Aprochen gan the fatal destineeThat Ioves hath in disposicioun,And to yow, angry Parcas, sustren three,Committeth, to don execucioun;For which Criseyde moste out of the toun, 5And Troilus shal dwelle forth in pyneTil Lachesis his threed no lenger twyne. —The golden-tressed Phebus heighe on-lofteThryes hadde alle with his bemes sheneThe snowes molte, and Zephirus as ofte 10Y-brought ayein the tendre leves grene,Sin that the sone of Ecuba the queneBigan to love hir first, for whom his sorweWas al, that she departe sholde a-morwe.Ful redy was at pryme Dyomede, 15Criseyde un-to the Grekes ost to lede,For sorwe of which she felt hir herte blede,As she that niste what was best to rede.And trewely, as men in bokes rede,Men wiste never womman han the care, 20Ne was so looth out of a toun to fare.This Troilus, with-outen reed or lore,As man that hath his Ioyes eek forlore,Was waytinge on his lady ever-moreAs she that was the soothfast crop and more 25Of al his lust, or Ioyes here-tofore.But Troilus, now farewel al thy Ioye,For shaltow never seen hir eft in Troye!Soth is, that whyl he bood in this manere,He gan his wo ful manly for to hyde. 30That wel unnethe it seen was in his chere;But at the yate ther she sholde oute rydeWith certeyn folk, he hoved hir tabyde,So wo bigoon, al wolde he nought him pleyne,That on his hors unnethe he sat for peyne. 35For ire he quook, so gan his herte gnawe,Whan Diomede on horse gan him dresse,And seyde un-to him-self this ilke sawe,`Allas,' quod he, `thus foul a wrecchednesseWhy suffre ich it, why nil ich it redresse? 40Were it not bet at ones for to dyeThan ever-more in langour thus to drye?`Why nil I make at ones riche and poreTo have y-nough to done, er that she go?Why nil I bringe al Troye upon a rore? 45Why nil I sleen this Diomede also?Why nil I rather with a man or twoStele hir a-way? Why wol I this endure?Why nil I helpen to myn owene cure?'But why he nolde doon so fel a dede, 50That shal I seyn, and why him liste it spare;He hadde in herte alweyes a maner drede,Lest that Criseyde, in rumour of this fare,Sholde han ben slayn; lo, this was al his care.And ellis, certeyn, as I seyde yore, 55He hadde it doon, with-outen wordes more.Criseyde, whan she redy was to ryde,Ful sorwfully she sighte, and seyde `Allas!'But forth she moot, for ought that may bityde,And forth she rit ful sorwfully a pas. 60Ther nis non other remedie in this cas.What wonder is though that hir sore smerte,Whan she forgoth hir owene swete herte?This Troilus, in wyse of curteisye,With hauke on hond, and with an huge route 65Of knightes, rood and dide hir companye,Passinge al the valey fer with-oute,And ferther wolde han riden, out of doute,Ful fayn, and wo was him to goon so sone;But torne he moste, and it was eek to done. 70And right with that was Antenor y-comeOut of the Grekes ost, and every wightWas of it glad, and seyde he was wel-come.And Troilus, al nere his herte light,He peyned him with al his fulle might 75Him to with-holde of wepinge at the leste,And Antenor he kiste, and made feste.And ther-with-al he moste his leve take,And caste his eye upon hir pitously,And neer he rood, his cause for to make, 80To take hir by the honde al sobrely.And lord! So she gan wepen tendrely!And he ful softe and sleighly gan hir seye,`Now hold your day, and dooth me not to deye.'With that his courser torned he a-boute 85With face pale, and un-to DiomedeNo word he spak, ne noon of al his route;Of which the sone of Tydeus took hede,As he that coude more than the credeIn swich a craft, and by the reyne hir hente; 90And Troilus to Troye homwarde he wente.This Diomede, that ladde hir by the brydel,Whan that he saw the folk of Troye aweye,Thoughte, `Al my labour shal not been on ydel,If that I may, for somwhat shal I seye, 95For at the worste it may yet shorte our weye.I have herd seyd, eek tymes twyes twelve,"He is a fool that wol for-yete him-selve."'But natheles this thoughte he wel ynough,`That certaynly I am aboute nought, 100If that I speke of love, or make it tough;For douteles, if she have in hir thoughtHim that I gesse, he may not been y-broughtSo sone awey; but I shal finde a mene,That she not wite as yet shal what I mene.' 105This Diomede, as he that coude his good,Whan this was doon, gan fallen forth in specheOf this and that, and asked