,

With yowre faire book and al the compaignye.«

»Ey, uncle myn, welcome ywys,« quod she.

And up she ros, and by the hond in hye

She tok 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, ye shal fare wel the bet,

If God wole, al this yer,« 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? Som good ye me lere!«

»Uncle,« quod she, »youre maystresse 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 Edyppus his sone, and al that dede;

And here we stenten at these 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 the assege of Thebes and al the care,

For herof ben there maked bokes twelve.

But lat be this and telle me how ye fare.

Do wey youre barbe and shewe 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 wydewes lyf, so God you save?

By God, ye maken me ryght sore adrad.

Ye ben so wylde, it semeth that ye rave.

It sate me wel bet ay in a cave

To bydde and rede on holy seyntes lyves.

Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.«

»As evere thrive I,« quod this Pandarus,

»Yet kowde I telle a thyng to doon yow pleye.«

»Now, uncle deere,« quod she, »tel it us,

For Goddes love. Is than the assege aweye?

I am of Grekes so fered that I deye.«

»Nay, nay,« quod he, »as evere mot I thryve,

It is a thyng wel bet than swyche fyve.«

»Ye, holy God,« quod she, »what thyng is that?

What? Bet than swyche fyve? I, nay, iwys!

For al this world ne kan I reden what

It sholde ben. Som jape, I trowe, is this.

And but youreselven telle us what it is,

My wit is for to arede it al to lene.

As help me God, I not nat what ye mene.«

»And I youre borugh, ne nevere shal for me

This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve.«

»And why so, uncle myn? Why so?« quod she.

»By God,« quod he, »that wol I telle as blyve.

For proudder womman were ther noon on lyve,

And ye it wyst, yn al the toun of Troye.

I jape nought, as evere have I joye.«

Tho gan she wondren more than byforn

A thousandfold, and doun hire eyen caste,

For nevere sith the tyme that she was born

To knowe thyng desired she so faste.

And with a syk she seyde hym at the laste,

»Now, uncle myn, I nel yow nowght displese,

Nor axen more that may do yow disese.«

So after this, with many wordes glade,

And frendly tales, and with mery chere,

Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade

In many an unkouth, glad, and dep matere,

As frendes don whanne thei ben met yfere,

Til she gan axen hym how Ector ferde,

That was the townes wal and Grekes yerde.

»Ful wel, I thanke it God,« quod Pandarus,

»Save in his arm he hath a litel wownde –

And ek his fresshe brother Troylus,

The wyse, worthi Ector the secounde,

In whom that alle vertu lyst abounde,

As alle trowth and alle gentilesse,

Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.«

»In good feyth, em,« quod she, »that lyketh me.

They faren wel, God save hem bothe two.

For trewely I holde it gret deynte,

A kynges sone in armes wel to do,

And ben of goode condicions therto.

For gret power and moral vertu here

Is seelde yseye in o persone yfere.«

»In good fayth, that is soth,« quod Pandarus.

»But by my trouthe, the kyng hath sones tweye –

That is to mene, Ector and Troylus –

That certeynly, though that I sholde deye,

They ben as voyde of vices, dar I seye,

As ony men that lyven under the sonne.

Hire myght is wyde yknowe, and what they konne.

Of Ector nedeth it no more for to telle:

In al this world ther nys a bettre knyght

Than he, that is of worthinesse welle,

And he wel more vertu hath than myght.

This knoweth many a wis and worthi wyght.

The same pris of Troylus I seye –

God help me so, I knowe not swyche tweye.«

»Be God,« quod she, »of Ector that is soth.

Of Troylus the same thing trowe I;

For dredeles, men tellen that he doth

In armes day by day so worthily,

And bereth hym here at hom so gentilly

To every wight, that alle prys hath he

Of hem that me were levest preysed be.«

»Ye sey right soth, ywys,« quod Pandarus,

»For yesterday whoso hadde with hym ben,

He myghte han wondred upon Troylus,

For nevere yet so thikke a swarm of ben

Ne fleygh, as Grekes gonne fro hym flen,

And thorugh the feld in every wightes ere

There nas no cry but ›Troylus is there!‹

Now here, now ther, he hunted hem so faste,

Ther nas but Grekes blood, and Troylus.

Now hym he hurte, and hym al down he caste;

Ay wher he wente, it was arayed thus:

He was hire deth, and lyf and sheld for us;

That al that day ther dorste noon withstonde,

Whil that he held his blody swerd in honde.

Therto he is the frendlyeste man

Of gret estat that evere I sawh my lyve,

And wher hym lyst, best felawshipe kan

To suche as hym thenketh able for to thryve.«

And with that word tho Pandarus as blyve

He tok his leve and seyde, »I wol go henne.«

»Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,« quod she thenne.

»What eyleth yow to be thus wery soone,

And namelych of womman? Wol ye so?

Nay, sitteth down. By God, I have to done

With yow, to speke of wysdom er ye go.«

And every wight that was aboute hem tho,

That herde that gan fer awey to stonde,

Whil they two hadde al that hem liste yn honde.

Whan that hire tale al brought was to an ende

Of hire estat and of hire governaunce,

Quod Pandarus, »Now is it tyme I wende.

But yet, I say, aryseth and lat us daunce,

And cast youre wydewes habit to myschaunce.

