Pandare answerde, 'Be we comen hyder
To fecchen fir and rennen hom ayein ?
God help me so! I kan nat tellen whider
We myghte goon, if I shal sothely seyn,
Ther any wight is of us moore feyn
Than Sarpedon; and if we hennes hye
Thus sodeynly, I holde it vilenye.
'Syn that we seyden that we wolde bleve
With hym a wowke, and now thus sodeynly
The ferthe day to take of hym oure leve,
He wolde wondren on it trewely:
Lat us holden forth oure purpos fermely;
And sen that ye byhighten hym to bide,
Holde forward now, and efter lat us ride.'
Made hym to dwelle; and at the wekes end,
Of Sarpedon they tok hire leve tho,
And on hire weye they spedden hem to wende:
Quod Troilus, Now Lorde me grace sende,
That I may fynden at myn home comynge,
Criseyde comen!' and therwith gan he
'Ye, hasil-wode!' thoughte this Pandare,
And to hymself ful softely he seyde,
'God woot, refreyden may this hoote fare,
Er Calkas sende Troilus Criseyde !'
But natheles he japede thus and seyde,
And swor, iwis, his herte hym wel bihighte,
She wolde com as soone as evere she myghte.
When they unto the paleys were ycomen
Of Troilus, they doun of hors alighte,
And to the chaumbre hire wey than han they
nomen;
And into tyme that it gan to nyghte,
They spaken of Criseyde, the lady brighte;
And efter this, when that hem bothe leste,
They spedde hem fro the soper unto reste.
O morw, as soone as day bigan to clere,
This Troilus gan of his slepe to breyde,
And to Pandare, his owen brother deere,
For love of God,' ful pitously he preyede,
'As go we sene the paleys of Criseyde;
For syn we yit may have namoore feeste,
So lat us seen hire paleys at the leste.'
And therwithalle, his meynye for to blende,
A cause he fonde in towne for to go,
And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende
But Lorde! this cely Troilus was wo!
Hym thought his sorwful herte braste atwo;
For when he saugh hire dorres spered alle,
Wel neigh for sorwe adoun he gan to falle.
Therwith, when he was ware, and gan biholde
How shet was every wyndow of the place,
As frost hym thoughte his herte gan to colde;
For which, with chaunged deedlich pale face,
Withouten word, he forth bygan to pace;
And as God wolde he gan so faste ryde,
That no wight of his contenaunce espiede.
Than seyde he thus:- O paleys desolat!
O hous of housses, whilom beste yhight!
O paleys empti and disconsolat!
O thow lanterne, of which queynte is the light!
O payleys, whilom day, that now ert nyght!
Wel oughtestow to falle, and I to dye,
Syn she is wente that wonte was us to gye.
'O paleys, whilom crowne of houses alle,
Enlumyned with sonne of alle blisse !
O rynge, fro which the ruby is out falle!
O cause of wo, that cause has ben of blisse!
Yit syn I may no bet fayn wold I kysse
Thi colde dores, dorst I for this route;
And farewel shryne, of which the seint is oute!
Therwith he caste on Pandarus his ye,
With chaunged face, and pitous to beholde;
And when he myght his tyme aright espie,
Ay as he rode, to Pandarus he tolde
His newe sorwe, and ek his joyes olde,
So pitously, and with so dede an hewe,
That every wight myght on his sorwes rewe.
Fro thennes-forth he rydeth up
And every thynge com hym to remembraunce,
As he rode forth by the places of the town,
In which he whilom had alle his plesaunce :-
'Lo! yonder saugh Ich myn owen lady daunce;
And in that temple, with hire eyen clere,
Me caughte firste my righte lady deere.
'And yonder have I herd ful lustili
My deere herte laugh; and yonder pleye
Saugh Ich hire oones ek ful blisfully;
And yonder oones to me gan she seye
'Now goode swete! love me wel, I preye;
And yonder so gladly gan she me beholde,
That to the deth myn herte is to hir holde.
'And at that corner in the yonder house,
Herde I myn alderlevest lady deere,
So wommanly, with vois melodyous,
Syngen so wel, so goodely and so clere,
That in my soule yit me thynketh Ich here
The blisful sown; and in that yonder place
My lady first me tooke unto hire grace.'
Than thought he thus, 'O blisful lord Cupide!
When I the processe have in memorye,
How thow me hast weryed on every syde,
Men myght a book mak of it lyk a story!
What nede is thee to seke on me victorye,
Syn I am thyn, and holly at thi wille?
What joye hastow thyn owene folk to spille?
'Wel hastow, lord, ywroke on me thyn ire,
Thow myghty god! and dredeful for to greve !
Now mercy, god! thow woost wel I desire
Thy grace moost, of alle lustes leeve!
And lyve and dye I wol in thi beleve;
For which I naxe in guerdon but a boone,
That thow Criseyde ayein me sende soone.
'Destreyne hire herte as faste to retourne,
As thow doost myn to longen hire to see;
Than woot I wel that she nyl naught sojourne:
Now blisful lorde! so cruwel thow ne be
Unto the blode of Troye, I preye the,
As Juno was unto the blode Thebane,
For which the folk of Thebes caught hire bane.'
And efter this he to the yates wente,
Ther as Criseyde oute rode a ful goode pas,
up and doun ther made he many a wente,
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