And nece myn, Criseyde,

That ye to hym of hard now be ywonne

Oughte he be glad, by God and yonder sonne,

For-whi men seyth, impressiones lyghte

Ful lyghtly ben ay redy to the flyghte.

 

But ye han played tyrant neigh to longe,

And hard was it youre herte for to grave.

Now stynt that ye no lengere on it honge,

Al wolde ye the forme of daunger save;

But hasteth yow to don hym joye have.

For trusteth wel, to longe ydon hardnesse

Causeth despit ful often for distresse.«

 

And right as they declamed this matere,

Lo, Troylus, right at the stretes ende,

Com rydyng with his tenthe som yfere,

Al softly, and thederward gan bende

There as they sete, as was his way to wende

To palays-ward. And Pandarus hym aspyde

And seyde, »Nece, yse who comth here ryde.

 

O fle naught in – he seeth us, I suppose –

Lest he may thynken that ye hym eschuwe.«

»Nay, nay,« quod she, and waxe as red as rose.

With that he gan hire humbly to saluwe

With dredful chere, and oft his hewes muwe,

And up his look debonairly he caste,

And bekked on Pandare, and forth he paste.

 

God wot yf he sat on his hors aright,

Or goodly was beseyn, that like day!

God wot wher he was lyk a manly knyght!

What sholde I drecche or telle of his aray?

Criseyde, which that alle these thynges say,

To telle in short, hire lyked al yfere,

His person, his aray, his look, his chere,

 

His goodly manere, and his gentilesse,

So wel that nevere sith that she was born

Ne hadde she swych a routhe of his destresse.

And how so she hath hard ben here byforn,

To God hope I she hath now kaught a thorn,

She shal nat pulle it out this nexte wyke.

God sende mo swich thornes on to pyke!

 

Pandare, which that stod hire faste by,

Felt iren hot, and he bygan to smyte

And seyde, »Nece, I pray yow hertely,

Telle me that I shal axen yow a lyte.

A womman that were of his deth to wyte,

Withouten his gilt, but for hire lakked routhe,

Were it wel don?« Quod she, »Nay, by my trouthe!«

 

»God help me so,« quod he, »ye sey me soth.

Ye felen wel youreself that I not lye.

Lo, yond he rit.« »Ye,« quod she, »so he doth.«

»Wel,« quod Pandare, »as I have told yow thrye,

Lat be youre nice shame and youre folye,

And spek with hym in esyng of his herte.

Lat nicete not do yow bothe smerte.«

 

But theron was to heven and to done.

Considered alle thyng, it may not be.

And whi? For shame, and it were ek to soone

To graunten hym so gret a liberte.

For playnly hire entente, as seyde she,

Was for to love hym unwist, if she myghte,

And guerdone hym with nothyng but with sighte.

 

But Pandarus thoughte, »It shal not be so.

Yf that I may, this nyce opinioun

Shal not be holde fully monthes two.«

What sholde I make of this a long sermoun?

He moste assente on that conclusioun,

As for the tyme; and whanne that it was eve,

And al was wel, he ros and tok his leve.

 

And on his wey ful faste homward he spedde,

And right for joye he felte his herte daunce;

And Troylus he fond alone abedde,

That lay as doth these loveres in a traunce,

Bytwixen hope and derk desesperaunce.

But Pandarus right at his in-comynge,

He song, as who seyth, »Somwhat I brynge,«

 

And seyde, »Who is in his bed so soone

Yburyed thus?« »It am I, frend,« quod he.

»Who, Troylus? Nay, help me so the mone,«

Quod Pandarus, »thow shalt arise and se

A charme that was sent right now to the,

The which kan helen the of thyn accesse,

Yf thow do forthwith al thi besynesse.«

 

»Ye, thorugh the myght of God,« quod Troylus.

And Pandarus gan hym the lettre take,

And seyde, »Parde, God hath holpen us.

Have here a lyght and loke on al this blake.«

But ofte gan the herte glade and quake

Of Troylus whil that he gan it rede

So as the wordes yaf hym hope or drede.

 

But fynally, he tok al for the beste

That she hym wrot, for sumwhat he byheld

On which hym thoughte he myghte his herte reste,

Al covered she the wordes under sheld.

Thus to the more worthi part he held,

That what for hope and Pandarus byheste,

His grete wo foryede he at the leste.

 

But as we may alday oureselven se,

Thorugh more wode or col the more fyr,

Right so encrees of hope, of what it be,

Therwith ful ofte encresseth ek desir;

Or as an ok cometh of a litel spir,

So thorugh this lettre which that she hym sente

Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.

 

Wherfore I seye alwey that day and nyght

This Troylus gan to desiren more

Thanne he dide erst, thorugh hope, and dide his myght

To pressen on, as by Pandarus lore,

And writen to hire of his sorwes sore.

Fro day to day he leet it nought refreyde

That by Pandare he wrot somwhat or seyde;

 

And dide also his othere observaunces

That to a lovere longeth yn this cas.

And after that thise dees torned on chaunces,

So was he outher glad or seyde allas,

And held after his gistes ay his pas;

And after swyche answeres as he hadde,

So were his dayes sory outher gladde.

 

But to Pandarus alwey was his recours,

And pitously gan ay til hym to pleyne,

And hym bisoughte of red and som socours;

And Pandarus, that sey his wode peyne,

Wex wel neigh ded for ruthe, soth to seyne,

And bysily with al his herte caste

Som of his wo to slen, and that as faste;

 

And seyde, »Lord, and frend, and brother dere,

God wot that thi dishese doth me wo.

But wiltow stynten al this woful chere,

And, by my trouthe, er it be dayes two,

And God toforn, yet shal I shape it so

That thou shalt come into a certeyn place

There as thow mayst thiself hire preye of grace.

 

And certeynly – I not if thow it wost,

But tho that ben expert in love it seye –

It is oon of the thynges furthereth most,

A man to have a leyser for to preye,

And syker place his wo for to bywreye.

For in good herte it mot som routhe impresse

To here and se the giltlees in distresse.

 

Peraunter thynkestow: though it be so

That Kynde wolde don hire to bygynne

To han a manere routhe upon my wo,

Seyth Daunger, ›Nay, thow shalt me nevere wynne.‹

So reuleth hire hire hertes gost withinne

That though she bende, yet she stant on rote.

What in effect is this unto my bote?

 

Thenk hereayens, whan that the sfordy ok,

On which men hakketh ofte for the nones,

Receyved hath the happy tallying strok,

The grete sweigh doth it come al at onys,

As doth these rokkes or thise mylnestones;

For swifter cours cometh thyng that is of wighte,

Whan it descendeth, than don thynges lyghte.

 

And ried that boweth down for every blast,

Ful lightly, cesse wynd, it wol aryse;

But so nyl nought an ok whan it is cast.

It nedeth me nought the longe to forbyse.

Men shal rejoyssen of a gret emprise

Acheved wel, and stant withouten doute,

Al han men ben the lenger theraboute.

 

But, Troylus, yet telle me yf the lest,

A thing now which that I shal axen the:

Which is thi brother that thou lovest best,

As yn thi verray hertes prevyte?«

»Iwys, my brother Deyphebus,« quod he.

»Now,« quod Pandare, »er owres twyes twelve,

He shal the ese, unwyst of it hymselve.

 

Now lat me alone, and werken as I may,«

Quod he. And to Deiphebus wente he tho

Which hadde his lord and grete frend ben ay;

Save Troylus, no man he loved so.

To telle in short, withouten wordes mo,

Quod Pandarus, »I pray yow that ye be

Frend to a cause which that toucheth me.«

 

»Yis, parde,« quod Deiphebus, »wel thow wost,

In al that evere I may, and God tofore,

Al nere it but for man I love most,

My brother Troylus. But sey wherfore

It is, for sith that day that I was bore,

I nas, ne nevere mo to ben I thynke,

Ayens a thyng that myghte the forthynke.«

 

Pandare gan hym thonke and to hym seyde,

»Lo, sire, I have a lady yn this town

That is my nece and called is Criseyde,

Which som men wolden don oppressioun,

And wrongfully have hire possessioun.

Wherfore I of youre lordship yow byseche

To ben oure frend, withouten more speche.«

 

Deiphebus hym answerde, »O, is not this

That thow spekest of to me so straungely

Criseyda, my frend?« He seyde, »Yis.«

»Than nedeth,« quod Deiphebus, »hardely,

No more to speke, for trusteth wel that I

Wol be hire chaumpioun with spore and yerde;

I roughte nought though alle hire foos it herde.

 

But telle me, thow that wost alle this matere,

How I myght best avaylen.« – »Now lat se,«

Quod Pandarus; »yf ye, my lord so dere,

Wolden as now do this honour to me,

To prayen hire tomorwe, lo, that she

Come unto yow hire pleyntes to devyse,

Hire adversaries wolde of it agryse.

 

And yf I more dorste preye yow as now,

And chargen yow to have so gret travayle,

To han som of youre bretheren here with yow,

That myghten to hire cause bet avayle,

Than wot I wel she myghte nevere fayle

For to ben holpen, what at youre instaunce,

What with hire other frendes governaunce.«

 

Deiphebus, which that comen was of kynde

To al honour and bounte to consente,

Answerd, »It shal be don; and I kan fynde

Yet grettere help to this yn myn entente.

What wiltow seyn yf I for Eleyne sente

To speke of this? I trowe it be the beste,

For she may ledyn Parys as hire leste.

 

Of Ector, which that is my lord my brother,

It nedeth nought to prey hym frend to be,

For I have herd hym o tyme ek and other

Speke of Criseyde swich honour that he

May seyn no bet, swich hap to hym hath she.

It nedeth nought his helpes for to crave;

He shal be swych right as we wol hym have.

 

Spek thow thiself also to Troylus

On my byhalve, and pray hym with us dyne.«

»Sire, al this shal be don,« quod Pandarus,

And tok his leve; and nevere wold he fyne,

But to his neces hous, as streyht as lyne,

He com, and fond hire fro the mete aryse,

And sette hym down, and spak right in this wyse.

 

He seyde, »O verray God, so have I ronne!

Lo, nece myn, se ye nought how I swete?

I not whether ye me the more thank konne.

Be ye nought war how false Polyphete

Is now abowte eftsoones for to plete,

And brynge on yow advocacies newe?«

»I? No,« quod she, and chaunged al hire hewe.

 

»What is he more aboute me to drecche

And don me wrong? What shal I do, allas?

Yet of hymself nothyng nolde I recche

Nere it for Antenor and Eneas

That ben his frendys yn swych manere cas.

But for the love of God, myn uncle dere,

No fors of that; lat hym han al yfere;

 

Withouten that I have ynowh for us.«

»Nay,« quod Pandare, »it shall nothynge be so,

For I have ben right now at Deiphebus,

At Ector, and myn other lordes mo,

And shortly maked eche of hem his fo,

That, by my thryft, he shal it nevere wynne,

For ought he kan, whan that so he bygynne.«

 

And as they casten what was best to done,

Deiphebus, of his owene curtasie,

Com hire to preye yn his propre persone,

To holde hym on the morwe compaignye

At dyner; which she nolde not denye,

But goodly gan to his preyere obeye.

He thonked hire, and wente upon his weye.

 

Whan this was don, this Pandare up anoon,

To tellen in short, and forth gan for to wende

To Troylus, as stille as ony ston.

And al this thing he tolde hym, word and ende,

And how that he Deiphebus gan to blende,

And seyde hym, »Now is tyme, if that thow konne,

To bere the wel tomorwe, and al is wonne.

 

Now spek, now prey, now pitously compleyne;

Lat not for nice shame, or drede, or slouthe,

Somtyme a man mot telle his owen peyne.

Bileve it, and she shal han on the routhe.

Thow shalt be saved, by thi feyth, in trouthe.

But wel wot I thow art now yn drede,

And what it is I ley I kan arede.

 

Thow thinkest now, ›How sholde I don al this?

For by my cheres mosten folk aspye

That for hire love is that I fare amys;

Yet hadde I levere unwyst for sorwe dye.‹

Now thenk not so for thou dost gret folye,

For right now have I founden o manere

Of sleyghte for to coveren al thi chere.

 

Thow shalt gon over nyght, and that blyve,

Unto Deiphebus hous, as the to pleye,

Thi maladye awey the bet to dryve –

For-why thou semest syk, soth for to seye.

Soone after that, doun in thi bed the leye,

And sey thow mayst no lengere up endure,

And lye right there and byde thyn aventure.

 

Sey that thi fevre is wont the for to take

The same tyme and lasten til amorwe;

And lat se now how wel thow kanst it make,

For, parde, syk is he that is in sorwe.

Go now, farewel, and Venus here to borwe,

I hope and thow this purpos holde ferme,

Thi grace she shal fully ther conferme.«

 

Quod Troylus, »Ywys, thow nedeles

Conseylest me that syklych I me feyne,

For I am syk yn ernest, douteles,

So that wel neygh I sterve for the peyne.«

Quod Pandarus, »Thow shalt the bettre pleyne,

And hast the lasse nede to countrefete,

For hym men demen hot that men seen swete.

 

Lo, hold the at thi tryste clos, and I

Shal wel the der unto thi bowe dryve.«

Therwith he tok his leve al softely,

And Troylus to palays wente blyve.

So glad ne was he nevere in al his lyve,

And to Pandarus reed gan all assente,

And to Deiphebus hous at nyght he wente.

 

What nedeth yow to tellen al the chere

That Deiphebus unto his brother made,

Or his accesse, or his sykliche manere –

How men gan hym with clothes for to lade

Whanne he was leyd, and how men wolde hym glade?

But al for nought; he held forth ay the wyse

That ye han herd Pandare er this devyse.

 

But certayn is, er Troylus hym leyde,

Deiphebus had hym prayed over-nyght

To ben a frend and helpyng to Criseyde.

God wot that he it graunted anoon right,

To ben hire fulle frend with al his myght –

But swych a nede was to prey hym thenne,

As for to bydde a wood man for to renne.

 

The morwen com and neyhen gan the tyme

Of meltid that the faire queene Eleyne

Shoop hire to ben, an owre after the pryme,

With Deiphebus, to whom she nolde feyne;

But as his suster, homly, soth to seyne,

She com to dyner yn hire playne entente –

But God and Pandare wyst what al this mente.

 

Come ek Criseyde, al innocent of this,

Antigone, hire sister Tarbe also.

But fle we now prolixite best is,

For love of God, and lat us faste go

Right to th'effect withoute tales mo,

Whi al this folk assembled in this place,

And lat us of hire saluynges pace.

 

Gret honour dide hem Deiphebus, certeyn,

And fedde hem wel with al that myghte like.

But evere more »Allas« was his refreyn,

»My goode brother Troylus the syke

Lyth yet,« and therwithal he gan to syke,

And after that he peyned hym to glade

Hem as he myghte, and chere good he made.

 

Compleyned ek Eleyne of his syknesse

So feythfully that pite was to here;

And every wight gan waxen for accesse

A leche anon, and seyde, »In this manere

Men curen folk.« – »This charme I wol yow lere.«

But ther sat oon, al lyst hire nought to teche,

That thoughte, »Best koude I yet ben his leche.«

 

After compleynt, hym gonnen thei to preyse,

As folk don yet whan som wyght hath bygonne

To preyse a man, and up with prys hym reyse

A thousandfold yet hyer than the sonne:

»He is, he kan, that fewe lordes konne.«

And Pandarus, of that they wolde afferme,

He naught forgat hire preysynge to conferme.

 

Herde al this thyng Criseyde wel ynowh,

And every word gan for to notefye,

For which with sobre chere hire herte lowh,

For who is that ne wolde hire glorifye,

To mowen swych a knyght don lyve or dye?

But al passe I, lyst ye to longe dwelle,

For for o fyn is al that evere I telle.

 

The tyme com fro dyner for to ryse,

And as hem oughte arysen everychon,

And gonne a while of this and that devyse.

But Pandarus brak al this speche anoon,

And seide to Deiphebus, »Wol ye gon,

If youre wille be, as I yow preyde,

To speke here of the nedes of Criseyde?«

 

Eleyne, which that by the hond hire held,

Took first the tale and seyde, »Go we blyve,«

And goodly on Criseyde she byheld,

And seyde, »Joves lat hym nevere thryve

That doth yow harm, and brynge hym soone of lyve,

And yeve me sorwe but he shal it rewe,

If that I may, and alle folk be trewe.«

 

»Telle thow thi neces cas,« quod Deiphebus

To Pandarus, »for thow kanst best it telle.«

»My lordes and my ladyes, it stant thus.

What sholde I lengere,« quod he, »do yow dwelle?«

He rong hem out a proces lyk a belle

Upon hire fo, that highte Poliphete,

So heynous, that men myghte on it spete.

 

Answerde of this ech worse of hem than other,

And Poliphete they gonnen thus to waryen:

»Anhonged be swych on, were he my brother!«

»And so he shal, for it ne may not varyen!«

What shold I lengere yn this tale taryen?

