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. But as for me, my litel tonge,

If I discreven wolde hire hevynesse,

It sholde make hire sorwe seme lesse

Than that it was, and chyldisshly deface

Hire heyghe compleynte, and therfore ich it pace.

 

Pandare, which that sent from Troylus

Was to Criseyde – as ye han herd devyse

That for the beste it was acorded thus,

And he ful glad to don hym that servise –

Unto Criseyde in a ful secree wyse,

Ther as she lay in torment and in rage,

Corn hire to telle al hoolly his message,

 

And fond that she hireselven gan to trete

Ful pitously, for with hire salte terys

Hire brest, hire face, ybathed was ful wete;

The myghty tresses of hire sonnysshe herys

Unbroyden hangen al aboute hire eris,

Which yaf hym verray signal of martire

Of deth, which that hire herte gan desire.

 

Whan she hym saw, she gan for sorwe anoon

Hire tery face atwixe hire armes hyde,

For which this Pandare is so wobygon

That in the hous he myghte unnethe abyde,

As he that pyte felte on every syde.

For yf Criseyde hadde erst compleyned sore,

Tho gan she pleyne a thousand tymes more.

 

And in hire aspre pleynt thus she seyde,

»Pandare first of joyes mo than two

Was cause causyng unto me, Criseyde,

That now transmewed ben in cruel wo.

Wher shal I seye to yow welcom or no,

That alderferst me brought into servise

Of love, allas, that endeth in this wyse?

 

Endeth thanne love in wo? Ye, or men lieth!

And alle worldly blysse, as thenketh me.

The ende of blisse ay sorwe it occupieth;

And who that troweth not that it so be,

Lat hym upon me, woful wrecche, yse,

That myself hate and ay my birthe accorse,

Felynge alwey fro wikke I go to worse.

 

Whoso me seth, he seth sorwe al atonys,

Peyne, torment, pleynte, wo, and distresse.

Out of my woful body harm ther non is,

As angwyssh, langour, cruel bitternesse,

Anoy, smert, drede, fury, and ek siknesse.

I trowe, iwys, from hevene teris reyne

For pite of myn aspre and cruwel peyne.«

 

»And thow, my suster, ful of discomfort,«

Quod Pandarus, »what thynkestow to do?

Whi ne hastow to thiselven som resport?

Whi woltow thus thiselve, allas, fordo?

Lef al this werk, and take now hede to

That I shal seyn, and herkene of good entente

This which by me thi Troylus the sente.«

 

Tornede hire tho Criseyde, a wo makynge

So gret that it a deth was for to se.

»Allas,« quod she, »what wordes may ye brynge?

What wold my dere herte seyn to me,

Which that I drede nevere mo to se?

Wol he han pleynte or terys er I wende?

I have ynowe yf he therafter sende!«

 

She was right swych to sen in hire visage

As is that wight that men on bere bynde;

Hire face, lyk of Paradys the ymage,

Was al ichaunged in another kynde;

The pleye, the laughtre, men was wont to fynde

In hire, and ek hire joyes everychone,

Ben fled; and thus lith now Criseyde allone.

 

Aboute hire eyen two a purpre ryng

Bytrent, in sothfast tokenynge of hire peyne,

That to byholde it was a dedly thing;

For which Pandare myght not restreyne

The terys from his eyen for to reyne.

But natheles as he best myghte he seyde

From Troilus thise wordes to Criseyde:

 

»Lo, nece, I trowe wel ye han herd al how

The kyng with othere lordes, for the beste,

Hath mad eschaunge of Antenor and yow,

That cause is of this sorwe and this unreste.

But how this cas doth Troylus moleste,

That may non erthely mannes tonge seye;

For verray wo his wit is al aweye.

 

For which we han so sorwed, he and I,

That into litel bothe it hadde us slawe;

But thurgh my conseyl this day fynally

He somwhat is fro wepyng now withdrawe.

It semeth me that he desireth fawe

With yow to ben al nyght for to devyse

Remede in this yf ther were any wyse.

 

This, short and pleyn, th'effect of my message,

As ferforth as my wit may comprehende;

For ye that ben of torment in swych rage

May to no long prologe as now entende.

And herupon ye may answere hym sende.

And for the love of God, my nece dere,

So lef this wo er Troylus be here!«

 

»Gret is my wo,« quod she, and sighed soore

As she that feleth dedly sharp distresse,

»But yet to me his sorwe is muche more,

That loveth hym bet than he hymself, I gesse.

Allas, for me hath he swych hevynesse?

Kan he for me so pitously compleyne?

Iwis, this sorwe doubleth al my peyne.

 

Grevous to me, God wot, is for to twynne,«

Quod she, »but yet it harder is to me

To sen that sorwe which that he is inne,

For wel wot I it wol my bane be,

And deye I wol in certeyn,« tho quod she.

»But bidde hym come, er deth that thus me threteth

Dryf out the gost which in myn herte beteth.«

 

Thise wordes seyd, she on hire armes two

Fil gruf, and gan to wepen pitously.

Quod Pandarus, »Allas, whi do ye so

Syn wel ye wot the tyme is faste by

That he shal come? Arys up hastely,

That he yow nat bywopen thus ne fynde,

But ye wol han hym wod out of his mynde.

 

For wist he that ye ferde in this manere,

He wolde hymselve sle. And yf I wende

To han this fare, he sholde nat come here

For al the good that Pryam may despende.

For to what fyn he wolde anoon pretende,

That knowe ich wel; and forthi yet I seye,

So lef this sorwe or platly he wol deye.

 

And shappeth yow his sorwe for to abregge,

And nought encresse, leve nece swete.

Beth rather to hym cause of flat than egge,

And with som wysdom ye his sorwes bete.

What helpeth it to wepen ful a strete,

Or though ye bothe in salte teris dreynte?

Bet is a tyme of cure ay than of pleynte.

 

I mene thus: whan ich hym hider brynge,

Syn ye ben wyse and bothe of on assent,

So shappeth how distourbe this goynge,

Or come ayen soone after ye be went.

Women ben wyse in short avysement;

And lat sen how youre wit shal now avayle,

And what that I may helpe, it shal nat fayle.«

 

»Go,« quod Criseyde, »and uncle, trewely,

I shal don al my myght me to restreyne

From wepyng in his sighte, and bysily

Hym for to glade I shal don al my peyne,

And in myn herte seken every veyne.

If to this sor ther may be founden salve,

It shal nat lakken, certein, on myn halve.«

 

Goth Pandarus and Troylus he soughte

Til in a temple he fond hym al allone,

As he that of his lyf no lenger roughte,

But to the petouse goddes everychone

Ful tendrely he preyed and made his mone,

To don hym sone out of this world to pace,

For wel he thouhte ther was noon other grace.

 

And shortly, al the sothe for to seye,

He was so fallen in despeyr that day

That outrely he shop hym for to deye,

For right thus was his argument alway.

He seyde, »I am but lorn, so weylaway!

For al that cometh, comth by necessite;

Thus to ben lorn, it is my destyne.

 

For certeynly, this wot I wel,« he seyde,

»That forsight of dyvyne purveyaunce

Hath seyn alwey me to forgon Criseyde,

Syn God seth everything, out of doutaunce,

And hem desponeth thourgh his ordenaunce,

In hire merites sothly for to be,

As they shul comen by predestine.

 

But natheles, allas, whom shal I leve?

For ther ben clerkes grete many on

That destyne thorugh argumentez preve;

And som men seyn that nedely ther is noon,

But that fre choys is yeven us everychon.

O welaway, so sley arn clerkes olde

That I not whos opynyoun I may holde.

 

For som men seyn, yf God seth al byforn –

Ne God may nat deceyved ben, parde –

Than mot it falle theigh men hadde it sworn

That purveyance hath seighen byfore to be.

Wherfor I seye that from eterne yf he

Hath wyst byforn oure thought ek as oure dede,

We have no fre choys, as these clerkes rede.

 

For other thought, nor other dede also,

Myghte nevere ben but swych as purveyaunce,

Which may nat ben deceyved nevere mo,

Hath feled biforn withouten ignoraunce.

For yf ther myghte ben a variaunce

To writhen out fro Goddes purveyinge,

Ther nere no prescience of thyng comynge,

 

But it were rathere an opynyoun

Uncerteyn, and no stedfast forseynge.

And certes, that were an abusioun

That God shulde han no parfit cler witynge

More than we men that han doutous wenynge.

But swych an errour upon God to gesse

Were fals and foul and corsed wykkednesse.

 

Ek this is an opynyoun of some

That han hire top ful heighe and smothe yshore:

They seyn right thus, that thyng is nat to come

For that the prescience hath seyghen byfore

That it shal come. But they seyn that therfore

That it shal come, therfore the purveyaunce

Wot it byforn, withouten ignoraunce.

 

And in this manere this necessite

Retorneth in his part contrarie agayn.

For nedfully byhoveth it nat to be

That thilke thinges fallen in certayn

That ben purveyed; but nedely, as they sayn,

Byhoveth it that thinges whiche that falle,

That they in certayn ben purveyed alle.

 

I mene as though I laboured me in this,

To enqueren which thyng cause of which thyng be,

As wheyther that the prescience of God is

The certeyn cause of the necessite

Of thinges that to comen ben, parde,

Or yf necessite of thing comynge

Be cause certeyn of the purveyinge.

 

But now n'enforce I me nought in shewynge

How the ordre of causes stant; but wel wot I

That it byhoveth that the byfallynge

Of thinges wyste byforen certeynly

Be necessarie, al seme it not therby

That prescience put fallyng necessaire

To thing to come, al falle it foule or fayre.

 

For if ther sit a man yond on a see,

Than by necessite byhoveth it

That, certes, thin opynyon soth be

That wenest or conjectest that he sit.

And ferther over now ayeynward yit,

Lo, right so is it of the part contrarie

As thus – nowe herkne, for I wol nat tarie –

 

I seye, that yf the opynion of the

Be soth for that he sit, than seye I this,

That he mot sitten by necessite;

And thus necessite in eyther is.

For yn hym nede of syttynge is, ywys,

And in the nede of soth. And thus, forsothe,

Ther mot necessite ben in yow bothe.

 

But thow maist seyn the man sit not therfore

That thyn opynyoun of his sittynge soth is,

But rather for the man sit ther byfore;

Therfore is thyn opynyoun soth, ywys.

And I seye, though the cause of soth of this

Comth of his sittyng, yet necessite

Is entrechaunged both in hym and the.

 

Thus on this same wyse, out of doutaunce,

I may wel maken, as it semeth me,

My resonynge of Goddes purveyaunce

And of the thynges that to comen be.

By which resoun may men wel yse

That thilke thinges that in erthe falle,

That by necessite they comen alle.

 

For although that for thyng shal come, ywys,

Therfore it is purveyed, certaynly –

Nought that it comth for it purveyed is.

Yet natheles, byhoveth it nedfully

That thing to come be purveyed, trewely,

Or elles thinges that purveyed be,

That they bytiden by necessite.

 

And this suffiseth right ynow, certeyn,

For to destroye oure fre choys every del.

But now is this abusioun to seyn

That fallynge of the thinges temporel

Is cause of Godes prescience eternel.

Now trewely, that is a fals sentence,

That thyng to come sholde cause his prescience.

 

What myght I wene, and ich hadde swych a thought,

But that God purveyeth thyng that is to come

For that it is to come, and ellis nought?

So myghte I wene that thynges alle and some,

That whylom ben byfalle and overcome,

Ben cause of thilke soveyren purveyaunce

That forwot al withouten ignoraunce.

 

And over al this, yet sey I more therto,

That right as whan I wot ther is a thing,

Iwys, that thing mot nedefully be so.

Ek right so, whan I wot a thyng comyng,

So mot it come. And thus the byfallyng

Of thynges that ben wyst byfore the tyde,

They mowe not ben eschewed on no syde.«

 

Thanne seyde he thus, »Almyghty Jove in trone,

That wost of alle thyng the sothfastnesse,

Rewe on my sorwe, or do me deye sone,

Or bryng Criseyde and me fro this destresse!«

And whil he was in al this hevynesse,

Disputyng with hymself in this matere,

Com Pandare in, and seyde as ye may here.

 

»O myghti God,« quod Pandarus, »in trone,

I, who seygh evere a wys man faren so?

Whi, Troylus, what thenkestow to done?

Hastow swych lust to ben thyn owen fo?

What, parde, yet is nat Criseyde ago!

Whi lust the so thynself fordon for drede,

That in thyn hed thyn eyghen semen dede?

 

Hastow not lyved many a yer byforn

Withouten hire, and ferd ful wel at ese?

Artow for hire and for noon other born?

Hath Kynde the wrought al oonly hire to plese?

Lat be, and thenk right thus in thi disese,

That in the des right as there fallen chaunces,

Right so in love ther com and gon plesaunces.

 

And yet this is a wonder most of alle,

Whi thow thus sorwest, syn thow nost not yit,

Touchyng hire goyng, how that it shal falle,

Ne yif she kan hireself destuorben it.

Thow hast nat yet assayed al hire wit.

A man may al bytyme his nekke bede

Whan it shal of, and sorwen at the nede.

 

Forthi take hede of that that I shal the seye:

I have with hire yspoke and longe ybe,

So as accorded was bytwyxe us tweye,

And everemo me thenketh thus, that she

Hath somwhat in hire hertes prevete

Wherwith she kan, if I shal right arede,

Destorbe al this of which thow art in drede.

 

For which my counseyl is, whan it is nyght

Thow to hire go and make of this an ende.

And blisful Juno thorugh hire grete myght

Shal, as I hope, hire grace unto us sende.

Myn herte seyth, ›Certeyn, she shal not wende.‹

And forthi put thyn herte a whyle in reste,

And hold thi purpos, for it is the beste.«

 

This Troylus answerde, and sighte sore,

»Thow seyst right wel, and I wil do right so.«

And what hym lyste he seyde unto it more.

And whan that it was tyme for to go,

Ful prevely hymself withouten mo

Unto hire com, as he was wont to done.

And how thei wroughte, I shal yow telle sone.

 

Soth it is whanne they gonne first to mete,

So gan the peynes hire hertes for to twyste

That neyther of hem other myghte grete,

But hem in armes tok and after kyste.

The lasse wofulle of hem bothe nyste

Wher that he was, ne myghte o word out brynge,

As I seyde erst, for wo and for sobbynge.

