For with o word ye may his herte stere. 910`Now have I told what peril he is inne,And his coming unwist is to every wight;Ne, pardee, harm may ther be noon, ne sinne;I wol my-self be with yow al this night.Ye knowe eek how it is your owne knight, 915And that, by right, ye moste upon him triste,And I al prest to fecche him whan yow liste.'This accident so pitous was to here,And eek so lyk a sooth, at pryme face,And Troilus hir knight to hir so dere, 920His prive coming, and the siker place,That, though that she dide him as thanne a grace,Considered alle thinges as they stode,No wonder is, sin she dide al for gode.Cryseyde answerde, `As wisly god at reste 925My sowle bringe, as me is for him wo!And eem, y-wis, fayn wolde I doon the beste,If that I hadde grace to do so.But whether that ye dwelle or for him go,I am, til god me bettre minde sende, 930At dulcarnon, right at my wittes ende.'Quod Pandarus, `Ye, nece, wol ye here?Dulcarnon called is "fleminge of wrecches";It semeth hard, for wrecches wol not lereFor verray slouthe or othere wilful tecches; 935This seyd by hem that be not worth two fecches.But ye ben wys, and that we han on hondeNis neither hard, ne skilful to withstonde.'`Thanne, eem,' quod she, `doth her-of as yow list;But er he come, I wil up first aryse; 940And, for the love of god, sin al my tristIs on yow two, and ye ben bothe wyse,So wircheth now in so discreet a wyse,That I honour may have, and he plesaunce;For I am here al in your governaunce.' 945`That is wel seyd,' quod he, `my nece dere'Ther good thrift on that wyse gentil herte!But liggeth stille, and taketh him right here,It nedeth not no ferther for him sterte;And ech of yow ese otheres sorwes smerte, 950For love of god; and, Venus, I the herie;For sone hope I we shulle ben alle merie.'This Troilus ful sone on knees him setteFul sobrely, right be hir beddes heed,And in his beste wyse his lady grette; 955But lord, so she wex sodeynliche reed!Ne, though men sholden smyten of hir heed,She coude nought a word a-right out-bringeSo sodeynly, for his sodeyn cominge.But Pandarus, that so wel coude fele 960In every thing, to pleye anoon bigan,And seyde, `Nece, see how this lord can knele!Now, for your trouthe, seeth this gentil man!'And with that word he for a quisshen ran,And seyde, `Kneleth now, whyl that yow leste, 965Ther god your hertes bringe sone at reste!'Can I not seyn, for she bad him not ryse,If sorwe it putte out of hir remembraunce,Or elles that she toke it in the wyseOf duetee, as for his observaunce; 970But wel finde I she dide him this plesaunce,That she him kiste, al-though she syked sore;And bad him sitte a-doun with-outen more.Quod Pandarus, `Now wol ye wel biginne;Now doth him sitte, gode nece dere, 975Upon your beddes syde al there with-inne,That ech of yow the bet may other here.'And with that word he drow him to the fere,And took a light, and fond his contenaunce,As for to loke up-on an old romaunce. 980Criseyde, that was Troilus lady right,And cleer stood on a ground of sikernesse,Al thoughte she, hir servaunt and hir knightNe sholde of right non untrouthe in hir gesse,Yet nathelees, considered his distresse, 985And that love is in cause of swich folye,Thus to him spak she of his Ialousye:`Lo, herte myn, as wolde the excellenceOf love, ayeins the which that no man may,Ne oughte eek goodly maken resistence 990And eek bycause I felte wel and sayYoure grete trouthe, and servyse every day;And that your herte al myn was, sooth to seyne,This droof me for to rewe up-on your peyne.`And your goodnesse have I founde alwey yit, 995Of whiche, my dere herte and al my knight,I thonke it yow, as fer as I have wit,Al can I nought as muche as it were right;And I, emforth my conninge and my might,Have and ay shal, how sore that me smerte, 1000Ben to yow trewe and hool, with a myn herte;`And dredelees, that shal be founde at preve. —But, herte myn, what al this is to seyneShal wel be told, so that ye noght yow greve,Though I to yow right on your-self compleyne. 1005For ther-with mene I fynally the peyne,That halt your herte and myn in hevinesse,Fully to sleen, and every wrong redresse.`My goode, myn, not I for-why ne howThat Ialousye, allas! That wikked wivere, 1010Thus causelees is cropen in-to yow;The harm of which I wolde fayn delivere!Allas! That he, al hool, or of him slivere,Shuld have his refut in so digne a place,Ther Iove him sone out of your herte arace! 