What lyst yow thus youreself to disfigure,

Sith yow is tyd thus faire an aventure?«

»A, wel bithought, for love of God,« quod she,

»Shal I nat wete what ye mene of this?«

»No, this thyng axeth layser,« tho quod he,

»And eke me wolde muche greve, iwys,

If I it tolde, and ye it toke amys.

Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille

Than sey a soth that were ayeyns youre wylle.

For, nece, by the goddesse Mynerve,

And Juppiter that maketh the thonder rynge,

And by the blysful Venus that I serve,

Ye be the womman in this world lyvynge –

Withoute paramours to my wyttynge –

That I best love and lothest am to greve,

And that ye wete wel yourself, 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 gilt I shal yow nevere offende,

And yf I have er this, I wol amende.

But, for the love of God, I yow biseche,

As ye ben he that most I love and triste,

Lat be to me youre fremde manere speche,

And sey to me, youre nece, what yow lyste.«

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 eyen down to caste,

And Pandarus to koghe gan a lyte,

And seyde, »Nece, alwey, lo, to the laste,

How so it be that som men hem delite

With subtil art hire tales for to endite,

Yet for al that in hire entencioun

Hire tale is al for som conclusioun.

And sithen the ende is every tales strengthe,

And this matere is so byhovely,

What sholde I poynte or drawen it on lenghthe

To yow that ben my frend so feithfully?«

And with that word he gan right inwardly

Byholden hire and loken on hire face,

And seyde, »On suche a mirour, goode grace!«

Thanne thought he thus: »Yf I my tale endite

Ought hard, or make a proces ony while,

She shal no savour han theryn but lite,

And trowe I wold hire in my wyl bygile,

For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle

Thereas they kan not pleynly understonde.

Forthi hire wit to serven wol I fonde.«

And loked on hire yn a besy wyse,

And she was war that he byheld hire so,

And seyde, »Lord, so faste ye me avyse!

Sey ye me nevere er now? What, sey ye no?«

»Yes, yes,« quod he, »and bet wole er I go.

But be my trowthe, I thoughte now yf 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.

And if that he wol take of it no cure

Whan that it cometh, but wylfully it weyven,

Lo, neyther cas nor fortune hym deseyven,

But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse –

And swich a wyght is for to blame, I gesse.

Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye

Ful lightly founden, and ye konne it take;

And for the love of God, and ek of me,

Cache it anoon lest aventure slake.

What sholde I lenger proces of it make?

Yif me youre hond, for yn this world is noon –

If that yow lyst – a wyght so wel bygon.

And sith I speke of good entencioun,

As I to yow have told wel heretoforn,

And love as wel youre honour and renoun

As creature yn al this world yborn,

By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,

And ye be wroth therfore, or wene I lye,

Ne shal I nevere seen yow eft with eye.

Beth nought agast, ne quaketh not. Wherto?

Ne chaungeth not 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 nolde I no such tales brynge.«

»Now, good em, for Goddes love, I prey,«

Quod she, »com of, and telle me what it is.

For both I am agast what ye wol sey,

And ek me longeth it to wyte, ywys;

For whether it be wel or be amys,

Say on, lat me not yn this fere dwelle.«

»So wol I don; now herkeneth. I shal yow telle:

Now, nece myn, the kynges dere sone,

The goode, wyse, worthi, fresshe, and fre,

Which alwey for to don wel is his wone,

The noble Troylus, so loveth the,

That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be.

Lo, here is al. What sholde I more seye?

Doth what yow lyst to make hym lyve or deye.

But if yow late hym deye, I wol sterve.

Have here my trouthe, nece, I nel not lyen,

Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve.«

With that the teres braste out of his eyen,

And seyde, »Yf that ye doon us bothe dyen,

Thus gilteles, than have ye fysshed faire.

What mende ye though that we both apeyre?

Allas, he which that is my lord so dere,

That trewe man, that noble, gentil knyght,

That nought desireth but youre frendly chere,

I se hym deye ther he goth upright,

And hasteth hym with al his fulle myght

For to be slayn, yf fortune wole assente.

Allas, that God yow swich a beaute sente!

If it be so that ye so cruel be

That of his deth yow lyst nought to recche –

That is so trewe and worthi, as ye se –

No more than of a japere or a wrecche,

If it be swych, youre beaute may nat strecche

To make amendes of so cruel a dede.

Avysement is good byfore the nede.

Wo worth the faire gemme vertules!

Wo worth that herbe also that doth no bote!

Wo worth that beaute that is routheles!

Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!

And ye that ben of beaute crop and rote,

If therwithal in you there be no routhe,

Than is it harm ye lyven, by my trouthe.

And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;

For me were levere thow and I and he

Were hanged than I sholde be his baude,

As heygh as men myghte on us alle yse.

I am thyn em; the shame were to me

As wel as the, yf that I sholde assente

Thorugh myn abet that he thyn honour shente.

Now understonde, for I yow nought requere

To bynde yow to hym thorugh no beheste,

But oonly that ye make hym bettre chere

Than ye han don er this, and more feste,

So that his lyf be saved atte leste –

This al and som and playnly oure entente.

God help me so, I nevere other mente!

Lo, this requeste is not but skyle, ywys,

Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.

I sette the worste that ye dredden this:

Men wolden wondren to se hym come or goon.

Ther-ayens answere I thus anoon,

That every wight, but he be fool of kynde,

Wol deme it love of frendshipe yn his mynde.

