And in his walk ful fast he gan to wayten 190
If knight or squyer of his companye
Gan for to syke, or lete his eyen bayten
On any woman that he coude aspye;
He wolde smyle, and holden it folye,
And seye him thus, `god wot, she slepeth softe 195
For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte! next this vers, he may it finden here. `If no love is, O god, what fele I so? 400
And if love is, what thing and whiche is he! If love be good, from whennes comth my wo? I noot, ne why unwery that I feynte. Allas! For hete of cold, for cold of hete, I deye.' For ay the ner the fyr, the hotter is,
This, trowe I, knoweth al this companye. myn hele and hewe
And lyf is lost, but ye wole on me rewe.' Ne of his wo ne dorste he not biginne
To tellen it, for al this world to winne. quod he, `who causeth al this fare? 551
O mercy, god! quod Pandarus;
`Paraunter thou might after swich oon longe,
That myn avys anoon may helpen us.' 635
If thou do so, thy wit is wel biwared;
By his contrarie is every thing declared. `Nay, never yet, y-wis,' quod Troilus. `Now,' quod Pandare, `herkneth, it was thus. Eek I nil not be cured, I wol deye;
What knowe I of the quene Niobe? Lat be thyne olde ensaumples, I thee preye.' 760
`No,' quod tho Pandarus, `therfore I seye,
Swich is delyt of foles to biwepe
Hir wo, but seken bote they ne kepe. But tel me, if I wiste what she were 765
For whom that thee al this misaunter ayleth? `Why, nay,' quod he, `by god and by my trouthe!' `No, certes, brother,' quod this Troilus,
`And why?' Quod Pandarus, `Allas! Why, put not impossible thus thy cure,
Sin thing to come is ofte in aventure. Lord, which a thank than shaltow han of this! Thus wol she seyn, and al the toun at ones,
"The wrecche is deed, the devel have his bones!" `Ye, so thou seyst,' quod Troilus tho, `allas! And yet thou hast this comfort, lo, pardee! For my love, tel me this;
Than wolde I hopen rather for to spede.' quod Pandare, `Here biginneth game!' Of al my wo the welle,
Than is my swete fo called Criseyde!' 910
`How often hastow maad thy nyce Iapes,
And seyd, that loves servants everichone
Of nycetee been verray goddes apes;
And some wolde monche hir mete alone,
Ligging a-bedde, and make hem for to grone; 915
And som, thou seydest, hadde a blaunche fevere,
And preydest god he sholde never kevere. `Now beet thy brest, and sey to god of love,
"Thy grace, lord! And goode, eek tel me this,
How wiltow seyn of me and my destresse? Quod Pandarus, `Thou hast a ful gret care
Lest that the cherl may falle out of the mone! Why, lord! For goddes love, I bidde thee a bone,
So lat me alone, and it shal be thy beste.' Tho lough this Pandare, and anoon answerde,
`And I thy borw? Yif me this labour and this besinesse,
And of my speed be thyn al that swetnesse.' O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse,
To ryme wel this book, til I have do; 10
Me nedeth here noon other art to use. Quod Pandarus, `Ma dame, god yow see, 85
With al your book and al the companye!' `Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,
If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;
`But I am sory that I have yow let
To herknen of your book ye preysen thus; 95
For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us. O, som good ye me lere!' `Uncle,' quod she, `your maistresse is not here!' `A! quod she. Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save? `Ye, holy god,' quod she, `what thing is that? Ey, nay, y-wis! `And I your borow, ne never shal, for me,
This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!' 135
`And why so, uncle myn? quod she. `By god,' quod he, `that wole I telle as blyve;
For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye;
I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!' 180