1015`But O, thou Iove, O auctor of nature,Is this an honour to thy deitee,That folk ungiltif suffren here iniure,And who that giltif is, al quit goth he?O were it leful for to pleyne on thee, 1020That undeserved suffrest Ialousye,Of that I wolde up-on thee pleyne and crye!`Eek al my wo is this, that folk now usenTo seyn right thus, "Ye, Ialousye is love!"And wolde a busshel venim al excusen, 1025For that o greyn of love is on it shove!But that wot heighe god that sit above,If it be lyker love, or hate, or grame;And after that, it oughte bere his name.`But certeyn is, som maner Ialousye 1030Is excusable more than som, y-wis.As whan cause is, and som swich fantasyeWith pietee so wel repressed is,That it unnethe dooth or seyth amis,But goodly drinketh up al his distresse; 1035And that excuse I, for the gentilesse.`And som so ful of furie is and despytThat it sourmounteth his repressioun;But herte myn, ye be not in that plyt,That thanke I god, for whiche your passioun 1040I wol not calle it but illusioun,Of habundaunce of love and bisy cure,That dooth your herte this disese endure.`Of which I am right sory but not wrooth;But, for my devoir and your hertes reste, 1045Wher-so yow list, by ordal or by ooth,By sort, or in what wyse so yow leste,For love of god, lat preve it for the beste!And if that I be giltif, do me deye,Allas! What mighte I more doon or seye?' 1050With that a fewe brighte teres neweOwt of hir eyen fille, and thus she seyde,`Now god, thou wost, in thought ne dede untreweTo Troilus was never yet Criseyde.'With that hir heed doun in the bed she leyde, 1055And with the shete it wreigh, and syghed sore,And held hir pees; not o word spak she more.But now help god to quenchen al this sorwe,So hope I that he shal, for he best may;For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe 1060Folwen ful ofte a mery someres day;And after winter folweth grene May.Men seen alday, and reden eek in stories,That after sharpe shoures been victories.This Troilus, whan he hir wordes herde, 1065Have ye no care, him liste not to slepe;For it thoughte him no strokes of a yerdeTo here or seen Criseyde, his lady wepe;But wel he felte aboute his herte crepe,For every teer which that Criseyde asterte, 1070The crampe of deeth, to streyne him by the herte.And in his minde he gan the tyme acurseThat he cam there, and that that he was born;For now is wikke y-turned in-to worse,And al that labour he hath doon biforn, 1075He wende it lost, he thoughte he nas but lorn.`O Pandarus,' thoughte he, `allas! Thy wyleServeth of nought, so weylaway the whyle!'And therwithal he heng a-doun the heed,And fil on knees, and sorwfully he sighte; 1080What mighte he seyn? He felte he nas but deed,For wrooth was she that shulde his sorwes lighte.But nathelees, whan that he speken mighte,Than seyde he thus, `God woot, that of this game,Whan al is wist, than am I not to blame!' 1085Ther-with the sorwe so his herte shette,That from his eyen fil there not a tere,And every spirit his vigour in-knette,So they astoned or oppressed were.The feling of his sorwe, or of his fere, 1090Or of ought elles, fled was out of towne;And doun he fel al sodeynly a-swowne.This was no litel sorwe for to see;But al was hust, and Pandare up as faste,`O nece, pees, or we be lost,' quod he, 1095`Beth nought agast;' But certeyn, at the laste,For this or that, he in-to bedde him caste,And seyde, `O theef, is this a mannes herte?'And of he rente al to his bare sherte;And seyde, `Nece, but ye helpe us now, 1100Allas, your owne Troilus is lorn!'`Y-wis, so wolde I, and I wiste how,Ful fayn,' quod she; `Allas! That I was born!'`Ye, nece, wole ye pullen out the thornThat stiketh in his herte?' quod Pandare; 1105`Sey "Al foryeve," and stint is al this fare!'`Ye, that to me,' quod she, `ful lever wereThan al the good the sonne aboute gooth';And therwith-al she swoor him in his ere,`Y-wis, my dere herte, I am nought wrooth, 1110Have here my trouthe and many another ooth;Now speek to me, for it am I, Cryseyde!'But al for nought; yet mighte he not a-breyde.Therwith his pous and pawmes of his hondesThey gan to frote, and wete his temples tweyne, 1115And, to deliveren him from bittre bondes,She ofte him kiste; and, shortly for to seyne,Him to revoken she dide al hir peyne.And at the laste, he gan his breeth to drawe,And of his swough sone after that adawe, 1120And gan bet minde and reson to him take,But wonder sore he was abayst, y-wis.And with a syk, whan he gan bet a-wake,He seyde, `O mercy, god, what thing is this?'