Pleynly alle at ones they hire hyghten

To ben hire helpe in al that evere they myghten.

 

Spak than Eleyne, and seyde, »Pandarus,

Woot ought my lord, my brother, this matere,

I mene Ector? Or wot it Troylus?«

He seyde, »Ye, but wole ye now me here?

Me thenketh this, sith that Troylus is here,

It were good, if that ye wolde assente,

She tolde hireself hym al this er she wente.

 

For he wol have the more hir grief at herte,

By cause, lo, that she a lady is.

And, by youre leve, I wol but yn right sterte

And do yow wete, and that anoon, ywys,

If that he slepe or wol ought here of this.«

And yn he lepte, and seyde hym in his ere,

»God have thi soule, ibrought have I thi bere!«

 

To smylen of this gan tho Troylus,

And Pandarus withoute rekenynge

Out wente anoon to Eleyne and Deiphebus,

And seyde hem, »So ther be no taryinge,

Ne more pres, he wol wel that ye brynge

Criseyda, my lady, that is here;

And as he may enduren, he wol here.

 

But wel ye wot, the chaumbre is but lite,

And fewe folk may lightly make it warm.

Now loketh ye – for I wol have no wyte

To brynge yn pres that myghte don hym harm,

Or hym dishesen, for my bettre arm –

Where it be bet she byde til eftsonys?

Now loketh ye that knowen what to don is.

 

I sey for me, best is as I kan knowe

That no wight yn ne wente but ye tweye,

But it were I, for I kan in a throwe

Reherce hire cas unlyk that she kan seye.

And after this, she may hym ones preye

To ben good lord, yn short, and take hire leve.

This may not mechel of his ese hym reve.

 

And ek for she is straunge he wol forbere

His ese, which that hym thar nought for yow.

Ek other thing that toucheth not to here,

He wol yow telle – I wot it wel right now –

That secret is, and for the townes prow.«

And they, that nothing knewe of this entent,

Withoute more to Troylus yn they went.

 

Eleyne in al hire goodly softe wyse

Gan hym saluwe, and wommanly to pleye,

And seyde, »Ywis, ye moste alweyes arise;

Now, faire brother, beth al hool, I preye!«

And gan hire arm right over his sholder leye,

And hym with al hire wit to reconforte.

As she best kowde, she gan hym to disporte.

 

So after this quod she, »We yow byseke,

My dere brother Deiphebus and I,

For love of God – and so doth Pandare eke –

To ben good lord and frend right hertely

Unto Criseyde, which that certeynly

Receyveth wrong – as wot wel here Pandare,

Than kan hire cas wel bet than I declare.«

 

This Pandarus gan newe his tong affyle,

And al hire cas reherce, and that anoon.

Whan it was seyd, soone after in a while,

Quod Troylus, »As sone as I may gon,

I wol right fayn with al my myght ben oon –

Have God my trouthe – hire cause to susteyne.«

»Good thryft have ye,« quod Eleyne the queene.

 

Quod Pandarus, »And it youre wille be,

That she may take hire leve, er that she go?«

»O, elles God forbede,« tho quod he,

»If that she vouchesauf for to do so.«

And with that word quod Troylus, »Ye two,

Deiphebus and my suster leef and dere,

To yow have I to speke of o matere,

 

To ben avysed by youre red the bettre.«

And fond, as hap was, at his beddes hed

The copye of a tretes and a lettre

That Ector hade hym sent to axen red

If swych a man was worthi to ben ded –

Woot I nought who; but in a grysly wyse

He preyede hem anoon on it avyse.

 

Deiphebus gan this lettre to unfolde

In ernest gret; so did Eleyne the queene;

And romyng outward, faste it gonne byholde,

Downward a steyre, into an herber grene.

This ilke thing thei redden hem bytwene,

And largely the mountance of an owre,

Thei gon on it to reden and to powre.

 

Now lat hem rede, and turne we anoon

To Pandarus, that gan ful faste prye

That al was wel, and out he gan to gon

Into the grete chaumbre and that in hye,

And seyde, »God save al this compaynye.

Come, nece myn, my lady queene Eleyne

Abydeth yow, and ek my lordes tweyne.

 

Rys, take with yow yowre nece Antigone,

Or whom yow list – or no fors, hardyly,

The lasse pres, the bet – com forth with me,

And loke that ye thonken humbely

Hem alle thre; and whan ye may goodly

Youre tyme se, taketh of hem youre leve

Lest we to longe his reste hym byreve.«

 

Al innocent of Pandarus entente,

Quod tho Criseyde, »Go we, uncle dere.«

And arm in arm inward with hym she wente,

Avysed wel hire wordes and hire chere.

And Pandarus yn ernestful manere

Seyde, »Alle folk, for Goddes love, I preye,

Stynteth right here, and softely yow pleye.

 

Aviseth yow what folk ben here withinne,

And in what plit oon is, God hym amende!«

And inward thus ful softely bygynne,

»Nece, I conjure, and heighly yow defende,

On his byhalf which that us al sowle sende,

And in the vertue of corounes tweyne,

Sle naught this man, that hath for yow this peyne.

 

Fy on the devel! Thenk which on he is,

And in what plyt he lith. Com of anoon!

Thenk al swych taried tid but lost it nys;

That wol ye bothe seyn whan ye ben oon.

Secoundelich, ther yet devyneth noon

Upon yow two. Com of now, if ye konne;

While folk is blent, lo, al the tyme is wonne.

 

In titeryng and pursuyte and delayes

The folk devyne at waggyng of a stre.

And though ye wolden han after merye dayes,

Than dar ye nought. And why? For she and she

Spak swych a word; thus loked he and he.

Allas tyme ylost! I dar not with yow dele.

Com of, therfore, and bryngeth hym to hele.«

 

But now to yow, ye loveres that ben here,

Was Troylus nought in a kankedort,

That lay and myghte whysprynge of hem here,

And thought, »O Lord, ryght now renneth my sort

Fully to dye or han anoon comfort!«

And was the firste tyme he shulde hire preye

Of love: O myghti God, what shal he seye?

 

Explicit secundus liber.

 

Book III

 

Incipit prohemium tercii libri.

 

O blysful light, of which the bemes clere

Adorneth al the thridde heven faire,

O sonnes lyef, O Joves doughter dere,

Plesaunce of love, O goodly debonaire,

In gentil hertes ay redy to repaire,

O verray cause of hele and of gladnesse,

Iheried be thi myght and thi goodnesse.

 

In hevene and helle, in erthe and salte se,

Is felt thi myght, if that I wel descerne;

As man, bryd, best, fissh, herbe, and grene tree

The fele in tymes with vapour eterne.

God loveth, and to love wol nought werne;

And in this world no lyves creature

Withouten love is worth or may endure.

 

Ye Joves first to thilke effectes glade,

Thorugh which that thinges lyven alle and be,

Comeveden, and amorous hym made

On mortal thyng, and as yow lyst ay ye

Yeve hym in love ese or adversite,

And in a thousand formes doun hym sente

For love in erthe, and whom yow lyste he hente.

 

Ye fierse Mars apeysen of his ire,

And as yow lyst, ye maken hertes digne;

Algates hem that ye wol sette afyre,

Thei dreden shame and vices thei resigne;

Ye do hem corteys be, fresche and benigne;

And hye or lowe, after a wyght entendeth,

The joyes that he hath, youre myght hym sendeth.

 

Ye holden regne and hous in unite;

Ye sothfast cause of frendshipe ben also;

Ye knowe al thilke covered qualite

Of thynges, which that folk on wondren so,

Whan they kan noght construe how it may jo

She loveth hym, or whi he loveth here,

As whi this fissh and nought that comth to were.

 

Ye folk a lawe han sett in universe,

And this knowe I by hem that loveres be,

That whoso stryveth with yow hath the werse.

Now, lady bryght, for thi benignite,

At reverence of hem that serven the,

Whos clerc I am, so techeth me devyse

Som joye of that is felt in thi servyse.

 

Ye in my naked herte sentement

Inhelde, and do me shewe of thy swetnesse.

Caliope, thi voys be now present,

For now is nede. Sestow not my destresse,

How I mot telle anon-right the gladnesse

Of Troylus, to Venus heriynge?

To which gladnesse, who nede hath, God hym brynge!

 

Explicit prohemium tercii libri.

 

Incipit liber tercius.

 

Lay al this menewhile Troylus

Recordyng his lesson in this manere:

»Mafay,« thought he, »thus wole I sey, and thus;

Thus wole I pleyne unto my lady dere;

That word is good, and this shal be my chere;

This nyl I not foryeten in no wyse.«

God leve hym werken as he kan devyse!

 

And Lord, so that his herte gan to quappe,

Heryng hire come, and shorte for to syke!

And Pandarus, that lad hire by the lappe,

Com ner and gan in at the curtyn pyke,

And seyde, »God do bot on all syke.

Se who is here yow comen to visite;

Lo, here is she that is youre deth to wyte.«

 

Therwith it semed as he wepte almost.

»A-ha,« quod Troylus so rufully,

»Wher me be wo, O myghty God, thow woost!

Who is al there? I se nought trewely.«

»Sire,« quod Criseyde, »it is Pandare and I.«

»Ye, swete herte? Allas, I may nought ryse

To knele and do yow honour in some wyse.«

 

And dressed hym upward, and she right tho

Gan bothe hire hondes softe upon hym leye.

»O, for the love of God, do ye not so

To me,« quod she, »I, what is this to seye?

Sire, comen am I to yow for causes tweye:

First, yow to thonke, and of youre lordshipe eke

Continuance I wolde yow biseke.«

 

This Troylus, that herde his lady preye

Of lordship hym, wax neyther quyk ne ded,

Ne myghte o word for shame to it seye,

Although men sholde smyten of his hed.

But Lord, so he wex sodeynliche red,

And sire, his lesson that he wende konne

To preyen hire is thurgh his wit yronne.

 

Cryseyde al this aspied wel ynowgh,

For she was wys, and loved hym nevere the lasse

Al nere he malapert or made it towgh

Or was to bold to synge a fol a masse.

But whan his shame gan somwhat to passe,

His resons, as I may my rymes holde,

I yow wol telle as techen bokes olde.

 

In chaunged voys, right for his verray drede,

Which voys ek quook, and therto his manere

Goodly abayst, and now his hewes rede,

Now pale, unto Criseyde his lady dere,

With look douncast and humble yolden chere,

Lo, the alderfirste word that hym asterte

Was twyes, »Mercy, mercy, swete herte!«

 

And stynte awhile, and whan he myghte outbrynge,

The nexte word was, »God wot that I have,

As ferforthly as I have had konnynge,

Ben yowres al, God so my sowle save,

And shal til that I, woful wyght, be grave.

And though I ne dar ne kan unto yow pleyne,

Iwys, I suffre nought the lasse peyne.

 

Thus muche as now, O wommanlyche wyf,

I may out-brynge, and yf this yow displese,

That shal I wreke upon myn owen lyf

Right sone, I trowe, and don youre herte an ese,

If with my deth youre wreththe I may apese.

But syn that ye han herd me somwhat seye,

Now recche I nevere how sone that I deye.«

 

Therwith his manly sorwe to byholde,

It myght han mad an herte of ston to rewe;

And Pandare wep as he to water wolde,

And poked evere his nece newe and newe,

And seyde, »Wobygon ben hertes trewe!

For love of God, make of this thyng an ende,

Or sle us bothe at ones er that ye wende.«

 

»I, what?« quod she, »By God and by my trowthe,

I not nought what ye wille that I shol seye.«

»I, what?« quod he. »That ye han on hym routhe,

For Goddes love, and doth hym nought to deye.«

»Now thanne thus,« quod she, »I wolde hym preye

To telle me the fyn of his entente.

Yet wyst I nevere wel what that he mente.«

 

»What that I mene, O swete herte dere?«

Quod Troylus, »O goodly fresshe fre,

That with the stremes of youre eyen clere

Ye wolde somtyme frendly on me se,

And thanne agreen that I may ben he,

Withoute braunche of vyce on ony wyse,

In trowthe alwey to don yow my servyse,

 

As to my lady right and chief resort,

With al my wit and al my deligence;

And I to han right as yow lyst comfort,

Under yowre yerde egal to myn offence,

As deth, if that I breke youre defence;

And that ye deigne me so muche honoure

Me to comaunden ought yn any owre;

 

And I to ben yowre verray, humble, trewe,

Secret, and yn myn paynes pacient,

And everemo desiren fresshly newe

To serven, and ben ay ilyke diligent,

And with good herte al holly youre talent

Receyven wel, how sore that me smerte –

Lo, this mene I, myn owene swete herte.«

 

Quod Pandarus, »Lo, here an hard requeste,

A resonable lady for to werne!

Now, nece myn, by natal Joves feste,

Were I a god ye sholden sterve as yerne,

That heren wel this man wol nothyng yerne

But youre honour, and sen hym almost sterve,

And ben so loth to suffren hym yow serve.«

 

With that she gan hire eyen on hym caste

Ful esyly and ful debonairly,

Avysyng hire, and hied not to faste

With nevere a word, but seyde hym softely,

»Myn honour sauf, I wol wel trewely,

And in swych forme as he gan now devyse,

Receyven hym fully to my servyse,

 

Bysechyng hym for Goddes love that he

Wolde in honour of trouthe and gentilesse,

As I wel mene, eke mene wel to me,

And myn honour with wit and besynesse

Ay kepe. And yf I may don hym gladnesse,

From hennesforth, iwys, I nyl not feyne.

Now beth al hol; no lenger ye ne pleyne.

 

But nathelees, this warne I yow,« quod she,

»A kynges sone although ye be, iwys,

Ye shul no more have soveraynete

Of me in love than right in that cas is;

Ne I nyl forbere, yf that ye don amys,

To wrathen yow; and whil that ye me serve,

Cherycen yow right after ye deserve.

 

And shortly, dere herte and al my knyght,

Beth glad and draweth yow to lustynesse,

And I shal trewely with al my myght

Youre bittre tornen al into swetnesse.

If I be she that may yow do gladnesse,

For every wo ye shal recovere a blysse.«

And hym in armes tok, and gan hym kysse.

 

Fil Pandarus on knees, and up his eyen

To hevene threw, and held his hondes hye,

»Inmortal god,« quod he, »that mayst nought dyen,

Cupide I mene, of this mayst glorifie;

And Venus, thow mayst make melodie.

Withouten hond, me semeth in the towne,

For this merveyle ich here ech belle sowne.

 

But ho, no more as now of this matere,

Forwhi this folk wol comen up anoon

That han the lettre red – lo, I hem here.

But I conjure the, Criseyde and oon,

And two thow Troylus, whan thow mayst goon,

That at myn hows ye ben at my warnynge,

For I ful wel shal shape youre comynge;

 

And eseth there youre hertes right ynough,

And lat se which of yow shal bere the belle

To speke of love aright« – therwith he lough –

»For ther have ye a layser for to telle.«

Quod Troylus, »How longe shal y dwelle

Er this be don?« Quod he, »Whan thow mayst ryse,

This thing shal be right as I yow devyse.«

 

With that Eleyne and also Deiphebus

Tho comen upward right at the steyres ende.

And Lord, so thanne gan grone Troylus

His brother and his suster for to blende.

Quod Pandarus, »It tyme is that we wende.

Tak, nece myn, youre leve at alle thre,

And lat hem speke, and cometh forth with me.«

 

She tok hire leve at hem ful thryftyly,

As she wel koude, and they hire reverence

Unto the fulle deden hardely,

And wonder wel speken, in hire absence,

Of hire in preysing of hire excellence:

Hire governaunce, hire wit, and hire manere

Comendeden that it was joye to here.

 

Now lat hire wende unto hire owen place,

And torne we to Troylus ayen,

That gan ful lyghtly of the lettre pace

That Deiphebus hadde yn the gardeyn seyn;

And of Eleyne and hym he wolde feyn

Delyvered ben, and seyde that hym leste

To slepe and after tales have reste.

 

Eleyne hym kyste and tok hire leve blyve,

Deiphebus ek, and hom wente every wyght;

And Pandarus, as faste as he may dryve,

To Troylus tho com as lyne right,

And on a paillet al that glade nyght

By Troylus he lay with mery chere

To tale, and wel was hem thei were yfere.

 

Whan every wyght was voyded but they two,

And alle the dores were faste yshette,

To telle in shorte withoute wordes mo,

This Pandarus withouten ony lette

Up roos, and on his beddes side hym sette,

And gan to speken in a sobre wyse

To Troylus, as I shal yow devyse:

 

»Myn alderlevest lord and brother dere,

God wot, and thow, that it sat me so sore

When I the saw so langwysshyng to-yere

For love, of which thi wo wax alwey more,

That I with al my myght and al my lore

Have evere sethen do my bysynesse

To brynge the to joye out of distresse;

 

And have it brought to swich plit as thow wost,

So that thorugh me thow stondest now in weye

To faren wel – I sey it for no bost –

And wostow whi? For shame it is to seye,

For the have I a game bygonne to pleye

Which that I nevere don shal eft for other,

Although he were a thousandfold my brother.