The same prys of Troilus I seye,
God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.' `By god,' quod she, `of Ector that is sooth;
Of Troilus the same thing trowe I;
For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth 185
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly
To every wight, that al the prys hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be.' `Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne. `A! `Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, `grant mercy;
Your freendship have I founden ever yit; 240
I am to no man holden trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quit;
And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit,
As in my gilt I shal you never offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende. What sey ye, no?' Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,
If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon. `Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to? 320
Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye? Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye. `Allas! `That is wel seyd,' quod be. 405
Nece, I bidde wisshe yow no more sorwe.' `Allas! Is this your reed, is this my blisful cas? Is al this peynted proces seyd, allas! O lady myn, Pallas! quod Pandarus;
`By god, I shal no-more come here this wyke, 430
And god to-forn, that am mistrusted thus;
I see ful wel that ye sette lyte of us,
Or of our deeth! Allas! Mighte he yet live, of me is nought to recche. In my presence, it wol be no solas. What me is tid a sory chaunce! `No, wis,' quod he, `myn owene nece dere.' `Now wel,' quod she, `and I wol doon my peyne; 475
I shal myn herte ayeins my lust constreyne. --'
`I graunte wel,' quod Pandare, `by my trouthe. `Ye, doutelees,' quod she, `myn uncle dere.' `Why, no, parde; what nedeth more speche?' Have routhe up-on my peyne,
Al have I been rebel in myn entente;
Now, MEA CULPA, lord! I me repente. "Ye, freend," quod he, "do ye your hedes ake
For love, and lat me liven as I can." But now to yow rehersen al his speche,
Or alle his woful wordes for to soune,
Ne bid me not, but ye wol see me swowne. `Nay, therof spak I not, a, ha!' quod she,
`As helpe me god, ye shenden every deel!' `Now wel,' quod she, `foryeven be it here!' Now who-so seyth so, mote he never thee! 670
For every thing, a ginning hath it nede
Er al be wrought, with-outen any drede. And, lord! Now was hir herte warm, now was it cold,
And what she thoughte somwhat shal I wryte,
As to myn auctor listeth for to endyte. `In every thing, I woot, ther lyth mesure. `And eek I knowe, of longe tyme agoon,
His thewes goode, and that he is not nyce. Why nay, pardee! I knowe also, and alday here and see,
Men loven wommen al this toun aboute;
Be they the wers? Why, nay, with-outen doute. `What shal I doon? Shal I nat loven, in cas if that me leste? What, par dieux! And though that I myn herte sette at reste 760
Upon this knight, that is the worthieste,
And kepe alwey myn honour and my name,
By alle right, it may do me no shame.' Allas! `How ofte tyme hath it y-knowen be,
The treson, that to womman hath be do? And thanked be ye, lord, for that I love! Or love the wers, though wrecches on it cryen? Al dredde I first to love him to biginne,
Now woot I wel, ther is no peril inne.' Why, nay, y-wis;
They wenen al be love, if oon be hoot;
Do wey, do wey, they woot no-thing of this! For they conne telle; 895
And axen fendes, is it foul in helle.' 910
So whan it lyked hir to goon to reste,
And voyded weren they that voyden oughte,
She seyde, that to slepe wel hir leste. Reherce it nedeth nought, for ye ben wyse. And gan to Iape, and seyde, `Lord, so ye swete! But rys, and lat us soupe and go to reste;' 944