What, who wol demen though he se a man

To temple go that he th'ymages eteth?

Thenk ek how wel and wysely that he kan

Governe hymself, that he nothyng foryeteth,

That wher he cometh, he prys and thank hym geteth.

And ek therto he shal come here so selde,

What fors were it though al the town behelde?

Swych love of frendes regneth al this town!

And wre yow yn that mantel everemo,

And, God so wys be my salvacioun,

As I have seyd, youre beste is to do so.

But alwey, goode nece, to stynte his wo,

So lat youre daunger sucred ben a lyte,

That of his deth ye be nought for to wyte.«

Criseyde, which that herd hym yn this wyse,

Thought, »I shal fele what he meneth, ywis.«

»Now, em,« quod she, »what wole ye devyse?

What is youre red I shal don of this?«

»That is wel seyd,« quod he, »certayn, best is

That ye hym love ayen for his lovynge,

As love for love is skylful guerdonynge.

Thenk ek how elde wasteth every houre

In eche of yow a partie of beaute;

And therfore, er that age the devoure,

Go love; for olde, ther wil no wight of the.

Lat this proverbe a lore unto yow be:

To late ywar, quod beaute whan it paste,

For elde daunteth daunger at the laste.

The kynges fool is wonted to cryen lowde

Whan that hym thenketh a womman bereth hire heighe,

›So longe mot ye lyve, and alle prowde,

Til crowes feet be growen under youre eye,

And sende yow thanne a myrrour yn to prye

In which that ye may se youre face a-morwe.‹

Nece, I bidde, wisshe yow no more sorwe.«

With this he stente, and caste adown the hed,

And she bygan to breste a-wepe anoon,

And seyde, »Allas for wo, why nere I ded?

For of this world the feyth is al agoon.

Allas, what sholde straunge to me doon,

Whan he that for my beste frend y wende

Ret me to love, and sholde it me defende?

Allas, I wolde han trusted, douteles,

That if that I thurgh my disaventure

Had loved other hym or Achilles,

Ector, or ony 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 red? Is thys my blyssful cas?

Is this the verray mede of youre byheste?

Is al this peynted 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.

»Ay, may it be no bet?« quod Pandarus.

»By God, I shal no more come here this wyke,

And God toforn, that am mystrusted thus.

I se ful 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 Furyes thre of helle, on yow I crye!

So lat me nevere out of this hous departe

If I mente harm or ony 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 lyketh yow that I be ded,

By Neptunus, that god is of the se,

Fro this forth shal I nevere eten bred

Til I myn owen herte blood may se.

For certayn I wol deye as sone as he.«

And up he sterte and on his weye he raughte

Til she hym agayn by the lappe caughte.

Criseyde, which that wel neigh starf for fere,

So as she was the ferfulleste wyght

That myghte be, and herde ek with hire ere,

And saw the sorwful ernest of the knyght,

And in his preyer eke saw noon unright,

And for the harm that myghte ek fallen more,

She gan to rewe and dradde hire wonder sore,

And thoughte thus, »Unhappes fallen thikke

Alday for love, and in such manere cas

As men ben cruel yn hemself and wykke.

And yf this man sle here hymself, allas,

In my presence, it wyl be no solas.

What men of hit wolde deme I kan nat seye:

It nedeth me ful sleyghly for to pleye.«

And with a sorowful syk she sayde thrie,

»A, Lord, what me is tyd a sory chaunce!

For myn estat now lyth in jupartie,

And ek myn emes lif lyth in balaunce.

But natheles, with Goddes governaunce,

I shal don so myn honour shal I kepe,

And ek his lyf« – 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, ywys,« quod he, »myn owene nece dere.«

»Now wel,« quod she, »and I wol don my peyne.

I shal myn herte ayens my lust constreyne.

But that I nyl not holden hym yn honde,

Ne love a man ne kan I not ne may

Ayens my wil; but elles wol I fonde,

Myn honour sauf, plesen hym fro day to day.

Therto nolde I nought onys have seyd nay

But that I drede, as yn my fantasye.

But cesseth cause, ay cesseth maladye.

And here I make a protestacioun,

That yn this proces yf ye depper go,

That certaynly for no salvacioun

Of yow, though that ye sterve bothe two,

Though al the world on o day be my fo,

Ne shal I nevere on hym han other routhe.«

»I graunte wel,« quod Pandare, »by my trouthe.

But may I truste wel therto,« quod he,

»That of this thyng that ye han hight me here,

Ye wole it holden trewly unto me?«

»Ye, doutlees,« quod she, »myn uncle dere.«

»Ne that I shal han cause in this matere,«

Quod he, »to pleyne, or ofter yow to preche?«

»Why no, parde, what nedeth more speche?«

Tho fillen thei yn other tales glade,

Til at the laste, »O good em,« quod she tho,

»For his love which that us bothe made,

Tel me how first ye wysten of his wo.

Wot noon of hit 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 nought go ful longe while,

In-with the paleys 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 herd, as that I welk allone,

How he bygan ful wofully to grone.

Tho gan I stalke softly hym byhynde,

And sikerly, the sothe for to seyne,

As I kan clepe ayen 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 rebel yn myn entente.

Now, mea culpa, lord, I me repente.

O god, that at thi disposicioun

Ledest the fyn – by juste purveyaunce –

Of every wyght, my lowe confessioun

Accepte in gre, and sende me swych penaunce

As liketh the; but from desesperaunce

That may my gost departe awey fro the,

Thow be my sheld for thy benignite.