 

That is to seye, for the am I becomen

Bytwixen game and ernest swych a mene

As maken wommen unto men to comen –

Al sey I nought, thow wost wel what I mene.

For the have I my nece of vices clene

So fully mad thi gentilesse triste,

That al shal ben right as thiselve lyste.

 

But God that al wot take I to wytnesse

That nevere I this for coveytise wroughte,

But oonly for t'abrygge that destresse

For which wel nygh thow deydest, as me thoughte.

But, gode brother, do now as the oughte,

For Goddes love, and kep hire out of blame,

Syn thow art wys, and save alwey hire name.

 

For wel thow woost, the name as yet of hire

Among the peple, as who seyth, halwed is,

For that man is unbore, dar I swere,

That evere wyste that she dide amys.

But wo is me that I, that cause al this,

May thenken that she is my nece dere,

And I hire em, and traytour eke yfere!

 

And were it wyst that I thorugh myn engyn

Hadde in my nece iput this fantasye,

To do thi lust and holly to be thyn,

Why, al the world upon it wolde crye,

And seyn that I the worste trecherye

Dide yn this cas that evere was bygonne,

And she forlost, and thow right nought ywonne.

 

Wherfore, er I wol ferther gon a pas,

Yet eft I the byseche and fully seye

That prevete go with us in this cas –

That is to seyn, that thow us nevere wreye;

And be nought wroth though I the ofte preye

To holden secre swych an heigh matere,

For skylful is, thow wost wel, my preyere.

 

And thenk what wo ther hath bytyd er this

For makyng of avauntes, as men rede,

And what myschaunce in this world yet is

Fro day to day right for that wykked dede.

For which these wise clerkes that ben dede

Han evere yet proverbed to us yonge,

That first vertu is to kepe tonge.

 

And nere it that I wilne as now t'abregge

Diffusion of speche, I koude almost

A thousand olde storyes the alegge

Of wommen lost through fals and foles bost.

Proverbes kanst thyselve ynowe and wost

Ayens that vice for to ben a labbe,

Al seyde men soth as often as they gabbe.

 

O tonge, allas, so often here byforn

Hastow made many a lady bright of hewe

Seyd ›Welaway the day that I was born!‹

And manye a maydes sorwe for to newe.

And for the more part, al is untrewe

That men of yelpe, and it were brought to preve.

Of kynde noon avauntours is to leve.

 

Avauntoure and a lyere al is on,

As thus: I pose a womman graunte me

Hire love, and seyth that other wol she non,

And I am sworn to holden it secre,

And after I go telle it two or thre;

Iwys, I am avauntour at the leste,

And a lyere, for I breke my biheste.

 

Now loke thanne yf they be nought to blame,

Swych manere folk – what shal I clepe hem? what? –

That hem avaunte of wommen, and by name,

That nevere yet byhyghte hem this ne that,

Ne knewe hem more than myn olde hat!

No wonder is, so God me sende hele,

Though wommen drede with us men to dele.

 

I sey this not for no mystrust of yow,

Ne for no wyse men, but for foles nice,

And for the harm that in the world is now,

As wel for folye ofte as for malice;

For wel wot I in wyse folk that vice

No womman drat, if she be wel avised,

For wyse ben by foles harm chastised.

 

But now to purpos: leve brother dere,

Have al this thing that I have seyd in mynde,

And kep the clos, and be now of good chere,

For at thi day thow shalt me trewe fynde.

I shal thi proces sette yn swych a kynde,

And God toforn, that it shal the suffise,

For it shal ben right as thow wolt devyse.

 

For wel I wot thow menest wel, parde;

Therfore I dar this fully undertake.

Thow wost eke what thi lady graunted the;

And day is set the chartres up to make.

Have now good nyght, I may no lengere wake.

And byd for me, syn thow art now yn blysse,

That God me sende deth or soone lysse.«

 

Who myghte telle half the joye or feste

Whiche that the sowle of Troylus tho felte

Herynge th'effect of Pandarus byheste?

His olde wo that made his herte swelte

Gan tho for joye wasten and tomelte,

And al the richesse of his sikes sore

At ones fledde; he felte of hem no more.

 

But right so as these holtes and these hayis,

That han in wynter dede ben and dreye,

Revesten hem in grene when that May is,

Whan every lusti lyketh best to pleye,

Right in that selve wyse, soth for to seye,

Wax sodeynlyche his herte ful of joye,

That gladder was there nevere man in Troye.

 

And gan his lok on Pandarus up caste,

Ful sobrely and frendly for to se,

And seyde, »Frend, in Aperil the laste –

As wel thow wost, if it remembreth the –

How neigh the deth for wo thow founde me,

And how thow dedest al thi bysynesse

To knowe of me the cause of my distresse;

 

Thow wost how longe ich it forbar to seye

To the, that art the man that I best triste;

And peril was it noon to the bywreye,

That wyst I wel; but telle me, yf the lyste,

Sith I so loth was that thiself it wyste,

How dorst I mo tellen of this matere,

That quake now and no wyght may us here?

 

But natheles, by that God I the swere,

That as hym lyst may al this world governe,

And, yf I lye, Achilles with his spere

Myn herte cleve al were my lyf eterne,

As I am mortal, if I late or yerne

Wolde it bywreye, or dorst, or sholde konne,

For al the good that God made under sonne,

 

That rather deye I wolde and determyne,

As thenketh me, now stokked yn presoun,

In wrecchednesse, in filthe, and yn vermine,

Caytif to cruel Kyng Agamenoun –

And this yn all the temples of this town,

Upon the goddes alle, I wol the swere

Tomorwe day, if that it lyketh the here.

 

And that thow hast so muche ido for me

That I ne may it nevere more deserve,

This knowe I wel, al myghte I now for the

A thowsand tymes on a morwe sterve.

I kan no more but that I wol the serve

Right as thi sclave, whider so thow wende,

For everemore, unto my lyves ende.

 

But here with al myn herte I the byseche

That nevere in me thow deme swych folye

As I shal seyn; me thowghte by thi speche

That this which thow me dost for compaignye,

I sholde wene it were a bauderye.

I am nought wood, al if I lewed be.

It is not so; that wot I wel, parde.

 

But he that goth for gold or for richesse

On swych message, calle hym what the lyst;

And this that thow dost, calle it gentilesse,

Compassioun, and felawship, and trist.

Departe it so, for wydewhere is wyst

How that ther is dyversite requered

Bytwyxen thynges lyk, as I have lered.

 

And that thow knowe I thenke nought, ne wene,

That this servise a shame be or a jape,

I have my faire suster Polixene,

Cassandre, Eleyne, or ony of the frape,

Be she nevere so faire or wel ishape,

Tel me which thow wylt of everychone

To han for thyn, and lat me thanne allone.

 

But sith thow hast idon me this servyse

My lyf to save, and for noon hope of mede,

So for the love of God, this grete emprise

Performe it out, for now is moste nede.

For hygh and low, withouten ony drede,

I wol alwey thye hestes alle kepe.

Have now good nyght, and lat us bothe slepe.«

 

Thus held hym eche of other wel apayed,

That al the world me myghte it bet amende.

And on the morwe, whan they were arayed,

Ech to his owen nedes gan entende.

But Troylus, though as the fyr he brende

For sharp desir of hope and of plesaunce,

He not forgat his gode governaunce.

 

But in hymself with manhood gan restreyne

Ech rakel dede and ech unbrydled chere,

That alle tho that lyven, soth to seyne,

Ne sholde han wyst by word or by manere

What that he mente, as towchyng this matere.

From every wyght as fer as is the clowde

He was, so wel dissimulen he kowde.

 

And al the while which that I yow devyse,

This was hys lyf: with al his fulle myght

By day he was in Martes highe servyse –

This is to seyn, in armes as a kynght –

And for the more part, the longe nyght

He lay and thoughte how that he myghte serve

His lady best, hire thank for to deserve.

 

Nyl I nought swere, although he lay ful softe,

That in his thought he nas sumwhat dishesed,

Ne that he torned on his pylwes ofte,

And wold of that hym myssed han ben sesed.

But yn swych cas man is nought alwey yplesed,

For ought I wot, no more than was he;

That kan I deme of possibilite.

 

But certeyn is, to purpos for to go,

That in this while, as wreten is in geste,

He say his lady somtyme, and also

She with hym spak whan that she dorst and leste;

And by hire bothe avys, as was the beste,

Apoynteden full warly in this nede,

So as they dorste, how they wolde procede.

 

But it was spoken in so short a wyse,

In swych awayt alwey, and in swych fere,

Lest ony wyght dyvynen or devyse

Wolde of hem two, or to it leye an eere,

That al this world so lef to hem ne were

As that Cupido wolde hem grace sende

To maken of hire speche aryght an ende.

 

But thilke lytel that they spake or wroughte,

His wyse gost tok ay of al swych hede,

It semed hire he wyste what she thoughte

Withouten word, so that it was no nede

To bidde hym ought to don, or ought forbede;

For which she thoughte that love, al coom it late,

Of alle joye hadde opned hire the yate.

 

And shortly of this proces for to pace,

So wel his werk and wordes he bysette

That he so ful stod in his lady grace

That twenty thousand tymes, er she lette,

She thonked God she evere with hym mette.

So koude he hym governe in swych servyse

That al the world ne myght it bet devyse.

 

For whi she fond hym so dyscret in al,

So secret, and of swych obeysaunce,

That wel she felte he was to hire a wal

Of stel, and sheld from every dysplesaunce;

That to ben in his goode governaunce,

So wys he was, she nas no more afered –

I mene as fer as oughte ben requered.

 

And Pandarus to quyke alwey the fyr

Was evere ylyke prest and dyligent;

To ese his frend was set al his desir.

He shof ay on, he to and fro was sent,

He lettres bar whan Troylus was absent,

That nevere man, as in his frendes nede,

Ne bar hym bet than he withouten drede.

 

But now, paraunter, som man wene wolde

That every word, or sonde, or lok, or chere

Of Troylus that I rehersen sholde,

In al this while unto his lady dere:

I trowe it were a long thing for to here,

Or of what wyght that stont in swych disjoynte,

His wordes alle, or every lok, to poynte.

 

Forsothe, I have not herd it don er this

In storye noon, ne no man here, I wene.

And though I wolde, I koude not, iwys,

For ther was som epistel hem bytwene

That wolde, as seyth myn autour, wel contene

Neigh half this book, of which hym lyste not write.

How sholde I thanne a lyne of it endite?

 

But to the grete effect: Than sey I thus,

That stondyng in concord and in quiete,

Thise ilke two, Criseyde and Troylus,

As I have told, and in this tyme swete –

Save only often myghte they nought mete,

Ne layser have hire speches to fulfille –

That it befel right as I shal yow telle,

 

That Pandarus, that evere dide his myght

Right for the fyn that I shal speke of here,

As for to bryngen to his hous som nyght

His faire nece and Troylus yfere,

Wher as at leyser al this heigh matere

Towchyng hire love were at the fulle upbounde,

Hadde out of doute a tyme to it founde.

 

For he with gret deliberacioun

Hadde everything that herto myghte avayle

Forncast and put in execucioun,

And neither laft for cost ne for travayle.

Come yf hem lest, hem sholde nothing fayle;

And for to ben in ought espied there,

That, wyst he wel, an inpossible were.

 

Dredeles it clere was in the wynd

From every pye and every lette-game.

Now al is wel, for al the world is blynd

In this matere, bothe fremed and tame.

This tymbur is al redy up to frame;

Us lakketh nought but that we weten wolde

A certeyn houre in whiche she comen sholde.

 

And Troylus, that al this purvyaunce

Knew at the fulle and waytede on it ay,

Hadde hereupon ek made gret ordinaunce,

And found his cause, and therto his aray,

Yf that he were myssed nyght or day,

Ther while he was abowte this servyse,

That he was gon to don his sacrifise,

 

And most at swych a temple alone wake,

Answered of Apollo for to be,

And first to sen the holy laurer quake,

Er that Apollo spake out of the tre

To telle hym next whan Grekes sholden fle –

And forthy lette hym no man, God forbede,

But prey Apollo helpen in this nede.

 

Now is ther litel more for to done,

But Pandare up, and shortly for to seyne,

Right soone upon the chaungyng of the moone,

Whan lyghtles is the world a nyght or tweyne,

And that the wolken shop hym for to reyne,

He straught amorwe unto his nece wente;

Ye han wel herd the fyn of his entente.

 

Whanne he was come, he gan anoon to pleye

As he was woned, and of hymself to jape;

And fynally he swor and gan hire seye,

By this and that, she sholde hym not escape,

Ne lenger don hym after hire to gape,

But certeynly she moste, by hire leve,

Come soupen in his hous with hym at eve.

 

At which she lough and gan hire faste excuse,

And seyde, »It rayneth, lo. How sholde I gon?«

»Lat be,« quod he, »ne stond not thus to muse.

This mot be don. Ye shal be ther anoon.«

So at the laste herof they felle atoon,

Or elles, softe he swor hire in hire ere,

He nolde nevere comen ther she were.

 

Soone after this, she to hym gan to rowne,

And axed hym yf Troylus were there.

He swor hire nay, for he was out of towne,

And seyde, »Nece, I pose that he were,

Yow thurste han nevere the more fere;

For rather than men myghte hym ther aspie,

Me were levere a thousand fold to dye.«

 

Nought list myn auctour fully to declare

What that she thoughte whan that he seyde so,

That Troylus was out of towne yfare,

As yf he seyde therof soth or no;

But that withouten awayt with hym to go

She graunted hym, sith he hire that bisoughte,

And, as his nece, obeyed as hire oughte.

 

But natheles yet gan she hym byseche,

Although with hym to gon it was no fere,

For to bewar of goosish poeples speche,

That dremen thynges whiche that nevere were,

And wel avyse hym whom he broughte there;

And seyde hym, »Em, syn I moste on yow triste,

Loke al be wel, and do now as yow liste.«

 

He swor hire yis by stokkes and by stones,

And by the goddes that in hevene dwelle,

Or elles were hym levere, fel and bones,

With Pluto kyng as depe ben yn helle

As Tantalus. What sholde I more telle?

Whan al was wel, he ros and tok his leve,

And she to souper com whan it was eve,

 

With a certeyn of hire owene men,

And with hire faire nece Antigone,

And othere of hire wommen nyne or ten.

But who was glad now? Who, as trowe ye,

But Troylus, that stod and myght it se

Thorughout a lytel wyndowe in a stuwe,

Ther he byshet syn mydnyght was in mewe,

 

Unwist of every wight but of Pandare.

But to the poynt. Now whanne she was ycome,

With alle joye and alle frendes fare,

Hire em anoon in armes hath hire nome,

And after to the souper alle and some,

Whan tyme was, ful softe they hem sette.

God wot, ther was no deynte for to fette.

 

And after souper gonnen they to ryse,

At ese wel with hertes fresshe and glade,

And wel was hym that koude best devyse

To liken hire, or laughen that hire made.

He song, she pleyde, he tolde tales of Wade.

But at the laste, as everything hath ende,

She tok hire leve, and nedes wolde wende.

 

But O Fortune, executrice of wyrdes!

O influences of thise hevenes hye!

Soth is that under God ye ben oure hierdes,

Though to us bestez ben the causes wrie.

This mene I now for she gan homward hye;

But execut was al byside hire leve

The goddes wil, for which she moste bleve.

 

The bente mone with hire hornes pale,

Saturne, and Jove in Cancro joyned were,

That swych a rayn from heven gan avale

That every maner womman that was there

Hadde of that smoky reyn a verray fere;

At which Pandare tho lough and seyde thenne,

»Now were it tyme a lady to go henne!

 

But goode nece, yf I myghte evere plese

Yow any thing, thanne prey ich yow,« quod he,

»To don myn herte as now so grete an ese

As for to dwelle here al this nyght with me,

For whi this is youre owene hous, parde.

For, by my trouthe, I sey it for no game,

To wende now it were to me a shame.«

 

Criseyde, which that kowde as muche good

As half a world, tok hede of his preyere,

And syn it ron, and al was on a flod,

She thoughte, »As good chep may I dwellen here,

And graunte it gladly with a frendes chere,

And have a thank, as grucche and thanne abyde –

For hom to gon, it may noght wel betyde.«

 

»I wol,« quod she, »myn uncle lef and dere.

Syn that yow lyst, it skile is to be so.

I am right glad with yow to dwellen here.

I seyde but a-game I wolde go.«

»Iwys, graunt mercy, nece,« quod he tho,

»Were it a-game or no, soth for to telle,

Now am I glad syn that yow lyst to dwelle.«

 

Thus al is wel. But tho bygan aright

The newe joye and al the feste agayn.

But Pandarus, yf goodly hadde he myght,

He wolde han hyed hire to bedde fayn,

And seyde, »Lord, this is an huge rayn!

This were a weder for to slepen inne,

And that I rede us soone to bygynne.

