Incipit Liber Secundus.In May, that moder is of monthes glade, 50That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,And ful of bawme is fleting every mede;Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes spredeRight in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde 55As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche,Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene,That, coude he never so wel of loving preche,It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene; 60So shoop it, that hym fil that day a teneIn love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay,Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge, 65Why she forshapen was; and ever layPandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe,Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringeHow Tereus gan forth hir suster take,That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake; 70And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse,Remembringe him his erand was to doneFrom Troilus, and eek his greet empryse;And caste and knew in good plyt was the moneTo doon viage, and took his wey ful sone 75Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde;Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde!Whan he was come un-to his neces place,`Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he;And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace, 80And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she,With-inne a paved parlour; and they threeHerden a mayden reden hem the gesteOf the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste.Quod Pandarus, `Ma dame, god yow see, 85With al your book and al the companye!'`Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she,And up she roos, and by the hond in hyeShe took him faste, and seyde, `This night thrye,To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!' 90And with that word she doun on bench him sette.`Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;`But I am sory that I have yow letTo herknen of your book ye preysen thus; 95For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us.Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!'`Uncle,' quod she, `your maistresse is not here!'With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,`This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede; 100And we han herd how that king Laius deydeThurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;And here we stenten at these lettres rede,How the bisshop, as the book can telle,Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.' 105Quod Pandarus, `Al this knowe I my-selve,And al the assege of Thebes and the care;For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: —But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare;Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare; 110Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce,And lat us don to May som observaunce.'`A! God forbede!' quod she. `Be ye mad?Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save?By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad, 115Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave!It sete me wel bet ay in a caveTo bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves;Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.'`As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus, 120`Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.'`Now, uncle dere,' quod she, `tel it usFor goddes love; is than the assege aweye?I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.'`Nay, nay,' quod he, `as ever mote I thryve! 125It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.'`Ye, holy god,' quod she, `what thing is that?What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis!For al this world ne can I reden whatIt sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this; 130And but your-selven telle us what it is,My wit is for to arede it al to lene;As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.'`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? Why so?' 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!' 140Tho gan she wondren more than bifornA thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste;For never, sith the tyme that she was born,To knowe thing desired she so faste;And with a syk she seyde him at the laste, 145`Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese,Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.'So after this, with many wordes glade,And freendly tales, and with mery chere,Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade 150In many an unkouth glad and deep matere,As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere;Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde,That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde.`Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus, 155`Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde;And eek his fresshe brother Troilus,The wyse worthy Ector the secounde,In whom that ever vertu list abounde,As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse, 160Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.'