why she stoodIn swich disese, and gan hir eek biseche,That if that he encrese mighte or eche 110With any thing hir ese, that she sholdeComaunde it him, and seyde he doon it wolde.For trewely he swoor hir, as a knight,That ther nas thing with whiche he mighte hir plese,That he nolde doon his peyne and al his might 115To doon it, for to doon hir herte an ese.And preyede hir, she wolde hir sorwe apese,And seyde, `Y-wis, we Grekes con have IoyeTo honouren yow, as wel as folk of Troye.'He seyde eek thus, `I woot, yow thinketh straunge, 120No wonder is, for it is to yow newe,Thaqueintaunce of these Troianis to chaunge,For folk of Grece, that ye never knewe.But wolde never god but-if as treweA Greek ye shulde among us alle finde 125As any Troian is, and eek as kinde.`And by the cause I swoor yow right, lo, now,To been your freend, and helply, to my might,And for that more aqueintaunce eek of yowHave ich had than another straunger wight, 130So fro this forth, I pray yow, day and night,Comaundeth me, how sore that me smerte,To doon al that may lyke un-to your herte;`And that ye me wolde as your brother trete,And taketh not my frendship in despyt; 135And though your sorwes be for thinges grete,Noot I not why, but out of more respyt,Myn herte hath for to amende it greet delyt.And if I may your harmes not redresse,I am right sory for your hevinesse, 140`And though ye Troians with us Grekes wrotheHan many a day be, alwey yet, pardee,O god of love in sooth we serven bothe.And, for the love of god, my lady free,Whom so ye hate, as beth not wroth with me. 145For trewely, ther can no wight yow serve,That half so looth your wraththe wolde deserve.`And nere it that we been so neigh the tenteOf Calkas, which that seen us bothe may,I wolde of this yow telle al myn entente; 150But this enseled til another day.Yeve me your hond, I am, and shal ben ay,God help me so, whyl that my lyf may dure,Your owene aboven every creature.`Thus seyde I never er now to womman born; 155For god myn herte as wisly glade so,I lovede never womman here-bifornAs paramours, ne never shal no mo.And, for the love of god, beth not my fo;Al can I not to yow, my lady dere, 160Compleyne aright, for I am yet to lere.`And wondreth not, myn owene lady bright,Though that I speke of love to you thus blyve;For I have herd or this of many a wight,Hath loved thing he never saugh his lyve. 165Eek I am not of power for to stryveAyens the god of love, but him obeyeI wol alwey, and mercy I yow preye.`Ther been so worthy knightes in this place,And ye so fair, that everich of hem alle 170Wol peynen him to stonden in your grace.But mighte me so fair a grace falle,That ye me for your servaunt wolde calle,So lowly ne so trewely you serveNil noon of hem, as I shal, til I sterve.' 175Criseide un-to that purpos lyte answerde,As she that was with sorwe oppressed soThat, in effect, she nought his tales herde,But here and there, now here a word or two.Hir thoughte hir sorwful herte brast a-two. 180For whan she gan hir fader fer aspye,Wel neigh doun of hir hors she gan to sye.But natheles she thonked DiomedeOf al his travaile, and his goode chere,And that him liste his friendship hir to bede; 185And she accepteth it in good manere,And wolde do fayn that is him leef and dere;And trusten him she wolde, and wel she mighte,As seyde she, and from hir hors she alighte.Hir fader hath hir in his armes nome, 190And tweynty tyme he kiste his doughter swete,And seyde, `O dere doughter myn, wel-come!'She seyde eek, she was fayn with him to mete,And stood forth mewet, milde, and mansuete.But here I leve hir with hir fader dwelle, 195And forth I wol of Troilus yow telle.To Troye is come this woful Troilus,In sorwe aboven alle sorwes smerte,With felon look, and face dispitous.Tho sodeinly doun from his hors he sterte, 200And thorugh his paleys, with a swollen herte,To chambre he wente; of no-thing took he hede,Ne noon to him dar speke a word for drede.And there his sorwes that he spared haddeHe yaf an issue large, and `Deeth!' he cryde; 205And in his throwes frenetyk and maddeHe cursed Iove, Appollo, and eek Cupyde,He cursed Ceres, Bacus, and Cipryde,His burthe, him-self, his fate, and eek nature,And, save his lady, every creature. 