 

And, nece, wot ye wher I wol yow leye,

For that we shul nat lyggen fer asonder,

And for ye neither shullen, dar I seye,

Heren noyse of reynes nor of thonder?

By God, right in my litel closet yonder.

And I wole in that outer hous allone

Be wardeyn of youre wommen everychone.

 

And in this myddel chaumbre that ye se

Shul youre wommen slepen wel and softe.

And there I seyde shal youreselven be –

And yf ye liggen wel tonyght, com ofte,

And careth not what weder is on lofte.

The wyn anon, and whan so that yow leste,

So go we slepe; I trowe it be the beste.«

 

Ther nys no more, but hereafter soone,

The voyde dronke and travers drawe anoon,

Gan every wight that hadde nought to done

More in the place out of the chaumber gon.

And evermo so sternelyche it ron,

And blew therwith so wondirliche loude,

That wel neigh no man heren other koude.

 

Tho Pandarus, hire em, right as hym oughte,

With women swyche as were hire most aboute,

Ful glad unto hire beddes syde hire broughte,

And tok his leve, and gan ful lowe lowte,

And seyde, »Here at this closet dore withoute,

Right overthwart, youre wommen liggen alle,

That whom yow lyst of hem, ye may hire calle.«

 

So whan that she was yn the closet leyd,

And alle hire wommen forth by ordenaunce

Abedde weren, ther as I have seyd,

There was nomore to skippen nor to traunce,

But boden go to bedde with myschaunce,

If ony wight was steryng onywhere,

And lat hem slepen that abedde were.

 

But Pandarus, that wel koude eche a del

The olde daunce and every poynt therinne,

Whan that he sey that alle thyng was wel,

He thought he wolde upon his werk bygynne,

And gan the stewe doore al softe unpynne,

And stille as ston, withouten lenger lette,

By Troylus adown right he hym sette.

 

And shortly to the poynt ryght for to gon,

Of alle this werk he told hym word and ende,

And seyde, »Make the redy right anoon,

For thow shalt into hevene blysse wende.«

»Now blisful Venus, thow me grace sende,«

Quod Troylus, »for nevere yet no nede

Hadde ich er now, ne halvendel the drede.«

 

Quod Pandarus, »Ne drede the nevere a del,

For it shal ben right as thow wylt desire.

So thrive I, this nyght shal I make it wel,

Or casten al the gruwel in the fyre.«

»Yit, blisful Venus, this nyght thow me enspire,«

Quod Troylus, »As wys as I the serve,

And evere bet and bet shal til I sterve.

 

And yf ich hadde, O Venus ful of myrthe,

Aspectes badde of Mars or of Saturne,

Or thow combest or let were in my byrthe,

Thy fader prey al thilke harm disturne

Of grace, and that I glad ayen may turne,

For love of hym thow lovedest yn the shawe –

I mene Adoon, that with the bor was slawe.

 

Jove ek, for the love of faire Europe,

The whiche in forme of bole awey thow fette,

Now help! O Mars, thow with thi blody cope,

For love of Cipris, thow me noght ne lette!

O Phebus, thenk whan Dane hireselven shette

Under the bark, and laurer wax for drede;

Yet for hire love, O help now at this nede!

 

Mercurie, for the love of Hierse ek,

For which Pallas was with Aglawros wroth,

Now help! And ek Diane, I the bysek

That this viage be not to the loth.

O fatal sustren, which er ony cloth

Me shapen was, my destene me sponne,

So helpeth to this werk that is bygonne.«

 

Quod Pandarus, »Thow wrecched mouses herte,

Artow agast so that she wol the byte?

Why, don this furred cloke above thi sherte,

And folwe me, for I wol have the wyte.

But byde, and lat me go byforn a lyte.«

And with that word he gan undon a trappe,

And Troylus he brought in by the lappe.

 

The sterne wynd so lowde gan to route

That no wight other noyse myghte here,

And they that layen at the dore withoute,

Ful sikerly they slepten al yfere.

And Pandarus, with a ful sobre chere,

Goth to the dore anoon withowten lette,

There as they laye, and softely it shette.

 

And as he come ayeynward prevely,

His nece awook and axed, »Who goth there?«

»My dere nece,« quod he, »it am I.

Ne wondreth not, ne have of it no fere.«

And ner he com and seyde hire yn hire ere,

»No word, for love of God, I yow byseche!

Lat no wight rysen and heren of oure speche.«

 

»What? Which wey be ye comen, bendiste?«

Quod she. »And how thus unwyst of hem alle?«

»Here at this secre trappe dore,« quod he.

Quod tho Criseyde, »Lat me som wight calle.«

»I, God forbede that it sholde falle,«

Quod Pandarus, »that ye swych folye wroughte –

They myghte demen thyng they nevere er thoughte.

 

It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake,

Ne yeve a wyght a cause to devyne.

Youre wommen slepen alle, I undertake,

So that for hem the hous men myghte myne,

And slepen wolen til the sonne shyne.

And whan my tale al brought is to an ende,

Unwist, right as I com, so wol I wende.

 

Now, nece myn, ye shul wel understonde,«

Quod he, »so as ye wommen demen alle,

That for to holde in love a man in honde,

And hym hire lef and dere herte calle,

And maken hym an howve above a calle –

I mene, as love another in this while –

She doth hireself a shame and hym a gyle.

 

Now, wherby that I telle yow al this:

Ye wot yourself as wel as ony wyght

How that youre love al fully graunted is

To Troylus, the worthieste kynght

On of this world, and therto trouthe yplight,

That but it were on hym along, ye nolde

Hym nevere falsen while ye lyven sholde.

 

Now stant it thus, that sith I fro yow wente,

This Troylus, right platly for to seyn,

Is thurgh a goter by a prevy wente

Into my chaumbre come in al this reyn,

Unwyst of every manere wyght, certeyn,

Save of myself, as wysly have I joye,

And by that feith I shal Pryam of Troye.

 

And he is come in swich peyne and distresse

That but he be al fully wod by this,

He sodeynly mot falle into wodnesse,

But yf God helpe – and cause whi is this.

He seyth hym told is of a frend of his

How that ye loven sholde on hatte Horaste,

For sorwe of which this nyght shal ben his laste.«

 

Criseyde, which that al this wonder herde,

Gan sodeynly aboute hire herte colde,

And with a syk she sorwfully answerde,

»Allas, I wende whoso tales tolde,

My dere herte wolde me not holde

So lyghtly fals! Allas, conseytes wronge,

What harm they don, for now lyve I to longe!

 

Horaste, allas, and falsen Troylus?

I knowe hym not, God helpe me so,« quod she.

»Allas, what wykked spirit tolde hym thus?

Now certes, em, tomorwe and I hym se,

I shal therof as fully excusen me

As evere dide womman, yf hym lyke.«

And with that word she gan ful sore syke.

 

»O God,« quod she, »so worldly selynesse,

Which clerkes callen fals felicite,

Ymedled is with many a bitternesse.

Ful angwysshous than is, God wot,« quod she,

»Condicioun of veyn prosperite.

For either joyes comen nought yfere,

Or elles no wight hath hem alwey here.

 

O brotel wele of mannes joye unstable,

With what wyght so thow be, or how thow pleye,

Either he wot that thow, joye, art muable,

Or wot it not; it mot ben on of tweye.

Now yf he wot it not, how may he seye

That he hath verray joye and selynesse,

That is of ignoraunce ay in derknesse?

 

Now yf he wot that joye is transitorie,

As every joye of worldly thyng mot fle,

Than every tyme he that hath in memorie,

The drede of lesyng maketh hym that he

May in no parfit selynesse be.

And yf to lese his joye he set a myte,

Than semeth it that joye is worth but lyte.

 

Wherfore I wol deffyne in this matere,

That trewely, for ought I kan espie,

Ther is no verray wele in this world here.

But O thow wykked serpent jalousye,

Thow mysbeleved and envyous folye,

Whi hastow mad Troylus to me untriste,

That nevere yet agylt hym that I wyste?«

 

Quod Pandarus, »Thus fallen is this cas –«

»Whi, uncle myn,« quod she, »who tolde hym this?

Whi doth my dere herte thus, allas?«

»Ye wot, ye, nece myn,« quod he, »what is.

I hope al shal be wel that is amys.

For ye may quenche al this yf that yow leste.

And doth right so, for I holde it the beste.«

 

»So shal I do tomorwe, ywys,« quod she,

»And God toforn, so that it shal suffise.«

»Tomorwe? Allas, that were a fayr!« quod he.

»Nay, nay, it may nat stonden yn this wyse.

For, nece myn, thus writen clerkes wyse,

That peril is with drecchyng in idrawe.

Nay, swyche abodes be nought worth an hawe.

 

Nece, alle thing hath tyme, I dar avowe;

For whan a chaumbre afyre is, or an halle,

More nede is it sodeynly to rescowe

Than to dispute and axe amonges alle

How this candele in the straw is falle.

A, bendiste, for al among that fare

The harm is don, and farewel feldefare.

 

And nece myn – ne take it not agref –

If that ye suffre hym al nyght in this wo,

God help me so, ye hadde hym nevere lef –

That dar I seyn, now there is but we two.

But wel I wot that ye wol nat do so;

Ye ben to wys to do so gret folye,

To putte his lyf al nyght in jupartie.«

 

»Hadde I hym nevere lef? By God, I wene

Ye hadde nevere thing so lief!« quod she.

»Now by my thryft,« quod he, »that shal be sene,

For syn ye make this ensaumple of me,

If ich al nyght wolde hym in sorwe se,

For al the tresour yn the town of Troye

I bidde God I nevere mote have joye.

 

Now loke thanne, if ye that ben his love

Shul putte al nyght his lyf in jupartie

For thing of nought, now by that God above,

Naught only this delay cometh of folye,

But of malis, if that I shal nought lye.

What, platly, and ye suffre hym in distresse,

Ye neyther bounte don ne gentilesse.«

 

Quod tho Criseyde, »Wole ye don o thing,

And ye therwith shal stynte al his disese?

Have here, and bereth hym this blewe ryng,

For there is nothing myghte hym bettre plese,

Save I myself, ne more his herte apese.

And sey my dere herte that his sorwe

Is causeles, that shal ben sene tomorwe.«

 

»A ryng?« quod he. »Ye, haselwodes shaken!

Ye, nece myn, that ryng moste han a ston

That myhte a dede man alyve maken,

And swych a ryng I trowe that ye have non.

Discrecioun out of youre hed is gon –

That fele I now,« quod he, »and that is routhe.

O tyme ylost, wel maystow coursen slouthe!

 

Wot ye not wel that noble and heigh corage

Ne sorweth not – ne stenteth ek – for lyte?

But yf a fol were in a jalous rage,

I nolde not sette at his sorwe a myte,

But feffe hym with a fewe wordes white

Another day, whan that I myghte hym fynde –

But this thing stont al in another kynde.

 

This is so gentil and so tendre of herte

That with his deth he wole his sorwes wreke.

For trusteth wel, how sore that hym smerte,

He wol to yow no jalous wordes speke.

And forthi, nece, er that his herte breke,

So speke youreself to him of this matere,

For with o word ye may his herte stere.

 

Now have I told what peril he is inne,

And his comyng unwyst is to every wyght.

Ne, parde, harm may ther be non, ne synne;

I wol myself be with yow al this nyght.

Ye knowe ek how it is youre owen knyght,

And that by right ye moste upon hym triste,

And I al prest to fecche hym whan yow liste.«

 

This accident so petous was to here,

And ek so lyke a soth at pryme face,

And Troylus hire knyght to hire so dere,

His preve comyng, and the siker place,

That, though that she dide hym as thanne a grace,

Considered alle thinges as they stode,

No wonder is, syn she dide al for gode.

 

Cryseyde answerde, »As wysly God at reste

My sowle brynge, as me is for hym wo!

And, em, ywys, fayn wolde I do the beste,

Yf that I hadde a grace to do so.

But whether that ye dwelle or for hym go,

I am, til God me bettre mynde sende,

At dulcarnon, right at my wittes ende.«

 

Quod Pandarus, »Ye, nece, wol ye here?

Dulcarnon called is ›flemyng of wrecches‹ –

It semeth hard, for wrecches nel hit lere

For verray slouthe or other wilful tacches;

This seyd by hem that ben not worth two facches.

But ye ben wys, and that we han on honde

Nis neither hard ne skylful to withstonde.«

 

»Thanne, em,« quod she, »doth herof as yow lyst.

But er he come I wil up first aryse,

And, for the love of God, syn al my trist

Is on yow two, and ye ben bothe wyse,

So wyrcheth now in so discret a wyse

That I honour may have, and he plesaunce;

For I am here al yn youre governaunce.«

 

»That is wel seyd,« quod he, »my nece deere.

Ther good thryft on that wyse gentil herte.

But liggeth stille, and taketh hym ryght here.

It nedeth not no ferther for hym sterte.

And eche of yow ese otheres sorwes smerte,

For love of God. And Venus, I the herye,

For soone, hope I, we shul ben alle merye.«

 

This Troylus ful sone on knes hym sette,

Ful sobrely, ryght be hire beddes hed,

And yn his beste wyse his lady grette.

But Lord, so she wax sodeynlyche red!

Ne though men sholden smyten of hire hed,

She kowde nought a word aryght out-brynge

So sodeynly, for his sodeyn comynge.

 

But Pandarus, that so wel koude fele

In everythyng, to pleye anoon bygan,

And seyde, »Nece, se how this lord kan knele!

Now, for youre trouthe, seth this gentil man!«

And with that word he for a quysshon ran,

And seyde, »Kneleth now, while that yow leste,

There God youre hertes brynge soone at reste.«

 

Kan I not seyn, for she bad hym not ryse,

If sorwe it put out of hire remembraunce,

Or elles if she tok it in the wyse

Of deuete, as for his observaunce;

But wel fynde I she dide hym this pleasaunce,

That she hym kyste, although she siked sore,

And bad hym sytte adown withowten more.

 

Quod Pandarus, »Now wol ye wel bygynne.

Now doth hym sitte, gode nece dere,

Upon youre beddes side al there withinne,

That eche of yow the bet may other here.«

And with that word he drow hym to the fyre,

And tok a lyght, and fond his contenaunce

As for to loke upon an old romaunce.

 

Criseyde, that was Troylus lady right,

And cler stod on a ground of sykernesse,

Al thoughte she hire servaunt and hire knyght

Ne sholde of right noon untrouthe in hire gesse,

Yet natheles, considered his distresse,

And that love is in cause of swych folye,

Thus to hym spak she of his jelousye:

 

»Lo, herte myn, as wolde the excellence

Of love ayeyns the which that no man may –

Ne oughte ek – goudly make resistence,

And ek bycause I felte wel and say

Youre grete trouthe and servyse every day,

And that yowre herte al myn was, soth to seyne,

This drof me first to rewe upon yowre peyne.

 

And youre goodnesse have I founde alwey yit,

Of which, my dere herte and al my knyght,

I thonke it yow as fer as I have wit,

Al kan I nought as muche as it were right;

And I emforth my konnyng and my myght

Have and ay shal, how sore that me smerte,

Ben to yow trewe and hol with al myn herte;

 

And dredles that shal be founde at preve.

But, herte myn, what al this is to seyne

Shal wel be told, so that ye yow not greve,

Though I to yow right on youreself compleyne.

For therwith mene I fynally the peyne

That halt youre herte and myn in hevynesse

Fully to slen, and every wrong redresse.

 

My goode myn, not I for-whi ne how

That jalousye, allas, that wikkede wyvere,

Thus causeles is cropen into yow,

The harm of which I wolde fayn delyvere.

Allas, that he, al hool or of hym slyvere,

Shuld have his refuyt in so digne a place,

Ther Jove soone out of youre herte hym race.

 

But O, thow Jove, O auctor of nature,

Is this an honour to thi deite,

That folk ungiltyf suffren hire injure,

And who that gyltyf is, al quyt goth he?

O were it leful for to pleyn on the,

That undeserved suffrest jalousie,

Of that I wolde upon the pleyne and crye!

 

Ek al my wo is this, that folk now usen

To seyn right thus, ›Ye, jalousye is love!‹

And wolde a busshel venym al excusen

For that o greyn of love is on it shove.

But that wot heighe God that sit above,

If it be likere love or hate or grame;

And after that it oughte bere his name.

 

But certeyn is, som manere jalousye

Is excusable more than som, iwys,

As whanne cause is; and som swych fantasye

With pite so wel repressed is

That it unnethe doth or seyth amys,

But goodly drynketh up al his distresse.

And that excuse I for the gentilesse.

 

And som so ful of furye is and despit

That it sourmounteth his repressioun.

But, herte myn, ye be not in that plyt,

That thanke I God, for which yowre passioun

I wol not calle it but illusioun

Of habundaunce of love and bysy cure,

That doth youre herte this disese endure,

 

Of which I am right sory, but not wroth.

But for my devoir and youre hertes reste,

Wherso yow lyste, by ordal or by oth,

By sort, or in what wyse so yow leste,

For love of God, lat preve it for the beste,

And yf that I be gyltyf, do me deye!