And he answerde him, `Do we as thee leste.' Quod Pandarus, `Ly stille and lat me slepe,
And don thyn hood, thy nedes spedde be;
And chese, if thou wolt singe or daunce or lepe; 955
At shorte wordes, thow shal trowe me. 965
As ye han herd bifore, al he him tolde. How shal this longe tyme a-wey be driven,
Til that thou be ayein at hir fro me? `By god,' quod he, `I hoppe alwey bihinde!' Quod Pandarus, `Loke alwey that ye finde
Game in myn hood, but herkneth, if yow leste; 1110
Ther is right now come in-to toune a geste,
A Greek espye, and telleth newe thinges,
For which I come to telle yow tydinges. `Into the gardin go we, and we shal here,
Al prevely, of this a long sermoun.' 1140
Ber it a-yein, for him that ye on leve!' `No? than wol I,' quod he, `so ye endyte.' Therwith she lough, and seyde, `Go we dyne.' `do what yow liste.' For, by my trouthe, I noot.' Therwith al rosy hewed tho wex she,
And gan to humme, and seyde, `So I trowe.' Now for the love of me, my nece dere, 1210
Refuseth not at this tyme my preyere.' `Depar-dieux,' quod she, `God leve al be wel! God help me so, this is the firste lettre
That ever I wroot, ye, al or any del.' For-why men seyth, "Impressiounes lighte
Ful lightly been ay redy to the flighte.' `O flee not in, he seeth us, I suppose;
Lest he may thinke that ye him eschuwe.' 1255
`Nay, nay,' quod she, and wex as reed as rose. `God help me so,' quod he, `ye sey me sooth. Ye felen wel your-self that I not lye;
Lo, yond he rit!' `It am I, freend,' quod he. `Who, Troilus? `Ye, through the might of god!' quod Troilus. But fynally, he took al for the beste
That she him wroot, for somwhat he biheld 1325
On which, him thoughte, he mighte his herte reste,
Al covered she the wordes under sheld. `Y-wis, my brother Deiphebus,' quod he. `Now,' quod Pandare, `er houres twyes twelve,
He shal thee ese, unwist of it him-selve. `Spek thou thy-self also to Troilus
On my bihalve, and pray him with us dyne.' Lo, nece myn, see ye nought how I swete? `I? No,' quod she, and chaunged al hir hewe. What shal I do, allas? `Nay,' quod Pandare, `it shal no-thing be so. 1490
He thonked hir, and wente up-on his weye. But wel wot I, thou art now in a drede;
And what it is, I leye, I can arede. Now thenk not so, for thou dost greet folye. Go now, farwel! `Lo, holde thee at thy triste cloos, and I
Shal wel the deer un-to thy bowe dryve.' And yeve me sorwe, but he shal it rewe,
If that I may, and alle folk be trewe.' And in he lepte, and seyde him in his ere,
`God have thy soule, y-brought have I thy bere!' Now fayre brother, beth al hool, I preye!' `Good thrift have ye,' quod Eleyne the quene. Quod Pandarus, `And it your wille be
That she may take hir leve, er that she go?' `O, elles god for-bede,' tho quod he, 1690
`If that she vouche sauf for to do so.' That wol ye bothe seyn, whan ye ben oon. To which gladnes, who nede hath, god him bringe! See, who is here yow comen to visyte;
Lo, here is she that is your deeth to wyte.' `Sire,' quod Criseyde, `it is Pandare and I.' `Ye, swete herte? Allas, I may nought ryse
To knele, and do yow honour in som wyse.' And though I dar ne can un-to yow pleyne,
Y-wis, I suffre nought the lasse peyne. `I? `I? quod he, `That ye han on him routhe,
For goddes love, and doth him nought to deye.' `What that I mene, O swete herte dere?' Quod Pandarus, `Lo, here an hard request,
And resonable, a lady for to werne! quod he, `That mayst nought dyen, 185
Cupide I mene, of this mayst glorifye;
And Venus, thou mayst maken melodye;
With-outen hond, me semeth that in the towne,
For this merveyle, I here ech belle sowne. `But ho! ther-with he lough,
`For ther have ye a layser for to telle.' 200
Quod Troilus, `How longe shal I dwelle