`In good feith, eem,' quod she, `that lyketh me;They faren wel, god save hem bothe two!For trewely I holde it greet deynteeA kinges sone in armes wel to do, 165And been of good condiciouns ther-to;For greet power and moral vertu hereIs selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.'`In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus;`But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye, 170That is to mene, Ector and Troilus,That certainly, though that I sholde deye,They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye,As any men that liveth under the sonne,Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne. 175`Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle:In al this world ther nis a bettre knightThan he, that is of worthinesse welle;And he wel more vertu hath than might.This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight. 180The 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 185In armes day by day so worthily,And bereth him here at hoom so gentillyTo every wight, that al the prys hath heOf hem that me were levest preysed be.'`Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus; 190`For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been,He might have wondred up-on Troilus;For never yet so thikke a swarm of beenNe fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen;And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere, 195Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!"`Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste,Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus,Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste;Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus: 200He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us;That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde,Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde.`Therto he is the freendlieste manOf grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve; 205And wher him list, best felawshipe canTo suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.'And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,He took his leve, and seyde, `I wol go henne.'`Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne. 210`What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone,And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to doneWith yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.'And every wight that was a-boute hem tho, 215That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde,Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende,Of hire estat and of hir governaunce,Quod Pandarus, `Now is it tyme I wende; 220But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce,And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce:What list yow thus your-self to disfigure,Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?'`A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she, 225`Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?'`No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he,`And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis,If I it tolde, and ye it toke amis.Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille 230Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille.`For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve,And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe,And by the blisful Venus that I serve,Ye been the womman in this world livinge, 235With-oute paramours, to my wittinge,That I best love, and lothest am to greve,And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.'`Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, `grant mercy;Your freendship have I founden ever yit; 240I 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. 245`But, for the love of god, I yow beseche,As ye ben he that I love most and triste,Lat be to me your fremde manere speche,And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:'And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste, 250And seyde, `Gladly, leve nece dere,Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.'With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste,And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte,And seyde, `Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste, 255How-so it be that som men hem delyteWith subtil art hir tales for to endyte,Yet for al that, in hir entenciounHir tale is al for som conclusioun.`And sithen thende is every tales strengthe, 260And this matere is so bihovely,What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengtheTo yow, that been my freend so feithfully?'And with that word he gan right inwardlyBiholden hir, and loken on hir face, 265And seyde, `On suche a mirour goode grace!'Than thoughte he thus: `If I my tale endyteOught hard, or make a proces any whyle,She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte,And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle. 270For tendre wittes wenen al be wyleTher-as they can nat pleynly understonde;For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde —'And loked on hir in a besy wyse,And she was war that he byheld hir so, 275And seyde, `Lord! So faste ye me avyse!Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?'