128. 'A ring?' quod he, 'ye, hasel-wodes shaken!

Ye, nece myn, that ring moste han a stoon

That mighte dede men alyve maken;

And swich a ring, trowe I that ye have noon.

Discrecioun out of your heed is goon;

That fele I now,' quod he, 'and that is routhe;

O tyme y-lost, wel maystow cursen slouthe!

129. Wot ye not wel that noble and heigh corage

Ne sorweth not, ne stinteth eek for lyte?

But if a fool were in a Ialous rage,

I nolde setten at his sorwe a myte,

But feffe him with a fewe wordes whyte

Another day, whan that I mighte him finde:

But this thing stont al in another kinde.

130. This is so gentil and so tendre of herte,

That with his deeth he wol his sorwes wreke;

For trusteth wel, how sore that him smerte,

He wol to yow no Ialouse wordes speke.

And for-thy, nece, er that his herte breke,

So spek your-self to him of this matere;

For with o word ye may his herte stere.

131. 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,

And that, by right, ye moste upon him triste,

And I al prest to fecche him whan yow liste.'

132. This accident so pitous was to here,

And eek so lyk a sooth, at pryme face,

And Troilus hir knight to hir so dere,

His privè 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.

133. Cryseyde answerde, 'as wisly god at reste

My 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,

At dulcarnon, right at my wittes ende.'

134. Quod Pandarus, 'ye, nece, wol ye here?

Dulcarnon called is "fleminge of wrecches";

It semeth hard, for wrecches wol not lere

For verray slouthe or othere wilful tecches;

This seyd by hem that be not worth two fecches.

But ye ben wys, and that we han on honde

Nis neither hard, ne skilful to withstonde.'

135. 'Thanne, eem,' quod she, 'doth her-of as yow list;

But er he come I wil up first aryse;

And, for the love of god, sin al my trist

Is 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.'

136. '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,

For love of god; and, Venus, I thee herie;

For sone hope I we shulle ben alle merie.'

137. This Troilus ful sone on knees him sette

Ful sobrely, right by hir beddes heed,

And in his beste wyse his lady grette;

But lord, so she wex sodeynliche reed!

Ne, though men sholden smyten of hir heed,

She coude nought a word a-right out-bringe

So sodeynly, for his sodeyn cominge.

138. But Pandarus, that so wel coude fele

In 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,

Ther god your hertes bringe sone at reste!'

139. Can I not seyn, for she bad him not ryse,

If sorwe it putte out of hir remembraunce,

Or elles if she toke it in the wyse

Of duëtee, as for his observaunce;

But 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.

140. Quod Pandarus, 'now wol ye wel biginne;

Now doth him sitte, gode nece dere,

Upon 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.

141. Criseyde, that was Troilus lady right,

And cleer stood on a ground of sikernesse,

Al thoughte she, hir servaunt and hir knight

Ne sholde of right non untrouthe in hir gesse,

Yet nathelees, considered his distresse,

And that love is in cause of swich folye,

Thus to him spak she of his Ielousye:

142. 'Lo, herte myn, as wolde the excellence

Of love, ayeins the which that no man may,

Ne oughte eek goodly maken resistence

And eek bycause I felte wel and say

Your 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.

143. And your goodnesse have I founde alwey yit,

Of 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,

Ben to yow trewe and hool, with al myn herte;

144. And dredelees, that shal be founde at preve.—-

But, herte myn, what al this is to seyne

Shal wel be told, so that ye noght yow greve,

Though I to yow right on your-self compleyne.

For ther-with mene I fynally the peyne,

That halt your herte and myn in hevinesse,

Fully to sleen, and every wrong redresse.

145. My goode, myn, not I for-why ne how

That Ialousye, allas! that wikked wivere,

Thus 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!

146. 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,

That undeserved suffrest Ialousye,

And that I wolde up-on thee pleyne and crye!

147. Eek al my wo is this, that folk now usen

To seyn right thus, "ye, Ialousye is love!"

And wolde a busshel venim al excusen,

For 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.

148. But certeyn is, som maner Ialousye

Is excusable more than som, y-wis.

As whan cause is, and som swich fantasye

With pietee so wel repressed is,

That it unnethe dooth or seyth amis,

But goodly drinketh up al his distresse;

And that excuse I, for the gentilesse.

149. And som so ful of furie is and despyt,

That it sourmounteth his repressioun;

But herte myn, ye be not in that plyt,

That thanke I god, for whiche your passioun

I wol not calle it but illusioun,

Of habundaunce of love and bisy cure,

That dooth your herte this disese endure.

150. Of which I am right sory, but not wrooth;

But, for my devoir and your hertes reste,

Wher-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?'

151. With that a fewe brighte teres newe

Out of hir eyen fille, and thus she seyde,

'Now god, thou wost, in thought ne dede untrewe

To Troilus was never yet Criseyde.'

With that hir heed doun in the bed she leyde,

And with the shete it wreigh, and syghed sore,

And held hir pees; not o word spak she more.

152. 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

Folwen 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.

153. This Troilus, whan he hir wordes herde,

Have ye no care, him liste not to slepe;

For it thoughte him no strokes of a yerde

To here or seen Criseyde his lady wepe;

But wel he felte aboute his herte crepe,

For every teer which that Criseyde asterte,

The crampe of deeth, to streyne him by the herte.