Er this be doon?' Quod he, `Whan thou mayst ryse,
This thing shal be right as I yow devyse.' Quod Pandarus, `It tyme is that we wende;
Tak, nece myn, your leve at alle three,
And lat hem speke, and cometh forth with me.' `O tonge, allas! 320
No wonder is, so god me sende hele,
Though wommen drede with us men to dele. From every wight as fer as is the cloude
He was, so wel dissimulen he coude. And al the whyl which that I yow devyse, 435
This was his lyf; with al his fulle might,
By day he was in Martes high servyse,
This is to seyn, in armes as a knight;
And for the more part, the longe night
He lay, and thoughte how that he mighte serve 440
His lady best, hir thank for to deserve. He shof ay on, he to and fro was sent;
He lettres bar whan Troilus was absent. `Lat be,' quod he, `ne stond not thus to muse;
This moot be doon, ye shal be ther anoon.' But at the laste, as every thing hath ende, 615
She took hir leve, and nedes wolde wende. But O, Fortune, executrice of wierdes,
O influences of thise hevenes hye! 635
For, by my trouthe, I sey it nought a-game,
To wende as now, it were to me a shame.' `Y-wis, graunt mercy, nece!' By god, right in my lyte closet yonder. 670
The wyn anon, and whan so that yow leste,
So go we slepe, I trowe it be the beste.' Quod Pandarus, `Ne drede thee never a del,
For it shal been right as thou wilt desyre;
So thryve I, this night shal I make it wel, 710
Or casten al the gruwel in the fyre.' Which wey be ye comen, benedicite?' `Here at this secre trappe-dore,' quod he. 760
`Ey! And whan my tale al brought is to an ende,
Unwist, right as I com, so wol I wende. Allas! Conceytes wronge,
What harm they doon, for now live I to longe! Allas! I knowe him not, god helpe me so,' quod she;
`Allas! `O god!' `Why, uncle myn,' quod she, `who tolde him this? Why doth my dere herte thus, allas?' `So shal I do to-morwe, y-wis,' quod she,
`And god to-forn, so that it shal suffyse.' Allas, that were a fair!' A! By god, I wene
Ye hadde never thing so leef,' quod she. Now, by that god above,
Nought only this delay comth of folye,
But of malyce, if that I shal nought lye. `A ring?' quod he, `Ye, hasel-wodes shaken! 910
`Now have I told what peril he is inne,
And his coming unwist is to every wight;
Ne, pardee, harm may ther be noon, ne sinne;
I wol my-self be with yow al this night. And eem, y-wis, fayn wolde I doon the beste,
If that I hadde grace to do so. Quod Pandarus, `Ye, nece, wol ye here? Now, for your trouthe, seeth this gentil man!' Quod Pandarus, `Now wol ye wel biginne;
Now doth him sitte, gode nece dere, 975
Upon your beddes syde al there with-inne,
That ech of yow the bet may other here.' Allas! And in his minde he gan the tyme acurse
That he cam there, and that that he was born;
For now is wikke y-turned in-to worse,
And al that labour he hath doon biforn, 1075
He wende it lost, he thoughte he nas but lorn. `O Pandarus,' thoughte he, `allas! He felte he nas but deed,
For wrooth was she that shulde his sorwes lighte. `Y-wis, so wolde I, and I wiste how,
Ful fayn,' quod she; `Allas! `Ye, nece, wole ye pullen out the thorn
That stiketh in his herte?' quod Pandare; 1105
`Sey "Al foryeve," and stint is al this fare!' 1125
Quod tho Criseyde, `Is this a mannes game? What, Troilus! Wol ye do thus, for shame?' He thonked hir, and to hir spak, and seyde 1130
As fil to purpos for his herte reste. Quod Pandarus, `For ought I can espyen, 1135
This light, nor I ne serven here of nought;
Light is not good for syke folkes yen. But for the love of god, sin ye be brought
In thus good plyt, lat now non hevy thought
Ben hanginge in the hertes of yow tweye:' 1140
And bar the candele to the chimeneye. 1145
Yet lesse thing than othes may suffyse
In many a cas; for every wight, I gesse,