For certes, lord, so sore hath she me wounded,

That stod in blak, wyth lokyng of hire eyen,

That to myn hertes botme it is ysounded,

Thorugh which I wot that I mot nedes deyen.

This is the werste, I dar me not bywreyen,

And wel the hotter ben the gledes rede

That men hem wrien with asshen pale and dede.‹

Wyth that he smot adown his hed anoon,

And gan to motre, I not what, trewly.

And I awey with that stille gan to goon,

And let therof as nothyng wyst hadde I,

And com ayen anoon, and stod hym by,

And seyde, ›Awake, ye slepen al to longe.

It semeth not that love doth yow longe,

That slepen so that no man may yow wake.

Who sey evere er this so dul a man?‹

›Ye, frend,‹ quod he, ›do ye yowre hedes ake

For love, and lat me lyven as I kan.‹

But though that he for wo was pale and wan,

Yet made he tho as fressh a countenaunce

As though he shulde have led the newe daunce.

This passed forth til now this other day

It fel that I com romynge al allone

Into his chaumbre, and fond how that he lay

Upon his bed; but man so sore grone

Ne herd I nevere, and what that was his mone

Ne wyst I nought, for as I was comynge

Al sodeynly he lefte his compleynynge.

Of which I tok somwhat suspecioun,

And ner I com, and fond he wepte sore;

And God so wys be my salvacioun,

As nevere of thyng hadde I no routhe more.

For neither with engyn ne with no lore

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 bysy no man for to preche,

Ne nevere to wyght so depe was isworn,

Er he me tolde who myghte ben his leche.

But now to yow rehersen al his speche,

Or alle his woful wordes for to sowne,

Ne bid me not, but ye wol se me swowne.

But for to save his lif, and elles nought,

And to noon harm of yow, thus am I dreven.

And for the love of God, that us hath wrought,

Swych cher hym doth that he and I may lyven!

Now have I plat to yow myn herte shryven,

And syn ye wot that myn entent is clene,

Take hede therof, for I noon yvel mene.

And right good thryft I pray to God have ye,

That han swych on ycaught withoute net.

And be ye wys as ye ben fair to se,

Wel yn the ryng than is the ruby set.

There were nevere two so wel imet,

Whanne ye ben his al hool as he is youre –

Ther myghty God yet graunte us se that houre!«

»Nay, therof spak I not, ha, ha!« quod she.

»As helpe me God, ye shenden every deel.«

»O, mercy, dere nece,« anoon quod he,

»What so I spak, I mente nought but wel,

By Mars, the god that helmed is of stel,

Now beth nought wroth, my blod, my nece dere.«

»Now, wel,« quod she, »foryeven be it here.«

With this he tok his leve, and home he wente,

And, Lord so he was glad and wel bygon.

Criseyde aros, no lenger she ne stente,

But streght into hire closet wente anoon,

And sette hire down as stille as ony ston,

And every word gan up and down to wynde

That he hadde seyd, as it com hire to mynde;

And was somdel astonyed in hire thought

Right for the newe cas. But whanne that she

Was ful avised, tho fond she right nought

Of peril why she ought afered be.

For a man may love of possibilite

A womman so his herte may tobreste,

And she naught love ayen but yf hire leste.

But as she sat allone and thoughte thus,

Ascry aros at skarmyssh al withoute,

And men cryde in the strete, »Se, Troylus

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 thurgh this strete he mot to palays ryde.

For other weye is fro the yate noon

Of Dardanus, there opyn is the cheyne.«

With that come he and al his folk anoon,

An esy pas rydynge yn routes tweyne,

Right as his happy day was, soth to seyne,

For which men sayn may nought disturbed be

That shal bytyden of necessitee.

This Troylus sat on his baye stede,

Al armed, save his hed, ful richely,

And wounded was his hors, and gan to blede,

On which he rod a pas ful softely.

But swich a knyghtly sighte trewely

As was on hym was nought, withouten faile,

To loke on Mars that god is of bataile.

So lyk a man of armes and a knyght

He was to sen, fulfild of heigh prowesse;

For bothe he hadde a body and a myght

To don that thing, as wel as hardynesse;

And ek to sen hym yn his gere hym dresse,

So fressh, so yong, so weldy semed he,

It was an hevene upon hym for to se.

His helm tohewen was yn twenty places,

That by a tissew heng his bak byhynde;

His sheld todasshed was with swerdes and maces,

In which men myghte many an arwe fynde

That thirlled 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,

Whan he the peple upon hym herde cryen,

That to biholde it was a noble game,

How sobrelich he caste doun his eyen.

Cryseyde gan al his chere aspien,

And let it so softe yn hire herte synke,

That to hireself she seyde, »Who yaf me drynke?«

For of hire owene thought she wex al red,

Remembryng hire right thus, »Lo, this is he

Which that myn uncle swereth he mot be ded,

But I on hym have mercy and pite.«

And with that thought for pure ashamed she

Gan in hire hed to pulle, and that as faste,

Whil he and al 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 renoun,

His wit, his shap, and ek his gentillesse,

But most hir favour was for his distresse

Was al for hire, and thoughte it was a routhe

To slen swich oon, yf that he mente trouthe.