Allas, what myght I more do or seye?«

 

With that a fewe brighte terys newe

Owt of hire eyen fille, and thus she seyde,

»Now God, thow wost, in thought ne dede untrewe

To Troylus was nevere yet Criseyde.«

With that hire hed into the bed down she leyde,

And with the shete it wreygh, and sighed sore,

And held hire pes; not o word spak she more.

 

But now help God to quenchen al this sorwe –

So hope I that he shal, for he best may.

For I have seyn of a ful mysty morwe

Folwen ful ofte a merye someres day;

And after wynter foloweth grene May;

Men sen alday, and reden ek in storyes,

That after sharpe shoures ben victories.

 

This Troylus, whan he hire wordes herde,

Have ye no care, hym lyste not to slepe,

For it thought hym no strokes of a yerde

To here or sen Criseyde his lady wepe.

But wel he felte aboute his herte crepe,

For every teere which that Criseyde asterte,

The crampe of deth to streyne hym by the herte.

 

And in his mynde he gan the tyme acorse

That he cam there, and that he was born,

For now is wykke iturned unto worse,

And al the labour he hath don byforn,

He wend it lost; he thoughte he nas but lorn.

»O Pandarus,« thoughte he, »allas, thi wyle

Serveth of nought, so welaway the while.«

 

And therwithal he heng adown the hed,

And fil on knes, and sorwfully he sighte.

What myghte he seyn? He felte he nas but ded,

For wroth was she that shulde his sorwes lyghte.

But natheles, whenne that he speken myghte,

Than seyde he thus, »God wot that of this game,

Whan al is wyst, than am I not to blame.«

 

Therwith the sorwe so his herte shette

That from his eyen fil there not a tere,

And every spirit his vigour yn-knette,

So they astoned and oppressed were.

The felyng of his sorwe, or of his fere,

Or of ought elles, fled was out of towne,

And doun he fel al sodeynly aswowne.

 

This was no litel sorwe for to se –

But al was hust, and Pandare up as faste,

»O nece, pes, or we be lost,« quod he.

»Beth nought agast.« But certeyn, at the laste,

For this or that he into bedde hym caste,

And seyde, »O thef, is this a mannes herte?«

And of he rente al to his bare sherte,

 

And seyde, »Nece, but ye helpe us now,

Allas, youre owen Troylus is lorn.«

»Iwys, so wolde I and I wiste how,

Ful fayn,« quod she. »Allas that I was born!«

»Ye, nece, wole ye pullen out the thorn

That stiketh in his herte?« quod Pandare.

»Sey ›al foryeve,‹ and stynt is al this fare.«

 

»Ye, that to me,« quod she, »ful levere were

Than al the good the sonne aboute goth.«

And therwithal she swor hym in his ere,

»Iwis, my dere herte, I am nought wroth,

Have here my trouthe,« and many another oth.

»Now speke to me, for it am I, Cryseyde!«

But al for nought; yet myght he nought abreyde.

 

Therwith his pows and pawmes of his hondes

They gan to frote, and wete his temples tweyne;

And for to delyveren hym fro bittre bondes

She ofte hym kyste; and shortly for to seyne,

Hym to revoken she dide al hire peyne.

And at the laste, he gan his breth to drawe,

And of his swough sone after that adawe,

 

And bet gan mynde and reson to hym take.

But wonder sore he was abayst, iwys,

And with a syk, whan he gan bet awake,

He seyde, »O mercy, God, what thing is this?«

»Whi do ye with yowreselven thus amys?«

Quod tho Criseyde. »Is this a mannes game?

What, Troylus, wol ye do thus for shame?«

 

And therwithal hire arm over hym she leyde,

And al foryaf, and ofte tyme hym keste.

He thonked hire, and to hire spak and seyde

As fil to purpos for his hertes reste,

And she to that answerde hym as hire leste,

And with hire goodly wordes hym disporte

She gan, and ofte his sorwes to comforte.

 

Quod Pandarus, »For ought I kan espyen,

This lyght nor I ne serven here of nought.

Lyght is not good for syke folkes eyen!

And for the love of God, syn ye ben brought

In thus good plit, lat now non hevy thought

Ben hangynge in the hertes of yow tweye« –

And bar the candele to the chimeneye.

 

Soone after this, though it no nede were,

Whan she swyche othes as hire lyste devyse

Hadde of hym take, hire thoughte tho no fere,

Ne cause ek non to bidde hym thennes ryse.

Yet lesse thyng than othes may suffise

In many a cas, for every wyght, I gesse,

That loveth wel, meneth but gentilesse.

 

But in effect she wolde wite anoon

Of what man, and ek wher, and also why

He jalous was, syn there was cause non;

And ek the signe that he tok it by,

She bad hym that to telle hire bysily,

Or elles, certeyn, she bar hym on honde

That this was don of malys, hire to fonde.

 

Withouten more, shortly for to seyne,

He most obeye unto his lady heste;

And for the lasse harm, he moste feyne.

He seyde hire whanne she was at swyche a feste,

She myght on hym han loked at the leste –

Noot I not what, al dere ynow a rysshe,

As he that nedes most a cause fysshe.

 

And she answerde, »Swete, al were it so,

What harm was that, syn I noon yvel mene?

For by that God that bought us bothe two,

In alle thyng is myn entente clene.

Swyche argumentz ne ben not worth a bene.

Wol ye the chyldyssh jalous contrefete?

Now were it worthy that ye were ybete.«

 

Tho Troylus gan sorwfully to syke –

Lest she be wroth, hym thoughte his herte deyde –

And seyde, »Allas, upon my sorwes syke

Have mercy, swete herte myn Cryseyde!

And yf that in tho wordes that I seyde

Be ony wrong, I wol no more trespace.

Doth what yow lyst, I am al in youre grace.«

 

And she answerde, »Of gilt mysericorde.

That is to seyn that I foryeve al this.

And evere more on this nyght yow recorde,

And beth wel war ye do no more amys.«

»Nay, dere herte myn,« quod he, »iwys.«

»And now,« quod she, »that I have don yow smerte,

Foryeve it me, myn owene swete herte.«

 

This Troylus, with blysse of that supprised,

Put al in Goddes hand, as he that mente

Nothyng but wel, and sodeynly avysed

He hire in armes faste to hym hente.

And Pandarus with a ful good entente

Leyd hym to slepe, and seyde, »If ye ben wyse,

Swowneth not now, lest more folk aryse!«

 

What myght or may the sely larke seye

Whan that the sperhauk hath it in his fot?

I kan no more, but of thise ilke tweye,

To whom this tale sucre be or sot,

Though that I tarye a yer, somtyme I mot

After myn auctour tellen hire gladnesse,

As wel as I have told hire hevynesse.

 

Criseyde, which that felte hire thus itake,

As writen clerkes in hire bokes olde,

Right as an aspes lef she gan to quake

Whan she hym felte hire in his armes folde.

But Troylus, al hool of cares colde,

Gan thanken tho the blysful goddes sevene.

Thus sondry peynes bryngen folk to hevene.

 

This Troylus yn armes gan hire streyne,

And seyde, »O swete, as evere mot I gon,

Now be ye kaught, now is ther but we tweyne.

Now yeldeth yow, for other bote is non.«

To that Criseyde answerde thus anon,

»Ne hadde I er now, my swete herte dere,

Ben yold, ywys, I were now not here!«

 

O soth is seyd, that heled for to be

As of a fevre or other gret syknesse,

Men moste drynke, as men may ofte se,

Ful bittre drynke; and for to han gladnesse,

Men drynken ofte peyne and gret distresse –

I mene it here, as for this aventure,

That thorugh a peyne hath founden al his cure.

 

And now swetnesse semeth more swete

That bitternesse assayed was byforn,

For out of wo in blysse now they flete –

Non swych they felten sith that they were born.

Now is this bet than bothe two be lorn.

For love of God, take every womman hede

To werken thus, yf it come to the nede.

 

Criseyde, al quyt from every drede and tene,

As she that just cause hadde hym to tryste,

Made hym swych feste it joye was to sene,

Whan she his trowthe and clene entente wyste;

And as abowte a tre, with many a twyste,

Bytrent and wryth the soote wodebynde,

Gan eche of hem in armes other wynde.

 

And as the newe abayssed nyghtyngale,

That stynteth first whan she gynneth to synge,

Whan that she hereth any herde tale,

Or in the hegges ony wight sterynge,

And after siker doth hire voys out rynge,

Right so Criseyde, whan hire drede stente,

Opened hire herte and tolde hym hire entente.

 

And right as he that seth his deth yshapen,

And deye mot, in ought that he may gesse,

And sodeynly rescous doth hym escapen

And from his deth is brought in sykernesse,

For al this world, yn swych present gladnesse

Was Troylus, and hath his lady swete.

With worse hap God lat us nevere mete!

 

Hire armes smale, hire streyghte bak and softe,

Hire sydes longe, flesshly, smothe, and white,

He gan to stroke, and good thryft bad ful ofte

Hire snowysshe throte, hire brestes rounde and lyte.

Thus in this hevene he gan hym to delyte,

And therwithal a thowsand tyme hire kyste,

That what to don for joye unnethe he wyste.

 

Than seyde he thus, »O Love, O Charite,

Thi moder ek, Citherea the swete,

After thiself next heried be she –

Venus mene I, the wel-willy planete –

And next the, Imeneus, I the grete,

For nevere man was to yow goddes holde

As I, which ye han brought fro cares colde.

 

Benygne Love, thow holy bond of thynges,

Whoso wol grace and lyst the nought honouren,

Lo, his desir wol fle withouten wynges.

For noldestow of bounte hem socouren

That serven best and most alwey labouren,

Yet were al lost, that dar I wel seyn certes,

But yf thi grace passed oure desertes.

 

And for thow me, that lest kowde deserve

Of hem that noumbred ben unto thi grace,

Hast holpen, ther I lykly was to sterve,

And me bistowed in so heygh a place

That thilke boundes may no blysse pace,

I kan namore but laude and reverence

Be to thy bounte and thyn excellence!«

 

And therwithal Criseyde anoon he kyste,

Of which, certeyn, she felte no dishese.

And thus seyde he, »Now wolde God I wyste,

Myn herte swete, how I yow myght plese.

What man,« quod he, »was evere thus at ese

As I, on which the faireste and the beste

That evere I say deyneth hire herte reste?

 

Here may men se that mercy passeth ryght;

The experience of that is felt in me,

That am unworthi to so swete a wyght.

But herte myn, of youre benyngnite,

So thynketh, thowgh that I unworthi be,

Yet mot I nede amenden in som wyse,

Right thorugh the vertu of yowre heygh servyse.

 

And for the love of God, my lady dere,

Syn God hath wrought me for I shal yow serve –

As thus I mene, that ye wol be my stere,

To do me lyve, if that yow lyste, or sterve –

So techeth me how that I may deserve

Youre thank so that I thorugh myn ignoraunce

Ne do nothing that yow be displesaunce.

 

For certes, fresshe wommanliche wyf,

This dar I seye, that trouthe and diligence,

That shal ye fynden in me al my lyf;

Ne I wol nat, certeyn, breken youre defence;

And if I do, present or in absence,

For love of God, lat sle me with the dede,

If that it lyke unto youre wommanhede.«

 

»Iwys,« quod she, »myn owene hertes lyst,

My ground of ese, and al myn herte dere,

Gramercy, for on that is al my trist.

But lat us falle awey fro this matere,

For it suffisith this that seyd is here,

And at o word, withouten repentaunce,

Welcome, my knyght, my pes, my suffisaunce.«

 

Of hire delyt or joyes oon the leste

Were impossible to my wyt to seye;

But juggeth, ye that han ben at the feste

Of swych gladnesse, yf that hem lyste pleye.

I kan no more, but thus thise ilke tweye

That nyght, betwixen drede and sikernesse,

Felten in love the grete worthynesse.

 

O blysful nyght, of hem so longe ysought,

How blithe unto hem bothe two thow were!

Why nad I swych on with my soule ybought,

Ye, or the leeste joye that was there?

Awey, thow fowle daunger and thow fere,

And lat hem in this hevene blysse dwelle,

That is so heygh that al ne kan I telle.

 

But soth is, though I kan nat tellen al,

As kan myn auctour of his excellence,

Yet have I seyd, and God toforn, and shal

In everythyng the grete of his sentence;

And yf that ich, at Loves reverence,

Have ony word in eched for the beste,

Doth therwithal right as youreselven leste.

 

For myne wordes, here and every part,

I speke hem alle under correccioun

Of yow that felyng han in loves art,

And putte it al in youre discrecioun

T'encresse or maken dyminucioun

Of my langage, and that I yow byseche.

But now to purpos of my rather speche.

 

Thise ilke two, that ben in armes laft,

So loth to hem asonder gon it were,

That ech from other wenden ben byraft,

Or elles, lo, this was hir moste fere,

That al this thyng but nyce dremes nere;

For which ful ofte ech of hem seyde, »O swete,

Clippe ich yow thus, or elles I it mete?«

 

And Lord, so he gan goodly on hire se

That nevere his lok ne blente from hire face,

And seyde, »O dere herte, may it be

That it be soth that ye ben in this place?«

»Ye, herte myn, God thank I of his grace,«

Quod tho Criseyde, and therwithal hym kyste,

That where his spirit was for joye he nyste.

 

This Troylus ful ofte hire eyen two

Gan for to kysse, and seyde, »O eyen clere,

It weren ye that wroughte me swych wo,

Ye humble nettes of my lady dere.

Though there by mercy wreten yn youre chere,

God wot, the text ful hard is, soth, to fynde.

How koude ye withouten bond me bynde?«

 

Therwith he gan hire faste in armes take,

And wel an hundred tymes gan he syke –

Nought swyche sorwful sykes as men make

For wo, or elles whanne that folk ben syke,

But esy sykes swyche as ben to lyke,

That shewed his affeccion withinne;

Of swyche sikes koude he nought bilynne.

 

Sone after this they speke of sondry thynges,

As fil to purpos of this aventure,

And pleyinge entrechaungeden hire rynges,

Of which I kan nought tellen no scripture;

But wel I wot, a broche, gold and asure,

In whiche a ruby set was lyk an herte,

Criseyde hym yaf, and stak it on his sherte.

 

Lord, trowe ye a coveytous or a wrecche,

That blameth love and holt of it despit,

That of the pens that he kan mokre and krecche

Was evere yet yyeve hym swych delyt

As ys in love, in oo poynt in som plyt?

Nay, douteles, for also God me save,

So perfit joye may no nygard have.

 

They wol sey ›yis,‹ but, Lord, so that they lye,

Tho bysy wrecches ful of wo and drede!

They callen love a woodnesse or folye,

But it shal falle hem as I shal yow rede:

They shul forgo the white and ek the rede,

And leve in wo, there God yeve hem myschaunce,

And every lovere yn his trouthe avaunce.

 

As wolde God tho wrecches that dispise

Servyse of love hadde eerys also longe

As hadde Myda, ful of coveytise,

And therto drenken hadde as hoot and stronge

As Crassus dide for his affectis wronge,

To techen hem that they ben in the vice,

And loveres nought although they holde hem nyce.

 

Thise ilke two of whom that I yow seye,

Whan that hire hertes wel assured were,

Tho gonne they to speken and to pleye,

And ek rehercen how and whanne and where

They knewe hem first, and every wo and feere

That passed was; but al swych hevynesse,

I thank it God, was tourned to gladnesse.

 

And everemo, when that hem fille to speke

Of onything of swych a tyme agoon,

With kyssing al that tale sholde breke

And fallen in a newe joye anoon;

And deden al hire myght, syn they were oon,

For to recoveren blysse and ben at eyse,

And passed woo with joye contrepeyse.

 

Reson wol not that I speke of slep,

For it accordeth nought to my matere.

God wot, they tok of that ful lytel kep!

But lest this nyght, that was to hem so dere,

Ne sholde in veyn escape in no manere,

It was byset in joye and bysynesse

Of al that sowneth into gentilesse.

 

But whanne the kok, comune astrologer,

Gan on his brest to bete and after crowe,

And Lucifer, the dayes messager,

Gan for to ryse and out hire bemys throwe,

And estward ros (to hym that kowde it knowe)

Fortuna Major, that anoon Criseyde,

With herte sor, to Troylus thus seyde:

 

»Myn hertes lyf, my tryst, and my plesaunce,

That I was born, allas, what me is wo,

That day of us mot make desseveraunce.

For tyme it is to ryse and hens to go,

Or ellys I am lost for everemo.

O nyght, allas, whi nyltow over us hove

As longe as whanne Almena lay by Jove?

 

O blake nyght, as folk in bokes rede,

That shapen art by God this world to hide

At certeyn tymes wyth thi derke wede,

That under that men myghte in reste abyde,

Wel oughte bestes pleyne and folk the chide

That there as day wyth labour wolde us breste,

That thow thus flest, and deynest us nought reste.

