And trewely, if I have might and space,Yet shal I make, I hope, his sydes blede. 1705O god,' quod he, `that oughtest taken hedeTo fortheren trouthe, and wronges to punyce,Why niltow doon a vengeaunce of this vyce?`O Pandare, that in dremes for to tristeMe blamed hast, and wont art oft up-breyde, 1710Now maystow see thy-selve, if that thee liste,How trewe is now thy nece, bright Criseyde!In sondry formes, god it woot,' he seyde,`The goddes shewen bothe Ioye and teneIn slepe, and by my dreme it is now sene. 1715`And certaynly, with-oute more speche,From hennes-forth, as ferforth as I may,Myn owene deeth in armes wol I seche;I recche not how sone be the day!But trewely, Criseyde, swete may, 1720Whom I have ay with al my might y-served,That ye thus doon, I have it nought deserved.'This Pandarus, that alle these thinges herde,And wiste wel he seyde a sooth of this,He nought a word ayein to him answerde; 1725For sory of his frendes sorwe he is,And shamed, for his nece hath doon a-mis;And stant, astoned of these causes tweye,As stille as stoon; a word ne coude he seye.But at the laste thus he spak, and seyde, 1730`My brother dere, I may thee do no-more.What shulde I seyn? I hate, y-wis, Criseyde!And, god wot, I wol hate hir evermore!And that thou me bisoughtest doon of yore,Havinge un-to myn honour ne my reste 1735Right no reward, I dide al that thee leste.`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!And dredelees, for hertes ese of yow, 1740Right fayn wolde I amende it, wiste I how.And fro this world, almighty god I preye,Delivere hir sone; I can no-more seye.'Gret was the sorwe and pleynt of Troilus;But forth hir cours fortune ay gan to holde. 1745Criseyde loveth the sone of Tydeus,And Troilus mot wepe in cares colde.Swich is this world; who-so it can biholde,In eche estat is litel hertes reste;God leve us for to take it for the beste! 1750In many cruel batayle, out of drede,Of Troilus, this ilke noble knight,As men may in these olde bokes rede,Was sene his knighthod and his grete might.And dredelees, his ire, day and night, 1755Ful cruelly the Grekes ay aboughte;And alwey most this Diomede he soughte.And ofte tyme, I finde that they metteWith blody strokes and with wordes grete,Assayinge how hir speres weren whette; 1760And god it woot, with many a cruel heteGan Troilus upon his helm to bete.But natheles, fortune it nought ne wolde,Of others hond that either deyen sholde. —And if I hadde y-taken for to wryte 1765The armes of this ilke worthy man,Than wolde I of his batailles endyte.But for that I to wryte first biganOf his love, I have seyd as that I can.His worthy dedes, who-so list hem here, 1770Reed Dares, he can telle hem alle y-fere.Bisechinge every lady bright of hewe,And every gentil womman, what she be,That al be that Criseyde was untrewe,That for that gilt she be not wrooth with me. 1775Ye may hir gilt in othere bokes see;And gladlier I wole wryten, if yow leste,Penolopees trouthe and good Alceste.Ne I sey not this al-only for these men,But most for wommen that bitraysed be 1780Through false folk; god yeve hem sorwe, amen!That with hir grete wit and subtilteeBitrayse yow! And this commeveth meTo speke, and in effect yow alle I preye,Beth war of men, and herkeneth what I seye! — 1785Go, litel book, go litel myn tragedie,Ther god thy maker yet, er that he dye,So sende might to make in som comedie!But litel book, no making thou nenvye,But subgit be to alle poesye; 1790And kis the steppes, wher-as thou seest paceVirgile, Ovyde, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.And for ther is so greet diversiteeIn English and in wryting of our tonge,So preye I god that noon miswryte thee, 1795Ne thee mismetre for defaute of tonge.And red wher-so thou be, or elles songe,That thou be understonde I god beseche!But yet to purpos of my rather speche. —The wraththe, as I began yow for to seye, 1800Of Troilus, the Grekes boughten dere;For thousandes his hondes maden deye,As he that was with-outen any pere,Save Ector, in his tyme, as I can here.But weylawey, save only goddes wille, 1805Dispitously him slough the fiers Achille.And whan that he was slayn in this manere,His lighte goost ful blisfully is wentUp to the holownesse of the seventh spere,In convers letinge every element; 1810And ther he saugh, with ful avysement,The erratik sterres, herkeninge armonyeWith sownes fulle of hevenish melodye.And doun from thennes faste he gan avyseThis litel spot of erthe, that with the see 1815Embraced is, and fully gan despyseThis wrecched world, and held al vaniteeTo respect of the pleyn feliciteeThat is in hevene above; and at the laste,Ther he was slayn, his loking doun he caste; 1820And in him-self he lough right at the woOf hem that wepten for his deeth so faste;And dampned al our werk that folweth soThe blinde lust, the which that may not laste,And sholden al our herte on hevene caste. 1825And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,Ther as Mercurie sorted him to dwelle. —Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love,Swich fyn hath al his grete worthinesse;Swich fyn hath his estat real above, 1830Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse;Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse.And thus bigan his lovinge of Criseyde,As I have told, and in this wyse he deyde.O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, 1835In which that love up groweth with your age,Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,And of your herte up-casteth the visageTo thilke god that after his imageYow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre 1840This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.And loveth him, the which that right for loveUpon a cros, our soules for to beye,First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, 1845That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.And sin he best to love is, and most meke,What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?Lo here, of Payens corsed olde rytes,Lo here, what alle hir goddes may availle; 1850Lo here, these wrecched worldes appetytes;Lo here, the fyn and guerdon for travailleOf Iove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascaille!Lo here, the forme of olde clerkes specheIn poetrye, if ye hir bokes seche. — 1855O moral Gower, this book I directeTo thee, and to the philosophical Strode,To vouchen sauf, ther nede is, to corecte,Of your benignitees and zeles gode.And to that sothfast Crist, that starf on rode, 1860With al myn herte of mercy ever I preye;And to the lord right thus I speke and seye:Thou oon, and two, and three, eterne on-lyve,That regnest ay in three and two and oon,Uncircumscript, and al mayst circumscryve, 1865Us from visible and invisible foonDefende; and to thy mercy, everichoon,So make us, Iesus, for thy grace digne,For love of mayde and moder thyn benigne! Amen.Explicit Liber Troili et Criseydis.