`Why do ye with your-selven thus amis?' 1125Quod tho Criseyde, `Is this a mannes game?What, Troilus! Wol ye do thus, for shame?'And therwith-al hir arm over him she leyde,And al foryaf, and ofte tyme him keste.He thonked hir, and to hir spak, and seyde 1130As fil to purpos for his herte reste.And she to that answerde him as hir leste;And with hir goodly wordes him disporteShe gan, and ofte his sorwes to comforte.Quod Pandarus, `For ought I can espyen, 1135This light, nor I ne serven here of nought;Light is not good for syke folkes yen.But for the love of god, sin ye be broughtIn thus good plyt, lat now non hevy thoughtBen hanginge in the hertes of yow tweye:' 1140And bar the candele to the chimeneye.Sone after this, though it no nede were,Whan she swich othes as hir list devyseHadde of him take, hir thoughte tho no fere,Ne cause eek non, to bidde him thennes ryse. 1145Yet lesse thing than othes may suffyseIn many a cas; for every wight, I gesse,That loveth wel meneth but gentilesse.But in effect she wolde wite anoonOf what man, and eek where, and also why 1150He Ielous was, sin ther was cause noon;And eek the signe, that he took it by,She bad him that to telle hir bisily,Or elles, certeyn, she bar him on honde,That this was doon of malis, hir to fonde. 1155With-outen more, shortly for to seyne,He moste obeye un-to his lady heste;And for the lasse harm, he moste feyne.He seyde hir, whan she was at swiche a feste,She mighte on him han loked at the leste; 1160Not I not what, al dere y-nough a risshe,As he that nedes moste a cause fisshe.And she answerde, `Swete, al were it so,What harm was that, sin I non yvel mene?For, by that god that boughte us bothe two, 1165In alle thinge is myn entente clene.Swich arguments ne been not worth a bene;Wol ye the childish Ialous contrefete?Now were it worthy that ye were y-bete.'Tho Troilus gan sorwfully to syke, 1170Lest she be wrooth, him thoughte his herte deyde;And seyde, `Allas! Up-on my sorwes sykeHave mercy, swete herte myn, Cryseyde!And if that, in tho wordes that I seyde,Be any wrong, I wol no more trespace; 1175Do what yow list, I am al in your grace.'And she answerde, `Of gilt misericorde!That is to seyn, that I foryeve al this;And ever-more on this night yow recorde,And beth wel war ye do no more amis.' 1180`Nay, dere herte myn,' quod he, `y-wis.'`And now,' quod she, `that I have do yow smerte,Foryeve it me, myn owene swete herte.'This Troilus, with blisse of that supprysed,Put al in goddes hond, as he that mente 1185No-thing but wel; and, sodeynly avysed,He hir in armes faste to him hente.And Pandarus, with a ful good entente,Leyde him to slepe, and seyde, `If ye ben wyse,Swowneth not now, lest more folk aryse.' 1190What mighte or may the sely larke seye,Whan that the sperhauk hath it in his foot?I can no more, but of thise ilke tweye,To whom this tale sucre be or soot,Though that I tarie a yeer, som-tyme I moot, 1195After myn auctor, tellen hir gladnesse,As wel as I have told hir hevinesse.Criseyde, which that felte hir thus y-take,As writen clerkes in hir bokes olde,Right as an aspes leef she gan to quake, 1200Whan she him felte hir in his armes folde.But Troilus, al hool of cares colde,Gan thanken tho the blisful goddes sevene;Thus sondry peynes bringen folk in hevene.This Troilus in armes gan hir streyne, 1205And seyde, `O swete, as ever mote I goon,Now be ye caught, now is ther but we tweyne;Now yeldeth yow, for other boot is noon.'To that Criseyde answerde thus anoon,`Ne hadde I er now, my swete herte dere, 1210Ben yolde, y-wis, I were now not here!'O! Sooth is seyd, that heled for to beAs of a fevre or othere greet syknesse,Men moste drinke, as men may often see,Ful bittre drink; and for to han gladnesse, 1215Men drinken often peyne and greet distresse;I mene it here, as for this aventure,That thourgh a peyne hath founden al his cure.And now swetnesse semeth more sweet,That bitternesse assayed was biforn; 1220For out of wo in blisse now they flete;Non swich they felten, sith they were born;Now is this bet, than bothe two be lorn!For love of god, take every womman hedeTo werken thus, if it comth to the nede. 1225Criseyde, al quit from every drede and tene,As she that iuste cause hadde him to triste,Made him swich feste, it