 

Thow dost, allas, to shortly thyn office,

Thow rakle nyght, there God, maker of kynde,

The for thyn hast and thyn unkynde vice

So faste ay to oure hemyspere bynde

That neveremore under the ground thow wynde!

For now, for thow so hyest out of Troye,

Have I forgon thus hastely my joye.«

 

This Troylus, that with tho wordes felte,

As thoughte hym tho, for pitous distresse

The blody teerys from his herte melte,

As he that nevere yet swych hevynesse

Assayed hadde out of so gret gladnesse,

Gan therwithal Criseyde, his lady dere,

In armes streyne, and seyde in this manere:

 

»O cruel day, accusour of the joye

That nyght and love han stole and faste ywryen,

Acursed be thi comyng into Troye,

For every bore hath oon of thi bryghte eyen.

Envyous day, what lyst the so to spyen?

What hastow lost? Why sekestow this place?

Ther God thi lyght so quenche, for his grace!

 

Allas, what han these loveres the agilt,

Dispitous day? Thyn be the pyne of helle!

For many a lovere hastow shent, and wilt;

Thi pouryng in wol nowhere lat hem dwelle.

What profrestow thi light here for to selle?

Go selle it hem that smale selys graven;

We wol the nought; us nedeth no day haven.«

 

And ek the sonne, Tytan, gan he chyde,

And seyde, »O fol, wel may men the dispise,

That hast the Dawyng al nyght by thi syde,

And suffrest hire so soone up fro the ryse,

For to disesen loveres yn this wyse.

What, hold youre bed ther, thow and ek thi Morwe;

I bidde God so yeve yow bothe sorwe!«

 

Therwith ful sore he sighte, and thus he seyde,

»My lady right, and of my wele or wo

The welle and rote, O goodly myn Criseyde,

And shal I ryse, allas, and shal I go?

Now fele I that myn herte mot a-two.

For how sholde I an houre my lyf save,

Syn that with yow is al the lyf ich have?

 

What shal I don, for, certes, I not how,

Ne whanne, allas, I shal the tyme se

That yn this plit I may ben eft with yow?

And of my lyf, God wot how that shal be,

Syn that desir ryght now so brenneth me

That I am ded anoon but I retorne.

How shold I longe, allas, fro yow sojourne?

 

But natheles, myn owene lady bryght,

Yit were it so that I wiste outrely

That I, youre humble servant and youre knyght,

Were in youre herte iset so fermely

As ye in myn – the which thyng, trewely,

Me levere were than these worldes tweyne –

Yet sholde I bet enduren al my peyne.«

 

To that Cryseyde answerde right anoon,

And with a syk she seyde, »O herte dere,

The game, ywys, so ferforth now is gon

That first shal Phebus falle fro his spere,

And everich egle ben the dowves fere,

And every roche out of his place sterte,

Er Troylus out of Criseydes herte.

 

Ye ben so depe in-with myn herte grave,

That though I wolde it turne out of my thought,

As wysly verray God my soule save,

To dyen in the peyne, I kowde nowght.

And for the love of God that us hath wrought,

Lat in youre brayn noon other fantasye

So crepe that it cause me to dye.

 

And that ye me wolde han as faste in mynde

As I have yow, that wold I yow byseche;

And yf I wyste sothly that to fynde,

God myghte not a poynt my joyes eche.

But herte myn, withoute more speche,

Beth to me trewe, or elles were it routhe –

For I am thyn, by God and by my trouthe!

 

Beth glad, forthi, and lyve in sykernesse;

Thus seyde I nevere er this, ne shal to mo.

And yf to yow it were a gret gladnesse

To turne ayen soone after that ye go,

As fayn wolde I as ye that it were so,

As wysly God myn herte brynge at reste.«

And hym in armes toke and ofte keste.

 

Agayns his wil, syn it mot nedes be,

This Troylus up ros, and faste hym cledde,

And in his armes tok his lady fre

An hondred tyme, and on his wey hym spedde;

And with swyche voys as though his herte bledde,

He seyde, »Farewel, myn herte and dere swete,

There God us graunte sounde and soone to mete!«

 

To which no word for sorwe she answerde,

So sore gan his partyng hire destreyne.

And Troylus unto his palays ferde

As wobygon as she was, soth to seyne.

So hard hym wrong of sharp desir the peyne

For to ben eft there he was in plesaunce,

That it may nevere out of his remembraunce.

 

Retorned to his palais real soone,

He softe into his bedde gan for to slynke,

To slepe longe, as he was woned to done.

But al for nought; he may wel lygge and wynke,

But slep ne may ther in his herte synke

Thenkynge how she, for whom desir hym brende,

A thousandfold was worth more than he wende.

 

And in his thought gan up and doun to wynde

Hire wordes alle, and every countenaunce,

And fermely impressen yn his mynde

The leste poynt that to hym was plesaunce;

And verraylich of thilke remembraunce

Desir al newe hym brende, and lust to brede

Gan more than erst, and yet tok he non hede.

 

Criseyde also, right in the same wyse,

Of Troylus gan in hire herte shette

His worthinesse, his lust, his dedes wyse,

His gentilesse, and how she with hym mette,

Thonkynge Love he so wel hire bysette,

Desirying eft to have hire herte dere

In swych a plyt she dorste make hym chere.

 

Pandare, a-morwe which that comen was

Unto his nece and gan hire fayre grete,

Seyde, »Al this nyght so reyned it, allas,

That al my drede is that ye, nece swete,

Han litel layser had to slepe and mete.

Al nyght,« quod he, »hath reyn so do me wake,

That som of us, I trowe, hire hedes ake.«

 

And ner he come and seyde, »How stont it now,

This murye morwe? Nece, how kan ye fare?«

Criseyde answerde, »Nevere the bet for yow,

Fox that ye ben. God yeve youre herte care!

God help me so, ye caused al this fare,

Trow I,« quod she, »for alle youre wordes whyte.

O, whoso seth yow, he knoweth yow ful lite.«

 

With that she gan hire face for to wrye

With the shete, and wax for shame al red;

And Pandarus gan under for to prye,

And seyde, »Nece, yf that I shal be ded,

Have here a swerd and smyteth of myn hed!«

With that his arm al sodeynly he thriste

Under hire nekke, and at the laste hire kyste.

 

I passe al that which chargeth nought to seye.

What, God foryaf his deth, and she also

Foryaf, and with hire uncle gan to pleye,

For other cause was ther noon but so.

But of this thing right to the effect to go,

Whan tyme was, hom til hire hous she wente,

And Pandarus hath fully his entente.

 

Now torne we ayen to Troylus,

That resteles ful longe abedde lay,

And prevely sente after Pandarus,

To hym to com in al the haste he may.

He com anoon, nought onyes seyde he nay,

And Troylus ful sobrely he grette,

And doun upon his beddes syde hym sette.

 

This Troylus, with al th'affeccioun

Of frendes love that herte may devyse,

To Pandarus on knees fil adown,

And er that he wolde of the place aryse,

He gan hym thonken in his beste wyse

An hondred sithe, and gan the tyme blysse

That he was born to brynge hym fro distresse.

 

He seyde, »O frend, of frendes the alderbeste

That evere was, the sothe for to telle,

Thow hast in hevene ybrought my soule at reste

Fro Flegiton, the fery flood of helle,

That though I myght a thousand tymes selle

Upon a day my lyf in thy servise,

It myght nought a mote in that suffise.

 

The sonne, which that al the world may se,

Sawh nevere yet my lyf, that dar I leye,

So inly feyr and goodly as is she,

Whos I am al, and shal til that I deye.

And that I thus am hires, dar I seye

That thanked be the heighe worthynesse

Of Love, and ek thi kynde bysynesse.

 

Thus hastow me no lytel thyng yyeve,

For which to the obliged be for ay

My lyf. And whi? For thorugh thyn help I leve,

Or elles ded hadde I be many a day.«

And with that word doun in his bed he lay.

And Pandarus ful sobrely hym herde

Til al was seyd, and thanne he hym answerde:

 

»My dere frend, yf I have don for the

In ony cas, God wot, it is me lief,

And am as glad as man may of it be,

God help me so. But tak it not a-grief

That I shal seyn: bewar of this myschief,

That there as thow now brought art into thy blysse,

That thow thiself ne cause it nought to mysse.

 

For of Fortunes sharpe adversite

The worste kynde of infortune is this,

A man to have ben in prosperite,

And it remembren whan it passed is.

Thow art wys ynowh, forthi do nought amys;

Be not to rakel, though thou sitte warme,

For if thow be, certeyn, it wol the harme.

 

Thow art at ese, and hold the wel therinne.

For also seur as red is every fir,

As gret a craft is kepe wel as wynne.

Bridle alwey wel thi speche and thi desir,

For worldly joye halt not but by a wir.

That preveth wel it brest alday so ofte;

Forthi nede is to werke with it softe.«

 

Quod Troylus, »I hope, and God toforn,

My dere frend, that I shal so me bere

That in my gilt ther shal nothing be lorn,

Ne I nyl not rakle as for to greven hire.

It nedeth not this matere ofte stere,

For wistestow myn herte wel, Pandare,

God wot of this thow woldest litel care.«

 

Tho gan he telle hym of his glade nyght,

And wherof first his herte dredde, and how,

And seyde, »Frend, as I am trewe knyght,

And by that feyth I shal to God and yow,

I hadde it never half so hote as now;

And ay the more that desir me biteth,

To love hire best the more it me delyteth.

 

I not myself not wisly what it is,

But now I fele a newe qualite,

Ye, al another than I dede er this.«

Pandare answered, and seyde thus, that »He

That onys may in hevene blysse be,

He feleth other weyes, dar I leye,

Than thilke tyme he first herde of it seye.«

 

This is o word for al. This Troylus

Was nevere ful to speke of this matere,

And for to preysen unto Pandarus

The bounte of his righte lady dere,

And Pandarus to thanke and maken chere.

This tale was ay span-newe to bygynne

Til that the nyght departed hem atwynne.

 

Soone after this, for that Fortune it wolde,

Icomen was the blysful tyme swete

That Troylus was warned that he sholde,

There he was erst, Criseyde his lady mete,

For which he felt his herte in joye flete,

And feythfully gan alle the goddes herye.

And lat se now yf that he kan be merye.

 

And holden was the forme and al the wyse

Of hire commynge, and ek of his also,

As it was erst, whych nedeth nought devyse.

But playnly to the effect right for to go,

In joye and seurte Pandarus hem two

Abedde brought whan that hem bothe leste,

And thus thei ben in quyete and yn reste.

 

Nought nedeth it to yow, syn they ben met,

To axe at me yf that they blythe were.

For yf it erst was wel, tho was it bet

A thousandfold; this nedeth not enquere.

Agon was every sorwe and every fere,

And bothe, ywys, they hadde, and so they wende,

As muche joye as herte may comprende.

 

This is no litel thyng of for to seye,

This passeth every wyt for to devyse,

For eche of hem gan otheres lust obeye.

Felicite, which that thise clerkes wyse

Commenden so, ne may not here suffise.

This joye may not ywrete ben with inke;

This passeth al that herte may bythenke.

 

But cruel day, so welawey the stounde,

Gan for to aproche, as they by synes knewe,

For which hem thoughte felen dethes wounde.

So wo was hem that changen gan hire hewe,

And day they gonnen to dispise al newe,

Callyng it traytour, envyous, and worse,

And bitterly the dayes light they corse.

 

Quod Troilus, »Allas, now am I war

That Piros and tho swyfte stedes thre,

Which that drawen forth the sonnes char,

Han gon som bypath in despit of me.

That maketh it so soone day to be.

And for the sonne hym hasteth thus to ryse,

Ne shal I nevere don hym sacrifise.«

 

But nedes day departe hem moste soone,

And whanne hire speche don was and hire chere,

They twynne anoon, as they were woned to done,

And setten tyme of metyng eft yfere.

And many a nyght they wrought yn this manere.

And thus Fortune a tyme ledde in joye

Criseyde and ek this kynges sone of Troye.

 

In suffisaunce, in blisse, and in syngynges,

This Troylus gan al his lyf to lede.

He spendeth, justeth, maketh festeynynges,

He yeveth frely ofte, and chaungeth wede,

And held aboute hym alwey, out of drede,

A world of folk as kam hym wel of kynde,

The fresshest and the beste he koude fynde.

 

That swych a voys was of hym and a stevene

Thorughout the world, of honour and largesse,

That it up rong unto the yate of hevene.

And, as in love, he was in swych gladnesse,

That in his herte he demede as I gesse

That ther nys lovere in this world at ese

So wel as he; and thus gan love hym plese.

 

The goodlihede or beaute which that Kynde

In ony other lady hadde yset

Kan not the mountaunce of a knot unbynde

Aboute his herte of al Criseydes net.

He was so narwe ymasked and yknet,

That it undon on any manere syde,

That nyl not ben, for ought that may betide.

 

And by the hond ful ofte he wolde take

This Pandarus, and into garden lede,

And swych a feste and swych a proces make

Hym of Criseyde, and of hire womanhede,

And of hire beaute, that withouten drede

It was an hevene his wordes for to here;

And thanne he wolde synge in this manere:

 

»Love, that of erthe and se hath governaunce,

Love, that his hestes hath in hevenes hye,

Love, that with an holsom alliaunce

Halt peples joyned as hym lyst hem gye,

Love, that knetteth lawe of compaignye,

And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle,

Bynd this acord that I have told and telle.

 

That that the world with feyth, which that is stable,

Dyverseth so his stoundes concordynge,

That elementes that ben so discordable

Holden a bond perpetuely durynge,

That Phebus mote his rosy day forth brynge,

And that the mone hath lordshipe over the nyghtes –

Al this doth Love, ay heryed be his myghtes.

 

That that the se, that gredy is to flowen,

Constreyneth to a certeyn ende so

His flodes that so fiersly they ne growen

To drenchen erthe and al for everemo.

And yf that Love ought lat his bridel go,

Al that now loveth asondre sholde lepe,

And al were lost that Love halt now to-hepe.

 

So wolde God, that auctour is of Kynde,

That with his bond Love of his vertu liste

To cerclen hertes alle and faste bynde,

That from his bond no wight the weye out wyste.

And hertes colde, hem wolde I that he twyste

To make hem love, and that hem leste ay rewe

On hertes sore, and kep hem that ben trewe.«

 

In alle nedes for the townes werre

He was and ay the firste in armes dight,

And certaynly, but if that bokes erre,

Save Ector most ydrad of ony wight.

And this encres of hardinesse and myght

Cam hym of love, his ladyes thank to wynne,

That altered his spirit so withinne.

 

In tyme of trewe, on haukyng wolde he ride,

Or elles hunten bor, ber, or lyoun –

The smale bestes leet he gon bysyde.

And whan that he com rydynge into town,

Ful ofte his lady from hire wyndow down,

As freshe as fawkon comen out of muwe,

Ful redy was hym goodly to saluwe.

 

And most of love and vertu was his speche,

And in despit hadde alle wrecchednesse.

And douteles, no nede was hym byseche

To honouren hem that hadde worthynesse,

And esen hem that weren in distresse.

And glad was he yf any wyght wel ferde,

That lovere was, whan he it wyste or herde.

 

For soth to seyn, he lost held every wyght

But yf he were in Loves heyhe servyse –

I mene folk that oughte it ben of right.

And over al this, so wel koude he devyse

Of sentement – and in so unkouth wyse –

Al his aray, that every lovere thoughte

That al was wel, whatso he seyde or wroughte.

 

And though that he be come of blod royal,

Lyst hym of pride at no wyght for to chase.

Benygne he was to ech yn general,

For which he gat hym thank in every place.

Thus wolde Love – yheryed be his grace –

That pride, envye, ire, and avaryce

He gan to fle, and everich other vice.

 

Thow lady bryght, the doughter to Dyone,

Thy blynde and wynged sone ek, daun Cupide,

Ye sustren nyne ek that by Elycone

In hil Pernaso lysten for to abide,

That ye thus fer han deyned me to gyde –

I kan no more, but syn that ye wol wende,

Ye heryed ben for ay withouten ende.

 

Thorugh yow have I seyd fully in my song

Th'effect and joye of Troylus servyse,

Al be that there were som dishese among,

As to myn auctour listeth to devyse.

My thridde book now ende ich in this wyse,

And Troylus, in lust and in quiete,

Is with Criseyde, his owne herte swete.

 

Explicit liber tercius.

 

Book IV

 

Incipit prohemium quarti libri.

 

But al to litel, weylaway the whyle,

Lasteth swych joye, ythonked be Fortune,

That semeth trewest whanne she wol bygyle,

And kan to foles so hire song entune,

That she hem hent and blent, traytour comune.

And whan a wyght is from hire whiel ythrowe,

Than laugheth she and maketh hym the mowe.

 

From Troylus she gan hire brighte face

Awey to writhe, and tok of hym noon hede,

But caste hym clene oute of his lady grace,

And on hire whiel she sette up Diomede;

For which ryght now myn herte gynneth blede,

And now my penne, allas, with which I write,

Quaketh for drede of that I moste endite.