 

Tho woful teris that they leten falle

As bittre weren out of teris kynde,

For peyne, as is ligne aloes or galle –

So bittre teris weep nought, as I fynde,

The woful Myrra thorugh the bark and rynde –

That in this world ther nys so hard an herte

That nolde han rewed on hire peynes smerte.

 

But whanne hire woful wery gostes tweyne

Retorned ben ther as hem oughte to dwelle,

And that somwhat to wayken gan the peyne

By lengthe of pleynte, and ebben gan the welle

Of hire teris, and the herte unswelle,

With broken voys, al hoors forshright, Criseyde

To Troylus thise ilke wordes seyde,

 

»O Jove, I deye, and mercy I beseche!

Help, Troylus!« And therwithal hire face

Upon his brest she leyde and loste speche,

Hire woful spirit from his propre place

Right with the word alwey o poynt to pace.

And thus she lith with hewes pale and grene,

That whilom fressh and fairest was to sene.

 

This Troylus, that on hire gan byholde,

Clepynge hire name – and she lay as for ded –

Withouten answere, and felte hir lymes colde,

Hire eyen throwen upward to hire hed,

This sorwful man kan now noon other red

But ofte tyme hire colde mouth he kyste.

Wher hym was wo, God and hymself it wyste.

 

He rist hym up and long streyght he hire leyde,

For signe of lyf, for ought he kan or may,

Kan he non fynde in nothyng on Criseyde,

For which his song ful ofte is »Weylaway!«

But whan he sawgh that specheles she lay,

With sorweful voys, and herte of blysse al bare,

He seyde how she was fro this world yfare.

 

So after that he longe hadde hire compleyned,

His hondes wrong, and seyde that was to seye,

And with his teris salte hire brest byreyned,

He gan tho teris wypen of ful dreye,

And pitously gan for the soule preye,

And seyde, »O Lord, that set art in thy trone,

Rewe ek on me, for I shal folwe hire sone.«

 

She cold was and withouten sentement,

For ought he wot, for breth ne felte he non;

And this was hym a preignant argument

That she was forth out of this world agon.

And whan he seygh ther was non other won

He gan hire lymes dresse in swych manere

As men don hem that shul be leyd on bere.

 

And after this, with sterne and cruwel herte,

His swerd anoon out of his shethe he twyghte,

Hymself to slen, how sore that hym smerte,

So that his sowle hire sowle folwen myghte

Ther as the dom of Mynos wolde it dyghte,

Syn Love and cruwel Fortune it ne wolde

That in this world he lenger lyven sholde.

 

Thanne seyde he thus, »Fulfilled of heigh desdayn,

O cruwel Jove, and thow, Fortune adverse,

This al and som, that falsly have ye slayn

Criseyde. And syn ye may do me no werse,

Fy on youre myght and werkes so diverse!

Thus cowardly ye shul me nevere wynne –

Ther shal no deth me fro my lady twynne.

 

For I this world, syn ye han slayn hire thus,

Wol lete and folwe hire spirit lowe or hye.

Shal nevere lovere seyn that Troylus

Dar nat for fere with his lady dye,

For certeyn I wol bere hire companye.

But syn ye wol nat suffren us lyven here,

Yet suffreth that oure soules ben yfere.

 

And thow, cite, whiche that I leve in wo;

And thow, Pryam, and bretheren al yfere;

And thow, my moder, farewel, for now I go.

And Attropos, make redy thow my bere.

And thow, Criseyde, O swete herte dere,

Receyve now my spirit,« wold he seye,

With swerd at herte, al redy for to deye.

 

But as God wolde, of swough therwith sh'abreyde

And gan to syke, and »Troylus« she cride.

And he answerde, »Lady myn, Cryseyde,

Lyve ye yet?« and let his swerd doun glide.

»Ye, herte myn, that thanked be Cipride,«

Quod she. And therwithal she sore syghte,

And he bygan to glade hire as he myghte,

 

Took hire in armes two, and kyste hire ofte,

And hire to glade he dide al his entente,

For which hire gost, that flikered ay on lofte,

Into hire woful herte ayeyn it wente.

But at the laste, as that hire eyen glente

Asyde anoon she gan his swerd aspye,

As it lay bare, and gan for fere crie,

 

And asked hym whi he hadde it out drawe.

And Troylus anoon the cause hire tolde,

And how hymself therwith he wolde han slawe;

For which Criseyde upon hym gan byholde,

And gan hym in hire armes faste folde,

And seyde, »O mercy, God, lo swych a dede!

Allas, how neigh we were bothe dede!

 

Thenne yf I nadde spoken, as grace was,

Ye wolde han slayn youreself anoon?« quod she.

»Ye, douteles.« And she answerde, »Allas,

For by that ilke Lord that made me

I nolde a forlong wey on lyve han be

After youre deth, to han be crowned quene

Of al the londes the sonne on shyneth shene.

 

But with this selve swerd whiche that here is

Myselve I wolde have slayn,« quod she tho.

»But ho, for we han right ynow of this,

And lat us rise, and streyght to bedde go,

And there lat us speken of oure wo.

For by the morter which that I se brenne,

Knowe I right wel that day is not far henne.«

 

Whanne they were in hire bed, in armes folde,

Nought was yt lyk the nyghtes herebyforn.

For pitously eche other gan byholde,

As thei that hadden al hire blisse ylorn,

Bywaylinge ay the day that they were born;

Til at the last this sorwful wyght Criseyde

To Troylus these ilke wordes seyde.

 

»Lo, herte myn, wel wot ye this,« quod she,

»That yf a wyght alwey his wo compleyne,

And seketh nought how holpen for to be,

It is but folye and encres of peyne;

And syn that here assembled be we tweyne

To fynde bote of wo that we ben inne,

It were al tyme sone to bygynne.

 

I am a womman, as ful wel ye wot,

And as I am avised sodeynly,

So wole I telle yow whil it is hot.

Me thenketh thus, that neyther ye ne I

Ought half this wo to maken, skilfully.

For ther is art ynow for to redresse

That yet is mys, and slen this hevynesse.

 

Soth is, the wo the which that we ben inne,

For ought I wot, for nothyng elles is

But for the cause that we sholden twynne.

Considered al, ther nys no more amys.

But what is thanne a remede unto this,

But that we shape us sone for to mete?

This al and som, my dere herte swete.

 

Now, that I shal wel bryngen it aboute

To come ayen, soone after that I go,

Therof am I no manere thyng in doute.

For dredeles, withinne a wowke or two

I shal ben here; and that it may be so,

By alle right and in a wordes fewe,

I shal yow wel an hep of weyes shewe.

 

For which I wol not make long sermon,

For tyme ylost may not recovered be;

But I wol gon to my conclusyon,

And to the beste, in ought that I kan se.

And for the love of God, foryeve it me

If I speke ought ayeyn youre hertes reste,

For trewely I speke it for the beste,

 

Makyng alwey a protestacion

That now these wordes which that I shal seye

Nys but to shewen yow my mocion

To fynde unto oure help the beste weye;

And taketh it non other wyse, I preye.

For yn effect, what so ye me comaunde,

That wol I don, for that is no demaunde.

 

Now herkneth this: ye han wel understonde

My goyng graunted is by parlement

So ferforth that it may nat be withstonde

For al this world, as by my juggement.

And syn ther helpeth noon avisement

To letten it, lat it passe out of mynde,

And lat us shape a bettre wey to fynde.

 

The soth is that the twynnyng of us tweyne

Wol us dishese and cruweliche anoye;

But hym byhoveth somtyme han a peyne

That serveth Love, yf that he wol have joye.

And syn I shal no ferther out of Troye

Than I may ride ayen on half a morwe,

It oughte the lasse causen us to sorwe.

 

So as I shal not so ben hid in muwe,

That day by day, myn owne herte dere,

Syn wel ye wot that it is now a truwe,

Ye shul ful wel al myn estat yhere.

And er that truwe is don, I shal ben here.

And thanne have ye both Antenor ywonne

And me also. Beth glad now, yf ye konne,

 

And thenk right thus, ›Criseyde is now agon.

But what, she shal come hastiliche ayen!‹

And whanne, allas? By God, lo, right anoon,

Er dayes ten, this dar I saufly seyn.

And thanne at erst shal we be so fayn,

So as we shal togederes evere dwelle,

That al this world ne myghte oure blysse telle.

 

I se that ofte tyme, there as we ben now,

That for the beste, oure counseyl for to hide,

Ye speke not with me, nor I with yow,

In fourtenyght, ne se yow go ne ryde.

May ye not ten dayes thanne abyde

For myn honour, yn swych an aventure?

Iwys, ye mowen ellys lite endure.

 

Ye knowe ek how that al my kyn is here

But yf that onlyche it my fader be,

And ek myn othere thinges alle yfere,

And namelyche, my dere herte, ye,

Whom that I nolde leven for to se

For al this world, as wyd as it hath space,

Or elles se ich nevere Joves face!

 

Whi trowe ye my fader yn this wyse

Coveyteth so to se me but for drede

Lest yn this town that folkes me despise

By cause of hym, for his unhappy dede?

What wot my fader what lyf that I lede?

For if he wyste in Troy how wel I fare,

Us neded for my wendyng nought to care.

 

Ye sen that every day ek, more and more,

Men trete of pees, and it supposid is

That men the queene Eleyne shal restore,

And Grekes us restoren that is mys.

So, though there nere comfort noon but this,

That men purposen pes on every syde,

Ye may the bettre at ese of herte abyde.

 

For yf that it be pes, myn herte dere,

The nature of the pes mot nedes dryve

That men most entrecomunen yfere,

And to and fro ek ryde and gon as blyve

Alday as thikke as ben flen from an hyve,

And every wight han liberte to bleve

Where as hym lyste the bet, withouten leve.

 

And though so be that pes ther may be noon,

Yet hider, though there nevere pes ne were,

I moste come; for wheder sholde I gon,

Or how, myschaunce, sholde I dwellen there,

Among tho men of armes evere in fere?

For which, as wysly God my soule rede,

I kan nat sen wherof ye sholden drede.

 

Have here another wey, if it so be

That al this thing ne may yow not suffise:

My fader, as ye knowen wel, parde,

Is old, and elde is ful of coveytise,

And I right now have founden al the gyse

Withoute net wherwith I shal hym hente.

And herkeneth how, if that ye wol assente.

 

Lo, Troylus, men seyn that hard it is

The wolf ful and the wether hol to have;

This is to seyn, that men ful ofte, ywys,

Mote spenden part, the remnaunt for to save.

For ay with gold men may the herte grave

Of hym that set is upon coveitise;

And how I mene, I shal it yow devyse.

 

The moeble which that I have in this town

Unto my fader shal I take, and seye

That right for trust and for savacioun

It sent is from a trend of his or tweye;

The wheche frendes ferventlyche hym preye

To senden after more, and that in hye,

Whil that this town stant thus in jupartie.

 

And that shal ben an huge quantite –

Thus shal I seyn – but lest it folk aspide,

This may be sent by no wyght but by me.

I shal ek shewen hym, yf pes bytyde,

What frendes that ich have on every syde

Toward the court, to don the wrathe pace

Of Priamus, and don hym stonde in grace.

 

So, what for o thyng and for other, swete,

I shal hym so enchaunten with my sawes,

That right in hevene his sowle is shal he mete.

For al Appollo, or his clerkes lawes,

Or calkullyng avayleth nought thre hawes;

Desir of gold shal so his soule blende

That as me lyst I shal wel make an ende.

 

And yf he wolde aught by hys sort it preve

If that I lye, in certayn I shal fonde

Distourben hym and plukke hym by the sleve,

Makynge his sort, and beren hym on honde

He hath not wel the goddes understonde –

For goddes speken in amphibologies,

And for o soth they tellen twenty lyes.

 

Eke drede fond first goddes, I suppose –

Thus shal I seyn – and that his coward herte

Made hym amys the goddes text to glose,

Whan he for fered out of Delphos sterte.

And but I make hym soone to converte,

And don my red withinne a day or tweye,

I wol to yow oblige me to deye.«

 

And trewelyche, as wreten wel I fynde,

That al this thyng was seyd of good entente,

And that hire herte trewe was and kynde

Towardes hym, and spak right as she mente,

And that she starf for wo neigh whan she wente,

And was in purpos evere to be trewe:

Thus writen they that of hire werkes knewe.

 

This Troylus, with herte and eerys spradde,

Herde al this thing devysen to and fro.

And verraylich hym semed that he hadde

The same wit, but yet to lat hire go

His herte mysforyaf hym everemo.

But fynally he gan his herte wreste

To trusten hire, and tok it for the beste.

 

For which the grete fury of his penaunce

Was queynt with hope, and therwith hem bitwene

Bygan for joye the amorouse daunce.

And as the briddes, whanne the sonne is shene,

Deliten in hire song yn leves grene,

Right so the wordes that they spake yfere

Deliten hem and made hire hertes clere.

 

But natheles, the wendyng of Criseyde

For al this world may nought out of his mynde;

For which ful ofte he pitously hire preyde

That of hire heste he mighte hire trewe fynde,

And seyde hire, »Certes, yf ye be unkynde,

And but ye come at day set into Troye,

Ne shal I nevere have hele, honour, ne joye.

 

For also soth as sonne uprist on morwe,

And God, so wisly thow me, woful wrecche,

To reste brynge out of this cruwel sorwe,

I wol myselven sle yf that ye drecche.

But of my deth though litel be to recche,

Yet, er that ye me cause so to smerte,

Dwelle rathere here, myn owene swete herte.

 

For trewely, myn owne lady deere,

Tho sleyghtes yet that I have herd yow stere

Ful shaply ben to fayllen alle yfere.

For thus men seyn, ›that oon thenketh the bere,

But al another thenketh his ledere.‹

Youre sire is wys; and seyd is, out of drede,

›Men may the wyse at-renne, but not at-rede.‹

 

It is ful hard to halten unespied

Byfore a crepul, for he kan the craft.

Youre fader is in sleyght as Argus eyed;

For al be that his moeble is hym byraft,

His olde sleyghte is yet so with hym laft

Ye shal nat blende hym for youre womanhede,

Ne feyne aright; and that is alle my drede.