210To bedde he goth, and weyleth there and tornethIn furie, as dooth he, Ixion in helle;And in this wyse he neigh til day soiorneth.But tho bigan his herte a lyte unswelleThorugh teres which that gonnen up to welle; 215And pitously he cryde up-on Criseyde,And to him-self right thus he spak, and seyde: —`Wher is myn owene lady lief and dere,Wher is hir whyte brest, wher is it, where?Wher ben hir armes and hir eyen clere, 220That yesternight this tyme with me were?Now may I wepe allone many a tere,And graspe aboute I may, but in this place,Save a pilowe, I finde nought tenbrace.`How shal I do? Whan shal she com ayeyn? 225I noot, allas! Why leet ich hir 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 ever-mo myn herte I dowe; 230See how I deye, ye nil me not rescowe!`Who seeth yow now, my righte lode-sterre?Who sit right now or stant in your presence?Who can conforten now your hertes werre?Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audience? 235Who speketh for me right now in myn absence?Allas, no wight; and that is al my care;For wel wot I, as yvel as I ye fare.`How sholde I thus ten dayes ful endure,Whan I the firste night have al this tene? 240How shal she doon eek, sorwful creature?For tendernesse, how shal she this sustene,Swich wo for me? O pitous, pale, and greneShal been your fresshe wommanliche faceFor langour, er ye torne un-to this place.' 245And whan he fil in any slomeringes,Anoon biginne he sholde for to grone,And dremen of the dredfulleste thingesThat mighte been; as, mete he were alloneIn place horrible, makinge ay his mone, 250Or meten that he was amonges alleHis enemys, and in hir hondes falle.And ther-with-al his body sholde sterte,And with the stert al sodeinliche awake,And swich a tremour fele aboute his herte, 255That of the feer his body sholde quake;And there-with-al he sholde a noyse make,And seme as though he sholde falle depeFrom heighe a-lofte; and than he wolde wepe,And rewen on him-self so pitously, 260That wonder was to here his fantasye.Another tyme he sholde mightilyConforte him-self, and seyn it was folye,So causeles swich drede for to drye,And eft biginne his aspre sorwes newe, 265That every man mighte on his sorwes rewe.Who coude telle aright or ful discryveHis wo, his pleynt, his langour, and his pyne?Nought al the men that han or been on-lyve.Thou, redere, mayst thy-self ful wel devyne 270That swich a wo my wit can not defyne.On ydel for to wryte it sholde I swinke,Whan that my wit is wery it to thinke.On hevene yet the sterres were sene,Al-though ful pale y-waxen was the mone; 275And whyten gan the orisonte sheneAl estward, as it woned is for to done.And Phebus with his rosy carte soneGan after that to dresse him up to fare,Whan Troilus hath sent after Pandare. 280This Pandare, that of al the day bifornNe mighte han comen Troilus to see,Al-though he on his heed it hadde y-sworn,For with the king Pryam alday was he,So that it lay not in his libertee 285No-wher to gon, but on the morwe he wenteTo Troilus, whan that he for him sente.For in his herte he coude wel devyne,That Troilus al night for sorwe wook;And that he wolde telle him of his pyne, 290This knew he wel y-nough, with-oute book.For which to chaumbre streight the wey he took,And Troilus tho sobreliche he grette,And on the bed ful sone he gan him sette.`My Pandarus,' quod Troilus, `the sorwe 295Which that I drye, I may not longe endure.I trowe I shal not liven til to-morwe;For whiche I wolde alwey, on aventure,To thee devysen of my sepultureThe forme, and of my moeble thou dispone 300Right as thee semeth best is for to done.`But of the fyr and flaumbe funeralIn whiche my body brenne shal to glede,And of the feste and pleyes palestralAt my vigile, I prey thee tak good hede 305That 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 y-brend shal torne,That preye I thee thou take and it conserve 310In 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 hir, and do me this plesaunce,To preye hir kepe it for a remembraunce. 315`For wel I fele, by my maladye,And by my dremes now and yore ago,Al certeinly, that I mot nedes dye.The owle eek, which that hight Ascaphilo,Hath after me shright alle thise nightes two. 320And, god Mercurie! Of me now, woful wrecche,The soule gyde, and, whan thee list, it fecche!'Pandare answerde, and seyde, `Troilus,My dere freend, as I have told thee yore,That it is folye for to sorwen thus, 325And causeles, for whiche I can no-more.But who-so wol not trowen reed ne lore,I can not seen in him no remedye,But lete him worthen with his fantasye.