And to himself ful oft he seyde, 'Allas!
Fro hennes rod my blisse and my solas!
As wolde blisful God now for his joye,
I myght hire seen ayein com into Troye!
'And to the yonder hille I gan hire gyde;
Allas! and ther I took of hire my leeve;
And yonde I saugh hire to hire fader ryde,
For sorwe of which myn herte shal to-cleve;
And hider hom I com when it was eve;
And here I dwelle, out-cast from alle joye,
And shal, til I may seen her eft in Troye.'
And of hym-self ymagyned he ofte,
To be defet, and pale, and waxen lesse
Than he was wont, and that men seyde softe,
'What may it be? who kan the sothe gesse,
Why Troylus hath alle this hevynesse?'
And al this nas but his melencolye,
That he hadde of hym-self swich fantasye.
Another tyme ymagynen he wolde,
That every wyght that wente by the weye Hadde of him routhe, and that they seyne sholde, 'I am right sory, Troilus wol deye.'
And thus he drof a day yit forth or tweye,
ye han herde; swich lyf right gan he lede, As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede.
For which hym liked in his songes shewe
Thencheson of his wo, as he best myghte,
And made a song of wordes but a fewe,
Somwhat his woful herte for to lighte:
And when he was from every mannes sighte,
With softe vois, he of his lady deere,
That absent was, gan synge as ye may here.
'O sterre, of which I lost have alle the lighte,
With herte soore, wel oughte I to bewaylle,
That evere derk in tormente, nyght by nyght,
Towarde my deth, with wynde in steere I saylle;
For whiche the tenthe nyght if that I faile
The gidynge of thi bemes bright an houre,
My ship and me Caribdes wol devoure.'
This songe when he thus songen hadde soone
He fel ayein into his sikes olde;
And every nyght, as was his wone to doone,
He stood, the bryghte mone to beholde ;
And al his sorwe he to the moone tolde,
And seyde, Iwis, when thow ert horned newe 650 I shal be glad, if alle the world be trewe.
'I saugh thyne hornes old ek by the morwe, Whan hennes rode my righte lady deere, That cause is of my torment and my sorwe;
For which, O bryghte Lucina the cleere!
For love of God! renne fast aboute thy spere;
For when thyne hornes newe gynnen sprynge,
Than shal she come that may my blisse brynge.'
The day is moore, and longer evere nyght
Than they ben wonte to be, hym thoughte tho; 660
And that the sonne wente his course unright,
By longer weye than it was wonte to go;
And seyde, Iwis, me dredeth everemo
The sonnes sone, Pheton, be on lyve,
And that his fader carte amys he dryve.'
Upon the walles fast ek wold he walke,
And on the Grekes oost he wolde se;
And to hymself right thus he wolde talke :-
Lo, yonder is myn owene lady free,
Or elles yonder, ther the tentes bee,
And thennes cometh this eyr that is so soote,
That in my soule I feele it doth me boote.
'And hardyly, this wynde that moore and moore Thus stoundemele encresseth in my face,
Is of my ladys depe sykes sore;
preve it thus, for in noon nother place
Of al this town, save oonly in this space,
Feele I no wynde that souneth so lyke peyne;
It seith Allas! whi twynned be we tweyne?'
This longe tyme he dryveth forth right thus,
Tille fully passed was the nynthe nyght;
And ay bysyde hym was this Pandarus,
That bisily dide al his fulle myght
Hym to confort, and mak his herte light;
Yevynge hym hope alweye, the tenthe morwe
That she shal come, and stenten al his sorwe.
Upon that other syde eke was Criseyde
With wommen few omange the Grekes stronge,
For which ful oft a day, Allas!' she seyde,
That I was borne! wel may myn herte longe
After my deth, for now lyve I to longe;
Allas! and I ne may it not amende,
For now is wers than evere yit I wende.
'My fader nyl for nothynge do me grace
To gon ayein, for nought I kan hym queme;
And if so be that I my terme pace,
My Troilus shal in his herte deme
That I am fals, and so it may wel seme.
Thus shal Ich have unthonke on every syde;
That I was borne, so walawey the tyde!
'And if that I me put in jupartye
To stele awey by nyghte, and it befalle
That I be caught, I shal be hold a spye;
Or elles, lo! this drede I moost of alle,
If in the hondes of som wreche I falle,
I nam but lost, al be myn herte trewe:
Now myghty God, thow on my sorwe rewe!'
Ful pale ywoxen was hire brighte face,
Her lymes lene, as she that al the day
Stood when she dorste, and loked on the place 710
Ther she was borne, and she dwelte had ay,
And al the nyght wepynge, allas! she lay ;
And thus, despeyred oute of alle cure,
She ledde hire lyf, this woful creature.
Ful oft a day she sighte ek for destresse,
And in hire-self she wente ay pourtreynge
Of Troilus the grete worthinesse,
And alle his goodely wordes recordynge,
Syn first the day hire love bigan to sprynge;
And thus she sette hire woful herte afire,
Thorugh remembraunce of that she gan desire.
In al this world ther nys so cruwel herte,
That hire hadde herd compleyne in hire sorwe,
That nold han wopen for hire peynes smerte;
So tendrely she wepte, bothe eve and morwe,
Hire nedede non teris for to borwe;
And this was yet the werste of al hyre peyne,
Ther was no wight, to whom she dorst hire pleyne.
|