 

I not if pes shal evere mo bytyde;

But pes or no, for ernest ne for game,

I wot, syn Calkas on the Grekes syde

Hath ones ben and lost so foule his name,

He dar no more come here ayen for shame;

For which that wey, for ought I kan espye,

To trusten on nys but a fantasye.

 

Ye shal ek sen, yowre fader shal yow glose

To ben a wyf; and as he kan wel preche,

He shal som Grek so preyse and wel alose

That ravysshen he shal yow with his speche,

Or do yow don by force as he shal teche.

And Troylus, of whom ye nyl han routhe,

Shal causeles so sterven in his trouthe.

 

And over al this, youre fader shal despise

Us alle and seyn this cite nys but lorn,

And that th'assege nevere shal aryse,

For-why the Grekes han it alle sworn,

Til we be slayn and doun oure walles torn.

And thus he shal you with his wordes fere,

That ay drede I that ye wol bleven there.

 

Ye shul ek seen so mani a lusty knyght

Among the Grekes, ful of worthynesse,

And eche of hem with herte, wit, and myght

To plesen yow don al his besynesse,

That ye shul dullen of the rudenesse

Of us sely Troians, but yf routhe

Remorde yow, or vertue of youre trouthe.

 

And this to me so grevous is to thenke

That fro my brest it wole my soule rende.

Ne, dredles, in me ther may not synke

A good opynyoun yf that ye wende;

For why youre fadres sleyghte wole us shende.

And yf ye gon, as I have told yow yore,

So thenk I nam but ded, withoute more.

 

For which with humble, trewe, and pitous herte,

A thousand tymes mercy I yow preye;

So reweth on myn aspre peynes smerte,

And doth somwhat as that I shal yow seye,

And lat us stele awey bytwext us tweye.

And thenk that folye is, whan man may chese,

For accident his substaunce ay to lese.

 

I mene this, that syn we mowe er day

Wel stele awey and ben togedere so,

What nede were it to putten in assay,

In cas ye sholde to youre fader go,

If that ye myghte come ayen or no?

Thus mene I, that it were a gret folye

To putte that sikernesse in jupartie.

 

And vulgarly to speken of substaunce,

Of tresour may we bothe with us lede

Ynowh to lyve in honour and plesaunce

Til into tyme that we shul ben dede.

And thus we may eschewen al this drede.

For everych other wey ye kan recorde,

Myn herte, ywys, may not therwith acorde.

 

And hardely, ne dredeth no poverte,

For I have kyn and frendes elleswhere

That though we comen in oure bare sherte

Us sholde neyther lakke golde ne gere,

But ben honured while we dwelten there.

And go we anoon; for as yn myn entente,

This is the beste, yf that ye wole assente.«

 

Criseyde with a syk right in this wyse

Answerde, »Ywys, my dere herte trewe,

We may wel stele awey as ye devyse,

And fynden swyche unthryfty weyes newe;

But afterward ful sore it wole us rewe.

And helpe me God so at my moste nede,

As causeles ye suffren al this drede.

 

For thilke day that I for cherysshynge

Or drede of fader, or for other wight,

Or for estat, delit, or for weddynge,

Be fals to yow, my Troylus, my knyght,

Saturnes doughter Juno, thorugh hire myght,

As wod as Athamante do me dwelle

Eternaly in Stix, the put of helle!

 

And this on every god celestial

I swere it yow, and ek on eche goddesse,

On every nymphe and diete infernal,

On satiry and fawny more and lesse

That halve-goddes ben of wildernesse.

And Attropos, my thred of lif thow breste

If I be fals! Now trowe me if ye leste.

 

And thow, Symoys, that as an arwe clere

Thorugh Troye ay rennest downward to the se,

Ber witnesse of this word that seyd is here:

That thilke day that ich untrewe be

To Troylus, myn owene herte fre,

That thow retorne bakwarde to thi welle,

And I with body and soule synke in helle!

 

But that ye speke awey thus for to go

And leten alle youre frendes, God forbede

For ony womman that ye sholden so,

And namly syn Troye hath now swych nede

Of help. And ek of o thyng taketh hede:

If this were wist, my lif lay in balaunce,

And youre honour. God shilde us fro myschaunce!

 

And if so be that pes hereafter take,

As alday happeth after anger game,

Why, Lord, the sorwe and wo ye wolden make

That ye ne dorste come ayen for shame.

And er that ye juparten so youre name,

Beth nought to hastyf in this hote fare,

For hastyf man ne wanteth nevere care.

 

What trowe ye the peple ek al aboute

Wolde of it seye? It is ful light t'arede.

They wolden seye, and swere it out of doute,

That love ne drof yow nought to don this dede,

But lust voluptuous and coward drede.

Thus were al lost, ywys, myn herte dere,

Yowre honour, which that now shyneth so clere.

 

And also thenketh on myn honeste,

That floureth yet, how foule I sholde it shende,

And with what filthe it spotted sholde be,

If in this forme I sholde with yow wende.

Ne though I lyved unto the worldes ende,

My name sholde I nevere ayenward wynne.

Thus were I lost, and that were routhe and synne.

 

And forthi sle with reson al this hete.

Men seyn ›the suffraunt overcomith,‹ parde;

Ek ›whoso wol han leef, he leef mot lete.‹

Thus maketh vertu of necessite

By pacience, and thenk that lord is he

Of Fortune ay, that nought wole of hire recche;

And she ne daunteth no wight but a wrecche.

 

And trusteth this, that certes, herte swete,

Er Phebus suster, Lucyna the shene,

The Leoun passe out of this Ariete,

I wol ben here withouten any wene.

I mene, as helpe me Juno, hevenes quene,

The tenthe day, but if that deth me assayle,

I wol yow sen withouten ony fayle.«

 

»And now, so this be soth,« quod Troylus,

»I shal wel suffre unto the tenthe day,

Syn that I se that nede it mot be thus.

But for the love of God, yf it be may,

So late us stelen pryvely away;

For evere in oon, as for to lyve in reste,

Myn herte seyth that it wol ben the beste.«

 

»O mercy God, what lyf is this?« quod she.

»Allas, ye sle me thus for verray tene!

I se wel now that ye mystrusten me,

For by youre wordes it is wel isene.

Now for the love of Cynthia the shene,

Mistrust me nought thus causeles, for routhe,

Syn to be trewe I have yow plyght my trouthe.

 

And thenketh wel that somtyme it is wit

To spende a tyme, a tyme for to wynne.

Ne, parde, lorn am I nought fro yow yit,

Though that we ben a day or two atwynne.

Dryf out the fantasies yow withinne,

And trusteth me, and leveth ek youre sorwe,

Or her my trouthe, I wol not lyve til morwe.

 

For if ye wiste how sore it doth me smerte,

Ye wolde cesse of this; for God, thow wost,

The pure spirit wepeth in myn herte

To se yow wepen that I love most,

And that I mot gon to the Grekes ost.

Ye, nere it that I wiste remedie

To come ayeyn, right here I wolde dye.

 

But certes, I am not so nyce a wyght

That I ne kan ymagynen a weye

To come ayen that day that I have hight.

For who may holde thing that wole awey?

My fader nought, for al his queynte pley.

And by my thryft, my wendyng out of Troye

Another day shal torne us alle to joye.

 

Forthy with al myn herte I yow biseke,

Yf that yow lyst don ought for my preyere,

And for the love which that I love yow eke,

That er that I departe fro yow here,

That of so good a confort and a chere

I may yow sen that ye may brynge at reste

Myn herte, which that is o poynt to breste.

 

And over al this I pray yow,« quod she tho,

»Myn owen hertes sothfast suffisaunce,

Syn I am thyn al hool, withouten mo,

That whil that I am absent, no plesaunce

Of other do me fro youre remembraunce.

For I am evere agast, forwhi men rede

That love is thing ay ful of bysy drede.

 

For yn this world ther lyveth lady noon,

If that ye were untrewe – as God defende –

That so bytraysed were or wobygon

As I, that al trouthe in yow entende.

And douteles, yf that ych other wende,

I nere but ded, and er ye cause fynde,

For Goddes love, so beth me not unkynde.«

 

To this answerde Troylus and seyde,

»Now God, to whom ther nys no cause ywrye,

Me glade, as wys I nevere unto Criseyde,

Syn thilke day I saw hire first with eye,

Was fals, ne nevere shal til that I dye.

At shorte wordes, wel ye may me leve:

I kan no more; it shal be founde at preve.«

 

»Graunt mercy, goode myn, ywys,« quod she,

»And blysful Venus lat me nevere sterve,

Er I may stonde of plesaunce in degre

To quyte hym wel that so wel kan deserve.

And whil that God my wit wol me conserve,

I shal so don – so trewe I have yow founde,

That ay honour to me-ward shal rebounde.

 

For trusteth wel that youre estat royal,

Ne veyn delit, nor oonly worthinesse

Of yow in werre or torney marcial,

Ne pompe, array, nobley, or ek richesse

Ne made me to rewe on youre destresse.

But moral vertu, grounded upon trouthe,

That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe.

 

Ek gentil herte and manhod that ye hadde;

And that ye hadde, as me thoughte, in despit

Everythyng that souned into badde,

As rudenesse and pepelyssh appetit;

And that yowre reson brydled youre delit –

This made aboven every creature

That I was youre, and shal while I may dure.

 

And this may lengthe of yeres not fordo,

Ne remuable Fortune deface;

But Juppiter, that of his myght may do

The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace

Er nyghtes ten to meten in this place,

So that it may youre herte and myn suffise.

And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye ryse.«

 

And after that they longe ypleyned hadde,

And ofte ikist, and streyght in armes folde,

The day gan ryse, and Troylus hym cladde,

And rewfullych his lady gan byholde,

As he that felte dethes cares colde,

And to hire grace he gan hym recomaunde.

Wher hym was wo, this holde I no demaunde.

 

For mannes hed ymagynen ne kan,

N'entendement considere, ne tonge telle

The cruwel peynes of this sorwful man

That passen every torment doun in helle.

For whan he saugh that she ne myghte dwelle,

Which that his soule out of his herte rente,

Withouten more out of the chaumbre he wente.

 

Explicit liber quartus.

 

Book V

 

Incipit liber quintus.

 

Aprochen gan the fatal destyne

That Joves hath in disposicioun,

And to yow, angry Parcas, sustren thre,

Comytteth to don execucioun;

For which Criseyde moste out of the toun,

And Troylus shal dwellen forth yn pyne

Til Lachesis his threed no lengere twyne.

 

The gold-tressed Phebus heighe on lofte

Thries hadde al with his bemes clene

The snowes molte, and Zephirus as ofte

Ybrought ayen the tendre leves grene,

Syn that the sone of Ecuba the queene

Bygan to love hire first for whom his sorwe

Was al that she departe sholde o-morwe.

 

Ful redy was at pryme Dyomede

Criseyde unto the Grekes ost to lede,

For sorwe of which she felte hire herte blede

As she that nyste what was best to rede.

And trewely, as men in bokes rede,

Men wyste nevere womman han the care,

Ne was so loth out of a town to fare.

 

This Troylus, withouten red or lore,

As man that hath his joyes ek forlore,

Was waytyng on his lady everemore

As she that was the sothfast crop and more

Of al his lust or joyes here-byfore.

But Troylus, now farwel al thi joye,

For shaltow nevere sen hire eft in Troye.

 

Soth is that while he bod in this manere,

He gan his wo ful manly for to hyde,

That wel unnethe it sene was in his chere;

But at the yate there she sholde out ryde,

With certeyn folk he hovede hire t'abyde,

So wobygon al wolde he nought hym pleyne

That on his hors unnethe he sat for peyne.

 

For ire he quok, so gan his herte gnawe,

Whan Diomede on hors gan hym dresse,

And seyde to hymself this ilke sawe,

»Allas,« quod he, »thus foul a wrecchednesse,

Why suffre ich it? Whi nyl ich it redresse?

Were it not bet at onys for to dye

Than everemore in langour thus to drye?

 

Whi nyl I make at onys ryche and pore

To have ynowh to done er that she go?

Why nyl I brynge al Troye upon a rore?

Whi nyl I slen this Diomede also?

Why nyl I rathere with a man or two

Stele hire away? Whi wol I this endure?

Whi nyl I helpen to myn owene cure?«

 

But why he nolde don so fel a dede,

That shal I seyn, and why hym lyst it spare:

He hadde in herte alweys a manere drede

Lest that Cryseyde, yn rumour of this fare,

Sholde han ben slayn; lo, this was al his care.

And elles, certeyn, as I seyde yore,

He hadde it don, withouten wordes more.

 

Criseyde, whan she redy was to ryde,

Ful sorwfully she sighte and seyde allas.

But forth she mot, for ought that may bytyde,

And forth she rit ful sorwfully a pas.

Ther nys non other remedye yn this cas.

What wonder is, though that hire sore smerte,

Whan she forgoth hire owene swete herte?

 

This Troylus, in wyse of curtasie,

With hauke on honde and with an huge route

Of knyghtes, rod and did hire compaynye,

Passynge al the valey fer withoute,

And ferthere wold han ryden, out of doute,

Ful fayn, and wo was hym to gon so sone;

But torne he moste, and it was ek to done.

 

And right with that was Antenor icome

Out of the Grekes ost, and every wyght

Was of it glad and seyde he was welcome.

And Troylus, al nere his herte lyght,

He peyned hym with al his fulle myght

Hym to withholde of wepynge atte leste,

And Antenor he kyste and made feste.

 

And therwithal he moste his leve take,

And caste his eye upon hire pitously,

And ner he rod his cause for to make,

To take hire by the honde al sobrely.

And Lord, so she gan wepen tendrely!

And he ful softe and sleyghly gan hire seye,

»Now holde yowre day, and doth me not to deye.«

 

With that his courser torned he aboute,

With face pale, and unto Diomede

No word he spak, ne non of al his route;

Of which the sone of Tydeus tok hede,

As he that koude more than the crede

In swych a craft, and by the reyne hire hente.

And Troylus to Troye homward he wente.

 

This Diomede, that ladde hire by the bridel,

Whan that he saw the folk of Troye aweye,

Thoughte, »Al my labour shal nat ben on ydel,

If that I may, for somwhat shal I seye,

For at the worste it may yet shorte oure weye.