`But Troilus, I pray thee tel me now, 330If that thou trowe, er this, that any wightHath loved paramours as wel as thou?Ye, god wot, and fro many a worthy knightHath his lady goon a fourtenight,And he not yet made halvendel the fare. 335What nede is thee to maken al this care?`Sin day by day thou mayst thy-selven seeThat from his love, or elles from his wyf,A man mot twinnen of necessitee,Ye, though he love hir as his owene lyf; 340Yet nil he with him-self thus maken stryf.For wel thow wost, my leve brother dere,That alwey freendes may nought been y-fere.`How doon this folk that seen hir loves weddedBy freendes might, as it bi-tit ful ofte, 345And seen hem in hir spouses bed y-bedded?God woot, they take it wysly, faire and softe.For-why good hope halt up hir herte on-lofte,And for they can a tyme of sorwe endure;As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure. 350`So sholdestow endure, and late slydeThe tyme, and fonde to ben glad and light.Ten dayes nis so longe not tabyde.And sin she thee to comen hath bihight,She nil hir hestes breken for no wight. 355For dred thee not that she nil finden weyeTo come ayein, my lyf that dorste I leye.`Thy swevenes eek and al swich fantasyeDryf out, and lat hem faren to mischaunce;For they procede of thy malencolye, 360That doth thee fele in sleep al this penaunce.A straw for alle swevenes signifiaunce!God helpe me so, I counte hem not a bene,Ther woot no man aright what dremes mene.`For prestes of the temple tellen this, 365That dremes been the revelaciounsOf goddes, and as wel they telle, y-wis,That they ben infernals illusiouns;And leches seyn, that of complexiounsProceden they, or fast, or glotonye. 370Who woot in sooth thus what they signifye?`Eek othere seyn that thorugh impressiouns,As if a wight hath faste a thing in minde,That ther-of cometh swiche avisiouns;And othere seyn, as they in bokes finde, 375That, after tymes of the yeer by kinde,Men dreme, and that theffect goth by the mone;But leve no dreem, for it is nought to done.`Wel worth of dremes ay thise olde wyves,And treweliche eek augurie of thise foules; 380For fere of which men wenen lese her lyves,As ravenes qualm, or shryking of thise oules.To trowen on it bothe fals and foul is.Allas, allas, so noble a creatureAs is a man, shal drede swich ordure! 385`For which with al myn herte I thee beseche,Un-to thy-self that al this thou foryive;And rys up now with-oute more speche,And lat us caste how forth may best be driveThis tyme, and eek how freshly we may live 390Whan that she cometh, the which shal be right sone;God help me so, the beste is thus to done.`Rys, lat us speke of lusty lyf in TroyeThat we han lad, and forth the tyme dryve;And eek of tyme cominge us reioye, 395That bringen shal our blisse now so blyve;And langour of these twyes dayes fyveWe shal ther-with so foryete or oppresse,That wel unnethe it doon shal us duresse.`This toun is ful of lordes al aboute, 400And trewes lasten al this mene whyle.Go we pleye us in som lusty routeTo Sarpedon, not hennes but a myle.And thus thou shalt the tyme wel bigyle,And dryve it forth un-to that blisful morwe, 405That thou hir see, that cause is of thy sorwe.`Now rys, my dere brother Troilus;For certes, it noon honour is to theeTo wepe, and in thy bedde to iouken thus.For trewely, of o thing trust to me, 410If thou thus ligge a day, or two, or three,The folk wol wene that thou, for cowardyse,Thee feynest syk, and that thou darst not ryse.'This Troilus answerde, `O brother dere,This knowen folk that han y-suffred peyne, 415That though he wepe and make sorwful chere,That feleth harm and smert in every veyne,No wonder is; and though I ever pleyne,Or alwey wepe, I am no-thing to blame,Sin I have lost the cause of al my game. 420`But sin of fyne force I moot aryse,I shal aryse as sone as ever I may;And god, to whom myn herte I sacrifyse,So sende us hastely the tenthe day!For was ther never fowl so fayn of May, 425As I shal been, whan that she cometh in Troye,That cause is of my torment and my Ioye.`But whider is thy reed,' quod Troilus,`That we may pleye us best in al this toun?'