 

For how Criseyde Troylus forsook,

Or at the leste how that she was unkynde,

Mot hennesforth ben matere of my book,

As writen folk thorugh which it is in mynde.

Allas, that they shulde evere cause fynde

To speke hire harm – and yf they on hire lye,

Ywys, hemself sholde han the vilonye.

 

O ye Herynes, Nyghtes doughtren thre,

That endeles compleygnen evere in pyne,

Megera, Alete, and ek Thesiphone,

Thow cruel Mars ek, fader to Quyryne,

This ilke ferthe book me helpeth fyne,

So that the losse of lyf and love yfere

Of Troylus be fully shewed here.

 

Incipit quartus liber.

 

Liggyng yn ost, as I have seyd er this,

The Grekys stronge aboute Troye town,

Byfel that whanne that Phebus shynyng is

Upon the brest of Hercules lyoun,

That Ector with many a bold baroun

Caste on a day with Grekes for to fighte,

As he was woned, to greve hem what he myghte.

 

Not I how longe or short it was bytwene

This purpos and that day they fighte mente,

But on a day, wel armed, bright and shene,

Ector and many a worthi wight out wente,

With spere yn honde and bygge bowes bente,

And in the berd, withouten lenger lette,

Hire fomen in the feld anon hem mette.

 

The longe day, with speres sharpe ygrounde,

With arwes, dartes, swerdes, maces felle,

They fyghte and bryngen hors and man to grounde,

And with hire axes out the braynes quelle.

But in the laste shour, soth for to telle,

The folk of Troye hemselven so mysledden

That with the worse at nyght homward they fledden.

 

At whiche day was taken Antenor,

Maugre Polydamas or Monesteo,

Santippe, Sarpedon, Polynestor,

Polyte, or eke the Trojian daun Rupheo,

And other lasse folk as Phebuseo;

So that for harm that day the folk of Troye

Dredden to lese a gret part of hire joye.

 

Of Pryamus was yeve at Grekes requeste

A tyme of trewe, and tho they gonnen trete.

Hire prisoners to chaungen, moste and leste,

And for the surplus yeven sommes grete.

This thing anoon was kouth in every strete,

Bothe in th'assege, in town, and everywhere.

And with the firste it com to Calkas ere.

 

Whan Calkas knew this tretys sholde holde,

In consistorie among the Grekes soone

He gan in thrynge forth with lordes olde,

And sette hym there as he was woned to done;

And with a chaunged face hem bad a bone,

For love of God, to don that reverence,

To stynte noyse and yeve hym audyence.

 

Thanne seyde he thus, »Lo, lordes myne, ich was

Troian, as it is knowen out of drede,

And, if that yow remembre, I am Calkas,

That alderfirst yaf comfort to youre nede

And tolde wel how that ye sholden spede.

For dredeles thorugh yow shal in a stounde

Ben Troye ybrend and bete doun to grounde.

 

And in what forme or in what manere wyse,

This town to shende and al youre lust to acheve,

Ye han er this wel herd it me devyse.

This knowe ye, my lordes, as I leve.

And for the Grekes weren me so leve,

I com myself, in my propre persone,

To teche in this how yow was best to done,

 

Havyng unto my tresour ne my rente

Right no resport to respect of youre ese.

Thus al my good I lefte and to yow wente,

Wenyng in this you, lordes, for to plese.

But al that losse ne doth me no dishese.

I vouchesaf, as wysly have I joye,

For you to lese al that I have in Troye,

 

Save of a doughter that I lafte, allas,

Slepynge at hom whanne out of Troye I sterte.

O sterne and cruwel fader that I was,

How myghte I have yn that so hard an herte?

Allas I ne hadde ybrought hire in hire sherte!

For sorwe of which I wol not lyve tomorwe

But yf ye lordes rewe upon my sorwe.

 

For by that cause I say no tyme er now

Hire to delyvere, ich holden have my pes,

But now or nevere, yif that it lyke yow,

I may hire have right sone, douteles.

O help and grace amonges al this pres!

Rewe on this olde caytyf in destresse,

Syn I for yow have al this hevynesse.

 

Ye have now kaught and fetered in preson

Troians ynowe; and yf youre wille be,

My chyld with on may have redempcion.

Now, for the love of God and of bounte,

On of so fele, allas, so yeve hym me!

What nede were it this preyere for to werne,

Syn ye shul bothe han folk and town as yerne?

 

On peril of my lyf, I shal not lye,

Appollo hath me told it feythfully;

I have ek founden be astronomye,

By sort, and by augurye ek, trewely;

And dar wel seye the tyme is faste by

That fir and flaumbe on al the toun shal sprede,

And thus shal Troye turne to asshen dede.

 

For certeyn, Phebus and Neptainus bothe,

That makeden the walles of the toun,

Ben with the folk of Troye alwey so wrothe

That thei wol brynge it to confusioun,

Right in despit of Kyng Lameadoun –

By cause he nolde payen hem here hire,

The town of Troye shal ben set on fire.«

 

Tellyng his tale alwey, this olde greye,

Humble in his speche and yn his lokyng eke,

The salte terys from his eyen tweye

Ful faste ronnen doun by eyther cheke.

So longe he gan of socour hem byseke

That for to hele hym of his sorwes sore,

They yaf hym Antenor withoute more.

 

But who was glad ynowh but Calkas tho?

And of this thing ful sone his nedes leyde

On hem that sholden for the tretis go,

And hem for Antenor ful ofte preyde

To bryngen hom Kyng Toas and Criseyde.

And whan Pryam his savegarde sente,

The ambassiatours to Troye streyght thei wente.

 

The cause ytold of hire comyng, the olde

Pryam the kyng ful soone in general

Let hereupon his parlement to holde,

Of which the effect rehersen yow I shal:

Th'embassadours ben answerd for fynal,

Th'eschaunge of prisoners and al this nede

Hem lyketh wel, and forth in they procede.

 

This Troylus was present in the place

Whan axed was for Antenor Criseyde,

For which ful soone chaungen gan his face

As he that with tho wordes wel neygh deyde.

But natheles he no word to it seyde,

Lest men sholde his affeccioun espye.

With mannes herte he gan his sorwes drye,

 

And ful of angwyssh and of grysly drede

Abod what lordes wolde unto it seye.

And yf they wolde graunte – as God forbede –

Th'eschaunge of hire, than thoughte he thynges tweye,

First how to save hire honour, and what weye

He myghte best th'eschaunge of hire withstonde.

Ful faste he cast how al this myghte stonde.

 

Love hym made al prest to don hire byde,

And rather dye than she sholde go;

But resoun seyde hym, on that other syde,

»Withoute assent of hire ne do not so,

Lest for thi werk she wolde be thi fo,

And seyn that thorugh thi medlyng is yblowe

Yowre bothere love there it was erst unknowe.«

 

For which he gan deliberen for the beste

That though the lordes wolde that she wente,

He wolde lat hem graunte what hem leste,

And telle his lady fyrst what that they mente;

And whanne that she hadde seyd hym hire entente,

Therafter wolde he werken also blyve,

Though al the world ayen it wolde stryve.

 

Ector, which that wel the Grekis herde,

For Antenor how they wolde han Criseyde,

Gan it withstonde, and sobrely answerde,

»Sires, she nys no presoner,« he seyde.

»I not on yow who that this charge leyde,

But on my part ye may eftsone hym telle

We usen here no wommen for to selle.«

 

The noyse of peple up stirte thanne at onys,

As breme as blase of straw yset on fyre;

For infortune it wolde, for the nonys,

They sholden hire confusioun desire.

»Ector,« quod they, »what gost may yow enspire

This womman thus to shilde, and don us lese

Daun Antenor? A wrong wey now ye chese!

 

That is so wys and ek so bold baroun,

And we han nede to folk, as men may se.

He is ek on the grettest of this town.

O Ector, lat tho fantasyes be!

O Kyng Pryam,« quod they, »thus seggen we,

That al oure voys is to forgon Criseyde.«

And to delyveren Antenor they preyde.

 

O Juvenal, lord, trewe is thi sentence,

That litel wyten folk what is to yerne,

That they ne fynde in hire desir offence,

For cloude of errour lat hem not descerne

What best is. And lo, here ensample as yerne:

This folk desiren now delyveraunce

Of Antenor, that brought hem to myschaunce.

 

For he was after traytour to the town

Of Troye – allas, they quyt hym out to rathe!

O nyce world, lo thy dyscressioun!

Criseyde, which that nevere dede hem skathe,

Shal now no lengere in hire blysse bathe;

But Antenor, he shal come hom to towne,

And she shal out – thus seyden here and howne.

 

For which delibered was by parlement

For Antenor to yelden up Criseyde,

And it pronounced by the president,

Althey that Ector ›nay‹ ful ofte preyede.

And fynaly, what wyght that it withseyde,

It was for nought; it moste ben and sholde,

For substaunce of the parlement it wolde.

 

Departed out of parlement echone,

This Troylus withoute wordes mo

Unto his chambre spede hym faste allone,

But yf it were a man of his or two

The which he bad out faste for to go

Bycause he wolde slepen, as he seyde;

And hastily upon his bed hym leyde.

 

And as yn wynter leves ben byraft,

Eche after other, til the tre be bare,

So that ther nys but bark and braunche ylaft,

Lyth Troylus, byraft of ech welfare,

Ibounden in the blake bark of care,

Disposed wod out of his wit to breyde,

So sore hym sat the chaungynge of Criseyde.

 

He rist hym up, and every dore he shette,

And wyndow ek, and tho this sorwful man

Upon his beddes side adoun hym sette,

Ful lyk a ded ymage, pale and wan.

And in his brest the heped wo bygan

Out brest, and he to werken yn this wyse

In his woodnesse, as I shal yow devyse.

 

Ryght as the wylde bole bygynneth sprynge,

Now her, now ther, idarted to the herte,

And of his deth roreth yn compleynynge,

Right so gan he aboute the chaumbre sterte,

Smytyng his brest ay with his festes smerte;

His hed to the wal, his body to the grounde

Ful ofte he swapte, himselven to confounde.

 

Hys eyen two for pite of his herte

Out stremeden as swyfte welles tweye.

The heyghe sobbes of his sorwes smerte

His speche hym rafte. Unnethes myghte he seye,

»O deth, allas, whi nyltow do me deye?

Acursed be the day which that Nature

Shop me to ben a lyves creature!«

 

But after, whan the furye and the rage,

Which that his herte twyste and faste threste,

By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan aswage,

Upon his bed he leyde hym down to reste.

But tho bygonne his terys more out breste,

That wonder is the body may suffise

To half this wo which that I yow devyse.

 

Thanne seyde he thus, »Fortune, allas the while!

What have I don? What have I thus agilt?

How myghtestow for reuthe me bygyle?

Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt?

Shal thus Criseyde awey, for that thow wylt?

Allas, how maystow in thyn herte fynde

To ben to me thus cruwel and unkynde?

 

Have I the nought honoured al my lyve,

As thow wel wost, above the goddes alle?

Why wiltow me fro joye thus depryve?

O Troylus, what may men the now calle

But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle

Into myserie, yn which I wol bywayle

Criseyde, allas, til that the breth me fayle?

 

Allas, Fortune, yf that my lyf yn joye

Displesed hadde unto thi foule envye,

Why ne haddestow my fader, kyng of Troye,

Byraft the lyf, or don my bretheren deye,

Or slayn myself that thus compleyne and crye –

I, combre-world, that may of nothing serve,

But evere dye, and nevere fully sterve?

 

Yf that Criseyde allone were me laft,

Nought roughte I wheder thow woldest me stere!

And hire, allas, than hastow me byraft!

But everemore, lo, this is thi manere,

To reve a wyght that most is to hym dere,

To preve yn that thi gerful violence.

Thus am I lost; there helpeth no defence.

 

O verrey lord of love, O god, allas,

That knowest best myn herte and al my thought,

What shal my sorwful lyf don in this cas,

Yf I forgo that I so dere have bought?

Syn ye Cryseyde and me han fully brought

Into youre grace, and bothe oure hertes seled,

How may ye suffre, allas, it be repeled?

 

What may I don? I shal whil I may dure,

On lyve in torment and yn cruwel peyne,

This infortune of this disaventure,

Allone as I was born, ywys, compleyne;

Ne nevere wyl I seen it shyne or reyne,

But ende I wil, as Edippe, yn derknesse

My sorwful lyf, and dyen in dystresse.

 

O wery goost that errest to and fro,

Why nyltow fle out of the wofulleste

Body that evere myghte on grounde go?

O soule, lurkynge in this wo, unneste,

Fle forth out of myn herte and lat it breste,

And folowe alwey Criseyde, thi lady dere.

Thi righte place is now no lenger here.

 

O wofulle eyen two, syn youre desport

Was al to seen Criseydes eyen bryght,

What shal ye don but for my discomfort

Stonden for nought, and wepen out youre sight,

Syn she is queynt that wont was yow to light?

In vayn fro this forth have ich eyen tweye

Yformed, syn youre vertu is aweye.

 

O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne

Of thilke woful soule that thus crieth,

Who shal now yeven comfort to the peyne?

Allas, no wight; but whan myn herte dyeth,

My spirit, which that so unto yow hyeth,

Receyve in gre, for that shal ay yow serve;

Forthi no fors is, though the body sterve.

 

O ye loveres, that heyhe upon the whiel

Ben set of Fortune, yn good aventure,

God leve that ye fynde ay love of stel,

And longe mot youre lyf yn joye endure!

But whanne ye comen by my sepulture,

Remembreth that youre felawe resteth there –

For I loved ek, though ich unworthi were.

 

O old, unholsom, and myslyved man,

Calkas I mene, allas, what eyleth the

To ben a Grek syn thou art born Troian?

O Calkas, which that wilt my bane be,

In cursed tyme was thow born for me!

As wolde blisful Jove for his joye

That I the hadde where as I wolde in Troye!«

 

A thousand sykes hottere than the glede

Out of his brest eche after other wente,

Meddled with pleyntes new his wo to fede,

For which his woful terys nevere stente.

And shortly, so his peynes hym torente

And wex so mat that joye nor penaunce

He feleth noon, but lyth forth in a traunce.

 

Pandare, which that in the parlement

Hadde herd what every lord and burgeys seyde,

And how ful graunted was by on assent

For Antenor to yelden so Criseyde,

Gan wel neygh wod out of his wit to breyde,

So that for wo he nyste what he mente,

But in a res to Troylus he wente.

 

A certeyn knyght that for the tyme kepte

The chaumbre door undede it hym anoon;

And Pandare that ful tendreliche wepte

Into the derke chambre, as stille as ony ston,

Toward the bed gan softely to gon,

So confus that he nyste what to seye;

For verray wo his wit was neigh aweye.

 

And with his chere and lokyng al totorn

For sorwe of this, and with his armes folden,

He stod this woful Troylus byforn,

And on his pitous face he gan byholden.

But Lord, so ofte gan his herte colden,

Seyng his frend in wo, whose hevynesse

His herte slow, as thought hym, for distresse.

 

This woful wight, this Troylus, that felte

His frend Pandare ycomen hym to se,

Gan as the snow ayen the sonne melte,

For whych this sorwful Pandare of pyte

Gan for to wepe as tendrelyche as he,

And specheles thus ben this ilke tweye,

That neyther myghte o word for sorwe seye.

 

But at the laste this woful Troylus,

Ney ded for smert, gan bresten out to rore,

And with a sorwful noyse he seyde thus,

Among his sobbes and his sikes sore,

»Lo, Pandare, I am ded withouten more.

Hastow nought herd at parlement,« he seyde,

»For Antenor how lost is my Criseyde?«

 

This Pandarus, ful dede and pale of hewe,

Ful pytously answerde and seyde, »Yis,

As wysly were it fals as it is trewe,

That I have herd and wot al how it is.

O mercy God, who wolde have trowed this?

Who wolde have wend that yn so lytel a throwe

Fortune oure joye wolde han overthrowe?

 

For yn this world there is no creature,

As to my dom, that ever saw ruyne

Straunger than this, thorugh cas or aventure.

But who may al eschewe or al devyne?

Swych is this world! Forthi I thus defyne:

Ne trust no wyght to fynden in Fortune

Ay proprete – hire yeftes ben comune.

 

But tel me this: whi thou art now so mad

To sorwen thus? Whi listow in this wyse,

Syn thi desir al holly hastow had,

So that by right it oughte ynow suffise?

But I, that nevere felte in my servyse

A frendly chere, or lokyng of an eye,

Lat me thus wepe and wailen til I dye.

 

And over al this, as thow wel wost thiselve,

This town is ful of ladyes al aboute;

And, to my dom, fairer than swyche twelve

As evere she was shal I fynde yn som route,

Ye oon or two, withouten any doute.

Forthi be glad, myn owen dere brother.

If she be lost, we shul recovere another.

 

What, God forbede alwey that ech plesaunce

In o thyng were and in noon other wyght.

Yf oon kan synge, another kan wel daunce;

Yf this be goodly, she is glad and lyght;

And this is fayr, and that kan good aright.

