And why hir fader tarieth so longeTo wedden hir un-to som worthy wight?Criseyde, that was in hir peynes strongeFor love of Troilus, hir owene knight, 865As fer-forth as she conning hadde or might,Answerde him tho; but, as of his entente,It semed not she wiste what he mente.But natheles, this ilke DiomedeGan in him-self assure, and thus he seyde, 870`If ich aright have taken of yow hede,Me thinketh thus, O lady myn, Criseyde,That sin I first hond on your brydel leyde,Whan ye out come of Troye by the morwe,Ne coude I never seen yow but in sorwe. 875`Can I not seyn what may the cause beBut-if for love of som Troyan it were,The which right sore wolde athinken meThat ye, for any wight that dwelleth there,Sholden spille a quarter of a tere, 880Or pitously your-selven so bigyle;For dredelees, it is nought worth the whyle.`The folk of Troye, as who seyth, alle and someIn preson been, as ye your-selven see;Nor thennes shal not oon on-lyve come 885For al the gold bitwixen sonne and see.Trusteth wel, and understondeth me.Ther shal not oon to mercy goon on-lyve,Al were he lord of worldes twyes fyve!`Swich wreche on hem, for fecching of Eleyne, 890Ther shal be take, er that we hennes wende,That Manes, which that goddes ben of peyne,Shal been agast that Grekes wol hem shende.And men shul drede, un-to the worldes ende,From hennes-forth to ravisshe any quene, 895So cruel shal our wreche on hem be sene.`And but-if Calkas lede us with ambages,That is to seyn, with double wordes slye,Swich as men clepe a "word with two visages,"Ye shal wel knowen that I nought ne lye, 900And al this thing right seen it with your ye,And that anoon; ye nil not trowe how sone;Now taketh heed, for it is for to done.`What wene ye your wyse fader woldeHan yeven Antenor for yow anoon, 905If he ne wiste that the citee sholdeDestroyed been? Why, nay, so mote I goon!He knew ful wel ther shal not scapen oonThat Troyan is; and for the grete fere,He dorste not, ye dwelte lenger there. 910`What wole ye more, lufsom lady dere?Lat Troye and Troyan fro your herte pace!Dryf out that bittre hope, and make good chere,And clepe ayein the beautee of your face,That ye with salte teres so deface. 915For Troye is brought in swich a Iupartye,That, it to save, is now no remedye.`And thenketh wel, ye shal in Grekes finde,A more parfit love, er it be night,Than any Troian is, and more kinde, 920And bet to serven yow wol doon his might.And if ye vouche sauf, my lady bright,I wol ben he to serven yow my-selve,Yee, lever than he lord of Greces twelve!'And with that word he gan to waxen reed, 925And in his speche a litel wight he quook,And caste a-syde a litel wight his heed,And stinte a whyle; and afterward awook,And sobreliche on hir he threw his look,And seyde, `I am, al be it yow no Ioye, 930As gentil man as any wight in Troye.`For if my fader Tydeus,' he seyde,`Y-lived hadde, I hadde been, er this,Of Calidoine and Arge a king, Criseyde!And so hope I that I shal yet, y-wis. 935But he was slayn, allas! The more harm is,Unhappily at Thebes al to rathe,Polymites and many a man to scathe.`But herte myn, sin that I am your man,And been the ferste of whom I seche grace, 940To serven you as hertely as I can,And ever shal, whyl I to live have space,So, er that I departe out of this place,Ye wol me graunte, that I may to-morwe,At bettre leyser, telle yow my sorwe.' 945What shold I telle his wordes that he seyde?He spak y-now, for o day at the meste;It preveth wel, he spak so that CriseydeGraunted, on the morwe, at his requeste,For to speken with him at the leste, 950So that he nolde speke of swich matere;And thus to him she seyde, as ye may here:As she that hadde hir herte on TroilusSo faste, that ther may it noon arace;And straungely she spak, and seyde thus; 955`O Diomede, I love that ilke placeTher I was born; and Ioves, for his grace,Delivere it sone of al that doth it care!God, for thy might, so leve it wel to fare!`That Grekes wolde hir wraththe on Troye wreke, 960If that they mighte, I knowe it wel, y-wis.But it shal not bifallen as ye speke;And god to-forn, and ferther over this,I wot my fader wys and redy is;And that he me hath bought, as ye me tolde, 965So dere, I am the more un-to him holde.