That loveth wel meneth but gentilesse. And she answerde, `Swete, al were it so,
What harm was that, sin I non yvel mene? And she answerde, `Of gilt misericorde! O! And, lord! `Ye, herte myn, god thank I of his grace!' They wol sey `Yis,' but lord! As wolde god, tho wrecches, that dispyse
Servyse of love, hadde eres al-so longe
As hadde Myda, ful of coveityse,
And ther-to dronken hadde as hoot and stronge 1390
As Crassus dide for his affectis wronge,
To techen hem that they ben in the vyce,
And loveres nought, al-though they holde hem nyce! What me is wo,
That day of us mot make desseveraunce! O night, allas! Envyous day, what list thee so to spyen? `Allas! Holde your bed ther, thou, and eek thy Morwe! I bidde god, so yeve yow bothe sorwe!' `What shal I doon, for certes, I not how,
Ne whanne, allas! And him in armes took, and ofte keste. And ner he com, and seyde, `How stont it now
This mery morwe, nece, how can ye fare?' 1631
`Thou art at ese, and holde the wel ther-inne. `I noot my-self not wisly what it is;
But now I fele a newe qualitee,
Ye, al another than I dide er this.' But cruel day, so wel-awey the stounde! And thus Fortune a tyme ladde in Ioye
Criseyde, and eek this kinges sone of Troye. And though that he be come of blood royal, 1800
Him liste of pryde at no wight for to chase;
Benigne he was to ech in general,
For which he gat him thank in every place. Allas! Thus al my good I loste and to yow wente,
Wening in this you, lordes, for to plese. Slepinge at hoom, whanne out of Troye I sterte. O sterne, O cruel fader that I was! I ne hadde y-brought hir in hir sherte! For sorwe of which I wol not live to morwe,
But-if ye lordes rewe up-on my sorwe. Now for the love of god and of bountee,
Oon of so fele, allas! So yeve him me. O Iuvenal, lord! They quitte him out to rathe; 205
O nyce world, lo, thy discrecioun! 260
What have I doon, what have I thus a-gilt? Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt? Allas! `Have I thee nought honoured al my lyve,
As thou wel wost, above the goddes alle? O Troilus, what may men now thee calle 270
But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle
In-to miserie, in which I wol biwayle
Criseyde, allas! `Allas, Fortune! But ever-more, lo! `O verray lord of love, O god, allas! Allas, no wight; but when myn herte dyeth,
My spirit, which that so un-to yow hyeth, 320
Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve;
For-thy no fors is, though the body sterve. `O olde, unholsom, and mislyved man, 330
Calkas I mene, allas! And with his chere and loking al to-torn,
For sorwe of this, and with his armes folden,
He stood this woful Troilus biforn, 360
And on his pitous face he gan biholden;
But lord, so often gan his herte colden,
Seing his freend in wo, whos hevinesse
His herte slow, as thoughte him, for distresse. But at the laste this woful Troilus,
Ney deed for smert, gan bresten out to rore,
And with a sorwful noyse he seyde thus,
Among his sobbes and his sykes sore, 375
`Lo! Pandare, I am deed, with-outen more. 380
As wisly were it fals as it is trewe,
That I have herd, and wot al how it is. O mercy, god, who wolde have trowed this? But who may al eschewe, or al devyne? For sin it is but casuel plesaunce,
Som cas shal putte it out of remembraunce. Thise wordes seyde he for the nones alle,
To helpe his freend, lest he for sorwe deyde. It lyth not in my power, leve brother. And though I mighte, I wolde not do so. Now foule falle hir, for thy wo that care! Thus wepinge that he coude never cesse, 575
He seyde, `Allas! How shal I, wrecche, fare? 580
For, as in love, ther is but litel reste.' Kyth now sumwhat thy corage and thy might,
Have mercy on thy-self, for any awe. And if thee list here sterven as a wrecche,