Now myghte som envious jangle thus,

»This was a sodeyn love. How myght it be

That she so lightly loved Troylus,

Right for the firste syghte, ye, parde?«

Now whoso seith so, mot he nevere the!

For everythyng a gynnyng hath it nede

Er al be wrought, withouten ony drede.

For I sey nought that she so sodeynly

Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne

To lyke hym first, and I have told yow why.

And after that, his manhod and his pyne

Made love withinne hire herte for to myne,

For which by proces and by good servise

He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse.

And also blisful Venus wel arayed

Sat in hire seventhe hows of hevene tho,

Disposed wel and with aspectes payed,

To helpen sely Troilus of his wo.

And soth to seyn she nas not al a fo

To Troilus in his natyvite;

God wot that wel the sonner spedde he.

Now lat us stynte of Troylus a throwe,

That rideth forth, and lat us tourne faste

Unto Criseyde that heng hire hed ful lowe

Ther as she sat allone, and gan to caste

Whereon 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 done best were, and what eschue,

That plited she ful ofte in many folde;

Now was hire herte warm, now was it colde.

And what she thoughte, somwhat shal I write,

As to myn auctour lysteth for to endite.

She thoughte wel that Troylus persone

She knew by sighte, and ek his gentilesse,

And thus she seyde, »Al were it nat to done

To graunte hym love, yet for his worthynesse

It were honour with pley and with gladnesse

In honeste with swych a lord to dele,

For myn estat, and also for his hele.

Ek wel wot I my kynges sone is he;

And sith he hath to se me swych delit,

If I wolde outreliche his sighte flee,

Peraunter he myghte have me in dispit,

Thorugh which I myghte stonde in worse plyt.

Now were I wys me hate to purchace

Withouten nede there I may stonde in grace?

In everythyng I wot, there lith mesure.

For though a man forbede dronkenesse,

He nought forbet that every creature

Be drynkeles for alwey, as I gesse.

Ek sith I wot for me is his distresse,

I ne oughte nat for that thyng hym despise,

Sith it is so he meneth in good wyse.

And eke I knowe of longe tyme agon

His thewes goode, and that he is nat nyse.

Ne avaunter, certeyn, seyth men, is he non;

To wys is he to doon so gret a vyse –

Ne als I nel hym nevere so cherise

That he may make avaunt by juste cause.

He shal me nevere bynde in swich a clause.

Now sette a cas: 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 women al byside hire leve,

And whanne hem leste no more, lat hem byleve.

I thenke ek how he able is for to have

Of al this noble town the thryftiest

To ben his love, so she hire honour save.

For out and out he is the worthyest,

Save only Ector which that is the best;

And yet his lif al lyth now in my cure.

But swych is love, and ek myn aventure.

Ne me to love, a wonder is it nought,

For wel wot I myself, so God me spede –

Al wolde I that noon wyste of this thought –

I am oon the faireste, out of drede,

And goodliest whoso taketh hede –

And so men seyn – in al the town of Troye.

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 untyd in lusty lese,

Withouten jalousye or swich debat.

Shal non housbonde seyn to me ›Chekmat.‹

For either they ben ful of jalousye,

Or maisterful, or loven novelrie.

What shal I don? To what fyn lyve I thus?

Shal I nat love in cas yf that me leste?

What, pardieux, I am not religious!

And though that I myn herte sette at reste

Upon this knyght, that is the worthieste,

And kep alwey myn honour and my name,

By alle right, it may do me no shame.«

But ryght as whanne the sonne shyneth bright

In March, that chaungeth ofte tyme his face,

And that a cloud is put with wynd to flyght,

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 fere almost she gan to falle.

That thought was this: »Allas, syn I am fre,

Sholde I now love and put in jupartie

My sikernesse, and thrallen liberte?

Allas, how dorst I thenken that folye?

May I naught wel in other folk aspie

Hire dredfull joye, hire constreynte, and hire peyne?

Ther loveth noon, that she nath why to pleyne.

For love is yet the mooste stormy lyf,

Right to hymself, that evere was bygonne;

For evere som mystrust or nyce stryf

Ther is in love, som cloud is over that sonne.

Therto we wrecched wommen nothyng konne,

Whan us is wo, but wepe and sitte and thynke.

Oure wreche is this, oure owen wo to drynke.

Also these wikked tonges ben so prest

To speke us harm; ek men ben so untrewe

That right anoon as sesed is hire lest,

So cesseth love, and forth to love an newe.

But harm idon is don, whoso it rewe;

For though these men for love hem ferst torende,

Ful sharp bygynnyng breketh ofte at ende.

How ofte tyme hath it yknowe be

The treson that to wommen hath ben do.

To what fyn is swych love I kan nat se,

Or wher bycomth it whenne it is ago.

Ther is no wyght that wot, I trowe so,

Where it bycometh. Lo, no wyght on it sporneth!

That erst was nothyng, into nought it torneth.

How bysy, 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 there be no cause, yet hem semen

Al be for harm that folk hire frendes quemen.

And who may stoppen every wikked tungen –

Or sown of belles, whil that thei be rungen?«

And after that hire thought bygan for to clere,

And seyde, »He which that nothyng undertaketh,

Nothyng n'acheveth, be hym loth or dere.«

And with another thought hire herte quaketh.

Than slepeth hope, and after drede awaketh,

Now hot, now cold; but thus, bytwyxen tweye,

She rist hire up and went hire for to pleye.