`Bi god, my conseil is,' quod Pandarus, 430`To ryde and pleye us with king Sarpedoun.'So longe of this they speken up and doun,Til Troilus gan at the laste assenteTo ryse, and forth to Sarpedoun they wente.This Sarpedoun, as he that honourable 435Was ever his lyve, and ful of heigh prowesse,With al that mighte y-served been on table,That deyntee was, al coste it greet richesse,He fedde hem day by day, that swich noblesse,As seyden bothe the moste and eek the leste, 440Was never er that day wist at any feste.Nor in this world ther is non instrumentDelicious, through wind, or touche, of corde,As fer as any wight hath ever y-went,That tonge telle or herte may recorde, 445That at that feste it nas wel herd acorde;Ne of ladies eek so fayr a companyeOn daunce, er tho, was never y-seyn with ye.But what avayleth this to Troilus,That for his sorwe no-thing of it roughte? 450For ever in oon his herte pietousFul bisily Criseyde his lady soughte.On hir was ever al that his herte thoughte,Now this, now that, so faste imagininge,That glade, y-wis, can him no festeyinge. 455These ladies eek that at this feste been,Sin that he saw his lady was a-weye,It was his sorwe upon hem for to seen,Or for to here on instrumentz so pleye.For she, that of his herte berth the keye, 460Was absent, lo, this was his fantasye,That no wight sholde make melodye.Nor ther nas houre in al the day or night,Whan he was ther-as no wight mighte him here,That he ne seyde, `O lufsom lady bright, 465How have ye faren, sin that ye were here?Wel-come, y-wis, myn owene lady dere.'But welaway, al this nas but a mase;Fortune his howve entended bet to glase.The lettres eek, that she of olde tyme 470Hadde him y-sent, he wolde allone rede,An hundred sythe, a-twixen noon and pryme;Refiguringe hir shap, hir womanhede,With-inne his herte, and every word and dedeThat passed was, and thus he droof to an ende 475The ferthe day, and seyde, he wolde wende.And seyde, `Leve brother Pandarus,Intendestow that we shal here bleveTil Sarpedoun wol forth congeyen us?Yet were it fairer that we toke our leve. 480For goddes love, lat us now sone at eveOur leve take, and homward lat us torne;For trewely, I nil not thus soiourne.'Pandare answerde, `Be we comen hiderTo fecchen fyr, and rennen hoom ayeyn? 485God helpe me so, I can not tellen whiderWe mighten goon, if I shal soothly seyn,Ther any wight is of us more faynThan Sarpedoun; and if we hennes hyeThus sodeinly, I holde it vilanye. 490`Sin that we seyden that we wolde bleveWith him a wouke; and now, thus sodeinly,The ferthe day to take of him oure leve,He wolde wondren on it, trewely!Lat us holde forth our purpos fermely; 495And sin that ye bihighten him to byde,Hold forward now, and after lat us ryde.'Thus Pandarus, with alle peyne and wo,Made him to dwelle; and at the woukes ende,Of Sarpedoun they toke hir leve tho, 500And on hir wey they spedden hem to wende.Quod Troilus, `Now god me grace sende,That I may finden, at myn hom-cominge,Criseyde comen!' And ther-with gan he singe.`Ye, hasel-wode!' thoughte this Pandare, 505And to him-self ful softely he seyde,`God woot, refreyden may this hote fare,Er Calkas sende Troilus Criseyde!'But natheles, he Iaped thus, and seyde,And swor, y-wis, his herte him wel bihighte, 510She wolde come as sone as ever she mighte.Whan they un-to the paleys were y-comenOf Troilus, they doun of hors alighte,And to the chambre hir wey than han they nomen.And in-to tyme that it gan to nighte, 515They spaken of Crysede the brighte.And after this, whan that hem bothe leste,They spedde hem fro the soper un-to reste.On morwe, as sone as day bigan to clere,This Troilus gan of his sleep tabrayde, 520And to Pandare, his owene brother dere,`For love of god,' ful pitously he seyde,`As go we seen the paleys of Criseyde;For sin we yet may have namore feste,So lat us seen hir paleys at the leste.' 525And ther-with-al, his meyne for to blende,A cause he fond in toune for to go,And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende.But lord! This sely Troilus was wo!Him thoughte his sorweful herte braste a-two. 530For whan he saugh hir dores sperred alle,Wel neigh for sorwe a-doun he gan to falle.Therwith, whan he was war and gan biholdeHow shet was every windowe of the place,As frost, him thoughte, his herte gan to colde; 535For which with chaunged deedlich pale face,With-outen word, he forth bigan to pace;And, as god wolde, he gan so faste ryde,That no wight of his contenance aspyde.Than seyde he thus; `O paleys desolat, 540O hous, of houses whylom best y-hight,O paleys empty and disconsolat,O thou lanterne, of which queynt is the light,O paleys, whylom day, that now art night,Wel oughtestow to falle, and I to dye, 545Sin she is went that wont was us to gye!