154. And in his minde he gan the tyme acurse

That he cam therë, and that he was born;

For now is wikke y-turned in-to worse,

And al that labour he hath doon biforn,

He wende it lost, he thoughte he nas but lorn.

'O Pandarus,' thoughte he, 'allas! thy wyle

Serveth of nought, so weylawey the whyle!'

155. And therwithal he heng a-doun the heed,

And fil on knees, and sorwfully he sighte;

What 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!'

156. Ther-with the sorwe so his herte shette,

That from his eyen fil ther not a tere,

And every spirit his vigour in-knette,

So they astoned and oppressed were.

The feling of his sorwe, or of his fere,

Or of ought elles, fled was out of towne;

And doun he fel al sodeynly a-swowne.

157. 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,

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;

158. And seyde, 'nece, but ye helpe us now,

Allas, 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, wol ye pullen out the thorn

That stiketh in his herte?' quod Pandare;

'Sey "al foryeve," and stint is al this fare!'

159. 'Ye, that to me,' quod she, 'ful lever were

Than 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,

Have 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.

160. Therwith his pous and pawmes of his hondes

They gan to frote, and wete his temples tweyne,

And, 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,

161. And 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?'

Quod tho Criseyde, 'is this a mannes game?

What, Troilus! wol ye do thus, for shame?'

162. 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

As fil to purpos for his herte reste.

And she to that answerde him as hir leste;

And with hir goodly wordes him disporte

She gan, and ofte his sorwes to comforte.

163. Quod Pandarus, 'for ought I can espyen,

This light nor I ne serven here of nought;

Light is not good for syke folkes yën.

But for the love of god, sin ye be brought

In thus good plyt, lat now non hevy thought

Ben hanginge in the hertes of yow tweye:'

And bar the candele to the chimeneye.

164. Sone after this, though it no nede were,

Whan she swich othes as hir list devyse

Hadde of him take, hir thoughte tho no fere,

Ne cause eek non, to bidde him thennes ryse.

Yet lesse thing than othes may suffyse

In many a cas; for every wight, I gesse,

That loveth wel meneth but gentilesse.

165. But in effect she wolde wite anoon

Of what man, and eek where, and also why

He 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.

166. With-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;

Not I not what, al dere y-nough a risshe,

As he that nedes moste a cause fisshe.

167. 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,

In 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.'

168. Tho Troilus gan sorwfully to syke,

Lest she be wrooth, him thoughte his herte deyde;

And seyde, 'allas! upon my sorwes syke

Have mercy, swete herte myn, Cryseyde!

And if that, in tho wordes that I seyde,

Be any wrong, I wol no more trespace;

Do what yow list, I am al in your grace.'

169. 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.'

'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.'

170. This Troilus, with blisse of that supprysed,

Put al in goddes hond, as he that mente

No-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.'

171. What mighte or may the sely larke seye,

Whan that the sparhauk 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,

After myn auctor, tellen hir gladnesse,

As wel as I have told hir hevinesse.

172. Criseyde, which that felte hir thus y-take,

As writen clerkes in hir bokes olde,

Right as an aspes leef she gan to quake,

Whan 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 to hevene.

173. This Troilus in armes gan hir streyne,

And 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,

Ben yolde, y-wis, I were now not here!'

174. O! sooth is seyd, that heled for to be

As of a fevre or othere greet syknesse,

Men moste drinke, as men may often see,

Ful bittre drink; and for to han gladnesse,

Men drinken often peyne and greet distresse;

I mene it here, as for this aventure,

That thourgh a peyne hath founden al his cure.

175. And now swetnesse semeth more sweet,

That bitternesse assayed was biforn;

For 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 hede

To werken thus, if it comth to the nede.

176. 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,

Bitrent and wryth the sote wode-binde,

Gan eche of hem in armes other winde.

177. And as the newe abaysshed nightingale,

That stinteth first whan she biginneth singe,

Whan that she hereth any herde tale,

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.

178. And right as he that seeth his deeth y-shapen,

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;

With worse hap god lat us never mete!

179. 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;

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.

180. Than seyde he thus, 'O, Love, O, Charitee,

Thy moder eek, Citherea the swete,

After thy-self next heried be she,

Venus mene I, the wel-willy planete;

And next that, Imenëus, I thee grete;

For never man was to yow goddes holde

As I, which ye han brought fro cares colde.

181. 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,

Yet were al lost, that dar I wel seyn, certes,

But-if thy grace passed our desertes.

182. 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,

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!'

183. And therwith-al Criseyde anoon he kiste,

Of 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 ese

As I, on whiche the faireste and the beste

That ever I say, deyneth hir herte reste.

184. 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,

So thenketh, though that I unworthy be,

Yet mot I nede amenden in som wyse,

Right thourgh the vertu of your heyghe servyse.

185. And for the love of god, my lady dere,

Sin god hath wrought me for I shal yow serve,

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.

186. For certes, fresshe wommanliche wyf,

This dar I seye, that trouthe and diligence,

That shal ye finden in me al my lyf,

Ne I wol not, certeyn, breken your defence;

And if I do, present or in absence,

For love of god, lat slee me with the dede,

If that it lyke un-to your womanhede.'

187. '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;

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!'