Adoun the steyre anoon-right tho she wente

Into the gardeyn, with hire neces thre,

And up and doun ther made many a wente,

Flexippe, she, Tharbe, and Antigone,

To pleyen, that it joye was to se;

And othere of hire wommen a gret rowte

Hire foloweden in the gardeyn al abowte.

This yerd was large, and rayled alle the aleyes,

And shadwed wel with blosmy bowes grene,

And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes,

In which she walketh arm yn arm bytwene,

Til at the laste Antigone the shene

Gan on a Troian song to syngen clere,

That it an heven was hire voys to here.

She seyd, »O Love, to whom I have and shal

Ben humble subgit, trewe yn myn entente,

As I best kan, to yow, lord, yeve ych al,

For everemore, myn herte lust to rente.

For nevere yet thi grace no wight sente

So blyssful cause as me my lyf to lede

In alle joye and surete out of drede.

Ye, blissful god, han me so wel beset

In love, ywys, that al that bereth lyf

Ymagynen ne kowde how to ben bet.

For, lord, withouten jalousye or stryf,

I love oon which that is most ententyf

To serven wel, unwery or unfeyned,

That evere was, and lest with harm distreyned.

As he that is the welle of worthinesse,

Of trouthe ground, myrour of goodlyhed,

Of wit Appollo, ston of sikernesse,

Of vertu rote, of lust fyndere and hed,

Thurgh which is alle sorwe fro me ded.

Iwys, I love hym best, so doth he me.

Now good thryft have he, wherso that he be!

Whom sholde I thanken but yow, God of Love,

Of al this blysse in which to bathe I gynne?

And thonked be ye, lord, for that I love.

This is the righte lyf that I am inne,

To flemen alle manere vice and synne;

This doth me so to vertu for t'entende,

That day by day I in my wil amende.

And whoso seyth that for to love is vice

Or thraldom, though he fele 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 him knowe;

They speken, but they benten nevere his bowe.

What, is the sonne wers of kynde right

Though that a man, for feeblesse of his eyen,

May nought endure on it to se for bryght?

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 caste of stones war hym in the werre!

But I with al myn hert and al my myght,

As I have seyd, wole love unto my laste

My dere hert 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 bygynne,

Now wot I wel ther is no peril inne.«

And of hire song right with that word she stynte.

And therwithal, »Now, nece,« quod Criseyde,

»Who made this song now with so good entente?«

Antigone answerde anoon and seyde,

»Madame, iwys, the goodlyeste mayde

Of gret estat in al the town of Troye,

And led hire lif in most honour and joye.«

»Forsothe, so it semeth by hire song,«

Quod tho Criseyde, and gan therwith to syke,

And seyde, »Lord, is ther such blysse among

These loveres as they konne faire endite?«

»Ye, wys,« quod fresshe Antigone the white,

»For alle the folk that han or ben on lyve

Ne konne wel the blysse of love dyscrive.

But wene ye that every wrecche wot

The parfite blysse of love? Whi, nay, ywys.

They wenen al be love yf oon be hot.

Do wey, do wey, they wot nothyng of this!

Men mosten axe at seyntes if it is

Aught faire yn hevene – why? for they kan telle –

And axen fendes is it foul yn helle.«

Criseyde unto that purpos nought answerde,

But seyde, »Ywys, it wole 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 to agaste

Than it dide erst, and synken in hire herte,

That she wax somwhat able to converte.

The dayes honour and the hevenes eye,

The nyghtes fo – 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 to appere,

That she and alle hire folk in went yfere.

So whan it liked hire to gon to reste,

And voyded were they that voyden oughte,

She seyde that to slepe wel hire leste.

Hire wommen soone til hire bed hire broughte.

Whan al was hust, thanne lay she stille and thoughte

Of al this thyng the manere and the wyse –

Reherce it nedeth nought for ye ben wyse.

A nyghtyngale upon a cedre grene

Under the chambre wal there as she lay

Ful loude sang ayen the mone shene,

Peraunter, yn his bryddes wyse, a lay

Of love, that made hire herte fressh and gay.

That herkened she so longe yn good entente,

Til at the laste the dede slep hire hente.

And as she slep, anoon-right 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 anoon,

And dide his herte into hire brest to goon –

Of which she nought agros, ne nothing smerte –

And forth he fleygh with herte left for herte.

Now lat hire slepe, and we oure tales holde

Of Troylus, that is to palays ryden

Fro the skarmuch of the which I tolde,

And yn his chaumbre sit and hath abyden

Til two or thre of his messages yeden

For Pandarus, and soughten hym ful faste

Til they hym founde and broughte hym at the laste.

This Pandarus com lepyng in atones,

And seide thus, »Who hath ben wel ybete

Today with swerdes and with slynge-stones,

But Troylus that hath caught hym now an hete?«

And gan to jape, and seyde, »Lord, ye so swete!

But rys, and late us soupe and go to reste.«

And he answerd hym, »Do we as the leste.«

With al the haste goodly that they myghte,

They spedde hem fro the soper unto bedde;

And every wyght out at the dore hym dyghte,

And wher hym lyst upon his wey he 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 us slepe.

And don thyn hod; thy nedes spedde be.

And chese if thow wolt synge or daunce or lepe.

At shorte wordes, thow shalt trowe 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 bygonne,

Fro day to day, til this day by the morwe

Hire love of frendshipe have I to the wonne,

And also hath she leyd hire feyth to borwe.