Ioye was to sene,Whan she his trouthe and clene entente wiste.And as aboute a tree, with many a twiste, 1230Bitrent and wryth the sote wode-binde,Gan eche of hem in armes other winde.And as the newe abaysshed nightingale,That stinteth first whan she biginneth to singe,Whan that she hereth any herde tale, 1235Or in the hegges any wight steringe,And after siker dooth hir voys out-ringe;Right so Criseyde, whan hir drede stente,Opned hir herte and tolde him hir entente.And right as he that seeth his deeth y-shapen, 1240And deye moot, in ought that he may gesse,And sodeynly rescous doth him escapen,And from his deeth is brought in sikernesse,For al this world, in swich present gladnesseWas Troilus, and hath his lady swete; 1245With worse hap god lat us never mete!Hir armes smale, hir streyghte bak and softe,Hir sydes longe, fleshly, smothe, and whyteHe gan to stroke, and good thrift bad ful ofteHir snowish throte, hir brestes rounde and lyte; 1250Thus in this hevene he gan him to delyte,And ther-with-al a thousand tyme hir kiste;That, what to done, for Ioye unnethe he wiste.Than seyde he thus, `O, Love, O, Charitee,Thy moder eek, Citherea the swete, 1255After thy-self next heried be she,Venus mene I, the wel-willy planete;And next that, Imeneus, I thee grete;For never man was to yow goddes holdeAs I, which ye han brought fro cares colde. 1260`Benigne Love, thou holy bond of thinges,Who-so wol grace, and list thee nought honouren,Lo, his desyr wol flee with-outen winges.For, noldestow of bountee hem socourenThat serven best and most alwey labouren, 1265Yet were al lost, that dar I wel seyn, certes,But-if thy grace passed our desertes.`And for thou me, that coude leest deserveOf hem that nombred been un-to thy grace,Hast holpen, ther I lykly was to sterve, 1270And me bistowed in so heygh a placeThat thilke boundes may no blisse pace,I can no more, but laude and reverenceBe to thy bounte and thyn excellence!'And therwith-al Criseyde anoon he kiste, 1275Of which, certeyn, she felte no disese,And thus seyde he, `Now wolde god I wiste,Myn herte swete, how I yow mighte plese!What man,' quod he, `was ever thus at eseAs I, on whiche the faireste and the beste 1280That ever I say, deyneth hir herte reste.`Here may men seen that mercy passeth right;The experience of that is felt in me,That am unworthy to so swete a wight.But herte myn, of your benignitee, 1285So thenketh, though that I unworthy be,Yet mot I nede amenden in som wyse,Right thourgh the vertu of your heyghe servyse.`And for the love of god, my lady dere,Sin god hath wrought me for I shal yow serve, 1290As thus I mene, that ye wol be my stere,To do me live, if that yow liste, or sterve,So techeth me how that I may deserveYour thank, so that I, thurgh myn ignoraunce,Ne do no-thing that yow be displesaunce. 1295`For certes, fresshe wommanliche wyf,This dar I seye, that trouthe and diligence,That shal ye finden in me al my lyf,Ne wol not, certeyn, breken your defence;And if I do, present or in absence, 1300For love of god, lat slee me with the dede,If that it lyke un-to your womanhede.'`Y-wis,' quod she, `myn owne hertes list,My ground of ese, and al myn herte dere,Graunt mercy, for on that is al my trist; 1305But late us falle awey fro this matere;For it suffyseth, this that seyd is here.And at o word, with-outen repentaunce,Wel-come, my knight, my pees, my suffisaunce!'Of hir delyt, or Ioyes oon the leste 1310Were impossible to my wit to seye;But iuggeth, ye that han ben at the feste,Of swich gladnesse, if that hem liste pleye!I can no more, but thus thise ilke tweyeThat night, be-twixen dreed and sikernesse, 1315Felten in love the grete worthinesse.O blisful night, of hem so longe y-sought,How blithe un-to hem bothe two thou were!Why ne hadde I swich on with my soule y-bought,Ye, or the leeste Ioye that was there? 1320A-wey, thou foule daunger and thou fere,And lat hem in this hevene blisse dwelle,That is so heygh, that al ne can I telle!But sooth is, though I can not tellen al,As can myn auctor, of his excellence, 1325Yet have I seyd, and, god to-forn, I shalIn every thing al hoolly his sentence.And if that I, at loves reverence,Have any word in eched for the beste,Doth therwith-al right as your-selven leste. 