I have herd seyd ek tymes twyes twelve,

›He is a fool that wole foryete hymselve.‹«

 

But natheles, this thoughte he wel ynowh,

That »Certaynlich I am aboute nought

If that I speke of love or make it tough,

For douteles, yf she have in hire thought

Hym that I gesse, he may nat ben ybrought

So son awey. But I shal fynde a mene

That she shal not as yet wete what I mene.«

 

This Diomede as he that koude his good,

Whan this was don, gan fallen forth in speche

Of this and that, and axed whi she stood

In swych dishese, and gan hire ek byseche

That yf that he encrese myghte or eche

With onythyng hire ese, that she sholde

Comaunde it hym, and seyde he don it wolde.

 

For treweliche he swor hire as a knyght

That ther nas thyng with whiche he myghte hire plese,

That he nolde don his peyne and al his myght

To don it, for to done hire herte an ese;

And preyede hire she wolde hire sorwe apese,

And seyde, »Ywys, we Grekes kon have joye

To honouren yow as wel as folk of Troye.«

 

He seyde ek thus, »I wot yow thenketh straunge –

Ne wonder is, for it is to yow newe –

Th'aquayntaunce of these Troians to chaunge

For folk of Grece that ye nevere knewe.

But wolde nevere God but if as trewe

A Grek ye shulde among us alle fynde

As ony Troian is, and ek as kynde.

 

And by the cause I swor yow right, lo, now,

To ben youre frend, and helply to my myght,

And for that more aquayntaunce ek of yow

Have ich had than another straunger wight,

So fro this forth, I pray yow, day and nyght

Comaundeth me, how sore that me smerte,

To don al that may like unto youre herte;

 

And that ye me wolde as youre brother trete,

And taketh not my frendshipe in despit.

And though youre sorwes be for thinges grete –

Not I not whi – but out of more respit

Myn herte hath for to amende it gret delit.

And yf I may youre harmes nat redresse,

I am right sory for youre hevynesse.

 

For though ye Troians with us Grekes wrothe

Han many a day ben, alwey yet, parde,

O god of Love in soth we serven bothe.

And for the love of God, my lady fre,

Whomso ye hate, as beth not wroth with me,

For trewely, ther kan no wyght yow serve

That half so loth yowre wraththe wold deserve.

 

And nere it that we been so neigh the tente

Of Calkas, which that sen us bothe may,

I wolde of this yow telle al myn entente.

But this enseled til another day –

Yeve me youre hond. I am and shal ben ay,

God helpe me so, while that my lyf may dure,

Youre owene aboven every creature.

 

Thus seyde I nevere er now to womman born,

For, God myn herte as wysly glade so,

I loved never womman here-byforn

As paramours, ne nevere shal no mo.

And for the love of God, beth not my fo,

Al kan I not to yow, my lady dere,

Compleyne aryght, for I am yet to lere.

 

And wondreth not, myn owen lady bryght,

Though that I speke of love to you thus blyve,

For I have herd er this of many a wyght

Hath loved thyng he nevere saugh his lyve.

Ek I am not of power for to stryve

Ayeyns the god of Love, but hym obeye

I wole alwey, and mercy I yow preye.

 

Ther ben so worthi knyghtes in this place,

And ye so feyr, that everich of hem alle

Wol peynen hym to stonden in youre grace.

But myghte me so faire a grace falle

That ye me for youre servant wolde calle.

So lowely ne so trewely yow serve

Nil noon of hem as I shal til I sterve.«

 

Criseyde unto that purpos lite answerde,

As she that was with sorwe oppressed so

That in effect she nought his tales herde

But her and there, now here a word or two.

Hire thoughte hire sorwful herte brast a-two,

For whan she gan hire fader fer aspye

Wel neigh doun of hire hors she gan to sye.

 

But natheles she thonked Diomede

Of al his travayle and his goode chere,

And that hym lyst his frendshipe hire to bede.

And she accepteth it in goode manere,

And wold do fayn that is hym lef and dere,

And trusten hym she wolde, and wel she myghte,

As seyde she, and from hire hors sh'alighte.

 

Hire fader hath hire in his armes nome,

And tweynty tyme he kyste his doughter swete,

And seyde, »O dere doughter myn, welcome.«

She seyde ek she was fayn with hym to mete,

And stod forth mewet, mylde, and mansuete.

But here I leve hire with hire fader dwelle,

And forth I wole of Troylus yow telle.

 

To Troye is come this woful Troylus,

In sorwe aboven alle sorwes smerte,

With felon lok and face dispitous.

Tho sodeynly doun from his hors he sterte,

And thorugh his paleys, with a swollen herte,

To chambre he wente. Of nothing tok he hede,

Ne noon to hym dar speke a word for drede.

 

And there his sorwes that he spared hadde

He yaf an yssue large, and »Deth« he cride;

And in his throwes frenetyk and madde

He curssed Jove, Appollo, and ek Cupide,

He curssed Ceres, Bacus, and Cipryde,

His burthe, hymself, his fate, and ek nature,

And, save his lady, every creature.

 

To bedde he goth and walwith there and torneth

In furye, as doth he Ixion in helle.

And in this wyse he neigh til day sojourneth.

But tho bygan a lyte his herte unswelle

Thorugh teris which that gonnen up to welle.

And pitously he cride upon Criseyde,

And to hymself right thus he spak and seyde:

 

»Wher is myn owene lady lief and dere?

Wher is hire white brest? Wher is it? Where?

Wher ben hire armes and hire eyen clere

That yesternyght this tyme with me were?

Now may I wepe allone many a tere,

And graspe aboute I may, but in this place

Save a pilwe I fynde nought t'enbrace.

 

How shal I do? Whan shal she come ayen?

I not, allas! Whi let ich hire to go?

As wolde God ich hadde as tho be sleyn!

O herte myn, Criseyde, O swete fo!

O lady myn that I love and no mo,

To whom for evermo myn herte I dowe,

Se how I deye; ye nyl me not rescowe!

 

Who seeth yow now, my righte lode-sterre?

Who sit right now, or stant in yowre presence?

Who kan conforten now youre hertes werre?

Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audience?

Who speketh for me right now in myn absence?

Allas, no wight, and that is al my care,

For wel I wot as yvele as I ye fare.

 

How shulde I thus ten dayes ful endure,

Whan I the firste nyght have al this tene?

How shal she don ek, sorwful creature?

For tendernesse how shal she ek sustene

Swich wo for me? O pitous pale and grene

Shal ben youre fresshe wommanlyche face

For langour, er ye torne unto this place.«

 

And whan he fil in ony slomberynges,

Anoon bygonne he sholde for to grone,

And dremen of the dredefulleste thinges

That myghte ben: as mete he were allone

In place horrible, makyng ay his mone,

Or meten that he was amonges alle

His enemys, and in hire hondes falle.

 

And therwithal his body sholde sterte,

And with the stert al sodeynlich awake,

And swich a tremor fele aboute his herte

That of the feere his body sholde quake,

And therwithal he sholde a noyse make,

And seme as though he sholde falle depe

From heighe o-lofte – and than he wolde wepe,

 

And rewen on hymself so pytously

That wonder was to here his fantasye.

Another tyme he sholde myghtily

Conforte hymself, and seine it was folye

So causeles swych drede for to drye –

And eft bygynne his aspre sorwes newe,

That every man myghte on his sorwes rewe.

 

Who koude telle aright or ful discryve

His wo, his pleynt, his langour, and his peyne?

Nought al the men that han or ben on lyve.

Thow, redere, mayst thyself ful wel devyne

That swych a wo my wit kan nat defyne.

On ydel for to write it sholde I swynke,

Whan that my wit is wery it to thenke.

 

On hevene yet the sterres weren sene,

Although ful pale ywoxen was the moone;

And whiten gan the orisonte shene

Al estward, as it woned is to done;

And Phebus with his rosy carte sone

Gan after that to dresse hym up to fare,

Whan Troylus hath sent after Pandare.

 

This Pandare, that of al the day biforn

Ne myghte have comen Troylus to se,

Although he on his hed it hadde isworn –

For with the kyng Pryam alday was he,

So that it lay not in his liberte

Nowher to gon – but on the morwe he wente

To Troylus whan that he for hym sente.

 

For in his herte he koude wel devyne

That Troylus al nyght for sorwe wook,

And that he wolde telle hym of his peyne,

This knew he wel ynough withoute book.

For which to chaumbre streyght the wey he took,

And Troylus tho sobrelych he grette,

And on the bed ful soone he gan hym sette.

 

»My Pandarus,« quod Troilus, »the sorwe

Which that I drye I may not longe endure.

I trowe I shal nat lyven til tomorwe.

For whiche I wolde alwey, on aventure,

To the devysen of my sepulture

The forme, and of my moeble thow dispone

Right as the semeth best is for to done.

 

But of the fyr and flaumbe funeral

In whiche my body brenne shal to glede,

And of the feste and pleyes palestral

At my vigile, I pray the take good hede

That that be wel; and offre Mars my stede,

My swerd, myn helm, and, leve brother dere,

My sheld to Pallas yef, that shyneth clere.

 

The poudre in which myn herte ybrend shal torne,

That prey I the thow take and it conserve

In a vessel that men clepeth an urne

Of gold, and to my lady that I serve,

For love of whom thus pitously I sterve,

So yeve it hire, and do me this plesaunce,

To preyen hire to kepe it for a remembraunce.

 

For wele I fele by my maladye,

And by my dremes now and yore ago,

Al certeynly that I mot nedes dye.

The owle ek which that hatte Escaphilo

Hath after me shright alle thise nyghtes two.

And god Mercurye, of me now, woful wrecche,

The soule gide, and whan the lyste it fecche!«

 

Pandare answerde and seyde, »Troylus,

My dere frend, as I have told the yore,

That it is folye for to sorwen thus,

And causeles, for which I kan no more.

But whoso wole not trowen rede ne lore,

I kan nat seen in hym no remedye,

But late hym worthen with his fantasye.

 

But, Troylus, I pray the telle me now

If that thow trowe, er this, that ony wyght

Hath loved paramours as wel as thow?

Ye, God wot, and fro many a worthi knyght

Hath his lady gon a fourtenyght,

And he nat yet made halvendel the fare.

What nede is the to maken al this care?

 

Syn day by day thow mayst thiselven se

That from his love, or elles from his wyf

A man mot twynnen of necessite,

Ye, though he love hire as his owene lif,

Yet nyl he with hymself thus maken stryf.

For wel thou wost, my leve brother dere,

That alwey frendes may not ben yfere.

 

How don this folk that seen hire loves wedded

By frendes myght, as it bytyt ful ofte,

And sen hem in hire spouses bed ybedded?

God wot, they take it wysly, faire and softe,

Forwhy good hope halt up hire herte o-lofte.

And for they kan a tyme of sorwe endure,

As tyme hem hurt a tyme doth hem cure.

 

So sholdestow endure, and late slyde

The tyme, and fonde to ben glad and lyght.

Ten dayes nys not so longe to abyde.

And syn she the to come hath byhyght,

She nyl not hire hestes breken for no wight.

For drede that not that she nyl fynden weye

To come ayen; my lyf that dorste I leye.

 

Thy swevenes ek and al swich fantasye

Dryf out, and lat hem faren to myschaunce,

For thei proceden of thi malencolye,

That doth the fele in slep al this penaunce.

A straw for alle swevenes signifiaunce;

God helpe me so, I counte hem not a bene!

Ther wot no man aright what dremes mene.

 

For prestes of the temple tellen this,

That dremes ben the revelacions

Of goddes, and as wel they telle, ywys,

That they ben internals illusions;

And leches seyn that of complexions

Proceden thei, or fast, or glotonye.

Who wot in soth thus what thei signifie?

 

Ek other seyn that thorugh impressions,

As yf a wight hath faste a thing in mynde,

That therof cometh swich avysions;

And othere seyn, as they in bokes fynde,

That after tymes of the yer, by kynde,

Men dreme, and that th'effect goth by the mone.

But lef no drem, for it is nought to done.

 

Wel worth of dremes ay these olde wyves!

And treweliche ek augurye of these fowles,

For fere of which men wenen lese here lyves,

As ravenes qualm, or shrykyng of these owles –

To trowen on it bothe fals and foule is.

Allas, allas, so noble a creature

As is a man shal drede swich ordure!

 

For which with al myn herte I the beseche,

Unto thiself that al this thow foryeve.

And rys now up withoute more speche,

And lat us caste how forth may best be dreve

This tyme, and ek how fresshly we may leve

Whan that she cometh, the which shal be right sone.

God help me so, the beste is thus to done.

 

Rys, lat us speke of lusti lyf in Troye

That we han led, and forth the tyme dryve,

And ek of tyme comynge us rejoye,

That bryngen shal oure blysse now so blyve.

And langour of these twyes dayes fyve

We shal therwith so foryete or oppresse

That wel unneth it don shal us duresse.

 

This town is ful of lordes al aboute,

And trewes lasten al this mene while.

Go we pleye us in som lusty route –

To Sarpedon, not hennes but a myle.

And thus thow shalt the tyme wel bygile,

And dryve it forth unto that blisful morwe

That thow hire se that cause is of thi sorwe.

 

Now rys, my dere brother Troylus,

For certes, it noon honour is to the

To wepe and in thi bed to jowken thus.

For trewely, of o thing thow trust to me:

If thow thus ligge a day or two or thre,

The folk wol wene that thou for cowardyse

The feynest syk, and that thow darst nat ryse.«

 

This Troylus answerde, »O brother dere,

This knowen folk that han ysuffred peyne,

That though he wepe and make sorwful chere

That feleth harm and smert yn every veyne,

No wonder is. And though ich evere pleyne,

Or alwey wepe, I am nothing to blame,

Syn I have lost the cause of al my game.

 

But syn of fyne force I mot aryse,

I shal aryse as soone as evere I may –

And God, to whom myn herte I sacrifise,

So sende us hastely the tenthe day!

For was ther nevere foule so fayn of May

As I shal ben, whan that she comth in Troye,

That cause is of my torment and my joye.

 

»But whider is thi red,« quod Troylus,

»That we may pleye us best in al this town?«

»By God, my conseyl is,« quod Pandarus,

»To ryde and pley us with Kyng Sarpedoun.«

So longe of this they speken up and doun

Til Troylus gan at the laste assente

To ryse, and forth to Sarpedoun they wente.

 

This Sarpedoun, as he that honourable

Was evere his lyve, and ful of heigh largesse,

With al that myghte yserved ben on table

That deynte was, al coste it gret richesse,

He fedde hem day by day, that swich noblesse,

As seyden bothe the meste and ek the leste,

Was nevere er that day wyst at ony feste.

