To don it, for to don hire hert an ese:
And preyde hire she wold hire sorwe apese,
And seyde, 'Iwis we Grekes kan have joye
To honouren yow, as wel as folk of Troye.'
He seyde ek thus:-'I woot yow thynketh
straunge,-
No wonder is, for it is to yowe newe,—
Thacqueyntaunce of this Troyans to chaunge
For folk of Grece, that ye nevere knewe:
But wolde nevere God, but if as trewe
A Greke ye shold amang us alle fynde,
As any Troyan is, and ek as kynde.
And by the cause I swor yow righte lo now
To ben youre frende and helper to my myghte,
And for that more acqueyntaunce ek of yow
Have Ich had than another straunger wight,
So fro this forth I preye yow, day and nyght,
Comaundeth me, how sore that me smerte,
To don al that may like unto youre herte;
And that ye me wolde as youre brother trete, And taketh nought my frendeschipe in dispit. And though youre sorwes ben for thynges grete, Not I nat whi, but out of more respit,
Myn herte hath for tamende it grete delit;
And if I may youre harmes nat redresse,
I am right sory for youre hevynesse.
'For though ye Trojans with us Grekes wroth
Han many a day ben, alwey yet, pardé!
O god of love, in soth, we serven both:
And for the love of God! my lady fre,
Whom so ye hate, as beth not wroth with me;
For trewely ther kan no wight yow serve,
That half so loth youre wreth wolde disserve.
'And ner it that we been so neigh the tente
Of Calkas, which that sen us bothe may,
I wold of thys yow telle alle myn entente,
But this enseled til another day:
Yeve me youre honde, I am and shal ben ay,
God helpe me so! whil that my lif may dure,
Youre owen, aboven every creature.
Thus seyde I nevere or now to womman borne; For God myn herte as wisly glade so! I lovede never womman here beforne, As paramoures, ne nevere shal no mo: And for the love of God! beth not my fo, Al kan I nought to yow, my lady deere, Compleyne aright, for I am yit to leere.
And wondreth nought myne owen lady bryghte, Though that I speke of love to yow thus blyve; For I have herde or this of many a wighte,
Hath loved thynge he nevere saugh his lyve:
Ek I am not of power for to stryve
Ayenis the god of love, but hym obeye
I wol alwey, and mercy I yow preye.
"Ther ben so worthy knyghtes in this place,
And ye so faire, that everich of hem alle
Wol peynen hym to stonden in youre grace;
But myght to me so faire a grace falle,
That ye me for youre servaunt wolde calle,
So lawely, ne so trewely yow serve
Nyl non of hem, as I shal til I sterve.'
Criseyde unto that purpos lite answerde,
As she that was with sorwe oppressed so,
'i hat, in effect, she nought his tales herde
But here and ther, now here a worde or two:
Hire thought hire sorwful herte braste a-two; 180
For when she gan hire fader fer espie,
Wel neigh down of hire hors she gan to sye.
But natheles, she thonkede Dyomede,
Of alle his travaile and his goode chere,
And that hym liste his frendschip hyre to bede;
And she accepteth it in goode manere,
And wol do fayn that is hym lief and deere;
And trusten hym she wolde, and wel she myghte,
As seyde she, and from hire hors shalighte.
Her fader hath hire in his armes ynome,
And twenty tyme he kyste his doughter swete,
And seyde:-O dere doughter myn, welcome!'
She seyde ek, she was fayn with hym to mete,
And stood forth muwet, mylde, and mansuete;
But here I leve hire with hire fader dwelle,
And forth I wol of Troilus yow telle.
To Troye is come this woful Troylus,
In sorwe aboven alle sorwes smerte;
With felon look, and face dispitouse,
Tho sodeinly doun from his hors he sterte,
And thorwgh his paleys, with a swollen herte,
To chaumbre he wente, of nothyng took he hede,
Ne non to hym dar speke a worde for drede.
And ther his sorwes, that he spared hadde,
He yaf an issue large, and 'Deth !' he criede;
And in hise throwes, frenetike and madde,
He curseth Jove, Apollo, and ek Cupide;
He curseth Ceres, Bachus, and Cipride,
His birthe, hymself, his fate, and ek nature,
And save his lady, every creature.
To bedde he goth, and weyleth ther and torneth In furie, as doth he Ixion in helle;
And in this wyse he neigh til day sojourneth,
But tho bigan his herte alite unswelle,
Thorugh teres, whiche that gonnen up to welle;
And pitously he cryed upon Criseyde,
And to hym-self right thus he spake and seyde.
'Where is myn owene lady, lief and deere? Where is hire white breste, where is it, where? Where ben hir armes, and hire eyen clere,
That yesternight this tyme with me were?
Now may I wepe allone many a tere,
And graspe aboute I may, but in this place
Save a pilow, I fynde naught tembrace.
'How shal I don? when shal she com ayein ?
I not allas! whi lete Ich hire to go?
As wolde God Ich hadde as tho ben sleyne !
O herte myn Criseyde! O swete fo!
O lady myn! that I love and namo,
To whom for evere mo myn herte I dowe,
Se how I dye! ye nyl me not rescowe.
'Who seth yow now, my righte lode-sterre?
Who sit right now or stante in youre presence?
Who kan conforten nowe youre hertes werre?
Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audiens?
Who speketh for me right now in my absens ? ·
Allas! no wight; and that is al my care,
For wel woot I as yvel as I ye fare.
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