Algate a fot is hameled of thi sorwe!«

What sholde I lenger sermon of it holde?

As ye han herd byfore, al he hym tolde.

But right as floures, thorugh the cold of nyght

Yclosed, stoupen on hire stalkes lowe,

Redressen hem ayen the sonne bryght,

And spreden on hire kynde cours by rowe,

Right so gan tho his eyghen up to throwe

This Troylus, and seyde, »O Venus dere,

Thi myght, thi grace, yhered be it here!«

And to Pandare he held up bothe his hondes,

And seyde, »Lord, al thyn be that I have!

For I am hol; 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 joye it wol tosterte.

But, Lord, how shal I don? How shal I lyven?

Whanne shal I next my dere herte se?

How shal this longe tyme awey be dryven

Til that thow be ayen at hire fro me?

Thow mayst answere, ›Abyd, abyd,‹ but he

That hangeth by the nekke, soth to seyne,

In grete dishese abydeth for the peyne.«

»Al esily now, for the love of Marte,«

Quod Pandarus, »for everythyng hath tyme.

So longe abyd til that the nyght departe;

For al so syker as thow lyst here by me,

And God toforn, I wol be there at pryme.

And forthi, werk somwhat as I shal seye,

Or on som other wyght this charge leye.

For parde, God wot I have evere yit

Ben redy the to serve, and to this nyght

Have I nought fayned, but emforth my wit

Don al thi lust, and shal with al my myght.

Do now as I shal seye and fare aryght.

And if thow nylt, wyte al thiself thy care;

On me ys nought ylong thyn yvel fare.

I wot wel that thow wyser art than I

A thousand fold, but yf I were as thow,

God help me so, as I wolde outrely

Of myn owene hond write hire right now

A lettre in which I wolde hire telle how

I ferde amys, and hire beseche of routhe.

Now help thiself and leve it not for slouthe.

And I mynself wil therwith to hire gon;

And whanne thow wost that I am with hire there,

Worth thow upon a courser right anon,

Ye, hardyly, ryght 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 wyndowe ynto the strete lokynge.

And yf the lyst, than maystow us saluwe,

And upon me make thi contenaunce.

But by thy lyf bewar and faste eschuwe

To taryen ought – God shilde us fro myschaunce –

Ride forth thi wey and hold thy governaunce.

And we shal spek of the somwhat, I trowe,

Whan thow art goon, to don thyne eeres glowe.

Towchyng thi lettre, thow art wys ynowh:

I wot thow nylt it digneliche endite,

As make it with thise argumentez towh;

Ne scryvenyssh or craftyly thow it wryte;

Biblotte it with thi teeris eke a lyte;

And yf thow write a goodly word al softe,

Though it be good, reherce it not to ofte.

For though the beste harpour upon lyve

Wolde on the beste souned joly harpe

That evere was, with alle his fyngres fyve

Touche ay o streng, or ay o werbul harpe,

Were his nayles poynted nevere so sharpe,

It shulde maken every wyght to dulle

To here his gle, and of his strokes fulle.

Ne jompre ek no discordant thyng yfere,

As thus, to usen termes of phisyk

In loves termes; hold of thy matere

The forme alwey, and do that it be lyk.

For if a peyntour wolde peynte a pyk

With asses feet and hede it as an ape,

It cordeth nought, so were it but a jape.«

This counseyl liked wel unto Troylus,

But, as a dredful lovere, he seyde this,

»Allas, my dere brother Pandarus,

I am ashamed for to write, ywys,

Lest of myn innocence I seyde amys,

Or that she nolde it for despit receyve.

Thanne were I ded; ther myght it nothyng weyve.«

To that Pandare answered, »Yf 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

Ryght of hire hond. And yf that thow nylt non

Lat be, and sory mot he ben his lyve

Ayens thi lust that helpeth the to thryve.«

Quod Troylus, »Depardieux, ich assente.

Syn that the lyst, I wyl aryse and wryte;

And blysful God I pray with good entente

The viage, and the lettre I shal endite

So spede it; and thow, Mynerva the white,

Yet thow me wit my lettre to devyse.«

And sette hym down and wrot ryght yn this wyse.

Fyrst he gan hire his righte lady calle,

His hertes lyf, his lust, his sorwes leche,

His blysse, and ek this othere termes alle

That yn such cas alle these loveres seche;

And yn ful humble wyse as in his speche

He gan hym recomaunde unto hire grace –

To telle al how, it axeth muche space.

And after this, ful lowely he hire prayde

To be nought wroth thogh he of his folye

So hardy was to hire to write; and seyde

That love it made, or elles most he dye;

And pitously gan mercy for to crye;

And after that he seyde – and ley ful loude –

Hymself was lytel worth, and lesse he koude;

And that she sholde han his konnyng excused,

That litel was; and ek he dredde hire so;

And his unworthynesse he ay acused;

And after that than gan he telle his wo –

But that was endeles, withouten ho –

And seyde he wolde yn trouthe alwey hym holde;

And radde it over, and gan the lettre folde.

And with his salty terys gan he bathe

The ruby yn his signet, and it sette

Upon the wex delyverlyche and rathe.