A-dieu, the devel spede him that it recche!' `Why, so mene I,' quod Pandarus, `al this day. But tel me than, hastow hir wil assayed,
That sorwest thus?' And he answerde, `Nay.' 670
But shortly, lest thise tales sothe were,
She dorste at no wight asken it, for fere. A-nother seyde, `Y-wis, so nam not I,
For al to litel hath she with us be.' But after al this nyce vanitee
They took hir leve, and hoom they wenten alle. She seyde, `How shal he doon, and I also? O dere herte eek, that I love so,
Who shal that sorwe sleen that ye ben inne? 760
O Calkas, fader, thyn be al this sinne! 765
What is Criseyde worth, from Troilus? `Myn herte and eek the woful goost ther-inne 785
Biquethe I, with your spirit to compleyne
Eternally, for they shal never twinne. `Thus, herte myn, for Antenor, allas! I sone shal be chaunged, as I wene. But how shul ye don in this sorwful cas,
How shal youre tendre herte this sustene? Ye, or men lyeth! And alle worldly blisse, as thinketh me. Wol he have pleynte or teres, er I wende? 860
I have y-nowe, if he ther-after sende!' `For which we han so sorwed, he and I,
That in-to litel bothe it hadde us slawe;
But thurgh my conseil this day, fynally, 885
He somwhat is fro weping now with-drawe. Y-wis, his sorwe doubleth al my peyne. 910
Thise wordes seyd, she on hir armes two
Fil gruf, and gan to wepe pitously. Quod Pandarus, `Allas! Why do ye so,
Syn wel ye woot the tyme is faste by,
That he shal come? `For al that comth, comth by necessitee;
Thus to be lorn, it is my destinee. O, welaway! So sleye arn clerkes olde,
That I not whos opinion I may holde. Why, Troilus, what thenkestow to done? What, parde, yet is not Criseyde a-go! Lat be, and thenk right thus in thy disese. That, in the dees right as ther fallen chaunces,
Right so in love, ther come and goon plesaunces. A man may al by tyme his nekke bede 1105
Whan it shal of, and sorwen at the nede. `For which my counseil is, whan it is night,
Thou to hir go, and make of this an ende; 1115
And blisful Iuno, thourgh hir grete mighte,
Shal, as I hope, hir grace un-to us sende. So bittre teres weep nought, as I finde,
The woful Myrra through the bark and rinde. That in this world ther nis so hard an herte, 1140
That nolde han rewed on hir peynes smerte. Help, Troilus!' For I go;
And Attropos, make redy thou my bere! 1215
`Ye, herte myn, that thanked be Cupyde!' But at the laste, as that hir eyen glente
A-syde, anoon she gan his swerd aspye,
As it lay bare, and gan for fere crye, 1225
And asked him, why he it hadde out-drawe? Allas! quod she. `Ye, douteless;' and she answerde, `Allas! 1270
Considered al, ther nis no-more amis. This al and som, my dere herte swete. `For which I wol not make long sermoun,
For tyme y-lost may not recovered be;
But I wol gon to my conclusioun,
And to the beste, in ought that I can see. For in effect what-so ye me comaunde,
That wol I doon, for that is no demaunde. She shal come hastely ayeyn;"
And whanne, allas? By god, lo, right anoon,
Er dayes ten, this dar I saufly seyn. Y-wis, ye mowen elles lite endure! For if he wiste in Troye how wel I fare,
Us neded for my wending nought to care. And treweliche, as writen wel I finde, 1415
That al this thing was seyd of good entente;
And that hir herte trewe was and kinde
Towardes him, and spak right as she mente,
And that she starf for wo neigh, whan she wente,
And was in purpos ever to be trewe; 1420
Thus writen they that of hir werkes knewe. But fynally, he gan his herte wreste
To trusten hir, and took it for the beste. `For al-so sooth as sonne up-rist on morwe,
And, god! `For which, with humble, trewe, and pitous herte,
A thousand tymes mercy I yow preye; 1500
So reweth on myn aspre peynes smerte,
And doth somwhat, as that I shal yow seye,