`Yes, yes,' quod he, `and bet wole er I go;But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if yeBe fortunat, for now men shal it see. 280`For to every wight som goodly aventureSom tyme is shape, if he it can receyven;And if that he wol take of it no cure,Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven, 285But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.`Good aventure, O bele nece, have yeFul lightly founden, and ye conne it take;And, for the love of god, and eek of me, 290Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake.What sholde I lenger proces of it make?Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon.`And sith I speke of good entencioun, 295As I to yow have told wel here-biforn,And love as wel your honour and renounAs creature in al this world y-born;By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye, 300Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye.`Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to?Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe;For hardely the werste of this is do;And though my tale as now be to yow newe, 305Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe;And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge,To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.'`Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,'Quod she, `com of, and tel me what it is; 310For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye,And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis.For whether it be wel or be amis,Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:'`So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle: 315`Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone,The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free,Which alwey for to do wel is his wone,The noble Troilus, so loveth thee,That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be. 320Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye?Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye.`But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve;Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen;Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve —' 325With that the teres braste out of his yen,And seyde, `If that ye doon us bothe dyen,Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire;What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre?`Allas! He which that is my lord so dere, 330That trewe man, that noble gentil knight,That nought desireth but your freendly chere,I see him deye, ther he goth up-right,And hasteth him, with al his fulle might,For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente; 335Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente!`If it be so that ye so cruel be,That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche,That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see,No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche, 340If ye be swich, your beautee may not streccheTo make amendes of so cruel a dede;Avysement is good bifore the nede.`Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote! 345Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees!Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote,If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe,Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe! 350`And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;For me were lever, thou and I and heWere hanged, than I sholde been his baude,As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see:I am thyn eem, the shame were to me, 355As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente,Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente.`Now understond, for I yow nought requere,To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste,But only that ye make him bettre chere 360Than ye han doon er this, and more feste,So that his lyf be saved, at the leste;This al and som, and playnly our entente;God help me so, I never other mente.`Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis, 365Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.I sette the worste that ye dredden this,Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon:Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon,That every wight, but he be fool of kinde, 370Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde.`What? Who wol deme, though he see a manTo temple go, that he the images eteth?Thenk eek how wel and wysly that he canGoverne him-self, that he no-thing foryeteth, 375That, wher he cometh, he prys and thank him geteth;And eek ther-to, he shal come here so selde,What fors were it though al the toun behelde?`Swich love of freendes regneth al this toun;And wrye yow in that mantel ever-mo; 380And god so wis be my savacioun,As I have seyd, your beste is to do so.But alwey, goode nece, to stinte his wo,So lat your daunger sucred ben a lyte,That of his deeth ye be nought for to wyte.' 385Criseyde, which that herde him in this wyse,Thoughte, `I shal fele what he meneth, y-wis.'`Now, eem,' quod she, `what wolde ye devyse?What is your reed I sholde doon of this?'