1330For myne wordes, here and every part,I speke hem alle under correcciounOf yow, that feling han in loves art,And putte it al in your discreciounTo encrese or maken diminucioun 1335Of my langage, and that I yow bi-seche;But now to purpos of my rather speche.Thise ilke two, that ben in armes laft,So looth to hem a-sonder goon it were,That ech from other wende been biraft, 1340Or elles, lo, this was hir moste fere,That al this thing but nyce dremes were;For which ful ofte ech of hem seyde, `O swete,Clippe ich yow thus, or elles I it mete?'And, lord! So he gan goodly on hir see, 1345That never his look ne bleynte from hir face,And seyde, `O dere herte, may it beThat it be sooth, that ye ben in this place?'`Ye, herte myn, god thank I of his grace!'Quod tho Criseyde, and therwith-al him kiste, 1350That where his spirit was, for Ioye he niste.This Troilus ful ofte hir eyen twoGan for to kisse, and seyde, `O eyen clere,It were ye that wroughte me swich wo,Ye humble nettes of my lady dere! 1355Though ther be mercy writen in your chere,God wot, the text ful hard is, sooth, to finde,How coude ye with-outen bond me binde?'Therwith he gan hir faste in armes take,And wel an hundred tymes gan he syke, 1360Nought swiche sorwfull sykes as men makeFor wo, or elles whan that folk ben syke,But esy sykes, swiche as been to lyke,That shewed his affeccioun with-inne;Of swiche sykes coude he nought bilinne. 1365Sone after this they speke of sondry thinges,As fil to purpos of this aventure,And pleyinge entrechaungeden hir ringes,Of which I can nought tellen no scripture;But wel I woot, a broche, gold and asure, 1370In whiche a ruby set was lyk an herte,Criseyde him yaf, and stak it on his sherte.Lord! trowe ye, a coveitous, a wreccbe,That blameth love and holt of it despyt,That, of tho pens that he can mokre and kecche, 1375Was ever yet y-yeve him swich delyt,As is in love, in oo poynt, in som plyt?Nay, doutelees, for also god me save,So parfit Ioye may no nigard have!They wol sey `Yis,' but lord! So that they lye, 1380Tho bisy wrecches, ful of wo and drede!They callen love a woodnesse or folye,But it shal falle hem as I shal yow rede;They shul forgo the whyte and eke the rede,And live in wo, ther god yeve hem mischaunce, 1385And every lover in his trouthe avaunce!As wolde god, tho wrecches, that dispyseServyse of love, hadde eres al-so longeAs hadde Myda, ful of coveityse,And ther-to dronken hadde as hoot and stronge 1390As Crassus dide for his affectis wronge,To techen hem that they ben in the vyce,And loveres nought, al-though they holde hem nyce!Thise ilke two, of whom that I yow seye,Whan that hir hertes wel assured were, 1395Tho gonne they to speken and to pleye,And eek rehercen how, and whanne, and where,They knewe hem first, and every wo and fereThat passed was; but al swich hevinesse,I thanke it god, was tourned to gladnesse. 1400And ever-mo, whan that hem fel to spekeOf any thing of swich a tyme agoon,With kissing al that tale sholde breke,And fallen in a newe Ioye anoon,And diden al hir might, sin they were oon, 1405For to recoveren blisse and been at ese,And passed wo with Ioye countrepeyse.Reson wil not that I speke of sleep,For it accordeth nought to my matere;God woot, they toke of that ful litel keep, 1410But lest this night, that was to hem so dere,Ne sholde in veyn escape in no manere,It was biset in Ioye and bisinesseOf al that souneth in-to gentilnesse.But whan the cok, comune astrologer, 1415Gan on his brest to bete, and after crowe,And Lucifer, the dayes messager,Gan for to ryse, and out hir bemes throwe;And estward roos, to him that coude it knowe,Fortuna maior, than anoon Criseyde, 1420With herte sore, to Troilus thus seyde: —`Myn hertes lyf, my trist and my plesaunce,That I was born, allas! What me is wo,That day of us mot make desseveraunce!For tyme it is to ryse, and hennes go, 1425Or elles I am lost for evermo!O night, allas! Why niltow over us hove,As longe as whanne Almena lay by Iove?`O blake night, as folk in bokes rede,That shapen art by god this world to hyde 1430At certeyn tymes with thy derke wede,That under that men mighte in reste abyde,Wel oughte bestes pleyne, and folk thee chyde,That there-as day with labour wolde us breste,That thou thus fleest, and deynest us nought reste! 1435`Thou dost, allas! To shortly thyn offyce,Thou rakel night, ther god, makere of kinde,Thee, for thyn hast and thyn unkinde vyce,So faste ay to our hemi-spere binde.That never-more under the ground thou winde! 