`That Grekes been of heigh condicioun,I woot eek wel; but certein, men shal findeAs worthy folk with-inne Troye toun,As conning, and as parfit and as kinde, 970As been bitwixen Orcades and Inde.And that ye coude wel your lady serve,I trowe eek wel, hir thank for to deserve.`But as to speke of love, y-wis,' she seyde,`I hadde a lord, to whom I wedded was, 975The whos myn herte al was, til that he deyde;And other love, as helpe me now Pallas,Ther in myn herte nis, ne nevere was.And that ye been of noble and heigh kinrede,I have wel herd it tellen, out of drede. 980`And that doth me to han so gret a wonder,That ye wol scornen any womman so.Eek, god wot, love and I be fer a-sonder!I am disposed bet, so mote I go,Un-to my deeth, to pleyne and maken wo. 985What I shal after doon, I can not seye;But trewely, as yet me list not pleye.`Myn herte is now in tribulacioun,And ye in armes bisy, day by day.Here-after, whan ye wonnen han the toun, 990Paraunter, thanne so it happen may,That whan I see that I never er say,Than wole I werke that I never wroughte!This word to yow y-nough suffysen oughte.`To-morwe eek wol I speken with yow fayn, 995So that ye touchen nought of this matere.And whan yow list, ye may come here ayeyn;And, er ye gon, thus muche I seye yow here;As help me Pallas with hir heres clere,If that I sholde of any Greek han routhe, 1000It sholde be your-selven, by my trouthe!`I sey not therfore that I wol yow love,Ne I sey not nay, but in conclusioun,I mene wel, by god that sit above:' —And ther-with-al she caste hir eyen doun, 1005And gan to syke, and seyde, `O Troye toun,Yet bidde I god, in quiete and in resteI may yow seen, or do myn herte breste.'But in effect, and shortly for to seye,This Diomede al freshly newe ayeyn 1010Gan pressen on, and faste hir mercy preye;And after this, the sothe for to seyn,Hir glove he took, of which he was ful fayn.And fynally, whan it was waxen eve,And al was wel, he roos and took his leve. 1015The brighte Venus folwede and ay taughteThe wey, ther brode Phebus doun alighte;And Cynthea hir char-hors over-raughteTo whirle out of the Lyon, if she mighte;And Signifer his candelse shewed brighte, 1020Whan that Criseyde un-to hir bedde wenteIn-with hir fadres faire brighte tente.Retorning in hir soule ay up and dounThe wordes of this sodein Diomede,His greet estat, and peril of the toun, 1025And that she was allone and hadde nedeOf freendes help; and thus bigan to bredeThe cause why, the sothe for to telle,That she tok fully purpos for to dwelle.The morwe com, and goostly for to speke, 1030This Diomede is come un-to Criseyde,And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke,So wel he for him-selve spak and seyde,That alle hir sykes sore adoun he leyde.And fynally, the sothe for to seyne, 1035He refte hir of the grete of al hir peyne.And after this the story telleth us,That she him yaf the faire baye stede,The which he ones wan of Troilus;And eek a broche (and that was litel nede) 1040That Troilus was, she yaf this Diomede.And eek, the bet from sorwe him to releve,She made him were a pencel of hir sleve.I finde eek in stories elles-where,Whan through the body hurt was Diomede 1045Of Troilus, tho weep she many a tere,Whan that she saugh his wyde woundes blede;And that she took to kepen him good hede,And for to hele him of his sorwes smerte.Men seyn, I not, that she yaf him hir herte. 1050But trewely, the story telleth us,Ther made never womman more woThan she, whan that she falsed Troilus.She seyde, `Allas! For now is clene a-goMy name of trouthe in love, for ever-mo! 1055For I have falsed oon, the gentilesteThat ever was, and oon the worthieste!`Allas, of me, un-to the worldes ende,Shal neither been y-writen nor y-songeNo good word, for thise bokes wol me shende. 1060O, rolled shal I been on many a tonge;Through-out the world my belle shal be ronge;And wommen most wol hate me of alle.Allas, that swich a cas me sholde falle!`They wol seyn, in as muche as in me is, 1065I have hem don dishonour, weylawey!Al be I not the first that dide amis,What helpeth that to do my blame awey?But sin I see there is no bettre way,And that to late is now for me to rewe, 1070To Diomede algate I wol be trewe.`But Troilus, sin I no better may,And sin that thus departen ye and I,Yet preye I god, so yeve yow right good dayAs for the gentileste, trewely, 1075That ever I say, to serven feithfully,And best can ay his lady honour kepe:' —And with that word she brast anon to wepe.