Troilus And Criseyde: Book 03

Incipit prohemium tercii libri.

O blisful light of whiche the bemes clere

Adorneth al the thridde hevene faire!

O sonnes lief, O Ioves doughter dere,

Plesaunce of love, O goodly debonaire,

In gentil hertes ay redy to repaire!

O verray cause of hele and of gladnesse,

Y-heried be thy might and thy goodnesse!

In hevene and helle, in erthe and salte see

Is felt thy might, if that I wel descerne;

As man, brid, best, fish, herbe and grene tree

Thee fele in tymes with vapour eterne.

God loveth, and to love wol nought werne;

And in this world no lyves creature,

With-outen love, is worth, or may endure.

Ye Ioves first to thilke effectes glade,

Thorugh which that thinges liven alle and be,

Comeveden, and amorous him made

On mortal thing, and as yow list, ay ye

Yeve him in love ese or adversitee;

And in a thousand formes doun him sente

For love in erthe, and whom yow liste, he hente.

Ye fierse Mars apeysen of his ire,

And, as yow list, ye maken hertes digne;

Algates, hem that ye wol sette a-fyre,

They dreden shame, and vices they resigne;

Ye do hem corteys be, fresshe and benigne,

And hye or lowe, after a wight entendeth;

The Ioyes that he hath, your might him sendeth.

Ye holden regne and hous in unitee;

Ye soothfast cause of frendship been also;

Ye knowe al thilke covered qualitee

Of thinges which that folk on wondren so,

Whan they can not construe how it may io,

She loveth him, or why he loveth here;

As why this fish, and nought that, comth to were.

Ye folk a lawe han set in universe,

And this knowe I by hem that loveres be,

That who-so stryveth with yow hath the werse:

Now, lady bright, for thy benignitee,

At reverence of hem that serven thee,

Whos clerk I am, so techeth me devyse

Som Ioye of that is felt in thy servyse.

Ye in my naked herte sentement

Inhelde, and do me shewe of thy swetnesse. --

Caliope, thy vois be now present,

For now is nede; sestow not my destresse,

How I mot telle anon-right the gladnesse

Of Troilus, to Venus heryinge?

To which gladnes, who nede hath, god him bringe!

Explicit prohemium Tercii Libri.

Incipit Liber Tercius.

Lay al this mene whyle Troilus,

Recordinge his lessoun in this manere,

'Ma fey!' thought he, 'Thus wole I seye and thus;

Thus wole I pleyne unto my lady dere;

That word is good, and this shal be my chere;

This nil I not foryeten in no wyse.'

God leve him werken as he can devyse!

And, lord, so that his herte gan to quappe,

Heringe hir come, and shorte for to syke!

And Pandarus, that ledde hir by the lappe,

Com ner, and gan in at the curtin pyke,

And seyde, 'God do bote on alle syke!

See, who is here yow comen to visyte;

Lo, here is she that is your deeth to wyte.'

Ther-with it semed as he wepte almost;

'A ha,' quod Troilus so rewfully,

'Wher me be wo, O mighty god, thow wost!

Who is al there? I se nought trewely.'

'Sire,' quod Criseyde, 'it is Pandare and I.'

'Ye, swete herte? Allas, I may nought ryse

To knele, and do yow honour in som wyse.'

And dressede him upward, and she right tho

Gan bothe here hondes softe upon him leye,

'O, for the love of god, do ye not so

To me,' quod she, 'Ey! What is this to seye?

Sire, come am I to yow for causes tweye;

First, yow to thonke, and of your lordshipe eke

Continuance I wolde yow biseke.'

This Troilus, that herde his lady preye

Of lordship him, wex neither quik ne deed,

Ne mighte a word for shame to it seye,

Al-though men sholde smyten of his heed.

But lord, so he wex sodeinliche reed,

And sire, his lesson, that he wende conne,

To preyen hir, is thurgh his wit y-ronne.

Cryseyde al this aspyede wel y-nough,

For she was wys, and lovede him never-the-lasse,

Al nere he malapert, or made it tough,

Or was to bold, to singe a fool a masse.

But whan his shame gan somwhat to passe,

His resons, as I may my rymes holde,

I yow wole telle, as techen bokes olde.