 

Nor in this world ther is noon instrument

Delicious, thorugh wynd or touche of corde,

As fer as ony wyght hath evere ywent,

That tonge telle or herte may recorde,

That at that feste it nas wel herd accorde;

Ne of ladyes ek so fayr a companye

On daunce, er tho, was nevere yseyn with eye.

 

But what avayleth this to Troylus,

That for his sorwe nothing of it roughte?

For evere in oon his herte pitous

Ful bysily Criseyde, his lady, soughte.

On hire was evere al that his herte thoughte,

Now this, now that, so faste ymagynynge,

That glad, ywys, kan hym no festeyinge.

 

These ladyes ek that at this feste ben,

Syn that he saw his lady was aweye,

It was his sorwe upon hem for to sen,

Or for to here on instruments so pleye.

For she that of his herte berth the keye

Was absent, lo, this was his fantasye,

That no wight sholde make melodye.

 

Nor ther nas houre in al the day or nyght,

Whan he was there as no wight myghte hym here,

That he ne seyde, »O lufsom lady bryght,

How have ye faren syn that ye were here?

Welcome, ywys, myn owne lady dere!«

But weylaway, al this nas but a maze.

Fortune his howve entendeth bet to glaze.

 

The lettres ek that she of olde tyme

Had hym ysent he wolde allone rede

An hondred sithe atwixen noon and pryme,

Refiguryng hire shap, hire wommanhede,

Withinne his herte, and every word and dede

That passed was. And thus he drof to an ende

The ferthe day, and seyde he wolde wende.

 

And seyde, »Leve brother Pandarus,

Intendestow that we shul here bleve

Til Sarpedoun wol forth congeyen us?

Yet were it fairer that we toke oure leve.

For Godes love, lat us now sone at eve

Oure leve take, and homward lat us torne,

For trewely, I wol not thus sojourne.«

 

Pandare answerde, »Be we comen hider

To fecchen fyr and rennen hom ayen?

God helpe me so, I kan nat tellen whider

We myghten gon, yf I shal sothly seyn,

Ther ony wyght is of us more fayn

Than Sarpedoun; and if we hennes hye

Thus sodeynly, I holde it vilanye,

 

Syn that we seyden that we wolde bleve

With hym a wowke; and now thus sodeynly

The ferthe day to take of hym oure leve,

He wolde wondren on it, trewely.

Lat us holde forth oure purpos fermely.

And syn that ye bihighten hym to byde,

Holde forward now, and after lat us ryde.«

 

Thus Pandarus with alle peyne and wo

Made hym to dwelle, and at the wykes ende

Of Sarpedoun thei toke hire leve tho,

And on hire wey they spedden hem to wende.

Quod Troylus, »Now God me grace sende

That I may fynden at myn hom-comynge

Criseyde comen,« and therwith gan he synge.

 

»Ye, haselwode,« thoughte this Pandare,

And to hymself ful softelich he seyde,

»God wot, refreyden may this hote fare

Er Calkas sende Troylus Cryseyde!«

But natheles, he japed thus and pleyde,

And swor, ywys, his herte hym wel byhighte

She wolde come as soone as evere she myghte.

 

Whan they unto the paleys were ycomen

Of Troylus, thei down of hors alighte,

And to the chambre hire wey than han they nomen,

And into tyme that it gan to nyghte,

They spaken of Criseyde the brighte.

And after this, whan that hem bothe leste,

Thei spedde hem fro the soper unto reste.

 

O-morwe as soone as day bygan to clere,

This Troylus gan of his slep t'abreyde,

And to Pandare, his owen brother dere,

»For love of God,« ful pitously he seyde,

»As go we seen the paleys of Criseyde;

For syn we yet may have no more feste,

So lat us seen hire paleys atte leste.«

 

And therwithal, his meyne for to blende,

A cause he fond in towne for to go,

And to Criseyde hous thei gonnen wende.

But Lord, this sely Troylus was wo!

Hym thoughte his sorwful herte braste a-two.

For whan he saugh hire dorres sperid alle,

Wel neigh for sorwe adown he gan to falle.

 

Therwith whan he was ware and gan byholde

How shet was every wyndowe of the place,

As frost hym thoughte his herte gan to colde,

For which with chaunged deedlych pale face,

Withouten word, he forthby gan to pace,

And, as God wolde, he gan so faste ryde

That no wight of his contenaunce aspide.

 

Than seyde he thus, »O paleys desolat,

O hous of houses whilom best yhight,

O paleys empty and disconsolat,

O thou lanterne of which queynt is the light,

O paleys whilom day that now art nyght,

Wel oughtestow to falle, and I to dye,

Syn she is went that wont was us to gye.

 

O paleys whilom crowne of houses alle,

Enlumyned with the sonne of alle blysse,

O ryng fro which the ruby is out falle,

O cause of wo that cause hast ben of lisse,

Yet syn I may no bet, fayn wolde I kysse

Thy colde dores, dorste I for this route;

And farewel shryne, of which the seynt is oute!«

 

Therwith he caste on Pandarus his eye,

With chaunged face, and pitous to byholde;

And whan he myght his tyme aright aspye,

Ay as he rod, to Pandarus he tolde

His newe sorwe and ek his joyes olde,

So pitously and with so dede an hewe

That every wight myghte on his sorwe rewe.

 

Fro thennesforth he rideth up and down,

And everything cam hym to remembraunce

As he rod forby places of the toun

In whiche he whilom hadde al his plesaunce.

»Lo, yende saugh I myn owene lady daunce,

And in that temple, with hire eyen clere,

Me kaughte first my righte lady dere.

 

And yender have I herd ful lustily

Me dere herte laugh; and yender pleye

Saugh ich hire ones ek ful blysfully;

And yender ones to me gan she seye,

›Now goode swete, love me wel, I preye.‹

And yond so goodly gan she me byholde

That to the deth myn herte is to hire holde.

 

And at that corner in the yonder hous

Herde I myn alderlevest lady dere,

So wommanly with vois melodious,

Syngen so wel, so goodly, and so clere,

That in my soule yet me thenketh ich here

The blisful sown. And in that yonder place

My lady first me tok unto hire grace.«

 

Thanne thought he thus, »O blisful lord Cupide,

Whanne I the proces have in memorie,

How thow me hast waryed on every syde,

Men myght a book mak of it lyk a storie.

What nede is the to seke on me victorie,

Syn I am thyn and holly at thi wille?

What joye hastow thyn owene folk to spille?

 

Wel hastow, lord, ywroke on me thin ire,

Thow myghty god and dredful for to greve.

Now mercy, lord, thow wost wel I desire

Thi grace most of alle lustes leeve,

And leve and deye I wol in thy byleeve;

For which I n'axe in guerdoun but o bone –

That thow Criseyde ayen me sende soone.

 

Distreyne hire herte as faste to retorne

As thow dost myn to longen hire to se.

Than wot I wel that she nyl not sojourne.

Now blisful lorde, so cruwel thow ne be

Unto the blod of Troye, I preye the,

As Juno was unto the blood Thebane,

For which the folk of Thebes caughte hire bane.«

 

And after this he to the yates wente

There as Criseyde out rood a ful good paas,

And up and doun ther made he many a wente,

And to hymself ful ofte he seyde, »Allas,

Fro hennes rood my blysse and my solas;

As wolde blisful God now for his joye,

I myghte hire seen ayen come into Troye!

 

And to the yonder hill I gan hire gyde,

Allas, and ther I tok of hire my leve.

And yond I saugh hire to hire fader ryde,

For sorwe of which myn herte shal tocleve.

And heder horn I com whan it was eeve,

And here I dwelle outcast from alle joye,

And shal til I may sen hire eft in Troye.«

 

And of hymself ymagyned he ofte

To ben defet, and pale, and woxen lesse

Than he was wont, and that men seyde softe,

»What may it be? Who kan the sothe gesse

Whi Troylus hath al this hevynesse?«

And al this nas but his malencolye,

That he hadde of hymself swich fantasye.

 

Another tyme ymagynen he wolde

That every wight that wente by the weye

Had of hym routhe, and that thei seyen sholde,

»I am right sory Troylus wol deye.«

And thus he drof a day yet forth or tweye,

As ye have herd. Swich lyf right gan he lede

As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede.

 

For which hym liked in his songes shewe

Th'encheson of his wo, as he best myghte,

And make a song of wordes but a fewe,

Somwhat his woful herte for to lyghte.

And whan he was from every mannes sighte,

With softe voys he of his lady dere,

That absent was, gan synge as ye may here.

 

Canticus Troili

 

»O sterre of which I lost have al the light,

With herte sor wel oughte I to bewayle

That evere derk in torment, nyght by nyght,

Toward my deth with wynd in stere I sayle;

For which the tenthe nyght, if that I fayle

The gydyng of thi bemes bright an houre,

My ship and me Carybdes wol devoure.«

 

This song when he thus songen hadde, soone

He fil ayen into his sikes olde.

And every nyght, as was his wone to done,

He stod the bryghte mone to beholde,

And al his sorwe he to the mone tolde,

And seyde, »Iwis, whan thow art horned newe,

I shal be glad, if al the world be trewe.

 

I saugh thyn hornes olde ek by the morwe

Whan hennes rod my ryghte lady dere,

That cause is of my torment and my sorwe,

For which, O brighte Lathona the clere,

For love of God, ren faste aboute thy spere!

For whanne thyne homes newe gynne sprynge,

Than shal she come that may me blisse brynge.«

 

The dayes more and lengere every nyght

Than they ben wont to be, hym thoughte tho,

And that the sonne wente his cours unright

By lenger wey than it was wont to go;

And seyde, »Iwis, me dredeth everemo

The sonnes sone, Pheton, be on lyve,

And that his fadres carte amys he dryve.«

 

Upon the walles faste ek wolde he walke,

And on the Grekes ost he wolde se,

And to hymself right thus he wolde talke,

»Lo, yender is myn owene lady fre,

Or elles yender, there tho tenten be.

And thennes comth this eyr that is so soote

That in my soule I fele it doth me boote.

 

And hardely, this wynd that more and more

Thus stoundemele encreseth in my face

Is of my ladyes depe sikes sore.

I preve it thus: for in noon othere place

Of al this town save onlyche in this space

Feele I no wynd that sowneth so lik peyne –

It seyth, ›Allas, why twynned be we tweyne?‹«

 

This longe tyme he dryveth forth right thus,

Til fully passed was the nynthe nyght.

And ay bisyde hym was this Pandarus,

That bysily did alle his fulle myght

Hym to comforte, and make his herte lyght,

Yevyng hym hope alwey the tenthe morwe

That she shal come and stynten al his sorwe.

 

Upon the tother side ek was Criseyde,

With wommen fewe, among the Grekes stronge,

For whiche ful ofte a day »Allas,« she seyde,

»That I was born! Wel may myn herte longe

After my deth, for now lyve I to longe.

Allas, and I ne may it not amende,

For now is wors than evere yet I wende.

 

My fader nyl for nothing do me grace

To goon ayen for ought I kan hym queme;

And yf so be that I my terme passe,

My Troylus shal in his herte deme

That I am fals, and so it may wel seme.

Thus shal ich have unthank on every side.

That I was born so weylaway the tyde!

 

And yf that I me put in jupartie

To stele awey by nyght, and it byfalle

That I be caught, I shal be hold a spie.

Or elles – lo, this drede I most of alle –

Yf in the hondes of som wreche I falle,

I am but lost, al be myn herte trewe.

Now, myghty God, thow on my sorwe rewe!«

 

Ful pale ywoxen was hire brighte face,

Hire lymes lene, as she that al the day

Stod, whan she dorste, and loked on the place

Ther she was born and ther she dwelt hadde ay,

And al the nyght wepyng, allas, she lay.

And thus despeired out of alle cure

She ladde hire lif, this woful creature.

 

Ful ofte a day she syked for destresse,

And in hireself she wente ay portraynge

Of Troylus the grete worthinesse,

And alle his goodly wordes recordynge

Syn first that day hire love bygan to sprynge.

And thus she sette hire woful herte afyre

Thorugh remembraunce of that she gan desire.

 

In al this world ther nys so cruwel herte

That hire hadde herd compleynen in hire sorwe,

That nolde han wopen for hire peynes smerte,

So tendrely she wepte, both eve and morwe.

Hire nedede no teris for to borwe!

And this was yet the worste of al hire peyne,

Ther nas no wight to whom she dorste hire pleyne.

 

Ful rewfully she loked upon Troye,

Byheld the toures heygh and ek the halles.

»Allas,« quod she, »the plesaunce and the joye,

The whiche that now al torned into galle is,

Have ich had ofte withinne tho yonder wallys.

O Troylus, what dostow now?« she seyde.

»Lord, wheyther yet thow thenke upon Criseyde?

 

Allas, I ne hadde trowed on youre lore,

And went with yow, as ye me redde er this,

Thenne had I now not siked half so sore.

Who myght have seyd that I had don amys

To stele awey with swich on as he is?

But al to late cometh the letuarye

Whan men the cors unto the grave carye.

 

To late is now to speke of this matere.

Prudence, allas, oon of thyne eyen thre

Me lakked alwey, er that I cam here!

On tyme ypassed wel remembred me,

And present tyme ek koud ich wel yse,

But futur tyme, er I was in the snare,

Koude I not seen – that causeth now my care.

 

But natheles, bytyde what bityde,

I shal tomorwe at nyght, by est or west,

Out of this ost stele on som manere syde,

And gon with Troylus where as hym lest.

This purpos wol ich holde, and this is best.

No fors of wykked tonges janglerye,

For evere on love han wrecches had envye.

 

For whoso wold of every word take hede,

Or rewelyn hym by every wightes wit,

Ne shal he nevere thryven, out of drede;

For that that som men blamen evere yit,

Lo, other manere folk comenden it.

And as for me, for al swych variaunce,

Felicite clepe I my suffisaunce.

 

For which, withouten ony wordes mo,

To Troye I wole, as for conclusion.«

But God it wot, er fully monthes two

She was ful fer fro that entencion.

For bothe Troylus and Troye toun

Shal knotteles thorughout hire herte slyde,

For she wol take a purpos for t'abyde.