`And certes yow ne haten shal I never,And freendes love, that shal ye han of me, 1080And my good word, al mighte I liven ever.And, trewely, I wolde sory beFor to seen yow in adversitee.And giltelees, I woot wel, I yow leve;But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve.' 1085But trewely, how longe it was bitwene,That she for-sook him for this Diomede,Ther is non auctor telleth it, I wene.Take every man now to his bokes hede;He shal no terme finden, out of drede. 1090For though that he bigan to wowe hir sone,Er he hir wan, yet was ther more to done.Ne me ne list this sely womman chydeFerther than the story wol devyse.Hir name, allas! Is publisshed so wyde, 1095That for hir gilt it oughte y-noe suffyse.And if I mighte excuse hir any wyse,For she so sory was for hir untrouthe,Y-wis, I wolde excuse hir yet for routhe.This Troilus, as I biforn have told, 1100Thus dryveth forth, as wel as he hath might.But often was his herte hoot and cold,And namely, that ilke nynthe night,Which on the morwe she hadde him byhightTo come ayein: god wot, ful litel reste 1105Hadde he that night; no-thing to slepe him leste.The laurer-crouned 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 fresh entente, 1110Whan Troilus his Pandare after sente;And on the walles of the toun they pleyde,To loke if they can seen ought of Criseyde.Til it was noon, they stoden for to seeWho that ther come; and every maner wight, 1115That cam fro fer, they seyden it was she,Til that they coude knowen him a-right.Now was his herte dul, now was it light;And thus by-iaped stonden for to stareAboute nought, this Troilus and Pandare. 1120To Pandarus this Troilus tho seyde,`For ought I wot, bi-for noon, sikerly,In-to this toun ne comth nought here Criseyde.She hath y-now to done, hardily,To winnen from hir fader, so trowe I; 1125Hir olde fader wol yet make hir dyneEr that she go; god yeve his herte pyne!'Pandare answerde, `It may wel be, certeyn;And for-thy lat us dyne, I thee biseche;And after noon than maystw thou come ayeyn.' 1130And hoom they go, with-oute more speche;And comen ayein, but longe may they secheEr that they finde that they after cape;Fortune hem bothe thenketh for to Iape.Quod Troilus, `I see wel now, that she 1135Is taried with hir olde fader so,That er she come, it wole neigh even be.Com forth, I wol un-to the yate go.Thise portours been unkonninge ever-mo;And I wol doon hem holden up the yate 1140As nought ne were, al-though she come late.'The day goth faste, and after that comth eve,And yet com nought to Troilus Criseyde.He loketh forth by hegge, by tree, by greve,And fer his heed over the wal he leyde. 1145And 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.`Now douteles, this lady can hir good;I woot, she meneth ryden prively. 1150I comende hir wysdom, by myn hood!She wol not maken peple nycelyGaure on hir, whan she comth; but softelyBy nighte in-to the toun she thenketh ryde.And, dere brother, thenk not longe to abyde. 1155`We han nought elles for to don, y-wis.And Pandarus, now woltow trowen me?Have here my trouthe, I see hir! Yond she is.Heve up thyn eyen, man! Maystow not see?'Pandare answerde, `Nay, so mote I thee! 1160Al wrong, by god; what seystow, man, wher art?That I see yond nis but a fare-cart.'`Allas, thou seist right sooth,' quod Troilus;`But, hardely, it is not al for noughtThat in myn herte I now reioyse thus. 1165It is ayein som good I have a thought.Noot I not how, but sin that I was wrought,Ne felte I swich a confort, dar I seye;She comth to-night, my lyf, that dorste I leye!'Pandare answerde, `It may be wel, y-nough'; 1170And held with him of al that ever he seyde;But in his herte he thoughte, and softe lough,And to him-self ful sobrely he seyde:`From hasel-wode, ther Ioly Robin pleyde,Shal come al that thou abydest here; 1175Ye, fare-wel al the snow of ferne yere!'The wardein of the yates gan to calleThe folk which that with-oute the yates were,And bad hem dryven in hir bestes alle,Or al the night they moste bleven there. 