`That is wel seyd,' quod be. `certayn, best is 390That ye him love ayein for his lovinge,As love for love is skilful guerdoninge.`Thenk eek, how elde wasteth every houreIn eche of yow a party of beautee;And therfore, er that age thee devoure, 395Go love, for, olde, ther wol no wight of thee.Lat this proverbe a lore un-to yow be;"To late y-war, quod Beautee, whan it paste;"And elde daunteth daunger at the laste.`The kinges fool is woned to cryen loude, 400Whan that him thinketh a womman bereth hir hye,"So longe mote ye live, and alle proude,Til crowes feet be growe under your ye,And sende yow thanne a mirour in to pryeIn whiche that ye may see your face a-morwe!" 405Nece, I bidde wisshe yow no more sorwe.'With this he stente, and caste adoun the heed,And she bigan to breste a-wepe anoon,And seyde, `Allas, for wo! Why nere I deed?For of this world the feith is al agoon! 410Allas! What sholden straunge to me doon,Whan he, that for my beste freend I wende,Ret me to love, and sholde it me defende?`Allas! I wolde han trusted, doutelees,That if that I, thurgh my disaventure, 415Had loved other him or Achilles,Ector, or any mannes creature,Ye nolde han had no mercy ne mesureOn me, but alwey had me in repreve;This false world, allas! Who may it leve? 420`What? Is this al the Ioye and al the feste?Is this your reed, is this my blisful cas?Is this the verray mede of your beheste?Is al this peynted proces seyd, allas!Right for this fyn? O lady myn, Pallas! 425Thou in this dredful cas for me purveye;For so astonied am I that I deye!'With that she gan ful sorwfully to syke;`A! May it be no bet?' quod Pandarus;`By god, I shal no-more come here this wyke, 430And god to-forn, that am mistrusted thus;I see ful wel that ye sette lyte of us,Or of our deeth! Allas! I woful wrecche!Mighte he yet live, of me is nought to recche.`O cruel god, O dispitouse Marte, 435O Furies three of helle, on yow I crye!So lat me never out of this hous departe,If that I mente harm or vilanye!But sith I see my lord mot nedes dye,And I with him, here I me shryve, and seye 440That wikkedly ye doon us bothe deye.`But sith it lyketh yow that I be deed,By Neptunus, that god is of the see,Fro this forth shal I never eten breedTil I myn owene herte blood may see; 445For certayn, I wole deye as sone as he —'And up he sterte, and on his wey he raughte,Til she agayn him by the lappe caughte.Criseyde, which that wel neigh starf for fere,So as she was the ferfulleste wight 450That mighte be, and herde eek with hir ere,And saw the sorwful ernest of the knight,And in his preyere eek saw noon unright,And for the harm that mighte eek fallen more,She gan to rewe and dredde hir wonder sore; 455And thoughte thus, `Unhappes fallen thikkeAlday for love, and in swich maner cas,As men ben cruel in hem-self and wikke;And if this man slee here him-self, allas!In my presence, it wol be no solas. 460What men wolde of hit deme I can nat seye;It nedeth me ful sleyly for to pleye.'And with a sorwful syk she seyde thrye,`A! Lord! What me is tid a sory chaunce!For myn estat lyth in Iupartye, 465And eek myn emes lyf lyth in balaunce;But nathelees, with goddes governaunce,I shal so doon, myn honour shal I kepe,And eek his lyf;' and stinte for to wepe.`Of harmes two, the lesse is for to chese; 470Yet have I lever maken him good chereIn honour, than myn emes lyf to lese;Ye seyn, ye no-thing elles me requere?'`No, wis,' quod he, `myn owene nece dere.'`Now wel,' quod she, `and I wol doon my peyne; 475I shal myn herte ayeins my lust constreyne.`But that I nil not holden him in honde,Ne love a man, ne can I not, ne mayAyeins my wil; but elles wol I fonde,Myn honour sauf, plese him fro day to day; 480Ther-to nolde I nought ones have seyd nay,But that I dredde, as in my fantasye;But cesse cause, ay cesseth maladye.`And here I make a protestacioun,That in this proces if ye depper go, 485That certaynly, for no savaciounOf yow, though that ye sterve bothe two,Though al the world on o day be my fo,Ne shal I never on him han other routhe. —'`I graunte wel,' quod Pandare, `by my trouthe. 490`But may I truste wel ther-to,' quod he,`That of this thing that ye han hight me here,Ye wol it holden trewly un-to me?'`Ye, doutelees,' quod she, `myn uncle dere.'`Ne that I shal han cause in this matere,' 495Quod he, `to pleyne, or after yow to preche?'`Why, no, parde; what nedeth more speche?'Tho fillen they in othere tales glade,Til at the laste, `O good eem,' quod she tho,`For love of god, which that us bothe made, 500Tel me how first ye wisten of his wo:Wot noon of hit but ye?' He seyde, `No.'`Can he wel speke of love?' quod she, `I preye,Tel me, for I the bet me shal purveye.'Tho Pandarus a litel gan to smyle, 505And seyde, `By my trouthe, I shal yow telle.This other day, nought gon ful longe whyle,In-with the paleys-gardyn, by a welle,Gan he and I wel half a day to dwelle,Right for to speken of an ordenaunce, 510How we the Grekes myghte disavaunce.`Sone after that bigonne we to lepe,And casten with our dartes to and fro,Til at the laste he seyde he wolde slepe,And on the gres a-doun he leyde him tho; 515And I after gan rome to and froTil that I herde, as that I welk allone,How he bigan ful wofully to grone.