 

This Diomede, of whom yow telle I gan,

Gooth now withinne hymself ay arguynge,

With al the sleighte and al that evere he kan,

How he may best, with shortest taryinge,

Into his net Criseydes herte brynge.

To this entent he koude nevere fyne;

To fysshen hire he leyde out hook and lyne.

 

But natheles, wel in his herte he thoughte

That she nas nat withoute a love in Troye.

For nevere sythen he hire thennes broughte,

Ne koude he sen hire laughen or maken joie.

He nyst how best hire herte for t'acoye.

»But for to assaye,« he seyde, »it nought ne greveth,

For he that nought n'assayeth, nought n'acheveth.«

 

Yet seide he to hymself upon a nyght,

»Now am I not a fool that wot wel how

Hire wo for love is of another wight,

And hereupon to gon assaye hire now?

I may wel wite, it nyl nat ben my prow.

For wyse folk in bokes it expresse,

›Men shal nat wowe a wight in hevynesse.‹

 

But whoso myghte wynnen swych a flour

From hym for whom she morneth nyght and day,

He myghte seyn he were a conquerour.«

And right anoon, as he that bold was ay,

Thoughte in his herte, »Happe how happe may.

Al sholde I deye, I wole hire herte seche.

I shal no more lesen but my speche.«

 

This Diomede, as bokes us declare,

Was in his nedes prest and corageous,

With sterne voys and myghty lymes square,

Hardy, testyf, strong, and chevalrous

Of dedes, lyk his fader Tideus;

And som men seyn he was of tunge large.

And heyr he was of Calydoyne and Arge.

 

Criseyde mene was of hire stature;

Therto of shap, of face, and ek of chere,

Ther myghte ben no fayrer creature.

And ofte tyme this was hire manere,

To gon ytressed with hire heerys clere

Doun by hire coler at hire bak byhynde,

Which with a thred of gold she wolde bynde.

 

And save hire browes joyneden yfere,

Ther nas no lak in ought I kan espyen.

But for to speken of hire eyen clere,

Lo, trewely, thei writen that hire syen

That Paradys stood formed in hire eyen.

And with hire riche beaute everemore

Strof love in hire ay which of hem was more.

 

She sobre was, ek symple, and wys withal,

The beste ynorisshed ek that myghte be,

And goodly of hire speche in general;

Charitable, estatlych, lusty, and fre,

Ne nevere mo ne lakkede hire pyte;

Tendre-herted, slydynge of corage;

But trewely, I kan nat telle hire age.

 

And Troylus wel woxen was in highte,

And complet formed by proporcion

So wel that kynde it not amenden myghte;

Yong, fresch, strong, and hardy as lyon;

Trewe as stel in ech condicion;

On of the beste enteched creature

That is or shal whil that the world may dure.

 

And certeynly in storye it is founde

That Troylus was nevere unto no wight,

As in his tyme, in no degre secounde

In dorryng don that longeth to a knyght.

Al myghte a geaunt passen hym of myght,

His herte ay with the ferste and with the beste

Stod paregal, to dorre don that hym leste.

 

But for to tellen forth of Diomede:

It fil that after, on the tenthe day

Syn that Criseyde out of the cite yede,

This Diomede, as fressh as braunche in May,

Corn to the tente ther as Calkas lay,

And feyned hym with Calkas han to doon;

But what he mente, I shal yow telle soon.

 

Criseyde, at shorte wordes for to telle,

Welcomed hym and doun hym by hire sette –

And he was ethe ynowh to maken dwelle!

And after this, withouten more lette,

The spices and the wyn men forth hem fette,

And forth thei speke of this and that yfere,

As frendes don, of which som shal ye here.

 

He gan first fallen of the werre in speche

Bytwyxen hem and the folk of Troye toun,

And of th'assege he gan hire ek byseche

To telle hym what was hire opynyoun.

Fro that demaunde he so descendeth doun

To axen hire yf that hire straunge thoughte

The Grekes gyse and werkes that they wroughte;

 

And whi hire fader tarieth so longe

To wedden hire unto som worthi wight.

Criseyde, that was in hire peynes stronge

For love of Troylus, hire owene knyght,

As ferforth as she konnyng hadde or myght,

Answerde hym tho; but, as of his entente,

It semed not she wiste what he mente.

 

But natheles this ilke Diomede

Gan in hymself assure, and thus he seyde,

»If ich aright have taken of yow hede,

Me thenketh thus, O lady myn, Criseyde,

That syn I first hond on youre bridel leyde,

Whan ye out come of Troye by the morwe,

Ne koude I nevere sen yow but in sorwe.

 

Kan I nat seyn what may the cause be

But if for love of som Troian it were,

The which right sore wolde athynken me

That ye for ony wight that dwelleth there

Sholden spille a quarter of a tere,

Or pitously yourselven so bygile,

For dredles, it is nought worth the while.

 

The folk of Troye, as who seyth, alle and some

In preson ben, as ye youreselven se;

Fro thennes shal nat oon on-lyve come

For al the gold bytwixen sonne and se.

Trusteth wel and understondeth me:

Ther shal nat on to mercy gon on-lyve,

Al were he lord of worldes twyes fyve.

 

Swyche wreche on hem for fecchyng of Eleyne

Ther shal ben take, er that we hennes wende,

That Manes, which that goddes ben of peyne,

Shul ben agast that Grekes wol hem shende.

And men shul drede unto the worldes ende

From hennesforth the ravesshynge of a queene,

So cruel shal oure wreche on hem be seene.

 

And but if Calkas lede us with ambages –

That is to seyn, with dowble wordes sleye,

Swich as men clepe a word with two visages –

Ye shul wel knowen that I nought ne lye,

And al this thing right sen it with youre eye,

And that anoon; ye nyl not trowe how soone.

Now taketh hede, for it is for to doone.

 

What, wene ye youre wyse fader wolde

Han yeven Antenor for yow anoon

If he ne wiste that the cite sholde

Destroyed ben? Whi nay, so mote I gon.

He knew ful wel ther shal not skapen on

That Troian is; and for the grete fere,

He dorste not ye dwelte lenger there.

 

What wole ye more, lufsom lady dere?

Lat Troye and Troian fro youre herte pace.

Dryf out that bittre hope, and make good chere,

And clepe ayen the beaute of youre face,

That ye with salte terys so deface.

For Troye is brought in swych a jupartie

That it to save is now no remedye.

 

And thenketh wel, ye shal in Grekes fynde

A more parfit love er it be nyght

Than ony Troian is, and more kynde,

And bet to serven yow wol don his myght.

And yf ye vouchesauf, my lady bryght,

I wol ben he to serven yow myselve,

Ye, levere than be lord of Greces twelve.«

 

And with that word he gan to waxen red,

And in his speche a litel wight he quok,

And caste asyde a litle wight his hed,

And stynte a while, and afterward awok,

And sobrelych on hire he threw his lok,

And seyde, »I am, al be it yow no joye,

As gentil man as ony wight in Troye.

 

For yf my fader Tideus,« he seide,

»Ilyved hadde, ich hadde ben er this

Of Calydoyne and Arge a kyng, Criseyde,

And so hope I that I shal yet, ywys.

But he was slayn, allas, the more harm is,

Unhappyly at Thebes al to rathe,

Polymyte and many a man to skathe.

 

But herte myn, syn that I am youre man –

And ben the ferste of whom I seche grace –

To serven yow as hertely as I kan,

And evere shal whil I to lyve have space,

So er that I departe out of this place,

Ye wol me graunte that I may tomorwe,

At bettre leyser, tellen yow my sorwe.«

 

What shold I telle his wordes that he seyde?

He spak ynow for o day at the meste.

It preveth wel, he spak so that Criseyde

Graunted on the morwe at his requeste

For to speken with hym at the leste –

So that he nolde speke of swych matere.

And thus she to hym seyde as ye may here,

 

As she that hadde hire herte on Troylus

So faste that there may non it arace,

And strangely she spak and seyde thus,

»O Diomede, I love that ilke place

Ther I was born, and Joves, for his grace,

Delivere it soone of al that doth it care.

God, for thi might, so leve it wel to fare!

 

That Grekes wolde hire wrath on Troye wreke,

If that thi myghte. I knowe it wel, ywys.

But it shal not bifallen as ye speke.

And God toforn, and ferther over this,

I wot my fader wys and redy is,

And that he me hath bought, as ye me tolde,

So dere; I am the more unto hym holde.

 

That Grekes ben of heigh condicion

I wot ek wel; but certeyn, men shal fynde

As worthi folk withinne Troye town,

As konnyng, and as parfit, and as kynde

As ben bitwyxen Orcades and Inde.

And that ye koude wel youre lady serve,

I trowe ek wel, hire thank for to deserve.

 

But as to speke of love, ywys,« she seyde,

»I hadde a lord, to whom I wedded was,

The whos myn herte al was, til that he deyde;

And other love, as help me here Pallas,

Ther in myn herte nys, ne nevere was.

And that ye ben of noble and heigh kynrede,

I have wel herd it tellen, out of drede.

 

And that doth me to han so gret a wonder

That ye wol scornen ony womman so.

Ek God wot, love and I ben fer asonder!

I am disposed bet, so mot I go,

Unto my deth to pleyne and maken wo.

What I shal after don, I kan nat seye;

But trewelich, as yet me lyst not pleye.

 

Myn herte is now in tribulacion,

And ye in armes bisy day by day.

Hereafter, whan ye wonnen han the town,

Peraunter thanne so it happen may

That whan I se that nevere yit I say,

Than wol I werke that I nevere wroughte.

This word to yow ynough suffisen oughte.

 

Tomorwe ek wol I speke with yow feyn –

So that ye touchen nought of this matere.

And whan yow list, ye may come here ayeyn –

And er ye gon, thus muche I sey yow here:

As helpe me Pallas with hire heres clere,

If that I sholde of any Grek han routhe,

It shulde be yourselven, by my trouthe.

 

I sey not therfore that I wol yow love,

Ne sey not nay; but in conclusion,

I mene wel, by God that sit above!«

And therwithal she cast hire eyen down,

And gan to syke, and seyde, »O Troye town,

Yet bidde I God in quiete and in reste

I may yow sen, or do myn herte breste.«

 

But in effect, and shortly for to seye,

This Diomede al fresshly newe ayeyn

Gan pressen on, and faste hire mercy preye;

And after this, the sothe for to seyn,

Hire glove he tok, of which he was ful feyn.

And fynally, whan it was woxen eeve,

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

 

The bryghte Venus folewede and ay taughte

The wey there brode Phebus doun alighte;

And Cynthea hire charhors overraughte

To whirle out of the Lyon yf she myghte;

And Sygnyfer his candels shewed bryghte,

When that Criseyde unto hire bedde wente

Inwith hire fadres faire bryghte tente,

 

Retornyng in hire soule ay up and doun

The wordes of this sodeyn Diomede,

His grete estat, and peril of the toun,

And that she was allone and hadde nede

Offrendes help. And thus bygan to brede

The cause whi, the sothe for to telle,

That sche tok fully purpos for to dwelle.

 

The morwen come, and gostly for to speke,

This Diomede is come unto Criseyde;

And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke,

So wel for hymself he spak and seyde

That alle hire sore sykes adoun he leyde.

And finally, the sothe for to seyne,

He refte hire of the grete of al hire peyne.

 

And after this the story telleth us

That she hym yaf the fayre baye stede,

The which he onys wan of Troylus;

And ek a broche – and that was litel nede –

That Troylus was, she yaf this Diomede.

And ek, the bet from sorwe hym to releve,

She made hym were a pencel of hire sleve.

 

I fynde ek in storyes ellyswhere,

Whan thorugh the body hurt was Diomede

Of Troylus, tho wepte she many a tere,

Whan that she saugh his wyde wowndes blede;

And that she tok to kepen hym good hede;

And for to helen hym of his sorwes smerte,

Men seyn – I not – that she yaf hym hire herte.

 

But trewely, the story telleth us,

Ther made nevere woman more wo

Than she whan that she falsed Troylus.

She seyde, »Allas, for now is clene ago

My name of trouthe in love for everemo!

For I have falsed oon the gentileste

That evere was, and oon the worthieste.

 

Allas, of me unto the worldes ende

Shal neyther ben ywriten nor isonge

No good word, for these bokes wol me shende.

O, rolled shal I ben on many a tonge;

Thorughout the world my belle shal be ronge!

And wommen most wol hate me of alle.

Allas, that swych a cas me sholde falle!

 

Thei wol seyn, inasmuche as in me is,

I have hem don dishonour, weylaway!

Al be I not the firste that dide amys,

What helpeth that to don my blame awey?

But syn I se ther is no bettre way,

And that to late is now for me to rewe,

To Diomede algate I wol be trewe.

 

But, Troylus, syn I no beter may,

And syn that thus departen ye and I,

Yet preye I God so yeve yow right good day

As for the gentileste, trewely,

That evere I say to serven feythfully,

And best kan ay his lady honour kepe.«

And with that word she brast anon to wepe.

 

»And certes, yow ne haten shal I nevere;

And frendes love, that shal ye han of me,

And my good word, al myght y lyven evere.

And, trewely, I wolde sory be

For to sen yow in adversite;

And gilteles, I wot wel, I yow leve.

But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve.«

 

But trewely, how longe it was bytwene

That she forsok hym for this Diomede,

Ther is noon auctour telleth it, I wene.

Tak every man now to his bokes hede:

He shal no terme fynden, out of drede.

For though that he gan for to wowe hire sone,

Er he hire wan yet was ther more to done.

 

Ne me ne lyst this sely womman chyde

Ferther than this story wol devyse.

Hire name, allas, is punysshed so wyde

That for hire gilt it oughte ynow suffise.

And yf I myghte excuse hire ony wyse,

For she so sory was for hire untrouthe,

Iwys, I wolde excuse hire yet for routhe.

 

This Troylus, as I byforn have told,

Thus dryveth forth as wel as he hath myght.

But often was his herte hot and cold,

And namely that ilke nynthe nyght

Which on the morwe she hadde hym byhight

To come ayeyn. God wot, ful litel reste

Hadde he that nyght – nothing to slepe hym leste.

 

The laurer-crowned Phebus with his hete

Gan in his course, ay upward as he wente,

To warmen of the Est See the wawes wete,

And Nisus doughter song with fressh entente,

Whan Troylus his Pandare after sente,

And on the walles of the toun they pleyde,

To loke if they kan sen ought of Criseyde.