1440For now, for thou so hyest out of Troye,Have I forgon thus hastily my Ioye!'This Troilus, that with tho wordes felte,As thoughte him tho, for pietous distresse,The blody teres from his herte melte, 1445As he that never yet swich hevinesseAssayed hadde, out of so greet gladnesse,Gan therwith-al Criseyde his lady dereIn armes streyne, and seyde in this manere: —`O cruel day, accusour of the Ioye 1450That night and love han stole and faste y-wryen,A-cursed be thy coming in-to Troye,For every bore hath oon of thy bright yen!Envyous day, what list thee so to spyen?What hastow lost, why sekestow this place, 1455Ther god thy lyght so quenche, for his grace?`Allas! What han thise loveres thee agilt,Dispitous day? Thyn be the pyne of helle!For many a lovere hastow shent, and wilt;Thy pouring in wol no-wher lete hem dwelle. 1460What proferestow thy light here for to selle?Go selle it hem that smale seles graven,We wol thee nought, us nedeth no day haven.'And eek the sonne Tytan gan he chyde,And seyde, `O fool, wel may men thee dispyse, 1465That hast the Dawing al night by thy syde,And suffrest hir so sone up fro thee ryse,For to disesen loveres in this wyse.What! Holde your bed ther, thou, and eek thy Morwe!I bidde god, so yeve yow bothe sorwe!' 1470Therwith ful sore he sighte, and thus he seyde,`My lady right, and of my wele or woThe welle and rote, O goodly myn, Criseyde,And shal I ryse, allas! And shal I go?Now fele I that myn herte moot a-two! 1475For how sholde I my lyf an houre save,Sin that with yow is al the lyf I have?`What shal I doon, for certes, I not how,Ne whanne, allas! I shal the tyme see,That in this plyt I may be eft with yow; 1480And of my lyf, god woot, how that shal be,Sin that desyr right now so byteth me,That I am deed anoon, but I retourne.How sholde I longe, allas! Fro yow soiourne?`But nathelees, myn owene lady bright, 1485Yit were it so that I wiste outrely,That I, your humble servaunt and your knight,Were in your herte set so fermelyAs ye in myn, the which thing, trewely,Me lever were than thise worldes tweyne, 1490Yet sholde I bet enduren al my peyne.'To that Cryseyde answerde right anoon,And with a syk she seyde, `O herte dere,The game, y-wis, so ferforth now is goon,That first shal Phebus falle fro his spere, 1495And every egle been the dowves fere,And every roche out of his place sterte,Er Troilus out of Criseydes herte!`Ye he so depe in-with myn herte grave,That, though I wolde it turne out of my thought, 1500As wisly verray god my soule save,To dyen in the peyne, I coude nought!And, for the love of god that us bath wrought,Lat in your brayn non other fantasyeSo crepe, that it cause me to dye! 1505`And that ye me wolde han as faste in mindeAs I have yow, that wolde I yow bi-seche;And, if I wiste soothly that to finde,God mighte not a poynt my Ioyes eche!But, herte myn, with-oute more speche, 1510Beth to me trewe, or elles were it routhe;For I am thyn, by god and by my trouthe!`Beth glad for-thy, and live in sikernesse;Thus seyde I never er this, ne shal to mo;And if to yow it were a gret gladnesse 1515To turne ayein, soone after that ye go,As fayn wolde I as ye, it were so,As wisly god myn herte bringe at reste!'And him in armes took, and ofte keste.Agayns his wil, sin it mot nedes be, 1520This Troilus up roos, and faste him cledde,And in his armes took his lady freeAn hundred tyme, and on his wey him spedde,And with swich wordes as his herte bledde,He seyde, `Farewel, mr dere herte swete, 1525Ther god us graunte sounde and sone to mete!'To which no word for sorwe she answerde,So sore gan his parting hir destreyne;And Troilus un-to his palays ferde,As woo bigon as she was, sooth to seyne; 1530So hard him wrong of sharp desyr the peyneFor to ben eft there he was in plesaunce,That it may never out of his remembraunce.Retorned to his real palais, soneHe softe in-to his bed gan for to slinke, 1535To slepe longe, as he was wont to done,But al for nought; he may wel ligge and winke,But sleep ne may ther in his herte sinke;Thenkinge how she, for whom desyr him brende,A thousand-fold was worth more than he wende. 