`Tho gan I stalke him softely bihinde,And sikerly, the sothe for to seyne, 520As I can clepe ayein now to my minde,Right thus to Love he gan him for to pleyne;He seyde, "Lord! Have routhe up-on my peyne,Al have I been rebel in myn entente;Now, MEA CULPA, lord! I me repente. 525`"O god, that at thy disposiciounLedest the fyn by Iuste purveyaunce,Of every wight, my lowe confessiounAccepte in gree, and send me swich penaunceAs lyketh thee, but from desesperaunce, 530That may my goost departe awey fro thee,Thou be my sheld, for thy benignitee.`"For certes, lord, so soore hath she me wounded,That stod in blak, with loking of hir yen,That to myn hertes botme it is y-sounded, 535Thorugh which I woot that I mot nedes dyen;This is the worste, I dar me not bi-wryen;And wel the hotter been the gledes rede,That men hem wryen with asshen pale and dede."`With that he smoot his heed adoun anoon, 540And gan to motre, I noot what, trewely.And I with that gan stille awey to goon,And leet ther-of as no-thing wist hadde I,And come ayein anoon and stood him by,And seyde, "A-wake, ye slepen al to longe; 545It semeth nat that love dooth yow longe,`"That slepen so that no man may yow wake.Who sey ever or this so dul a man?""Ye, freend," quod he, "do ye your hedes akeFor love, and lat me liven as I can." 550But though that he for wo was pale and wan,Yet made he tho as freshe a countenaunceAs though he shulde have led the newe daunce.`This passed forth, til now, this other day,It fel that I com roming al allone 555Into his chaumbre, and fond how that he layUp-on his bed; but man so sore groneNe herde I never, and what that was his mone,Ne wist I nought; for, as I was cominge,Al sodeynly he lefte his compleyninge. 560`Of which I took somwat suspecioun,And neer I com, and fond he wepte sore;And god so wis be my savacioun,As never of thing hadde I no routhe more.For neither with engyn, ne with no lore, 565Unethes mighte I fro the deeth him kepe;That yet fele I myn herte for him wepe.`And god wot, never, sith that I was born,Was I so bisy no man for to preche,Ne never was to wight so depe y-sworn, 570Or he me tolde who mighte been his leche.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.`But for to save his lyf, and elles nought, 575And to non harm of yow, thus am I driven;And for the love of god that us hath wrought,Swich chere him dooth, that he and I may liven.Now have I plat to yow myn herte shriven;And sin ye woot that myn entente is clene, 580Tak hede ther-of, for I non yvel mene.`And right good thrift, I prey to god, have ye,That han swich oon y-caught with-oute net;And be ye wys, as ye ben fair to see,Wel in the ring than is the ruby set. 585Ther were never two so wel y-met,Whan ye ben his al hool, as he is youre:Ther mighty god yet graunte us see that houre!'`Nay, therof spak I not, a, ha!' quod she,`As helpe me god, ye shenden every deel!' 590`O mercy, dere nece,' anoon quod he,`What-so I spak, I mente nought but weel,By Mars the god, that helmed is of steel;Now beth nought wrooth, my blood, my nece dere.'`Now wel,' quod she, `foryeven be it here!' 595With this he took his leve, and hoom he wente;And lord, he was glad and wel bigoon!Criseyde aroos, no lenger she ne stente,But straught in-to hir closet wente anoon,And sette here doun as stille as any stoon, 600And every word gan up and doun to winde,That he hadde seyd, as it com hir to minde;And wex somdel astonied in hir thought,Right for the newe cas; but whan that sheWas ful avysed, tho fond she right nought 605Of peril, why she oughte afered be.For man may love, of possibilitee,A womman so, his herte may to-breste,And she nought love ayein, but-if hir leste.But as she sat allone and thoughte thus, 610Thascry aroos at skarmish al with-oute,And men cryde in the strete, `See, TroilusHath right now put to flight the Grekes route!'With that gan al hir meynee for to shoute,`A! Go we see, caste up the latis wyde; 615For thurgh this strete he moot to palays ryde;`For other wey is fro the yate noonOf Dardanus, ther open is the cheyne.'With that com he and al his folk anoonAn esy pas rydinge, in routes tweyne, 620Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne,For which, men say, may nought disturbed beThat shal bityden of necessitee.This Troilus sat on his baye stede,Al armed, save his heed, ful richely, 625And wounded was his hors, and gan to blede,On whiche he rood a pas, ful softely;But swych a knightly sighte, trewely,As was on him, was nought, with-outen faile,To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle. 630So lyk a man of armes and a knightHe was to seen, fulfild of heigh prowesse;For bothe he hadde a body and a mightTo doon that thing, as wel as hardinesse;And eek to seen him in his gere him dresse, 635So fresh, so yong, so weldy semed he,It was an heven up-on him for to see.His helm to-hewen was in twenty places,That by a tissew heng, his bak bihinde,His sheld to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces, 640In which men mighte many an arwe findeThat thirled hadde horn and nerf and rinde;And ay the peple cryde, `Here cometh our Ioye,And, next his brother, holdere up of Troye!'For which he wex a litel reed for shame, 645Whan he the peple up-on him herde cryen,That to biholde it was a noble game,How sobreliche he caste doun his yen.Cryseyda gan al his chere aspyen,And leet so softe it in hir herte sinke, 650That to hir-self she seyde, `Who yaf me drinke?'For of hir owene thought she wex al reed,Remembringe hir right thus, `Lo, this is heWhich that myn uncle swereth he moot be deed,But I on him have mercy and pitee;' 655And with that thought, for pure a-shamed, sheGan in hir heed to pulle, and that as faste,Whyl he and al the peple for-by paste,And gan to caste and rollen up and dounWith-inne hir thought his excellent prowesse, 660And his estat, and also his renoun,His wit, his shap, and eek his gentillesse;But most hir favour was, for his distresseWas al for hir, and thoughte it was a routheTo sleen swich oon, if that he mente trouthe. 