1180And fer with-in the night, with many a tere,This Troilus gan hoomward for to ryde;For wel he seeth it helpeth nought tabyde.But natheles, he gladded him in this;He thoughte he misacounted hadde his day, 1185And seyde, `I understonde have al a-mis.For thilke night I last Criseyde say,She seyde, "I shal ben here, if that I may,Er that the mone, O dere herte swete!The Lyon passe, out of this Ariete." 1190`For which she may yet holde al hir biheste.'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.But al for nought; his hope alwey him blente; 1195For which at night, in sorwe and sykes sore,He wente him hoom, with-outen any more.This hope al clene out of his herte fledde,He nath wher-on now lenger for to honge;But for the peyne him thoughte his herte bledde, 1200So were his throwes sharpe and wonder stronge.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.The thridde, ferthe, fifte, sixte day 1205After tho dayes ten, of which I tolde,Bitwixen hope and drede his herte lay,Yet som-what trustinge on hir hestes olde.But whan he saugh she nolde hir terme holde,He can now seen non other remedye, 1210But for to shape him sone for to dye.Ther-with the wikked spirit, god us blesse,Which that men clepeth wode Ialousye,Gan in him crepe, in al this hevinesse;For which, by-cause he wolde sone dye, 1215He ne eet ne dronk, for his malencolye,And eek from every companye he fledde;This was the lyf that al the tyme he ledde.He so defet was, that no maner manUnneth mighte him knowe ther he wente; 1220So was he lene, and ther-to pale and wan,And feble, that he walketh by potente;And with his ire he thus himselven shente.But who-so axed him wher-of him smerte,He seyde, his harm was al aboute his herte. 1225Pryam ful ofte, and eek his moder dere,His bretheren and his sustren gonne him freyneWhy he so sorwful was in al his chere,And what thing was the cause of al his peyne?But al for nought; he nolde his cause pleyne, 1230But seyde, he felte a grevous maladyeA-boute his herte, and fayn he wolde dye.So on a day he leyde him doun to slepe,And so bifel that in his sleep him thoughte,That in a forest faste he welk to wepe 1235For love of hir that him these peynes wroughte;And up and doun as he the forest soughte,He mette he saugh a boor with tuskes grete,That sleep ayein the brighte sonnes hete.And by this boor, faste in his armes folde, 1240Lay kissing ay his lady bright Criseyde:For sorwe of which, whan he it gan biholde,And for despyt, out of his slepe he breyde,And loude he cryde on Pandarus, and seyde,`O Pandarus, now knowe I crop and rote! 1245I nam but deed; ther nis non other bote!`My lady bright Criseyde hath me bitrayed,In whom I trusted most of any wight,She elles-where hath now hir herte apayed;The blisful goddes, through hir grete might, 1250Han in my dreem y-shewed it ful right.Thus in my dreem Criseyde I have biholde' —And al this thing to Pandarus he tolde.`O my Criseyde, allas! What subtiltee.What newe lust, what beautee, what science, 1255What wratthe of iuste cause have ye to me?What gilt of me, what fel experienceHath fro me raft, allas! Thyn advertence?O trust, O feyth, O depe aseuraunce,Who hath me reft Criseyde, al my plesaunce? 1260`Allas! Why leet I you from hennes go,For which wel neigh out of my wit I breyde?Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?God wot I wende, O lady bright, Criseyde,That every word was gospel that ye seyde! 1265But who may bet bigylen, yf him liste,Than he on whom men weneth best to triste?`What shal I doon, my Pandarus, allas!I fele now so sharpe a newe peyne,Sin that ther is no remedie in this cas, 1270That bet were it I with myn hondes tweyneMy-selven slow, than alwey thus to pleyne.For through my deeth my wo sholde han an ende,Ther every day with lyf my-self I shende.'Pandare answerde and seyde, `Allas the whyle 1275That I was born; have I not seyd er this,That dremes many a maner man bigyle?And why? For folk expounden hem a-mis.How darstow seyn that fals thy lady is,For any dreem, right for thyn owene drede? 1280Lat be this thought, thou canst no dremes rede.`Paraunter, ther thou dremest of this boor,It may so be that it may signifyeHir fader, which that old is and eek hoor,Ayein the sonne lyth, on poynt to dye, 1285And she for sorwe ginneth wepe and crye,And kisseth him, ther he lyth on the grounde;Thus shuldestow thy dreem a-right expounde.'