 

Til it was noone thei stoden for to se

Who that ther come, and every maner wight

That kam fro fer, thei seyden it was she

Til that thei koude knowen hym aright.

Now was hire herte dul, now was it light.

And thus byjaped stonden for to stare

Aboute nought this Troylus and Pandare.

 

To Pandarus this Troylus tho seyde,

»For ought I wot, byfor noon, sykerly,

Into this town ne cometh nought Criseyde.

She hath ynow to done, hardyly,

To twynnen from hire fader, so trowe I.

Hire olde fader wole yet make hire dyne

Er that she go – God yeve hys herte pyne!«

 

Pandare answerde, »It may wel be, certeyn.

And forthi lat us dyne, I the byseche.

And after noon than maystow come ayeyn.«

And hom thei go withoute more speche,

And comen ayen. But longe may they seche

Er that they fynde that they after gape –

Fortune hem bothe thenketh for to jape.

 

Quod Troylus, »I se wel now that she

Is taried with hire olde fader so

That er she come it wol neygh even be.

Com forth; I wole unto the yate go.

Thise porterys ben unkonnynge everemo,

And I wol don hem holden up the yate

As nought ne were, although she come late.«

 

The day goth faste, and after that come eve,

And yet com nought to Troylus Criseyde.

He loketh forth by hegge, by tree, by greve,

And fer his hed over the wal he leyde,

And at the laste he torned hym and seyde,

»By God, I wot hire menyng now, Pandare –

Almost, ywys, al newe was my care –

 

Now douteles, this lady kan hire good.

I wot she meneth ryden pryvely.

I comende hire wysdom, by myn hood!

She wol not maken peple nicely

Gaure on hire whan she comth, but softely

By nyghte into the toun she thenketh ryde.

And, dere brother, thenk not to longe t'abyde –

 

We han not ellys for to don, ywys.

And Pandarus, now woltow trowen me?

Have here my trouthe, I se hire! Yond she is!

Heve up thyn eyen, man! Maystow not se?«

Pandare answerede, »Nay, so mot I the.

Al wrong, by Gode. What seystow, man, where arte?

That I se yond nys but a fare-carte.«

 

»Allas, thow seist right soth,« quod Troylus.

»But, hardely, it is not all for nought

That in myn herte I now rejoyse thus.

It is ayen som good I have a thought.

Not I not how, but syn that I was wrought

Ne felt I swich a confort, dar I seye.

She comth tonyght, my lyf that dorste I leye!«

 

Pandare answerde, »It may be, wel ynowh,«

And held with hym of al that evere he seyde.

But in his herte he thoughte, and softe lough,

And to hymself ful sobreliche he seyde,

»From haselwode, there joly Robyn pleyde,

Shal come al that that thow abydest here.

Ye, farewel al the snow of ferne yere!«

 

The wardeyn of the yates gan to calle

The folk which that withoute the yates were,

And bad hem dryven in hire bestes alle,

Or al the nyght they moste bleven there.

And fer withinne the nyght, with many a tere,

This Troylus gan homward for to ryde,

For wel he seth it helpeth nought t'abyde.

 

But natheles, he gladed hym yn thys:

He thought he mysacounted hadde his day,

And seyde, »I understonde have al amys.

For thilke nyght I last Criseyde say,

She seyde, ›I shal ben here, yf that I may,

Er that the mone, O dere herte swete,

The Lyon passe out of this Ariete.‹

 

For which she may yet holde al hire byheste.«

And on the morwe unto the yate he wente,

And up and down, by west and ek by este,

Upon the walles made he many a wente –

But al for nought; his hope alwey hym blente.

For which at nyght yn sorwe and sykes sore

He wente hym hom withouten ony more.

 

His hope al clene out of his herte is fledde,

He nath wheron now lenger for to honge,

But for the peyne hym thoughte his herte bledde,

So were his throwes sharpe and wonder stronge.

For when he saugh that she abood so longe,

He nyste what he juggen of it myghte,

Syn she hath broken that she hym byhyghte.

 

The thridde, ferthe, fifthe, sixte day

After tho dayes ten of which I tolde,

Bytwyxen hope and drede his herte lay,

Yet somwhat trustyng on hire hestes olde.

But whan he saugh she nolde hire terme holde,

He kan now sen noon other remedye

But for to shape hym soone for to dye.

 

Therwith the wykked spyrit – God us blesse –

Which that men clepeth the wode jalousye,

Gan in hym crepe, in al this hevynesse,

For whiche, by cause he wold soone dye,

He ne eet ne dronk, for his malencolye,

And ek from every compaignye he fledde –

This was the lyf that al the tyme he ledde.

 

He so defet was that no manere man

Unneth myghte hym knowe ther he wente;

So was he lene, and therto pale and wan,

And feble, that he walketh by potente;

And with his ire he thus hymselve shente.

And whoso axed hym wherof hym smerte,

He seyde his harm was al aboute his herte.

 

Pryam ful ofte, and ek his moder dere,

His bretheren and his sustren, gonne hym freyne

Why he so sorwful was in al his chere,

And what thyng was the cause of al his peyne.

But al for nought: he nolde his cause pleyne,

But seyde he felte a grevous maledye

Aboute his herte, and fayn he wolde dye.

 

So on a day he leyde hym doun to slepe,

And so byfel that yn his slep hym thoughte

That in a forest faste he welk to wepe

For love of here that hym these peynes wroughte,

And up and doun as he the forest soughte,

He mette he saugh a bor with tuskes grete,

That slepte ayeyn the bryghte sonnes hete.

 

And by this bor, faste in hir armes folde,

Lay kyssyng ay his lady bryght Criseyde.

For sorwe of which, whan he it gan byholde,

And for despit, out of his slep he breyde,

And loude he cride on Pandarus and seyde,

»O Pandarus, now know I crop and rote!

I n'am but ded; ther nys non other bote!

 

My lady bryght Criseyde hath me bytrayed,

In whom I trusted most of ony wight.

She elliswhere hath now here herte apayed.

The blysful goddes thorugh here grete myght

Han in my drem yshewed it ful right.

Thus in my drem Criseyde I have byholde« –

And al this thing to Pandarus he tolde.

 

»O my Criseyde, allas, what subtilte,

What newe lust, what beaute, what science,

What wratthe of juste cause have ye to me?

What gilt of me, what fel experience,

Hath fro me raft, allas, thyn advertence?

O trust, O feyth, O depe aseuraunce!

Who hath me reft Criseyde, al my plesaunce?

 

Allas, whi leet I you from hennes go,

For which wel neigh out of my wit I breyde?

Who shal now trowe on ony othes mo?

God wot, I wende, O lady bright Criseyde,

That every word was gospel that ye seyde!

But who may bet bigile, yf hym lyste,

Than he on whom men wenen best to triste?

 

What shal I don, my Pandarus? Allas,

I fele now so sharp a newe peyne,

Syn that ther is no remedye in this cas,

That bet were it I with myn hondes tweyne

Myselven slowh alwey than thus compleyne.

For thorugh my deth my wo shal han an ende,

Ther every day with lyf myself I shende.«

 

Pandare answerde and seyde, »Allas the while

That I was born. Have I not seyd er this

That dremes many a maner man bygyle?

And whi? For folk expounden hem amys.

How darstow seyn that fals thi lady ys

For ony drem right for thyn owene drede?

Lat be this thought; thow kanst no dremes rede.

 

Peraunter, there thow dremest of this bor,

It may so be that it may signyfie

Hire fader, which that old is and ek hor,

Ayen the sonne lith o poynt to dye,

And she for sorwe gynneth wepe and crye,

And kysseth hym, there he lyth on the grounde –

Thus sholdestow thi drem aright expounde.«

 

»How myghte I thanne do,« quod Troylus,

»To knowe of this, ye, were it nevere so lite?«

»Now seystow wysly,« quod this Pandarus.

»My reede is this: syn thow kanst wel endite,

That hastely a lettre thow hire write,

Thorugh which thow shalt wel bryngen it aboute

To knowe a soth of that thow art in doute.

 

And se now why: for this I dar wel seyn,

That if so is that she untrewe be,

I kan nat trowen that she wol write ayeyn.

And yf she write, thow shalt ful soone se

As wheyther she hath ony liberte

To come ayen; or ellys yn som clause,

If she be let, she wol assigne a cause.

 

Thow hast nat wreten hire syn that she wente,

Nor she to the; and this I dorste leye,

There may swych cause ben in hire entente

That, hardely, thow wolt thiselven seye

That hire abod the beste is for yow tweye.

Now write hire thanne, and thow shalt fele sone

A soth of al. Ther is no more to done.«

 

Accorded ben to this conclusioun,

And that anoon, these ilke lordes two;

And hastely sit Troylus adoun,

And rolleth yn his herte to and fro

How he may best discryven hire his wo.

And to Criseyde, his owene lady dere,

He wrot right thus, and seyde as ye may here.

 

Litera Troili

 

»Right fresshe flour, whos I ben have and shal,

Withouten part of elliswhere servise,

With herte, body, lyf, lust, thought, and al,

I, woful wight, in everich humble wyse

That tonge telle or herte may devyse,

As ofte as matere occupieth place,

Me recomaunde unto youre noble grace.

 

Liketh it yow to witen, swete herte,

As ye wel knowe, how longe tyme agon

That ye me lafte yn aspre peynes smerte,

Whan that ye went, of which yet bote non

Have I non had, but evere wors bygon

Fro day to day am I, and so mot dwelle,

While it yow lyst, of wele and wo my welle.

 

For which to yow with dredful herte trewe

I wryte, as he that sorwe dryfth to wryte,

My wo, that everich houre encreseth newe,

Compleynyng, as I dar or kan endite.

And that defaced is, that may ye wyte

The terys which that fro myn eyen reyne,

That wolde speke, yf that they koude, and pleyne.

 

Yow first biseche I that youre eyen clere

To look on this defouled ye not holde,

And over al this, that ye, my lady dere,

Wol vouchesauf this lettre to byholde.

And by the cause ek of my cares colde,

That sleth my wit, if ought amys m'asterte,

Foryeve it me, myn owene swete herte.

 

Yf ony servant dorste or oughte of ryght

Upon hys lady pytously compleyne,

Thanne wene I that ich oughte be that wyght,

Considered this, that ye these monethes tweyne

Han taried there ye seyden, soth to seyne,

But dayes ten ye nolde in ost sojourne –

But yn two monethes yet ye nat retourne.

 

But for as muche as me mot nedes lyke

Al that yow lyste, I dar not pleyne more,

But humbely, with sorwful sykes syke,

Yow wryte ich myn unresty sorwes sore,

Fro day to day desyryng everemore

To knowen fully, yf youre wil it were,

How ye han ferd and don whyl ye be there;

 

The whos welfare and hele ek God encresse

In honour swych that upward in degre

It growe alwey, so that it nevere cesse.

Right as youre herte ay kan, my lady fre,

Devyse, I prey to God, so mot it be,

And graunte it that ye soone upon me rewe,

As wysly as in al I am yow trewe.

 

And if yow lyketh knowen of the fare

Of me, whos wo ther may no wit discryve,

I kan no more but, chyste of every care,

At writyng of this letre I was on-lyve,

Al redy out my woful gost to dryve,

Which I delaye, and holde hym yet in honde,

Upon the sighte of matere of youre sonde.

 

Myn eyen two, in veyn with which I se,

Of sorweful teres salte arn woxen wellys;

My song yn pleynte of myn adversite;

My good yn harme; myn ese ek woxen helle ys;

My joye yn wo. I kan sey yow nought ellys,

But turned ys – for which my lyf I warye –

Everych joye or ese in his contrarye.

 

Which with youre comyng hom ayen to Troye

Ye may redresse, and more a thousand sithe

Than evere ych hadde encressen yn me joye.

For was there nevere herte yet so blythe

To han his lyf as I shal ben as swythe

As I yow se. And though no manere routhe

Commeve yow, yet thynketh on youre trouthe.

 

And yf so be my gilt hath deth deserved,

Or yf yow lyst no more upon me se,

In guerdoun yet of that I have yow served,

Biseche I yow, myn hertes lady fre,

That hereupon ye wolden wryte me,

For love of God, my righte lode-sterre,

That deth may make an ende of al my werre.

 

If other cause aught dothe yow for to dwelle,

That with youre lettre ye me rccomforte,

For though to me youre absence is an helle,

With pacience I wol my wo comporte,

And with youre lettre of hope I wol desporte.

Now writeth, swete, and lat me thus not pleyne,

With hope or deth delyvereth me fro peyne.

 

Ywys, myn owene dere herte trewe,

I wot that whan ye next upon me se,

So lost have I myn hele and ek myn hewe,

Criseyde shal nought konne knowen me.

Iwys, myn hertes day, my lady fre,

So thursteth ay myn herte to biholde

Youre beaute that my lyf unnethe I holde.

 

I say no more, al have I for to seye

To yow wel more than I telle may,

But whether that ye do me lyve or deye,

Yet pray I God, so yeve yow right good day.

And fareth wel, goodly, fayre, fresshe may,

As ye that lyf and deth me may comaunde.

And to youre trouthe ay I me recomaunde,

 

With hele swych but that ye yeven me

The same hele, I shal noon hele have.

In yow lyth, whan yow lyst that it so be,

The day yn which me clothen shal my grave;

In yow my lyf, in yow myght for to save

Me fro dyshese of alle peynes smerte;

And fare now wel, myn owene swete herte.

le vostre T.«

 

This lettre forth was sent unto Criseyde,

Of which hire answere yn effect was this:

Ful pytously she wrot ayen and seyde

That also soone as that she myghte, ywys,

She wolde come and mende al that was mys;

And fynally she wrot and seyde hym thanne,

She wolde come, ye, but she nyste whanne.

 

But yn hire lettre made she swyche festes

That wonder was, and swereth she loveth hym best;

Of which he fond but botmeles byhestes.

But Troylus, thow mayst now, est or west,

Pype yn an ivy lef, yf that the lest.

Thus goth the world, God shylde us fro myschaunce,

And every wight that meneth trouthe avaunce!

 

Encressen gan the wo fro day to nyght

Of Troylus for taryinge of Criseyde,

And lessen gan his hope and ek his myght,

For which al doun he yn his bed hym leyde.