665Now mighte som envyous Iangle thus,`This was a sodeyn love; how mighte it beThat she so lightly lovede TroilusRight for the firste sighte; ye, pardee?'Now who-so seyth so, mote he never thee! 670For every thing, a ginning hath it nedeEr al be wrought, with-outen any drede.For I sey nought that she so sodeynlyYaf him hir love, but that she gan enclyneTo lyke him first, and I have told yow why; 675And after that, his manhod and his pyneMade love with-inne hir for to myne,For which, by proces and by good servyse,He gat hir love, and in no sodeyn wyse.And also blisful Venus, wel arayed, 680Sat in hir seventhe hous of hevene tho,Disposed wel, and with aspectes payed,To helpen sely Troilus of his wo.And, sooth to seyn, she nas not al a foTo Troilus in his nativitee; 685God woot that wel the soner spedde he.Now lat us stinte of Troilus a throwe,That rydeth forth, and lat us tourne fasteUn-to Criseyde, that heng hir heed ful lowe,Ther-as she sat allone, and gan to caste 690Wher-on she wolde apoynte hir at the laste,If it so were hir eem ne wolde cesse,For Troilus, up-on hir for to presse.And, lord! So she gan in hir thought argueIn this matere of which I have yow told, 695And what to doon best were, and what eschue,That plyted she ful ofte in many fold.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. 700She thoughte wel that Troilus personeShe knew by sighte and eek his gentillesse,And thus she seyde, `Al were it nought to done,To graunte him love, yet, for his worthinesse,It were honour, with pley and with gladnesse, 705In honestee, with swich a lord to dele,For myn estat, and also for his hele.`Eek, wel wot I my kinges sone is he;And sith he hath to see me swich delyt,If I wolde utterly his sighte flee, 710Peraunter he mighte have me in dispyt,Thurgh which I mighte stonde in worse plyt;Now were I wys, me hate to purchace,With-outen nede, ther I may stonde in grace?`In every thing, I woot, ther lyth mesure. 715For though a man forbede dronkenesse,He nought for-bet that every creatureBe drinkelees for alwey, as I gesse;Eek sith I woot for me is his distresse,I ne oughte not for that thing him despyse, 720Sith it is so, he meneth in good wyse.`And eek I knowe, of longe tyme agoon,His thewes goode, and that he is not nyce.Ne avauntour, seyth men, certein, he is noon;To wys is he to do so gret a vyce; 725Ne als I nel him never so cheryce,That he may make avaunt, by Iuste cause;He shal me never binde in swiche a clause.`Now set a cas, the hardest is, y-wis,Men mighten deme that he loveth me; 730What dishonour were it un-to me, this?May I him lette of that? 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. 735`I thenk eek how he able is for to haveOf al this noble toun the thriftieste,To been his love, so she hir honour save;For out and out he is the worthieste,Save only Ector, which that is the beste. 740And yet his lyf al lyth now in my cure,But swich is love, and eek myn aventure.`Ne me to love, a wonder is it nought;For wel wot I my-self, so god me spede,Al wolde I that noon wiste of this thought, 745I am oon the fayreste, out of drede,And goodlieste, who-so taketh hede;And so men seyn in al the toun of Troye.What wonder is it though he of me have Ioye?`I am myn owene woman, wel at ese, 750I thank it god, as after myn estat;Right yong, and stonde unteyd in lusty lese,With-outen Ialousye or swich debat;Shal noon housbonde seyn to me "Chekmat!"For either they ben ful of Ialousye, 755Or maisterful, or loven novelrye.`What shal I doon? To what fyn live I thus?Shal I nat loven, in cas if that me leste?What, par dieux! I am nought religious!And though that I myn herte sette at reste 760Upon this knight, that is the worthieste,And kepe alwey myn honour and my name,By alle right, it may do me no shame.'But right as whan the sonne shyneth brighte,In March, that chaungeth ofte tyme his face, 765And that a cloud is put with wind to flighteWhich over-sprat the sonne as for a space,A cloudy thought gan thorugh hir soule pace,That over-spradde hir brighte thoughtes alle,So that for fere almost she gan to falle. 770That thought was this: `Allas! Sin I am free,Sholde I now love, and putte in IupartyeMy sikernesse, and thrallen libertee?Allas! How dorste I thenken that folye?May I nought wel in other folk aspye 775Hir dredful Ioye, hir constreynt, and hir peyne?Ther loveth noon, that she nath why to pleyne.