For love of G.o.d, take every womman hede To werken thus, if it comth to the nede. 1225

Criseyde, 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, 1230 Bitrent 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, 1235 Or 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, 1240 And 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 gladnesse Was Troilus, and hath his lady swete; 1245 With worse hap G.o.d lat us never mete!

Hir armes smale, hir streyghte bak and softe, Hir sydes longe, fleshly, smothe, and whyte He gan to stroke, and good thrift bad ful ofte Hir snowish throte, hir brestes rounde and lyte; 1250 Thus 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, 1255 After thy-self next heried be she, Venus mene I, the wel-w.i.l.l.y planete; And next that, Imeneus, I thee grete; For never man was to yow G.o.ddes holde As 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 socouren That serven best and most alwey labouren, 1265 Yet were al lost, that dar I wel seyn, certes, But-if thy grace pa.s.sed our desertes.

'And for thou me, that coude leest deserve Of hem that nombred been un-to thy grace, Hast holpen, ther I lykly was to sterve, 1270 And me bistowed in so heygh a place That thilke boundes may no blisse pace, I can no more, but laude and reverence Be to thy bounte and thyn excellence!'

And therwith-al Criseyde anoon he kiste, 1275 Of which, certeyn, she felte no disese, And thus seyde he, 'Now wolde G.o.d I wiste, Myn herte swete, how I yow mighte plese!

What man,' quod he, 'was ever thus at ese As I, on whiche the faireste and the beste 1280 That ever I say, deyneth hir herte reste.

'Here may men seen that mercy pa.s.seth right; The experience of that is felt in me, That am unworthy to so swete a wight.

But herte myn, of your benignitee, 1285 So 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 G.o.d, my lady dere, Sin G.o.d hath wrought me for I shal yow serve, 1290 As 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 deserve Your 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, 1300 For love of G.o.d, 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; 1305 But 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 1310 Were 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 tweye That night, be-twixen dreed and sikernesse, 1315 Felten 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? 1320 A-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, 1325 Yet have I seyd, and, G.o.d to-forn, I shal In 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. 1330

For myne wordes, here and every part, I speke hem alle under correccioun Of yow, that feling han in loves art, And putte it al in your discrecioun To encrese or maken diminucioun 1335 Of 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, 1340 Or 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, 1345 That never his look ne bleynte from hir face, And seyde, 'O dere herte, may it be That it be sooth, that ye ben in this place?'

'Ye, herte myn, G.o.d thank I of his grace!'

Quod tho Criseyde, and therwith-al him kiste, 1350 That where his spirit was, for Ioye he niste.

This Troilus ful ofte hir eyen two Gan for to kisse, and seyde, 'O eyen clere, It were ye that wroughte me swich wo, Ye humble nettes of my lady dere! 1355 Though ther be mercy writen in your chere, G.o.d 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, 1360 Nought swiche sorwfull sykes as men make For 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. 1365

Sone 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, 1370 In 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, 1375 Was ever yet y-yeve him swich delyt, As is in love, in oo poynt, in som plyt?

Nay, doutelees, for also G.o.d me save, So parfit Ioye may no nigard have!

They wol sey 'Yis,' but lord! So that they lye, 1380 Tho 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 G.o.d yeve hem mischaunce, 1385 And every lover in his trouthe avaunce!

As wolde G.o.d, tho wrecches, that dispyse Servyse of love, hadde eres al-so longe As hadde Myda, ful of coveityse, And ther-to dronken hadde as hoot and stronge 1390 As Cra.s.sus 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 a.s.sured were, 1395 Tho gonne they to speken and to pleye, And eek rehercen how, and whanne, and where, They knewe hem first, and every wo and fere That pa.s.sed was; but al swich hevinesse, I thanke it G.o.d, was tourned to gladnesse. 1400

And ever-mo, whan that hem fel to speke Of 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, 1405 For to recoveren blisse and been at ese, And pa.s.sed wo with Ioye countrepeyse.

Reson wil not that I speke of sleep, For it accordeth nought to my matere; G.o.d woot, they toke of that ful litel keep, 1410 But lest this night, that was to hem so dere, Ne sholde in veyn escape in no manere, It was biset in Ioye and bisinesse Of al that souneth in-to gentilnesse.

But whan the c.o.k, comune astrologer, 1415 Gan 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, 1420 With 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, 1425 Or 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 G.o.d this world to hyde 1430 At 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 G.o.d, 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! 1440 For 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, 1445 As he that never yet swich hevinesse a.s.sayed hadde, out of so greet gladnesse, Gan therwith-al Criseyde his lady dere In armes streyne, and seyde in this manere: --

'O cruel day, accusour of the Ioye 1450 That 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, 1455 Ther G.o.d thy lyght so quenche, for his grace?

'Allas! What han thise loveres thee agilt, Dispitous day? Thyn be the pyne of h.e.l.le!

For many a lovere hastow shent, and wilt; Thy pouring in wol no-wher lete hem dwelle. 1460 What 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, 1465 That 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 G.o.d, so yeve yow bothe sorwe!' 1470

Therwith ful sore he sighte, and thus he seyde, 'My lady right, and of my wele or wo The 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! 1475 For 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; 1480 And of my lyf, G.o.d 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, 1485 Yit were it so that I wiste outrely, That I, your humble servaunt and your knight, Were in your herte set so fermely As ye in myn, the which thing, trewely, Me lever were than thise worldes tweyne, 1490 Yet sholde I bet enduren al my peyne.'