Therwith a thousand tymes er he lette,

He cussed tho the lettre that he shette,

And seyde, »Lettre, a blysful destene

The shapen is; my lady shal the se.«

This Pandare tok the lettre and that bytyme

A-morwe, and to his neces paleys sterte,

And faste he swor that it was passed pryme,

And gan to jape, and seyde, »Ywys, myn herte

So fressh it is, although it sore smerte,

I may not 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 feyth, myn uncle,« quod she, »dere,

What manere wyndes gydeth yow now here?

Tel us youre joly wo and youre penaunce.

How ferforth be put ye in loves daunce?«

»By God,« quod he, »I hoppe alwey byhynde!«

And she to-laugh, it thoughte hire herte breste.

Quod Pandarus, »Lok alwey that ye fynde

Game in myn hod. But herkneth, yf yow leste,

There is right now ycome into towne a geste,

A Griek espie, and telleth newe thynges,

For which I come to telle yow new tidynges.

Into the gardyn go we and ye shal here

Al prevely of this a long sermon.«

With that they wenten arm in arm yfere

Into the gardeyn from the chaumbre doun.

And whan that he so fer was that the soun

Of that they spoke no man here myghte,

He seyde hire thus, and out the lettre plighte,

»Lo, he that is al holly youres fre,

Hym recomaundeth lowly to youre grace,

And sent you this lettre here by me.

Aviseth 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 stonde stille,

And tok it nought, but al hire humble chere

Gan for to chaunge, and seyde, »Scrit ne bille,

For love of God, that toucheth swich matere,

Ne brynge me noon; and also, uncle dere,

To myn estat have more rewarde, I preye,

Than to his lust. What sholde I more seye?

And loketh now yf this be resonable,

And letteth nought for favour ne for slouthe

To seyn a soth; 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 ayen, for hym that ye on leve!«

This Pandarus gan on hire for to stare,

And seyde, »Now is this the grettest wonder

That evere I sey! Lat be this nyce fare.

To dethe mot I be smet with thonder

If for the cite whiche that stondeth yonder

Wold I a lettre unto yow brynge or take

To harm of yow! What lyst yow thus to make?

But thus ye faren wel nyh al and some

That he that most desireth yow to serve,

Of hym ye recche lest wher he bycome,

And whether that he lyve or elles sterve.

But for al that that ever I may deserve,

Refuse it nought,« quod he, and hent hire faste,

And yn hire bosom the lettre doun he thraste,

And seyde hire, »Now cast it awey anon,

That folk may sen and gauren on us tweye.«

Quod she, »I kan abyde til they be gon«;

And gan to smyle, and seyde hym, »Em, I preye,

Swych answere as yow lyst youreself purveye,

For trewely I wol 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 som of hire wommen to hire calle,

And streyght into hire chaumbre gan she gon;

But of hire byesynesses this was on,

Amonges othere thynges, out of drede,

Ful prevyly 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 went hire yn to dyne.

But Pandarus, that in a study stood,

Or he was war, she took hym by the hood,

And seyde, »Ye were caught er that ye wyste.«

»I vouchesauf,« quod he. »Do what yow lyste.«

Tho wesshen they, and sette hem doun, and ete;

And after noon ful sleyly Pandarus

Gan drawe hym to the wyndowe next the strete,

And seyde, »Nece, who hath arayed thus

The yonder hous, that stont aforyeyn us?«

»Which hous?« quod she, and gan for to byholde,

And knew it wel, and whos it was hym tolde;

And fillen forth yn speche of thynges smale,

And seten yn the wyndowe bothe tweye.

Whan Pandarus sawe tyme unto his tale,

And sawh wel that hire folk were alle aweye,

»Now, nece myn, tel on,« quod he. »I seye,

How liketh yow the lettre that ye wot?

Kan he theron? For by my trouthe, I not.«

Therwith al rosy hewed tho wax she,

And gan to humme, and seyde, »So I trowe.«

»Aquyte hym wel, for Goddes love,« quod he;

»Myself to medes wol the lettre sowe.«

And held his hondes up, and fel on knowe.

»Now, goode nece, be it nevere so lyte,

Yif me the labour it to sowe and plyte.«

»Ye, for I kan so writen,« quod she tho,

»And ek I not what I sholde to hym seye.«

»Nay, nece,« quod Pandare, »sey nat so.

Yet at the leste, thanketh hym, I preye,

Of his good wil, and doth hym not to deye.

Now, for the love of me, my nece dere,

Refuseth not at this tyme my preyere!«

»Depardieux,« quod she, »God leve al be wel.

God help me so, this is the firste lettre

That evere I wrot, ye, al or ony del.«

And into a closet for to avyse hire bettre

She wente allone, and gan hire herte unfettre

Out of disdaynes prison but a lyte,

And sette hire doun, and gan a lettre write.

Of which to telle in short is myn entente

Th' effect, as fer as I kan understonde.

She thonked hym of al that he wel mente

Towardes hire, but holden hym in honde

She wolde nought ne make hireselven bonde

In love, but as his suster, hym to plese,

She wolde ay fayn to don his herte an ese.

She shette it, and in to Pandarus gan gon

Ther as he sat and loked into the strete,

And doun she sette hire by hym on a ston

Of jaspre, upon a quysshon gold-ybete,

And seyde, »As wysly help me God the grete,

I nevere dide thing with more peyne

Than write this, to which ye me constreyne,«

And tok it hym. He thonked hire and seyde,

»God wot, of thing ful ofte loth bygonne

Comth ende good.