`How mighte I thanne do?' quod Troilus,`To knowe of this, ye, were it never so lyte?' 1290`Now seystow wysly,' quod this Pandarus,`My reed is this, sin thou canst wel endyte,That hastely a lettre thou hir wryte,Thorugh which thou shalt wel bringen it aboute,To knowe a sooth of that thou art in doute. 1295`And see now why; for this I dar wel seyn,That if so is that she untrewe be,I can not trowe that she wol wryte ayeyn.And if she wryte, thou shalt ful sone see,As whether she hath any libertee 1300To come ayein, or ellis in som clause,If she be let, she wol assigne a cause.`Thou hast not writen hir sin that she wente,Nor she to thee, and this I dorste leye,Ther may swich cause been in hir entente, 1305That hardely thou wolt thy-selven seye,That hir a-bood the beste is for yow tweye.Now wryte hir thanne, and thou shalt fele soneA sothe of al; ther is no more to done.'Acorded been to this conclusioun, 1310And that anoon, these ilke lordes two;And hastely sit Troilus adoun,And rolleth in his herte to and fro,How he may best discryven hir his wo.And to Criseyde, his owene lady dere, 1315He wroot right thus, and seyde as ye may here.`Right fresshe flour, whos I have been and shal,With-outen part of elles-where servyse,With herte, body, lyf, lust, thought, and al;I, woful wight, in every humble wyse 1320That tonge telle or herte may devyse,As ofte as matere occupyeth place,Me recomaunde un-to your noble grace.`Lyketh it yow to witen, swete herte,As ye wel knowe how longe tyme agoon 1325That ye me lefte in aspre peynes smerte,Whan that ye wente, of which yet bote noonHave I non had, but ever wers bigoonFro day to day am I, and so mot dwelle,While it yow list, of wele and wo my welle. 1330`For which to yow, with dredful herte trewe,I wryte, as he that sorwe dryfth to wryte,My wo, that every houre encreseth newe,Compleyninge as I dar or can endyte.And that defaced is, that may ye wyte 1335The teres, which that fro myn eyen reyne,That wolde speke, if that they coude, and pleyne.`Yow first biseche I, that your eyen clereTo look on this defouled ye not holde;And over al this, that ye, my lady dere, 1340Wol vouche-sauf this lettre to biholde.And by the cause eek of my cares colde,That sleeth my wit, if ought amis me asterte,For-yeve it me, myn owene swete herte.`If any servant dorste or oughte of right 1345Up-on his lady pitously compleyne,Than wene I, that ich oughte be that wight,Considered this, that ye these monthes tweyneHan taried, ther ye seyden, sooth to seyne,But dayes ten ye nolde in ost soiourne, 1350But in two monthes yet ye not retourne.`But for-as-muche as me mot nedes lykeAl that yow list, I dar not pleyne more,But humbely with sorwful sykes syke;Yow wryte ich myn unresty sorwes sore, 1355Fro day to day desyring ever-moreTo knowen fully, if your wil it were,How ye han ferd and doon, whyl ye be there.`The whos wel-fare and hele eek god encresseIn honour swich, that upward in degree 1360It growe alwey, so that it never cesse;Right as your herte ay can, my lady free,Devyse, I prey to god so mote it be.And graunte it that ye sone up-on me reweAs wisly as in al I am yow trewe. 1365`And if yow lyketh knowen of the fareOf me, whos wo ther may no wight discryve,I can no more but, cheste of every care,At wrytinge of this lettre I was on-lyve,Al redy out my woful gost to dryve; 1370Which I delaye, and holde him yet in honde,Upon the sight of matere of your sonde.`Myn eyen two, in veyn with which I see,Of sorweful teres salte arn waxen welles;My song, in pleynte of myn adversitee; 1375My good, in harm; myn ese eek waxen helle is.My Ioye, in wo; I can sey yow nought elles,But turned is, for which my lyf I warie,Everich Ioye or ese in his contrarie.`Which with your cominge hoom ayein to Troye 1380Ye may redresse, and, more a thousand sytheThan ever ich hadde, encressen in me Ioye.For was ther never herte yet so blytheTo han his lyf, as I shal been as swytheAs I yow see; and, though no maner routhe 1385Commeve yow, yet thinketh on your trouthe.`And if so be my gilt hath deeth deserved,Or if yow list no more up-on me see,In guerdon yet of that I have you served,Biseche I yow, myn hertes lady free, 1390That here-upon ye wolden wryte me,For love of god, my righte lode-sterre,Ther deeth may make an ende of al my werre.