Ech for his vertu holden is for dere,

Bothe heroner and faukoun for ryvere.

 

And ek, as writ Zanzis that was ful wys,

The newe love out chaceth ofte the olde,

And upon newe cas lyth newe avys.

Thenk ek, thi lif to saven thow art holde.

Swych fyr by proces shal of kynde colde;

For syn it is but casuel plesaunce,

Som cas shal putte it out of remembraunce.

 

For also seur as day cometh after nyght,

The newe love, labour, or other wo,

Or ellys selde seynge of a wyght,

Don olde affecciouns al overgo.

And for thi part, thow shalt have one of tho

To abrigge with thi bittre peynes smerte;

Absence of hire shal dryve hire out of herte.«

 

Thise wordes seyde he for the nones alle,

To helpe his frend lest he for sorwe deyde.

For douteles, to don his wo to falle,

He roughte nought what unthryft that he seyde.

But Troylus, that neigh for sorwe deyde,

Tok litel hed of al that evere he mente;

Oon eere it herde, at the other out it wente.

 

But at the laste he answerde and seyde, »Frend,

This lechecraft, or heled thus to be,

Were wel sittyng if that I were a fend –

To traysen hire that trewe is unto me.

I pray to God lat this consayl nevere the,

But do me rathere anon sterve right here,

Er I thus do as thow me woldest lere.

 

She that I serve, ywys, what so thow seye,

To whom myn herte enhabyt is by right,

Shal han me holly hires til that I deye.

For, Pandarus, syn I have trouthe hire hight,

I wol nat ben untrewe for no wyght,

But as hire man I wole ay lyve and sterve,

And nevere other creature serve.

 

And ther thow seyst thow shalt as faire fynde

As she, lat be. Make no comparysoun

To creature yformed here by kynde.

O leve Pandare, in conclusion,

I wol nat ben of thyn opynyon

Towchyng al this. For whiche I the byseche,

So hold thi pes; thow slest me with thi speche!

 

Thow biddest me I sholde love another

Al fresshly newe, and lat Criseyde go.

It lith nat in my power, leve brother;

And though I myght, I wolde not do so.

But kanstow pleyen raket, to and fro,

Nettle in, dokke out, now this, now that, Pandare?

Now fowle falle hire that for thi wo hath care!

 

Thow farest ek by me, thow Pandarus,

As he that whan a wyght is wobygon,

He cometh to hym a pas and seyth right thus,

›Thenk not on smert, and thow shalt fele noon.‹

Thow most me first transmewen in a ston,

And reve me my passiones alle,

Er thow so lightly do my wo to falle.

 

The deth may wel out of my brest departe

The lyf, so longe may this sorwe myne;

But fro my sowle shal Criseydes darte

Out neveremo. But down with Proserpyne,

Whan I am ded, I wol go wone in pyne,

And ther I wol eternally compleyne

My wo, and how that twynned be we tweyne.

 

Thow hast here mad an argument for fyn,

How that it sholde a lasse peyne be

Criseyde to forgon for she was myn

And lyved in ese and yn felicite.

Whi gabbestow that seydest thus to me,

That ›hym is wors that is fro wele ythrowe,

Than he hadde erst non of that wele yknowe?‹

 

But tel me now, syn that the thenketh so lyght

To chaungen so in love ay to and fro,

Whi hastow not don bysyly thi myght

To chaungen hire that doth the al thi wo?

Why neltow lete hire fro thyn herte go?

Whi neltow love another lady swete,

That may thin herte setten in quyete?

 

If thow hast had in love ay yet myschaunce,

And kanst it not out of thyn herte dryve,

I that levede yn lust and in plesaunce

With hire as muche as creature on lyve,

How sholde I that foryete, and that so blyve?

O, where hastow ben hid so longe in muwe,

That kanst so wel and formaly arguwe?

 

Nay, God wot, nought worth is al thi red.

For which, for what that evere may byfalle,

Withouten wordes mo, I wol be ded.

O deth, that endere art of sorwes alle,

Com now, syn I so ofte after the calle;

For sely is that deth, soth for to seyne,

That, ofte ycleped, cometh and endeth peyne.

 

Wel wot I, whil my lyf was in quyete,

Er thow me slowe, I wolde have yeven hire;

But now thi comynge is to me so swete

That in this world I nothing so desire.

O deth, syn with this sorwe I am afyre,

Thou other do me anoon yn teris drenche,

Or with thi colde strok myn hete quenche.

 

Syn that thou sleest so fele in sondry wyse,

Ayens hire wil, unpreyed, day and nyght,

Do me at my requeste this servise:

Delyvere now the world, so dostow right,

Of me that am the wofulleste wyght

That evere was, for tyme is that I sterve,

Syn in this world of right nought may I serve.«

 

This Troylus in teris gan distille,

As licour out of a lambyc ful faste.

And Pandarus gan holde his tunge stille,

And to the ground his eyen doun he caste.

But natheles, thus thought he at the laste,

»What, parde, rather than my felawe deye,

Yet shal I somwhat more unto hym seye.«

 

And seyde, »Frend, syn thow hast swych distresse,

And syn thee list myn argumentes blame,

Why nylt thiself helpen don redresse,

And with thy manhod letten al this grame?

To ravysshe hire ne kanstow not? For shame!

And other lat hire out of towne fare,

Or hold hire stille, and leve thi nyce fare.

 

Artow in Troye, and hast noon hardiment

To take a womman which that loveth the,

And wolde hireselven ben of thyn assent?

Now is nat this a nyce vanyte?

Rys up anoon, and lat this wepyng be,

And kyth thow art a man, for yn this owre

I wil be ded or she shal bleven oure.«

 

To this answerde hym Troylus ful softe,

And seyde, »Parde, leve brother dere,

Al this have I myself yet thought ful ofte,

And more thyng than thow devysest here.

But whi this thyng is laft thow shalt wel here,

And whan thow me hast yeve an audience,

Therafter maystow telle al thi sentence.

 

Fyrst, syn thow wost this town hath al this werre

For ravysshyng of womman so by myght,

It sholde not be suffred me to erre,

As it stant now, ne don so gret unright.

I sholde han also blame of every wyght

My fadres graunt yf that I so withstode,

Syn she is chaunged for the townes goode.

 

I have ek thought, so it were hire assent,

To axe hire at my fader, of his grace;

Than thenke I this were hire accusement,

Syn wel I wot I may hire nought purchace.

For syn my fader in so heigh a place

As parlement hath hire eschaunge enseled,

He nyl for me his lettre be repeled.

 

Yet drede I moost hire herte to pertourbe

With violence, yf I do swych a game.

For yf I wolde it openly distourbe,

It moste ben disclaundre to hire name,

And me were levere ded than hire defame –

As nolde God but yf I sholde have

Hire honour levere than my lyf to save!

 

Thus am I lost, for ought that I kan se.

For certeyn is, syn that I am hire knyght,

I moste hire honour levere han than me

In every cas, as lovere ought of right.

Thus am I with desir and reson twyght:

Desir for to destourben hire me redeth,

And reson nyl not, so myn herte dredeth.«

 

Thus wepyng that he koude nevere cesse,

He seyde, »Allas, how shal I, wrecche, fare?

For wel fele I alwey my love encresse,

And hope is lasse and lasse alway, Pandare.

Encressen ek the causes of my care.

So welawey, whi nyl myn herte breste?

For as in love ther is but litel reste.«

 

Pandare answerde, »Frend, thow mayst, for me,

Don as the list; but hadde ich it so hote,

And thyn estat, she sholde go with me,

Though al this town criede on this thyng by note.

I nolde sette at al that noyse a grote.

For when men han wel cried, than wol they rowne –

A wonder last but nyne nyght nevere yn towne.

 

Devyne not in reson ay so depe

Ne curteysly, but help thiself anoon.

Bet is that othere than thiselven wepe,

And namly syn ye two ben al oon.

Rys up, for by myn hed she shal not goon!

And rather be in blame a lite yfounde

Than sterve here as a gnat, withowten wounde.

 

It is no shame unto yow, ne no vice,

Hire to withholden that ye loveth most.

Peraunter, she myghte holden the for nyce

To late hire go thus unto the Greke ost.

Thenk ek Fortune, as wel thiselven wost,

Helpeth hardy man to his enprise,

And weyveth wrecches for hire cowardise.

 

And though thi lady wolde a lite hire greve,

Thow shalt thi pes ful wel hereafter make,

But as for me, certeyn, I kan not leve

That she wolde it as now for yvel take.

Whi sholde thanne of fered thyn herte quake?

Thenk ek how Parys hath, that is thi brother,

A love; and whi shaltow nat have another?

 

And Troylus, o thyng I dar the swere,

That if Criseyde, whiche that is thi lef,

Now loveth the as wel as thow dost hire,

God helpe me so, she nyl not take a-gref,

Theigh thou do bote anoon in this myschef.

And yf she wilneth fro the for to passe,

Thanne is she fals; so love hire wel the lasse.

 

Forthi tak herte, and thenk right as a knyght,

Thorugh love is broken alday every lawe.

Kith now somwhat thi corage and thi myght,

Have mercy on thiself for ony awe.

Lat nat this wrecched wo thyn herte gnawe,

But manly set the world on sixe and sevene,

And yf thow deye a martir, go to hevene.

 

I wol myself ben with the at this dede,

Theygh ich and al my kyn upon a stounde

Shulle in a strete as dogges liggen dede,

Thorugh-girt with many a wyd and blody wounde.

In every cas I wol a frend be founde.

And yf the lyst here sterven as a wrecche,

Adieu – the devel spede hym that it recche.«

 

This Troylus gan with tho wordes quyken,

And seyde, »Frend, graunt mercy, ich assente.

But certeynly thow mayst not me so priken,

Ne peyne noon ne may me so tormente,

That for no cas it is not myn entente,

At shorte wordes, though I dyen sholde,

To ravysshen hire but yf hireself it wolde.«

 

»Why, so mene I,« quod Pandarus, »al this day.

But telle me thanne, hastow hire wil assayed,

That sorwest thus?« And he answerde hym, »Nay.«

»Wherof artow,« quod Pandare, »than amayed,

That nost not that she wol ben evele apayed

To ravysshen hire, syn thow hast not ben there,

But if that Jove told it yn thyn eere?

 

Forthi rys up as nought ne were, anoon,

And wassh thi face, and to the kyng thow wende,

Or he may wondren whider thow art goon.

Thow most with wysdom hym and othere blende,

Or, upon cas, he may after the sende,

Er thow be war. And shortly, brother dere,

Be glad, and lat me werke in this matere.

 

For I shal shappe it so that sikerly

Thow shalt this nyght somtyme in som manere

Com speke with thi lady prevely,

And by hire wordes ek, and by hire chere,

Thow shalt ful sone aparceyve and wel here

Al hire entente, and in this cas the beste.

And fare now wel, for in this point I reste.«

 

The swyfte Fame, which that false thynges

Egal reporteth lyk the thynges trewe,

Was thorughout Troye yfled with preste wynges

Fro man to man and made this tale al newe,

How Calkas doughter with hire brighte hewe,

At parlement, withoute wordes more,

Igraunted was yn chaunge of Antenore.

 

The whiche tale anoon-right as Criseyde

Had herd, she which that of hire fader roughte,

As in this cas, right nought, ne whanne he deyde,

Ful bysily to Juppiter bysoughte

Yeve hym myschaunce that this tretis broughte.

But shortly, lest this tales sothe were,

She dorste at no wyght asken it for fere,

 

As she that hadde hire herte and al hire mynde

On Troilus yset so wonder faste

That al the world ne koude hire love unbynde,

Ne Troylus out of hire herte caste –

She wol ben his, whil that hire lyf may laste.

And thus she brenneth bothe in love and drede,

So that she nyste what was best to rede.

 

But as men sen in towne and al aboute

That wommen usen frendes to visite,

So to Criseyde of wommen come a rowte,

For pitous joye, and wenden hire delite.

And with hire tales, dere ynowh a myte,

These wommen, whiche that yn the cite dwelle,

Thei sette hem doun and seyde as I shal telle.

 

Quod first that oon, »I am glad, trewely,

By cause of yow, that ye shal youre fader se.«

Another seyde, »Iwys, so am not I,

For al to litel hath she with us be.«

Quod tho the thridde, »I hope, ywys, that she

Shal bryngen us the pes on every side,

That whanne she gooth, Almyghty God hire gide.«

 

Tho wordes and tho wommanysshe thynges,

She herd hem ryght as though she thennes were,

For God it wot, hire herte on other thing is.

Although the body sat among hem there,

Hire advertence is alwey ellyswhere,

For Troylus ful faste hire soule soughte.

Withouten word, alwey on hym she thoughte.

 

This wommen, that thus wenden hire to plese,

Aboute nought gonne alle hire tales spende.

Swych vanite ne kan don hire non ese,

As she that al this menewhile brende

Of other passioun than that they wende,

So that she felte almost hire herte deye

For wo and wery of that companye.

 

For which no lenger myghte she restreyne

Hire teeris, so they gonnen up to welle,

That yaven signes of the bittre peyne

In which hir spirit was, and moste dwelle,

Remembryng hire fro heven into which helle

She fallen was syn she forgoth the syghte

Of Troylus; and sorwfully she sighte.

 

And thilke fooles sittynge hire aboute

Wenden that she wepte and syked sore

By cause that she sholde out of that route

Departe, and nevere pleye with hem more.

And they that hadde yknowen hire of yore

Seygh hire so wepe and thoughte it kyndenesse,

And eche of hem wepte eke for hire distresse.

 

And bisily they gonnen hire comforten

Of thing, God wot, on which she litel thoughte,

And with hire tales wenden hire disporten,

And to be glad they often hire bysoughte.

But swich an ese therwith they hire wroughte,

Right as a man is esed for to fele

For ache of hed to clawen hym on his hele!

 

But after al this nyce vanyte

They tok hire leve and hom they wenten alle.

Cryseyde, ful of sorwful pite,

Into hire chaumbre up went out of the halle,

And on hire bed she gan for ded to falle,

In purpos nevere thennes for to ryse.

And thus she wroughte as I shal yow devyse.

 

Hire ownded heer that sonnyssh was of hewe

She rente, and ek hire fyngres longe and smale

She wrong ful ofte, and bad God on hire rewe,

And with the deth to don bote on hire bale.

Hire hewe, whilom bryght that tho was pale,

Bar witnesse of hire wo and hire constreynte.

And thus she spak, sobbynge in hire compleynte:

 

»Allas,« quod she, »out of this regioun

I, woful wrecche and infortuned wight,

And born in corsed constellacioun,

Mot gon, and thus departen fro my knyght.

Wo worth, allas, that ilke dayes lyght

On which I saw hym first with eyen tweyne,

That causeth me, and ich hym, al this peyne!«

 

Therwith the terys from hire eighen two

Doun fille, as shour in Aperill ful swythe.

Hire white brest she bet, and for the wo

After the deth she cried a thousand sithe,

Syn he that wont hire wo was for to lythe

She mot forgon; for which disaventure

She held hireself a forlost creature.

 

She seyde, »How shal he don, and ich also?

How sholde I lyve, yf that I from hym twynne?

O dere herte ek, that I love so,

Who shal that sorwe sleen that ye ben inne?

O Calkas, fader, thyn be al this synne!

O moder myn, that cleped were Argyve,

Wo worth that day that thow me bere on lyve!

 

To what fyn sholde I lyve and sorwen thus?

How sholde a fyssh withoute water dure?

What is Criseyde worth, from Troylus?

How sholde a plaunte or lyves creature

Lyve withouten his kynde noriture?

For which ful oft a byword here I seye,

That ›roteles mot grene sone deye.‹

 

I shal don thus, syn neyther swerd ne darte

Dar I noon handle for the cruweltee:

That ilke day that I from yow departe,

If sorwe of that nyl not my bane be,

Than shal no mete or drynke come in me

Til I my soule out of my breste unshethe;

And thus myselven wil I don to dethe.

 

And, Troylus, my clothes everychon

Shul blake ben in tokenyng, herte swete,

That I am as out of this world agon,

That wont was yow to setten in quiete.

And of myn ordre, ay til deth me mete,

The observance evere, yn youre absence,

Shal sorwe ben, compleynte, and abstinence.

 

Myn herte and ek the woful gost therinne

Biquethe I with youre spirit to compleyne

Eternally, for they shul nevere twynne.

For though in erthe ytwynned be we tweyne,

Yet in the feld of pite out of peyne,

That hight Elysos, shul we ben yfere,

As Orpheus with Erudice his fere.

 

Thus, herte myn, for Antenor, allas,

I soone shal be chaunged, as I wene.

But how shul ye don in this sorwful cas?

How shal youre tendre herte this sustene?

But, herte myn, foryete this sorwe and tene,

And me also; for sothly for to seye,

So ye wel fare, I recche not to deye.«

 

How myghte it evere yred ben or ysonge

The pleynte that she made in hire distresse,

I not.