`For love is yet the moste stormy lyf,Right of him-self, that ever was bigonne;For ever som mistrust, or nyce stryf, 780Ther is in love, som cloud is over that sonne:Ther-to we wrecched wommen no-thing conne,Whan us is wo, but wepe and sitte and thinke;Our wreche is this, our owene wo to drinke.`Also these wikked tonges been so prest 785To speke us harm, eek men be so untrewe,That, right anoon as cessed is hir lest,So cesseth love, and forth to love a newe:But harm y-doon, is doon, who-so it rewe.For though these men for love hem first to-rende, 790Ful sharp biginning breketh ofte at ende.`How ofte tyme hath it y-knowen be,The treson, that to womman hath be do?To what fyn is swich love, I can nat see,Or wher bicometh it, whan it is ago; 795Ther is no wight that woot, I trowe so,Wher it bycomth; lo, no wight on it sporneth;That erst was no-thing, in-to nought it torneth.`How bisy, if I love, eek moste I beTo plesen hem that Iangle of love, and demen, 800And coye hem, that they sey non harm of me?For though ther be no cause, yet hem semenAl be for harm that folk hir freendes quemen;And who may stoppen every wikked tonge,Or soun of belles whyl that they be ronge?' 805And after that, hir thought bigan to clere,And seyde, `He which that no-thing under-taketh,No thing ne acheveth, be him looth or dere.'And with an other thought hir herte quaketh;Than slepeth hope, and after dreed awaketh; 810Now hoot, now cold; but thus, bi-twixen tweye,She rist hir up, and went hir for to pleye.Adoun the steyre anoon-right tho she wenteIn-to the gardin, with hir neces three,And up and doun ther made many a wente, 815Flexippe, she, Tharbe, and Antigone,To pleyen, that it Ioye was to see;And othere of hir wommen, a gret route,hir folwede in the gardin al aboute.This yerd was large, and rayled alle the aleyes, 820And shadwed wel with blosmy bowes grene,And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes,In which she walketh arm in arm bi-twene;Til at the laste Antigone the sheneGan on a Troian song to singe clere, 825That it an heven was hir voys to here. —She seyde, `O love, to whom I have and shalBen humble subgit, trewe in myn entente,As I best can, to yow, lord, yeve ich alFor ever-more, myn hertes lust to rente. 830For never yet thy grace no wight senteSo blisful cause as me, my lyf to ledeIn alle Ioye and seurtee, out of drede.`Ye, blisful god, han me so wel besetIn love, y-wis, that al that bereth lyf 835Imaginen ne cowde how to ben bet;For, lord, with-outen Ialousye or stryf,I love oon which that is most ententyfTo serven wel, unwery or unfeyned,That ever was, and leest with harm distreyned. 840`As he that is the welle of worthinesse,Of trouthe ground, mirour of goodliheed,Of wit Appollo, stoon of sikernesse,Of vertu rote, of lust findere and heed,Thurgh which is alle sorwe fro me deed, 845Y-wis, I love him best, so doth he me;Now good thrift have he, wher-so that he be!`Whom sholde I thanke but yow, god of love,Of al this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne?And thanked be ye, lord, for that I love! 850This is the righte lyf that I am inne,To flemen alle manere vyce and sinne:This doth me so to vertu for to entende,That day by day I in my wil amende.`And who-so seyth that for to love is vyce, 855Or thraldom, though he fele in it distresse,He outher is envyous, or right nyce,Or is unmighty, for his shrewednesse,To loven; for swich maner folk, I gesse,Defamen love, as no-thing of him knowe; 860Thei speken, but they bente never his bowe.`What is the sonne wers, of kinde righte,Though that a man, for feblesse of his yen,May nought endure on it to see for brighte?Or love the wers, though wrecches on it cryen? 865No wele is worth, that may no sorwe dryen.And for-thy, who that hath an heed of verre,Fro cast of stones war him in the werre!`But I with al myn herte and al my might,As I have seyd, wol love, un-to my laste, 870My dere herte, and al myn owene knight,In which myn herte growen is so faste,And his in me, that it shal ever laste.Al dredde I first to love him to biginne,Now woot I wel, ther is no peril inne.' 875And of hir song right with that word she stente,And therwith-al, `Now, nece,' quod Criseyde,`Who made this song with so good entente?'Antigone answerde anoon, and seyde,`Ma dame, y-wis, the goodlieste mayde 880Of greet estat in al the toun of Troye;And let hir lyf in most honour and Ioye.'`Forsothe, so it semeth by hir song,'Quod tho Criseyde, and gan ther-with to syke,And seyde, `Lord, is there swich blisse among 885These lovers, as they conne faire endyte?'`Ye, wis,' quod freshe Antigone the whyte,`For alle the folk that han or been on lyveNe conne wel the blisse of love discryve.`But wene ye that every wrecche woot 890The parfit blisse of love? Why, nay, y-wis;They wenen al be love, if oon be hoot;Do wey, do wey, they woot no-thing of this!Men mosten axe at seyntes if it isAught fair in hevene; Why? For they conne telle; 895And axen fendes, is it foul in helle.'Criseyde un-to that purpos nought answerde,But seyde, `Y-wis, it wol be night as faste.'But every word which that she of hir herde,She gan to prenten in hir herte faste; 900And ay gan love hir lasse for to agasteThan it dide erst, and sinken in hir herte,That she wex somwhat able to converte.The dayes honour, and the hevenes ye,The nightes fo, al this clepe I the sonne, 905