`O paleys, whylom croune of houses alle,Enlumined with sonne of alle blisse!O ring, fro which the ruby is out-falle,O cause of wo, that cause hast been of lisse! 550Yet, sin I may no bet, fayn wolde I kisseThy colde dores, dorste I for this route;And fare-wel shryne, of which the seynt is oute!'Ther-with he caste on Pandarus his yeWith chaunged face, and pitous to biholde; 555And whan he mighte his tyme aright aspye,Ay as he rood, to Pandarus he toldeHis newe sorwe, and eek his Ioyes olde,So pitously and with so dede an hewe,That every wight mighte on his sorwe rewe. 560Fro thennesforth he rydeth up and doun,And every thing com him to remembraunceAs he rood forbi places of the tounIn whiche he whylom hadde al his plesaunce.`Lo, yond saugh I myn owene lady daunce; 565And in that temple, with hir eyen clere,Me coughte first my righte lady dere.`And yonder have I herd ful lustilyMy dere herte laugh, and yonder pleyeSaugh I hir ones eek ful blisfully. 570And yonder ones to me gan she seye,"Now goode swete, love me wel, I preye."And yond so goodly gan she me biholde,That to the deeth myn herte is to hir holde.`And at that corner, in the yonder hous, 575Herde I myn alderlevest lady dereSo wommanly, with voys melodious,Singen so wel, so goodly, and so clere,That in my soule yet me thinketh I hereThe blisful soun; and, in that yonder place, 580My lady first me took un-to hir grace.'Thanne thoughte he thus, `O blisful lord Cupyde,Whanne I the proces have in my memorie,How thou me hast wereyed on every syde,Men might a book make of it, lyk a storie. 585What nede is thee to seke on me victorie,Sin I am thyn, and hoolly at thy wille?What Ioye hastow thyn owene folk to spille?`Wel hastow, lord, y-wroke on me thyn ire,Thou mighty god, and dredful for to greve! 590Now mercy, lord, thou wost wel I desireThy grace most, of alle lustes leve,And live and deye I wol in thy bileve,For which I naxe in guerdon but a bone,That thou Criseyde ayein me sende sone. 595`Distreyne hir herte as faste to retorneAs thou dost myn to longen hir to see;Than woot I wel, that she nil nought soiorne.Now, blisful lord, so cruel thou ne beUn-to the blood of Troye, I preye thee, 600As Iuno was un-to the blood Thebane,For which the folk of Thebes caughte hir bane.'And after this he to the yates wenteTher-as Criseyde out-rood a ful good paas,And up and doun ther made he many a wente, 605And to him-self ful ofte he seyde `Allas!From hennes rood my blisse and my solas!As wolde blisful god now, for his Ioye,I mighte hir seen ayein come in-to Troye!`And to the yonder hille I gan hir gyde, 610Allas! And there I took of hir my leve!And yond I saugh hir to hir fader ryde,For sorwe of which myn herte shal to-cleve.And hider hoom I com whan it was eve;And here I dwelle out-cast from alle Ioye, 615And shal, til I may seen hir eft in Troye.'And of him-self imagened he ofteTo ben defet, and pale, and waxen lesseThan he was wont, and that men seyden softe,`What may it be? Who can the sothe gesse 620Why Troilus hath al this hevinesse?'And al this nas but his malencolye,That he hadde of him-self swich fantasye.Another tyme imaginen he woldeThat every wight that wente by the weye 625Had of him routhe, and that they seyen sholde,`I am right sory Troilus wole deye.'And thus he droof a day yet forth or tweye.As ye have herd, swich lyf right gan he lede,As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede. 630For which him lyked in his songes sheweThencheson of his wo, as he best mighte,And made a song of wordes but a fewe,Somwhat his woful herte for to lighte.And whan he was from every mannes sighte, 635With softe voys he, of his lady dere,That was absent, gan singe as ye may here.