So cruel wende I not your herte, y-wis,

To slee me thus; allas, your name of trouthe

Is now for-doon, and that is al my routhe.

242. Was ther non other broche yow liste lete

To feffe with your newe love,' quod he,

'But thilke broche that I, with teres wete,

Yow yaf, as for a remembraunce of me?

Non other cause, allas, ne hadde ye

But for despyt, and eek for that ye mente

Al-outrely to shewen your entente!

243. Through which I see that clene out of your minde

Ye han me cast, and I ne can nor may,

For al this world, with-in myn herte finde

To unloven yow a quarter of a day!

In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway!

That ye, that doon me al this wo endure,

Yet love I best of any creature.

244. Now god,' quod he, 'me sende yet the grace

That I may meten with this Diomede!

And trewely, if I have might and space,

Yet shal I make, I hope, his sydes blede.

O god,' quod he, 'that oughtest taken hede

To fortheren trouthe, and wronges to punyce,

Why niltow doon a vengeaunce on this vyce?

245. O Pandare, that in dremes for to triste

Me blamed hast, and wont art ofte up-breyde,

Now maystow see thy-selve, if that thee liste,

How trewe is now thy nece, bright Criseyde!

In sondry formes, god it woot,' he seyde,

'The goddes shewen bothe Ioye and tene

In slepe, and by my dreme it is now sene.

246. And certaynly, with-oute more speche,

From hennes-forth, as ferforth as I may,

Myn owene deeth in armes wol I seche;

I recche not how sone be the day!

But trewely, Criseyde, swete may,

Whom I have ay with al my might y-served,

That ye thus doon, I have it nought deserved.'

247. This Pandarus, that alle these thinges herde,

And wiste wel he seyde a sooth of this,

He nought a word ayein to him answerde;

For sory of his frendes sorwe he is,

And shamed, for his nece hath doon a-mis;

And stant, astoned of these causes tweye,

As stille as stoon; a word ne coude he seye.

248. But at the laste thus he spak, and seyde,

'My brother dere, I may thee do no-more.

What shulde I seyn? I hate, y-wis, Criseyde!

And god wot, I wol hate hir evermore!

And that thou me bisoughtest doon of yore,

Havinge un-to myn honour ne my reste

Right no reward, I dide al that thee leste.

249. If I dide ought that mighte lyken thee,

It is me leef; and of this treson now,

God woot, that it a sorwe is un-to me!

And dredelees, for hertes ese of yow,

Right fayn wolde I amende it, wiste I how.

And fro this world, almighty god I preye,

Delivere hir sone; I can no-more seye.'

250. Gret was the sorwe and pleynt of Troilus;

But forth hir cours fortune ay gan to holde.

Criseyde loveth the sone of Tydeus,

And Troilus mot wepe in cares colde.

Swich is this world; who-so it can biholde,

In eche estat is litel hertes reste;

God leve us for to take it for the beste!

251. In many cruel batayle, out of drede,

Of Troilus, this ilke noble knight,

As men may in these olde bokes rede,

Was sene his knighthod and his grete might.

And dredelees, his ire, day and night,

Ful cruelly the Grekes ay aboughte;

And alwey most this Diomede he soughte.

252. And ofte tyme, I finde that they mette

With blody strokes and with wordes grete,

Assayinge how hir speres weren whette;

And god it woot, with many a cruel hete

Gan Troilus upon his helm to-bete.

But natheles, fortune it nought ne wolde,

Of otheres hond that either deyen sholde.—

253. And if I hadde y-taken for to wryte

The armes of this ilke worthy man,

Than wolde I of his batailles endyte.

But for that I to wryte first bigan

Of his love, I have seyd as that I can.

His worthy dedes, who-so list hem here,

Reed Dares, he can telle hem alle y-fere.

254. Bisechinge every lady bright of hewe,

And every gentil womman, what she be,

That al be that Criseyde was untrewe,

That for that gilt she be not wrooth with me.

Ye may hir gilt in othere bokes see;

And gladlier I wol wryten, if yow leste,

Penelopeës trouthe and good Alceste.

255. Ne I sey not this al-only for these men,

But most for wommen that bitraysed be

Through false folk; god yeve hem sorwe, amen!

That with hir grete wit and subtiltee

Bitrayse yow! and this commeveth me

To speke, and in effect yow alle I preye,

Beth war of men, and herkeneth what I seye!—

256. Go, litel book, go litel myn tregedie,

Ther god thy maker yet, er that he dye,

So sende might to make in som comedie!

But litel book, no making thou nenvye,

But subgit be to alle poesye;

And kis the steppes, wher-as thou seest pace

Virgile, Ovyde, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.

257. And for ther is so greet diversitee

In English and in wryting of our tonge,

So preye I god that noon miswryte thee,

Ne thee mismetre for defaute of tonge.

And red wher-so thou be, or elles songe,

That thou be understonde I god beseche!

But yet to purpos of my rather speche.—

258. The wraththe, as I began yow for to seye,

Of Troilus, the Grekes boughten dere;

For thousandes his hondes maden deye,

As he that was with-outen any pere,

Save Ector, in his tyme, as I can here.

But weylaway, save only goddes wille,

Dispitously him slough the fiers Achille.

259. And whan that he was slayn in this manere,

His lighte goost ful blisfully is went

Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere,

In convers letinge every element;

And ther he saugh, with ful avysement,

The erratik sterres, herkeninge armonye

With sownes fulle of hevenish melodye.

260. And doun from thennes faste he gan avyse

This litel spot of erthe, that with the see

Enbraced is, and fully gan despyse

This wrecched world, and held al vanitee

To respect of the pleyn felicitee

That is in hevene above; and at the laste,

Ther he was slayn, his loking doun he caste;

261. And in him-self he lough right at the wo

Of hem that wepten for his deeth so faste;

And dampned al our werk that folweth so

The blinde lust, the which that may not laste,

And sholden al our herte on hevene caste.

And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,

Ther as Mercurie sorted him to dwelle.—

262. Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love,

Swich fyn hath al his grete worthinesse;

Swich fyn hath his estat real above,

Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse;

Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse.

And thus bigan his lovinge of Criseyde,

As I have told, and in this wyse he deyde.

263. O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she,

In which that love up groweth with your age,

Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,

And of your herte up-casteth the visage

To thilke god that after his image

Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre

This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.

264. And loveth him, the which that right for love

Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,

First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;

For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,

That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.

And sin he best to love is, and most meke,

What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?

265. Lo here, of Payens corsed olde rytes,

Lo here, what alle hir goddes may availle;

Lo here, these wrecched worldes appetytes;

Lo here, the fyn and guerdon for travaille

Of Iove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascaille!

Lo here, the forme of olde clerkes speche

In poetrye, if ye hir bokes seche.—

266. O moral Gower, this book I directe

To thee, and to the philosophical Strode,

To vouchen sauf, ther nede is, to corecte,

Of your benignitees and zeles gode.

And to that sothfast Crist, that starf on rode,

With al myn herte of mercy ever I preye;

And to the lord right thus I speke and seye:

267. Thou oon, and two, and three, eterne on-lyve,

That regnest ay in three and two and oon,

Uncircumscript, and al mayst circumscryve,

Us from visible and invisible foon

Defende; and to thy mercy, everichoon,

So make us, Iesus, for thy grace digne,

For love of mayde and moder thyn benigne! Amen.