And lat us stele away bitwixe us tweye;
And thenk that folye is, whan man may chese,
For accident his substaunce ay to lese. The sorwe and wo ye wolden make,
That ye ne dorste come ayein for shame! `O mercy, god, what lyf is this?' quod she;
`Allas, ye slee me thus for verray tene! My fader nought, for al his queynte pley. For I am ever a-gast, for-why men rede,
That "love is thing ay ful of bisy drede." At shorte wordes, wel ye may me leve;
I can no more, it shal be founde at preve.' And trewely, as men in bokes rede,
Men wiste never womman han the care, 20
Ne was so looth out of a toun to fare. `Why nil I make at ones riche and pore
To have y-nough to done, er that she go? But forth she moot, for ought that may bityde,
And forth she rit ful sorwfully a pas. And he ful softe and sleighly gan hir seye,
`Now hold your day, and dooth me not to deye.' 180
For whan she gan hir fader fer aspye,
Wel neigh doun of hir hors she gan to sye. 225
I noot, allas! 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! `Who seeth yow now, my righte lode-sterre? Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audience? Allas, no wight; and that is al my care;
For wel wot I, as yvel as I ye fare. 240
How shal she doon eek, sorwful creature? For tendernesse, how shal she this sustene,
Swich wo for me? 320
And, god Mercurie! Of me now, woful wrecche,
The soule gyde, and, whan thee list, it fecche!' But who-so wol not trowen reed ne lore,
I can not seen in him no remedye,
But lete him worthen with his fantasye. God woot, they take it wysly, faire and softe. Allas, allas, so noble a creature
As is a man, shal drede swich ordure! `This toun is ful of lordes al aboute, 400
And trewes lasten al this mene whyle. Go we pleye us in som lusty route
To Sarpedon, not hennes but a myle. But what avayleth this to Troilus,
That for his sorwe no-thing of it roughte? Wel-come, y-wis, myn owene lady dere.' But welaway, al this nas but a mase;
Fortune his howve entended bet to glase. `Ye, hasel-wode!' O ring, fro which the ruby is out-falle,
O cause of wo, that cause hast been of lisse! And yond so goodly gan she me biholde,
That to the deeth myn herte is to hir holde. `And to the yonder hille I gan hir gyde, 610
Allas! And yond I saugh hir to hir fader ryde,
For sorwe of which myn herte shal to-cleve. And al this nas but his malencolye,
That he hadde of him-self swich fantasye. 670
And thennes comth this eyr, that is so sote,
That in my soule I fele it doth me bote. Allas! And al the night wepinge, allas! she lay. And thus despeired, out of alle cure,
She ladde hir lyf, this woful creature. And this was yet the worste of al hir peyne,
Ther was no wight to whom she dorste hir pleyne. Ful rewfully she loked up-on Troye,
Biheld the toures heighe and eek the halles; 730
`Allas!' O Troilus, what dostow now,' she seyde;
`Lord! I ne hadde trowed on your lore,
And went with yow, as ye me radde er this! `To late is now to speke of this matere;
Prudence, allas! But futur tyme, er I was in the snare,
Coude I not seen; that causeth now my care. This purpos wol I holde, and this is beste. And as for me, for al swich variaunce,
Felicitee clepe I my suffisaunce. `For which, with-outen any wordes mo,
To Troye I wol, as for conclusioun.' 765
But god it wot, er fully monthes two,
She was ful fer fro that entencioun. I may wel wite, it nil not been my prow. And som men seyn, he was of tunge large;
And heir he was of Calidoine and Arge. And with hir riche beautee ever-more
Strof love in hir, ay which of hem was more. Trusteth wel, and understondeth me. Why, nay, so mote I goon! 910
`What wole ye more, lufsom lady dere? And so hope I that I shal yet, y-wis. 935
But he was slayn, allas! God, for thy might, so leve it wel to fare! And that ye coude wel your lady serve,