`If other cause aught doth yow for to dwelle,That with your lettre ye me recomforte; 1395For though to me your absence is an helle,With pacience I wol my wo comporte,And with your lettre of hope I wol desporte.Now wryteth, swete, and lat me thus not pleyne;With hope, or deeth, delivereth me fro peyne. 1400`Y-wis, myn owene dere herte trewe,I woot that, whan ye next up-on me see,So lost have I myn hele and eek myn hewe,Criseyde shal nought conne knowe me!Y-wis, myn hertes day, my lady free, 1405So thursteth ay myn herte to biholdeYour beautee, that my lyf unnethe I holde.`I sey no more, al have I for to seyeTo you wel more than I telle may;But whether that ye do me live or deye, 1410Yet pray I god, so yeve yow right good day.And fareth wel, goodly fayre fresshe may,As ye that lyf or deeth me may comaunde;And to your trouthe ay I me recomaunde`With hele swich that, but ye yeven me 1415The same hele, I shal noon hele have.In you lyth, whan yow liste that it so be,The day in which me clothen shal my grave.In yow my lyf, in yow might for to saveMe from disese of alle peynes smerte; 1420And fare now wel, myn owene swete herte!Le vostre T.'This lettre forth was sent un-to Criseyde,Of which hir answere in effect was this;Ful pitously she wroot ayein, and seyde,That also sone as that she might, y-wis, 1425She wolde come, and mende al that was mis.And fynally she wroot and seyde him thanne,She wolde come, ye, but she niste whenne.But in hir lettre made she swich festes,That wonder was, and swereth she loveth him best, 1430Of which he fond but botmelees bihestes.But Troilus, thou mayst now, est or west,Pype in an ivy leef, if that thee lest;Thus gooth the world; god shilde us fro mischaunce,And every wight that meneth trouthe avaunce! 1435Encresen gan the wo fro day to nightOf Troilus, for taryinge of Criseyde;And lessen gan his hope and eek his might,For which al doun he in his bed him leyde;He ne eet, ne dronk, ne sleep, ne word he seyde, 1440Imagininge ay that she was unkinde;For which wel neigh he wex out of his minde.This dreem, of which I told have eek biforn,May never come out of his remembraunce;He thoughte ay wel he hadde his lady lorn, 1445And that Ioves, of his purveyaunce,Him shewed hadde in sleep the signifiaunceOf hir untrouthe and his disaventure,And that the boor was shewed him in figure.For which he for Sibille his suster sente, 1450That called was Cassandre eek al aboute;And al his dreem he tolde hir er he stente,And hir bisoughte assoilen him the douteOf the stronge boor, with tuskes stoute;And fynally, with-inne a litel stounde, 1455Cassandre him gan right thus his dreem expounde.She gan first smyle, and seyde, `O brother dere,If thou a sooth of this desyrest knowe,Thou most a fewe of olde stories here,To purpos, how that fortune over-throwe 1460Hath lordes olde; through which, with-inne a throwe,Thou wel this boor shalt knowe, and of what kindeHe comen is, as men in bokes finde.`Diane, which that wrooth was and in ireFor Grekes nolde doon hir sacrifyse, 1465Ne encens up-on hir auter sette a-fyre,She, for that Grekes gonne hir so dispyse,Wrak hir in a wonder cruel wyse.For with a boor as greet as oxe in stalleShe made up frete hir corn and vynes alle. 1470`To slee this boor was al the contree reysed,A-monges which ther com, this boor to see,A mayde, oon of this world the best y-preysed;And Meleagre, lord of that contree,He lovede so this fresshe mayden free 1475That with his manhod, er he wolde stente,This boor he slow, and hir the heed he sente;`Of which, as olde bokes tellen us,Ther roos a contek and a greet envye;And of this lord descended Tydeus 1480By ligne, or elles olde bokes lye;But how this Meleagre gan to dyeThorugh his moder, wol I yow not telle,For al to long it were for to dwelle.'