He ne eet, ne dronk, ne slep, ne word ne seyde,

Ymagynyng ay that she was unkynde,

For which wel neigh he wax out of his mynde.

 

This drem of which I told have ek byforn

May nevere come out of his remembraunce.

He thought ay wel he hadde his lady lorn,

And that Joves, of his purveyaunce,

Hym shewed hadde in sleep the signyfyaunce

Of hire untrothe and his disaventure,

And that the bor was shewed hym yn figure.

 

For which he for Sibille his suster sente,

That called was Cassandre ek al aboute,

And al his drem he tolde hire er he stente,

And hire bisoughte assoylen hym the doute

Of the stronge bor with tuskes stoute;

And fynally, withinne a lytel stounde,

Cassandre hym gan right thus hys drem expounde.

 

She gan first smyle, and seyde, »O brother dere,

If thow a soth of this desirest knowe,

Thow most a fewe of olde storyes here,

To purpos how that Fortune overthrowe

Hath lordes olde, thorugh which, withinne a throwe,

Thow wel this bor shalt knowe, and of what kynde

He comen is, as men yn bokes fynde.

 

Diane, which that wroth was and yn ire

For Grekes nolde don hire sacrifise,

Ne encens upon hire auter sette afyre,

She, for that Grekes gonne hire so dispise,

Wrak hire in a wonder cruwel wyse:

For with a bor as grete as oxe in stalle

She made up frete hire corn and vynes alle.

 

To sle this bor was al the contre reysed,

Amonges which ther com this bor to se

A mayde, on of this world the beste ypreysed.

And Meleagre, lord of that contre,

He loved so this fresshe mayde fre,

That with his manhod, er he wolde stente,

This bor he slow, and hire the hed he sente.

 

Of which, as olde bokes tellen us,

Ther ros a contek and a gret envye.

And of this lord descendede Tydeus

By ligne, or ellys olde bokes lye.

But how this Meleagre gan to dye

Thorugh his moder wol I yow not telle,

For al to longe it were for to dwelle.«

 

She tolde ek how Tydeus, er she stente,

Unto the stronge cite of Thebes,

To cleymen kyngdom of the cite, wente,

For his felawe daun Polymytes,

Of which the brother daun Ethyocles

Ful wrongfully of Thebes held the strengthe –

This tolde she by proces al the lengthe.

 

She tolde ek how Hemonydes asterte

Whan Tydeus slowh fifty knyghtes stoute;

She tolde ek alle the prophesies by herte,

And how that seven kynges with hire route

Bysegeden the cite al aboute;

And of the holy serpent, and the welle,

And of the furyes, al she gan hym telle;

 

Of Archymoris burynge and the pleyes,

And how Amphiorax fil thorugh the grounde;

How Tydeus was slayn, lord of Argeyes,

And how Ypomedon y lytel stounde

Was dreynt, and ded Parthonope of wounde;

And also how Cappaneus the proude

With thonder-dynt was slayn, that cryde loude.

 

She gan ek telle hym how that eyther brother,

Ethyocles and Polymyte also,

At a scarmyche eche of hem slowh other,

And of Argyves wepynge and hire wo;

And how the town was brent, she tolde ek tho.

And so descendeth doun from gestes olde

To Diomede, and thus she spak and tolde:

 

»This ilke bor bytokeneth Diomede,

Tydeus sone, that down descended is

Fro Meleagre, that made the bor to blede.

And thy lady, where that she be, ywis,

This Dyomede hire herte hath and she his.

Wep if thow wolt, or leef, for out of doute,

This Diomede is inne and thow art oute.«

 

»Thow seyst nat soth,« quod he, »thou sorceresse!

With al thi fals gost of prophesie,

Thow wenest ben a grete devyneresse!

Now seystow not this fol of fantasye

Peyneth hire on ladyes for to lye?

Awey,« quod he, »ther Joves yeve the sorwe!

Thow shalt be fals, peraunter, yet tomorwe!

 

As wel thow myghtest lyen on Alceste,

That was of creatures – but men lye –

That evere weren, kyndest and the beste.

For whanne hire housbonde was in jupartie

To dye hymself, but yf she wolde dye,

She ches for hym to dye and go to helle,

And starf anoon, as us the bokes telle.«

 

Cassandre goth, and he with cruwel herte

Foryat his wo, for angre of hire speche,

And from his bed al sodeynly he sterte

As though al hol hym hadde ymade a leche.

And day by day he gan enquere and seche

A sooth of this with al his fulle cure;

And thus he drieth forth his aventure.

 

Fortune, whiche that permutacioun

Of thinges hath, as it is hire commytted

Thorugh purveyaunce and disposicioun

Of heyghe Jove, as regnes shal ben flytted

Fro folk yn folk, or when they shal ben smytted,

Gan pulle awey the fetheres brighte of Troye

Fro day to day, til they ben bare of joye.

 

Among al this, the fyn of the parodye

Of Ector gan aprochen wonder blyve.

The fate wolde his soule sholde unbodye,

And shapen hadde a mene it out to dryve,

Ayeyns which fate hym helpeth not to stryve;

But on a day to fyghten gan he wende,

At which, allas, he caught his lyves ende.

 

For which methenketh every manere wight

That haunteth armes oughte to bywayle

The deth of hym that was so noble a knyght;

For as he drough a kyng by th'aventayle,

Unwar of this, Achilles thorugh the mayle

And thorugh the body gan hym for to ryve;

And thus this worthi knyght was brought of lyve.

 

For whom, as olde bokes tellen us,

Was mad swych wo that tonge may it not telle,

And namely the sorwe of Troylus,

That next hym was of worthinesse welle.

And yn this wo gan Troylus to dwelle,

That, what for sorwe, and love, and for unreste,

Ful ofte a day he bad his herte breste.

 

But natheles, though he gan hym dispeyre,

And dradde ay that his lady was untrewe,

Yet ay on hire his herte gan repeyre.

And as thise loveres don, he soughte ay newe

To gete ayen Criseyde, bright of hewe;

And in his herte he wente hire excusynge

That Calkas caused al hire taryinge.

 

And ofte tyme he was yn purpose grete

Hymselven lyk a pylgrym to desgyse

To sen hire, but he may not contrefete

To ben unknowen of folk that weren wyse,

Ne fynde excuse aright that may suffise,

Yf he among the Grekes knowen were,

For which he wep ful ofte many a tere.

 

To hire he wrot yet ofte tyme al newe

Ful pitously – he lefte it nought for slouthe –

Bisechyng hire, syn that he was trewe,

That she wolde come ayeyn and holde hire trowthe.

For which Criseyde upon a day, for routhe –

I take it so – towchyng this matere,

Wrot hym ayeyn, and seyde as ye may here:

 

Litera Criseydis

 

»Cupides sone, ensample of goodlihede,

O swerd of knyghthod, sours of gentilesse,

How myght a wyght in torment and in drede

And heeleles, yow sende as yet gladnesse –

I herteles, I syke, I yn distresse?

Syn ye with me nor I with yow may dele,

Yow neyther sende ich herte may nor hele.

 

Youre lettres ful, the papir al ypleynted,

Conseyved hath myn hertes piete.

I have ek seyn with terys al depeynted

Youre lettre, and how that ye requeren me

To come ayen, which yet ne may not be.

But why, lest that this lettre founden were,

No mencion ne make I now, for fere.

 

Grevous to me, God wot, is youre unreste,

Youre haste, and that the goddes ordenaunce

It semeth not ye take it for the beste;

Nor other thyng nys in youre remembraunce,

As thenketh me, but oonly youre plesaunce.

But beth not wroth, and that I yow byseche:

For that I tarye is al for wykked speche.

 

For I have herd wel more than I wende

Towchynge us two, how thynges han ystonde,

Which I shal with dissimulynge amende.

And – beth nought wroth – I have eke understonde

How ye ne don but holden me in honde.

But now no fors – I kan not in yow gesse

But alle trouthe and alle gentilesse.

 

Come I wole, but yet in swich disjoynte

I stonde as now that what yer or what day

That this shal be that kan I not apoynte.

But yn effect I pray yow as I may

Of youre good word and of yowre frendship ay.

For trewely, while that my lyf may dure,

As for a frend ye may in me assure.

 

Yet preye ich yow, on yvyl ye ne take

That it is short which that I to yow write.

I dar nat ther I am wel lettres make,

Ne nevere yet ne koude I wel endite.

Ek gret effect men write yn place lite:

Th'entente is al, and nought the lettres space.

And fareth now wel, God have yow in his grace.

la vostre C.«

 

This lettre this Troylus thoughte al straunge,

Whan he it saugh, and sorwfullich he sighte;

Hym thoughte it lyk a kalendes of chaunge.

But fynally, he ful ne trowen myghte

That she ne wolde hym holden that she highte;

For with ful yvel wil lyst hym to leve

That loveth wel, yn swich cas, though hym greve.

 

But natheles, men seyn that at the laste,

For ony thyng, men shal the sothe se.

And swych a cas bytidde, and that as faste,

That Troylus wel understod that she

Nas not so kynde as that hire oughte be.

And fynally, he wot now out of doute

That al is lost that he hath ben aboute.

 

Stod on a day in his malencolye

This Troylus, and yn suspecioun

Of hire for whom he wende for to dye,

And so bifel that thorughout Troye town,

As was the gyse, yborn was up and down

A manere cote-armure, as seyth the storye,

Byforn Deiphebe yn signe of his victorye,

 

The whiche cote, as telleth Lollius,

Deiphebe it had yrent fro Diomede

The same day. And whan this Troylus

It saugh, he gan to taken of it hede,

Avysyng of the lengthe and of the brede,

And al the werk; but as he gan byholde,

Ful sodeynly his herte gan to colde,

 

As he that on the coler fond withinne

A broch that he Criseyde yaf that morwe

That she from Troye moste nedes twynne,

In remembraunce of hym and of his sorwe,

And she hym leyde ayen hire feyth to borwe

To kepe it ay! But now ful wel he wiste

Hys lady nas no lengere on to tryste.

 

He goth hym hom and gan ful soone sende

For Pandarus, and al this newe chaunce,

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

Compleynynge of hire hertes variaunce,

His longe love, his trouthe, and his penaunce;

And after deth, withouten wordes more,

Ful faste he cride, his reste hym to restore.

 

Thanne spak he thus, »O lady myn Criseyde,

Wher is youre feyth, and where is youre byheste?

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

»Of Diomede have ye now al this feste?

Allas, I wolde have trowed atte leste

That syn ye nolde in trouthe to me stonde,

That ye thus nolde han holden me in honde.

 

Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?

Allas, I nevere wolde han wend er this

That ye, Criseyde, koude han chaunged so;

Ne, but I hadde agilt or don amys,

So cruwel wende I not youre herte, ywys,

To sle me thus! Allas, youre name of trouthe

Is now fordon, and that is al my routhe.

 

Was there noon other broche yow lyste lete

To feffe with youre newe love,« quod he,

»But thilke broch that I, with terys wete,

Yow yaf as for a remembraunce of me?

Non other cause, allas, ne hadde ye

But for despit, and ek for that ye mente

Al outrely to shewe youre entente.

 

Thorugh which I se that clene out of youre mynde

Ye han me cast; and I ne kan nor may,

For al this world, withinne myn herte fynde

To unloven yow a quarter of a day.

In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway,

That ye that do me al this wo endure

Yet love I best of any creature!

 

Now God,« quod he, »me sende yet the grace

That I may meten with this Diomede.

And trewely, yf I have myght and space,

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

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

To fortheren trouthe and wronges to punyce,

Whi nyltow don a vengeaunce on this vice?

 

O Pandarus, that in dremes for to triste

Me blamed hast, and wont art ofte upbreyde,

Now maystow se thiself yf that thow lyste

How trewe is now thi nece, bryght Cryseyde!

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

»The goddes shewen bothe joye and tene

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

 

And certeynly, withoute more speche,

From hennesforth, as ferforth as I may,

Myn owene deth in armes wol I seche.

I recche nat how soone be the day.

But trewely, Criseyde, swete may,

Whom I have ay with al my myght iserved,

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

 

This Pandarus, that alle these thynges herde,

And wist wel he seyde a soth of this,

He nought a word ayen to hym answerde,

For sory of his frendes sorwe he is,

And shamed for his nece hath don amys,

And stant astoned of these causes tweye

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

 

But at the laste thus he spak and seyde,

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

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

And God wot I wol hate hire everemore.

And that thow me bysoughtest don of yore,

Havynge unto myn honour ne my reste

Right no reward, I dede al that the leste.

 

If I dede ought that myghte lyken the,

It is me lef; and of this treson now,

God wot that it a sorwe is unto me.

And dredles, for hertes ese of yow,

Right fayn wolde I amende it, wist I how.

And fro this world almyghti God I preye

Delyvere hire soon – I kan no more seye.«

 

Gret was the sorwe and pleynte of Troylus,

But forth hire cours Fortune ay gan to holde:

Criseyde loveth the sone of Tydeus,

And Troylus mot wepe in cares colde.

Swich is this world, whoso it kan biholde.

In ech estat is litel hertes reste.

God leve us for to take it for the beste!

 

In many cruwel batayle out of drede

Of Troylus, this ilke noble knyght,

As men may in these olde bokes rede,

Was sen his knyghthod and his grete myght.

And dredles, his yre, day and nyght,

Ful cruwely the Grekes ay aboughte;

And alwey most this Diomede he soughte.

 

And ofte tyme I fynde that they mette

With blody strokes and with wordes grete,

Assayinge how hire speres weren whette;

And God it wot, with many a cruwel hete

Gan Troylus upon his helm to bete.

But natheles, Fortune it nought ne wolde

Of others hond that eyther deyen sholde.

 

And yf I hadde ytaken for to writen

The armes of this ilke worthi man,

Than wolde ich of his batayles enditen,

But for that I to writen first bygan

Of his love, I have seyd as I kan –

His worthi dedes, whoso list hem here,

Red Dares, he kan telle hem alle yfere –

 

Bysechyng every lady bryght of hewe

And every gentil womman, what she be,

That al be that Criseyde was untrewe,

That for that gylt she be nat wroth with me –

Ye may hire gilte in other bokes se;

And gladlyer I wol write, yf yow leste,

Penelopees trouthe and goode Alceste.

 

Ne I sey not this alonly for these men,

But most for wommen that bytraysed be

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

That with hire grete wit and subtilte

Bytrayse yow.