1540And in his thought gan up and doun to windeHir wordes alle, and every countenaunce,And fermely impressen in his mindeThe leste poynt that to him was plesaunce;And verrayliche, of thilke remembraunce, 1545Desyr al newe him brende, and lust to bredeGan more than erst, and yet took he non hede.Criseyde also, right in the same wyse,Of Troilus gan in hir herte shetteHis worthinesse, his lust, his dedes wyse, 1550His gentilesse, and how she with him mette,Thonkinge love he so wel hir bisette;Desyring eft to have hir herte dereIn swich a plyt, she dorste make him chere.Pandare, a-morwe which that comen was 1555Un-to his nece, and gan hir fayre grete,Seyde, `Al this night so reyned it, allas!That al my drede is that ye, nece swete,Han litel layser had to slepe and mete;Al night,' quod he, `hath reyn so do me wake, 1560That som of us, I trowe, hir hedes ake.'And ner he com, and seyde, `How stont it nowThis mery morwe, nece, how can ye fare?'Criseyde answerde, `Never the bet for yow,Fox that ye been, god yeve youre herte care! 1565God help me so, ye caused al this fare,Trow I,' quod she, `for alle your wordes whyte;O! Who-so seeth yow knoweth yow ful lyte!'With that she gan hir face for to wryeWith the shete, and wex for shame al reed; 1570And Pandarus gan under for to prye,And seyde, `Nece, if that I shal be deed,Have here a swerd, and smyteth of myn heed.'With that his arm al sodeynly he thristeUnder hir nekke, and at the laste hir kiste. 1575I passe al that which chargeth nought to seye,What! God foryaf his deeth, and she al-soForyaf, and with hir uncle gan to pleye,For other cause was ther noon than so.But of this thing right to the effect to go, 1580Whan tyme was, hom til hir hous she wente,And Pandarus hath fully his entente.Now torne we ayein to Troilus,That resteles ful longe a-bedde lay,And prevely sente after Pandarus, 1585To him to come in al the haste he may.He com anoon, nought ones seyde he `nay,'And Troilus ful sobrely he grette,And doun upon his beddes syde him sette.This Troilus, with al the affeccioun 1590Of frendes love that herte may devyse,To Pandarus on knees fil adoun,And er that he wolde of the place aryse,He gan him thonken in his beste wyse;An hondred sythe he gan the tyme blesse, 1595That he was born, to bringe him fro distresse.He seyde, `O frend of frendes the alderbesteThat ever was, the sothe for to telle,Thou hast in hevene y-brought my soule at resteFro Flegitoun, the fery flood of helle; 1600That, though I mighte a thousand tymes selle,Upon a day, my lyf in thy servyse,It mighte nought a mote in that suffyse.`The sonne, which that al the world may see,Saw never yet, my lyf, that dar I leye, 1605So inly fayr and goodly as is she,Whos I am al, and shal, til that I deye;And, that I thus am hires, dar I seye,That thanked be the heighe worthinesseOf love, and eek thy kinde bisinesse. 1610`Thus hastow me no litel thing y-yive,Fo which to thee obliged be for ayMy lyf, and why? For thorugh thyn help I live;For elles deed hadde I be many a day.'And with that word doun in his bed he lay, 1615And Pandarus ful sobrely him herdeTil al was seyd, and than he thus answerde:`My dere frend, if I have doon for theeIn any cas, god wot, it is me leef;And am as glad as man may of it be, 1620God help me so; but tak now a-greefThat I shal seyn, be war of this myscheef,That, there-as thou now brought art in-to blisse,That thou thy-self ne cause it nought to misse.`For of fortunes sharpe adversitee 1625The worst kinde of infortune is this,A man to have ben in prosperitee,And it remembren, whan it passed is.Thou art wys y-nough, for-thy do nought amis;Be not to rakel, though thou sitte warme,For if thou be, certeyn, it wol thee harme. 1631`Thou art at ese, and holde the wel ther-inne.For also seur as reed is every fyr,As greet a craft is kepe wel as winne;Brydle alwey wel thy speche and thy desyr, 1635For worldly Ioye halt not but by a wyr;That preveth wel, it brest alday so ofte;For-thy nede is to werke with it softe.'Quod Troilus, `I hope, and god to-forn,My dere frend, that I shal so me bere, 1640That in my gilt ther shal no thing be lorn,Ne I nil not rakle as for to greven here;It nedeth not this matere ofte tere;For wistestow myn herte wel, Pandare,God woot, of this thou woldest litel care.' 1645Tho gan he telle him of his glade night,And wher-of first his herte dredde, and how,And seyde, `Freend, as I am trewe knight,And by that feyth I shal to god and yow,I hadde it never half so hote as now; 1650And ay the more that desyr me bytethTo love hir best, the more it me delyteth.