[Argument of the 12 Books of Statius' "Thebais"]Associat profugum Tideo primus Polimitem;Tidea legatum docet insidiasque secundus;Tercius Hemoniden canit et vates latitantes;Quartus habet reges ineuntes prelia septem;Mox furie Lenne quinto narratur et anguis;Archimori bustum sexto ludique leguntur;Dat Graios Thebes et vatem septimus vmbria;Octauo cecidit Tideus, spes, vita Pelasgia;Ypomedon nono moritur cum Parthonopeo;Fulmine percussus, decimo Capaneus superatur;Vndecimo sese perimunt per vulnera fratres;Argiuam flentem narrat duodenus et igneum.She tolde eek how Tydeus, er she stente, 1485Un-to the stronge citee of Thebes,To cleyme kingdom of the citee, wente,For his felawe, daun Polymites,Of which the brother, daun Ethyocles,Ful wrongfully of Thebes held the strengthe; 1490This tolde she by proces, al by lengthe.She tolde eek how Hemonides asterte,Whan Tydeus slough fifty knightes stoute.She tolde eek al the prophesyes by herte,And how that sevene kinges, with hir route, 1495Bisegeden the citee al aboute;And of the holy serpent, and the welle,And of the furies, al she gan him telle.Of Archimoris buryinge and the pleyes,And how Amphiorax fil through the grounde, 1500How Tydeus was slayn, lord of Argeyes,And how Ypomedoun in litel stoundeWas dreynt, and deed Parthonope of wounde;And also how Cappaneus the proudeWith thonder-dint was slayn, that cryde loude. 1505She gan eek telle him how that either brother,Ethyocles and Polimyte also,At a scarmyche, eche of hem slough other,And of Argyves wepinge and hir wo;And how the town was brent she tolde eek tho. 1510And so descendeth doun from gestes oldeTo Diomede, and thus she spak and tolde.`This ilke boor bitokneth Diomede,Tydeus sone, that doun descended isFro Meleagre, that made the boor to blede. 1515And 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.'`Thou seyst nat sooth,' quod he, `thou sorceresse, 1520With al thy false goost of prophesye!Thou wenest been a greet devyneresse;Now seestow not this fool of fantasyePeyneth hir on ladyes for to lye?Awey!' quod he. `Ther Ioves yeve thee sorwe! 1525Thou shalt be fals, paraunter, yet to-morwe!`As wel thou mightest lyen on Alceste,That was of creatures, but men lye,That ever weren, kindest and the beste.For whanne hir housbonde was in Iupartye 1530To dye him-self, but-if she wolde dye,She chees for him to dye and go to helle,And starf anoon, as us the bokes telle.'Cassandre goth, and he with cruel herteFor-yat his wo, for angre of hir speche; 1535And from his bed al sodeinly he sterte,As though al hool him hadde y-mad a leche.And day by day he gan enquere and secheA sooth of this, with al his fulle cure;And thus he dryeth forth his aventure. 1540Fortune, whiche that permutaciounOf thinges hath, as it is hir committedThrough purveyaunce and disposiciounOf heighe Iove, as regnes shal ben flittedFro folk in folk, or whan they shal ben smitted, 1545Gan pulle awey the fetheres brighte of TroyeFro day to day, til they ben bare of Ioye.Among al this, the fyn of the parodieOf Ector gan approchen wonder blyve;The fate wolde his soule sholde unbodie, 1550And shapen hadde a mene it out to dryve;Ayeins which fate him helpeth not to stryve;But on a day to fighten gan he wende,At which, allas! He coughte his lyves ende.For which me thinketh every maner wight 1555That haunteth armes oughte to biwayleThe deeth of him that was so noble a knight;For as he drough a king by thaventayle,Unwar of this, Achilles through the mayleAnd through the body gan him for to ryve; 1560And thus this worthy knight was brought of lyve.For whom, as olde bokes tellen us,Was mad swich wo, that tonge it may not telle;And namely, the sorwe of Troilus,That next him was of worthinesse welle. 1565And in this wo gan Troilus 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 him dispeyre,And dradde ay that his lady was untrewe, 1570Yet ay on hir his herte gan repeyre.And as these loveres doon, he soughte ay neweTo gete ayein Criseyde, bright of hewe.And in his herte he wente hir excusinge,That Calkas causede al hir taryinge. 1575And ofte tyme he was in purpos greteHim-selven lyk a pilgrim to disgyse,To seen hir; but he may not contrefeteTo been unknowen of folk that weren wyse,Ne finde excuse aright that may suffyse, 1580If he among the Grekes knowen were;For which he weep ful ofte many a tere.To hir he wroot yet ofte tyme al neweFul pitously, he lefte it nought for slouthe,Biseching hir that, sin that he was trewe, 1585She wolde come ayein and holde hir trouthe.For which Criseyde up-on a day, for routhe,I take it so, touchinge al this matere,Wrot him ayein, and seyde as ye may here.`Cupydes sone, ensample of goodlihede, 1590O swerd of knighthod, sours of gentilesse!How might a wight in torment and in dredeAnd helelees, yow sende as yet gladnesse?I hertelees, I syke, I in distresse;Sin ye with me, nor I with yow may dele, 1595Yow neither sende ich herte may nor hele.