I trowe eek wel, hir thank for to deserve. And that ye been of noble and heigh kinrede,
I have wel herd it tellen, out of drede. Eek, god wot, love and I be fer a-sonder! `Myn herte is now in tribulacioun,
And ye in armes bisy, day by day. And fynally, whan it was waxen eve,
And al was wel, he roos and took his leve. And fynally, the sothe for to seyne, 1035
He refte hir of the grete of al hir peyne. And eek, the bet from sorwe him to releve,
She made him were a pencel of hir sleve. Men seyn, I not, that she yaf him hir herte. She seyde, `Allas! Allas, that swich a cas me sholde falle! Al be I not the first that dide amis,
What helpeth that to do my blame awey? And, trewely, I wolde sory be
For to seen yow in adversitee. And giltelees, I woot wel, I yow leve;
But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve.' Take every man now to his bokes hede;
He shal no terme finden, out of drede. Hir name, allas! Now was his herte dul, now was it light;
And thus by-iaped stonden for to stare
Aboute nought, this Troilus and Pandare. Com forth, I wol un-to the yate go. 1145
And at the laste he torned him, and seyde. `By god, I woot hir mening now, Pandare! Al-most, y-wis, al newe was my care. And, dere brother, thenk not longe to abyde. Have here my trouthe, I see hir! Yond she is. Heve up thyn eyen, man! The Lyon passe, out of this Ariete." And on the morwe un-to the yate he wente,
And up and down, by west and eek by este,
Up-on the walles made he many a wente. For when he saugh that she abood so longe,
He niste what he iuggen of it mighte,
Sin she hath broken that she him bihighte. But who-so axed him wher-of him smerte,
He seyde, his harm was al aboute his herte. `O my Criseyde, allas! What gilt of me, what fel experience
Hath fro me raft, allas! Why leet I you from hennes go,
For which wel neigh out of my wit I breyde? `What shal I doon, my Pandarus, allas! 1280
Lat be this thought, thou canst no dremes rede. quod Troilus,
`To knowe of this, ye, were it never so lyte?' Now wryte hir thanne, and thou shalt fele sone
A sothe of al; ther is no more to done.' In you lyth, whan yow liste that it so be,
The day in which me clothen shal my grave. And fynally she wroot and seyde him thanne,
She wolde come, ye, but she niste whenne. 1515
And thy lady, wher-so she be, y-wis,
This Diomede hir herte hath, and she his. Weep if thou wolt, or leef; for, out of doute,
This Diomede is inne, and thou art oute.' quod he. And in his herte he wente hir excusinge,
That Calkas causede al hir taryinge. Nor other thing nis in your remembraunce,
As thinketh me, but only your plesaunce. 1615
But now no fors, I can not in yow gesse
But alle trouthe and alle gentilesse. And fynally, he woot now, out of doute,
That al is lost that he hath been aboute. 1675
Wher is your love, wher is your trouthe,' he seyde;
`Of Diomede have ye now al this feste! Allas, I wolde have trowed at the leste. That, sin ye nolde in trouthe to me stonde,
That ye thus nolde han holden me in honde! In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway! And trewely, if I have might and space,
Yet shal I make, I hope, his sydes blede. But at the laste thus he spak, and seyde, 1730
`My brother dere, I may thee do no-more. I hate, y-wis, Criseyde! And, god wot, I wol hate hir evermore! `If I dide ought that mighte lyken thee,
It is me leef; and of this treson now,
God woot, that it a sorwe is un-to me! But for that I to wryte first bigan
Of his love, I have seyd as that I can. And thus bigan his lovinge of Criseyde,
As I have told, and in this wyse he deyde. Lo here, the forme of olde clerkes speche
In poetrye, if ye hir bokes seche. Amen. End of Project Gutenberg's Troilus and Criseyde, by Geoffrey Chaucer