`I noot my-self not wisly what it is;But now I fele a newe qualitee,Ye, al another than I dide er this.' 1655Pandare answerde, and seyde thus, that heThat ones may in hevene blisse be,He feleth other weyes, dar I leye,Than thilke tyme he first herde of it seye.This is o word for al: this Troilus 1660Was never ful to speke of this matere,And for to preysen un-to PandarusThe bountee of his righte lady dere,And Pandarus to thanke and maken chere.This tale ay was span-newe to biginne, 1665Til that the night departed hem a-twinne.Sone after this, for that fortune it wolde,I-comen was the blisful tyme swete,That Troilus was warned that he sholde,Ther he was erst, Criseyde his lady mete; 1670For which he felte his herte in Ioye flete;And feythfully gan alle the goddes herie;And lat see now if that he can be merie.And holden was the forme and al the wyse,Of hir cominge, and eek of his also, 1675As it was erst, which nedeth nought devyse.But playnly to the effect right for to go,In Ioye and suerte Pandarus hem twoA-bedde broughte, whan that hem bothe leste,And thus they ben in quiete and in reste. 1680Nought nedeth it to yow, sin they ben met,To aske at me if that they blythe were;For if it erst was wel, tho was it betA thousand-fold, this nedeth not enquere.A-gon was every sorwe and every fere; 1685And bothe, y-wis, they hadde, and so they wende,As muche Ioye as herte may comprende.This is no litel thing of for to seye,This passeth every wit for to devyse;For eche of hem gan otheres lust obeye; 1690Felicitee, which that thise clerkes wyseCommenden so, ne may not here suffyse.This Ioye may not writen been with inke,This passeth al that herte may bithinke.But cruel day, so wel-awey the stounde! 1695Gan for to aproche, as they by signes knewe,For whiche hem thoughte felen dethes wounde;So wo was hem, that changen gan hir hewe,And day they goonnen to dispyse al newe,Calling it traytour, envyous, and worse, 1700And bitterly the dayes light they curse.Quod Troilus, `Allas! Now am I warThat Pirous and tho swifte stedes three,Whiche that drawen forth the sonnes char,Han goon som by-path in despyt of me; 1705That maketh it so sone day to be;And, for the sonne him hasteth thus to ryse,Ne shal I never doon him sacrifyse!'But nedes day departe moste hem sone,And whanne hir speche doon was and hir chere, 1710They twinne anoon as they were wont to done,And setten tyme of meting eft y-fere;And many a night they wroughte in this manere.And thus Fortune a tyme ladde in IoyeCriseyde, and eek this kinges sone of Troye. 1715In suffisaunce, in blisse, and in singinges,This Troilus gan al his lyf to lede;He spendeth, Iusteth, maketh festeynges;He yeveth frely ofte, and chaungeth wede,And held aboute him alwey, out of drede, 1720A world of folk, as cam him wel of kinde,The fressheste and the beste he coude fynde;That swich a voys was of hym and a steveneThorugh-out the world, of honour and largesse,That it up rong un-to the yate of hevene. 1725And, as in love, he was in swich gladnesse,That in his herte he demede, as I gesse,That there nis lovere in this world at eseSo wel as he, and thus gan love him plese.The godlihede or beautee which that kinde 1730In any other lady hadde y-setCan not the mountaunce of a knot unbinde,A-boute his herte, of al Criseydes net.He was so narwe y-masked and y-knet,That it undon on any manere syde, 1735That nil not been, for ought that may betyde.And by the hond ful ofte he wolde takeThis Pandarus, and in-to gardin lede,And swich a feste and swich a proces makeHim of Criseyde, and of hir womanhede, 1740And of hir beautee, that, with-outen drede,It was an hevene his wordes for to here;And thanne he wolde singe in this manere.`Love, that of erthe and see hath governaunce,Love, that his hestes hath in hevene hye, 1745Love, that with an holsom alliaunceHalt peples ioyned, as him list hem gye,Love, that knetteth lawe of companye,And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle,Bind this acord, that I have told and telle; 1750`That that the world with feyth, which that is stable,Dyverseth so his stoundes concordinge,That elements that been so discordableHolden a bond perpetuely duringe,That Phebus mote his rosy day forth bringe, 1755And that the mone hath lordship over the nightes,Al this doth Love; ay heried be his mightes!`That, that the see, that gredy is to flowen,Constreyneth to a certeyn ende soHis flodes, that so fersly they ne growen 1760To drenchen erthe and al for ever-mo;And if that Love ought lete his brydel go,Al that now loveth a-sonder sholde lepe,And lost were al, that Love halt now to-hepe.