`Your lettres ful, the papir al y-pleynted,Conceyved hath myn hertes pietee;I have eek seyn with teres al depeyntedYour lettre, and how that ye requeren me 1600To come ayein, which yet ne may not be.But why, lest that this lettre founden were,No mencioun ne make I now, for fere.`Grevous to me, god woot, is your unreste,Your haste, and that, the goddes ordenaunce, 1605It semeth not ye take it for the beste.Nor other thing nis in your remembraunce,As thinketh me, but only your plesaunce.But beth not wrooth, and that I yow biseche;For that I tarie, is al for wikked speche. 1610`For I have herd wel more than I wende,Touchinge us two, how thinges han y-stonde;Which I shal with dissimulinge amende.And beth nought wrooth, I have eek understonde,How ye ne doon but holden me in honde. 1615But now no fors, I can not in yow gesseBut alle trouthe and alle gentilesse.`Comen I wol, but yet in swich disioynteI stonde as now, that what yeer or what dayThat this shal be, that can I not apoynte. 1620But in effect, I prey yow, as I may,Of your good word and of your frendship ay.For trewely, whyl that my lyf may dure,As for a freend, ye may in me assure.`Yet preye I yow on yvel ye ne take, 1625That it is short which that I to yow wryte;I dar not, ther I am, wel lettres make,Ne never yet ne coude I wel endyte.Eek greet effect men wryte in place lite.Thentente is al, and nought the lettres space; 1630And fareth now wel, god have you in his grace!La vostre C.'This Troilus this lettre thoughte al straunge,Whan he it saugh, and sorwefully he sighte;Him thoughte it lyk a kalendes of chaunge;But fynally, he ful ne trowen mighte 1635That she ne wolde him holden that she highte;For with ful yvel wil list him to leveThat loveth wel, in swich cas, though him greve.But natheles, men seyn that, at the laste,For any thing, men shal the sothe see; 1640And swich a cas bitidde, and that as faste,That Troilus wel understood that sheNas not so kinde as that hir oughte be.And fynally, he woot now, out of doute,That al is lost that he hath been aboute. 1645Stood on a day in his malencolyeThis Troilus, and in suspeciounOf hir for whom he wende for to dye.And so bifel, that through-out Troye toun,As was the gyse, y-bore was up and doun 1650A maner cote-armure, as seyth the storie,Biforn Deiphebe, in signe of his victorie,The whiche cote, as telleth Lollius,Deiphebe it hadde y-rent from DiomedeThe same day; and whan this Troilus 1655It saugh, he gan to taken of it hede,Avysing of the lengthe and of the brede,And al the werk; but as he gan biholde,Ful sodeinly his herte gan to colde,As he that on the coler fond with-inne 1660A broche, that he Criseyde yaf that morweThat she from Troye moste nedes twinne,In remembraunce of him and of his sorwe;And she him leyde ayein hir feyth to borweTo kepe it ay; but now, ful wel he wiste, 1665His lady nas no lenger on to triste.He gooth him hoom, and gan ful sone sendeFor Pandarus; and al this newe chaunce,And of this broche, he tolde him word and ende,Compleyninge of hir hertes variaunce, 1670His longe love, his trouthe, and his penaunce;And after deeth, with-outen wordes more,Ful faste he cryde, his reste him to restore.Than spak he thus, `O lady myn Criseyde,Wher is your feyth, and wher is your biheste? 1675Wher 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! 1680`Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?Allas, I never wolde han wend, er this,That ye, Criseyde, coude han chaunged so;Ne, but I hadde a-gilt and doon amis,So cruel wende I not your herte, y-wis, 1685To slee me thus; allas, your name of troutheIs now for-doon, and that is al my routhe.`Was ther non other broche yow liste leteTo feffe with your newe love,' quod he,`But thilke broche that I, with teres wete, 1690Yow yaf, as for a remembraunce of me?Non other cause, allas, ne hadde yeBut for despyt, and eek for that ye menteAl-outrely to shewen your entente!`Through which I see that clene out of your minde 1695Ye han me cast, and I ne can nor may,For al this world, with-in myn herte findeTo unloven yow a quarter of a day!In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway!That ye, that doon me al this wo endure, 1700Yet love I best of any creature.`Now god,' quod he, `me sende yet the graceThat I may meten with this Diomede!