`O sterre, of which I lost have al the light,With herte soor wel oughte I to bewayle,That ever derk in torment, night by night, 640Toward my deeth with wind in stere I sayle;For which the tenthe night if that I fayleThe gyding of thy bemes brighte an houre,My ship and me Caribdis wole devoure.'This song whan he thus songen hadde, sone 645He fil ayein in-to his sykes olde;And every night, as was his wone to done,He stood the brighte mone to beholde,And al his sorwe he to the mone tolde;And seyde, `Y-wis, whan thou art horned newe, 650I shal be glad, if al the world be trewe!`I saugh thyn hornes olde eek by the morwe,Whan hennes rood my righte lady dere,That cause is of my torment and my sorwe;For whiche, O brighte Lucina the clere, 655For love of god, ren faste aboute thy spere!For whan thyn hornes newe ginne springe,Than shal she come, that may my blisse bringe!'The day is more, and lenger every night,Than they be wont to be, him thoughte tho; 660And that the sonne wente his course unrightBy lenger wey than it was wont to go;And seyde, `Y-wis, me dredeth ever-mo,The sonnes sone, Pheton, be on-lyve,And that his fadres cart amis he dryve.' 665Upon the walles faste eek wolde he walke,And on the Grekes ost he wolde see,And to him-self right thus he wolde talke,`Lo, yonder is myn owene lady free,Or elles yonder, ther tho tentes be! 670And thennes comth this eyr, that is so sote,That in my soule I fele it doth me bote.`And hardely this wind, that more and moreThus stoundemele encreseth in my face,Is of my ladyes depe sykes sore. 675I preve it thus, for in non othere placeOf al this toun, save onliche in this space,Fele I no wind that souneth so lyk peyne;It seyth, "Allas! Why twinned be we tweyne?"'This longe tyme he dryveth forth right thus, 680Til fully passed was the nynthe night;And ay bi-syde him was this Pandarus,That bisily dide alle his fulle mightHim to comforte, and make his herte light;Yevinge him hope alwey, the tenthe morwe 685That she shal come, and stinten al his sorwe.Up-on that other syde eek was Criseyde,With wommen fewe, among the Grekes stronge;For which ful ofte a day `Allas,' she seyde,`That I was born! Wel may myn herte longe 690After my deeth; for now live I to longe!Allas! And I ne may it not amende;For now is wors than ever yet I wende.`My fader nil for no-thing do me graceTo goon ayein, for nought I can him queme; 695And if so be that I my terme passe,My Troilus shal in his herte demeThat I am fals, and so it may wel seme.Thus shal I have unthank on every syde;That I was born, so weylaway the tyde! 700`And if that I me putte in Iupartye,To stele awey by nighte, and it bifalleThat I be caught, I shal be holde a spye;Or elles, lo, this drede I most of alle,If in the hondes of som wrecche I falle, 705I am but lost, al be myn herte trewe;Now mighty god, thou on my sorwe rewe!'Ful pale y-waxen was hir brighte face,Hir limes lene, as she that al the dayStood whan she dorste, and loked on the place 710Ther she was born, and ther she dwelt hadde ay.And al the night wepinge, allas! she lay.And thus despeired, out of alle cure,She ladde hir lyf, this woful creature.Ful ofte a day she sighte eek for destresse, 715And in hir-self she wente ay portrayingeOf Troilus the grete worthinesse,And alle his goodly wordes recordingeSin first that day hir love bigan to springe.And thus she sette hir woful herte a-fyre 720Through remembraunce of that she gan desyre.In al this world ther nis so cruel herteThat hir hadde herd compleynen in hir sorwe,That nolde han wopen for hir peynes smerte,So tendrely she weep, bothe eve and morwe. 725Hir nedede no teres for to borwe.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!' quod she, `The plesaunce and the IoyeThe whiche that now al torned in-to galle is,Have I had ofte with-inne yonder walles!O Troilus, what dostow now,' she seyde;`Lord! Whether yet thou thenke up-on Criseyde? 735`Allas! I ne hadde trowed on your lore,And went with yow, as ye me radde er this!Thanne hadde I now not syked half so sore.Who mighte han seyd, that I had doon a-misTo stele awey with swich on as he is? 740But al to late cometh the letuarie,Whan men the cors un-to the grave carie.`To late is now to speke of this matere;Prudence, allas! Oon of thyn eyen threeMe lakked alwey, er that I come here; 745On tyme y-passed, wel remembred me;And present tyme eek coude I wel y-see.But futur tyme, er I was in the snare,Coude I not seen; that causeth now my care.`But natheles, bityde what bityde, 750I shal to-morwe at night, by est or weste,Out of this ost stele on som maner syde,And go with Troilus wher-as him leste.This purpos wol I holde, and this is beste.No fors of wikked tonges Ianglerye, 755For ever on love han wrecches had envye.`For who-so wole of every word take hede,Or rewlen him by every wightes wit,Ne shal he never thryven, out of drede.For that that som men blamen ever yit, 760Lo, other maner folk commenden it.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.' 765But god it wot, er fully monthes two,She was ful fer fro that entencioun.For bothe Troilus and Troye tounShal knotteles through-out hir herte slyde;For she wol take a purpos for tabyde. 770This Diomede, of whom yow telle I gan,Goth now, with-inne him-self ay arguingeWith al the sleighte and al that ever he can,How he may best, with shortest taryinge,In-to his net Criseydes herte bringe. 775To this entente he coude never fyne;To fisshen hir, he leyde out hook and lyne.But natheles, wel in his herte he thoughte,That she nas nat with-oute a love in Troye,For never, sithen he hir thennes broughte, 780Ne coude he seen her laughe or make Ioye.He nist how best hir herte for tacoye.`But for to assaye,' he seyde, `it nought ne greveth;For he that nought nassayeth, nought nacheveth.'Yet seide he to him-self upon a night, 785`Now am I not a fool, that woot wel howHir wo for love is of another wight,And here-up-on to goon assaye hir now?I may wel wite, it nil not been my prow.For wyse folk in bokes it expresse, 790"Men shal not wowe a wight in hevinesse."`But who-so mighte winnen swich a flourFrom him, for whom she morneth night and day,He mighte seyn, he were a conquerour.'And right anoon, as he that bold was ay, 795Thoughte in his herte, `Happe how happe may,Al sholde I deye, I wole hir herte seche;I shal no more lesen but my speche.'This Diomede, as bokes us declare,Was in his nedes prest and corageous; 800With sterne voys and mighty limes square,Hardy, testif, strong, and chevalrousOf dedes, lyk his fader Tideus.And som men seyn, he was of tunge large;And heir he was of Calidoine and Arge. 805Criseyde mene was of hir stature,Ther-to of shap, of face, and eek of chere,Ther mighte been no fairer creature.And ofte tyme this was hir manere,To gon y-tressed with hir heres clere 810Doun by hir coler at hir bak bihinde,Which with a threde of gold she wolde binde.And, save hir browes ioyneden y-fere,Ther nas no lak, in ought I can espyen;But for to speken of hir eyen clere, 815Lo, trewely, they writen that hir syen,That Paradys stood formed in hir yen.And with hir riche beautee ever-moreStrof love in hir, ay which of hem was more.She sobre was, eek simple, and wys with-al, 820The beste y-norisshed eek that mighte be,And goodly of hir speche in general,Charitable, estatliche, lusty, and free;Ne never-mo ne lakkede hir pitee;Tendre-herted, slydinge of corage; 825But trewely, I can not telle hir age.And Troilus wel waxen was in highte,And complet formed by proporciounSo wel, that kinde it not amenden mighte;Yong, fresshe, strong, and hardy as lyoun; 830Trewe as steel in ech condicioun;On of the beste enteched creature,That is, or shal, whyl that the world may dure.And certainly in storie it is y-founde,That Troilus was never un-to no wight, 835As in his tyme, in no degree secoundeIn durring don that longeth to a knight.Al mighte a geaunt passen him of might,His herte ay with the firste and with the besteStood paregal, to durre don that him leste. 840But for to tellen forth of Diomede: —It fil that after, on the tenthe day,Sin that Criseyde out of the citee yede,This Diomede, as fresshe as braunche in May,Com to the tente ther-as Calkas lay, 845And feyned him with Calkas han to done;But what he mente, I shal yow telle sone.Criseyde, at shorte wordes for to telle,Welcomed him, and doun by hir him sette;And he was ethe y-nough to maken dwelle. 850And after this, with-outen longe lette,The spyces and the wyn men forth hem fette;And forth they speke of this and that y-fere,As freendes doon, of which som shal ye here.He gan first fallen of the werre in speche 855Bitwixe hem and the folk of Troye toun;And of thassege he gan hir eek byseche,To telle him what was hir opinioun.Fro that demaunde he so descendeth dounTo asken hir, if that hir straunge thoughte 860The Grekes gyse, and werkes that they wroughte?