In chaunged vois, right for his verray drede,

Which vois eek quook, and ther-to his manere

Goodly abayst, and now his hewes rede,

Now pale, un-to Criseyde, his lady dere,

With look doun cast and humble yolden chere,

Lo, the alderfirste word that him asterte

Was, twyes, 'Mercy, mercy, swete herte!'

And stinte a whyl, and whan he mighte out-bringe,

The nexte word was, 'God wot, for I have,

As feyfully as I have had konninge,

Ben youres, also god so my sowle save;

And shal til that I, woful wight, be grave.

And though I dar ne can un-to yow pleyne,

Y-wis, I suffre nought the lasse peyne.

'Thus muche as now, O wommanliche wyf,

I may out-bringe, and if this yow displese,

That shal I wreke upon myn owne lyf

Right sone, I trowe, and doon your herte an ese,

If with my deeth your herte I may apese.

But sin that ye han herd me som-what seye,

Now recche I never how sone that I deye.'

Ther-with his manly sorwe to biholde,

It mighte han maad an herte of stoon to rewe;

And Pandare weep as he to watre wolde,

And poked ever his nece newe and newe,

And seyde, 'Wo bigon ben hertes trewe!

For love of god, make of this thing an ende,

Or slee us bothe at ones, er that ye wende.'

'I? What?' quod she, 'By god and by my trouthe,

I noot nought what ye wilne that I seye.'

'I? What?' quod he, 'That ye han on him routhe,

For goddes love, and doth him nought to deye.'

'Now thanne thus,' quod she, 'I wolde him preye

To telle me the fyn of his entente;

Yet wist I never wel what that he mente.'

'What that I mene, O swete herte dere?'

Quod Troilus, 'O goodly, fresshe free!

That, with the stremes of your eyen clere,

Ye wolde som-tyme freendly on me see,

And thanne agreen that I may ben he,

With-oute braunche of vyce on any wyse,

In trouthe alwey to doon yow my servyse,

'As to my lady right and chief resort,

With al my wit and al my diligence,

And I to han, right as yow list, comfort,

Under your yerde, egal to myn offence,

As deeth, if that I breke your defence;

And that ye deigne me so muche honoure,

Me to comaunden ought in any houre.

'And I to ben your verray humble trewe,

Secret, and in my paynes pacient,

And ever-mo desire freshly newe,

To serven, and been y-lyke ay diligent,

And, with good herte, al holly your talent

Receyven wel, how sore that me smerte,

Lo, this mene I, myn owene swete herte.'

Quod Pandarus, 'Lo, here an hard request,

And resonable, a lady for to werne!

Now, nece myn, by natal Ioves fest,

Were I a god, ye sholde sterve as yerne,

That heren wel, this man wol no-thing yerne

But your honour, and seen him almost sterve,

And been so looth to suffren him yow serve.'

With that she gan hir eyen on him caste

Ful esily, and ful debonairly,

Avysing hir, and hyed not to faste

With never a word, but seyde him softely,

'Myn honour sauf, I wol wel trewely,

And in swich forme as he can now devyse,

Receyven him fully to my servyse,

'Biseching him, for goddes love, that he

Wolde, in honour of trouthe and gentilesse,

As I wel mene, eek mene wel to me,

And myn honour, with wit and besinesse

Ay kepe; and if I may don him gladnesse,

From hennes-forth, y-wis, I nil not feyne:

Now beeth al hool; no lenger ye ne pleyne.

'But nathelees, this warne I yow,' quod she,

'A kinges sone al-though ye be, y-wis,

Ye shal na-more have soverainetee

Of me in love, than right in that cas is;

Ne I nil forbere, if that ye doon a-mis,

To wrathen yow; and whyl that ye me serve,

Cherycen yow right after ye deserve.

'And shortly, dere herte and al my knight,

Beth glad, and draweth yow to lustinesse,

And I shal trewely, with al my might,

Your bittre tornen al in-to swetenesse.

If I be she that may yow do gladnesse,

For every wo ye shal recovere a blisse';

And him in armes took, and gan him kisse.

Fil Pandarus on knees, and up his eyen

To hevene threw, and held his hondes hye,

'Immortal god!' quod he, 'That mayst nought dyen,

Cupide I mene, of this mayst glorifye;

And Venus, thou mayst maken melodye;

With-outen hond, me semeth that in the towne,

For this merveyle, I here ech belle sowne.

'But ** No more as now of this matere,

For-why this folk wol comen up anoon,

That han the lettre red; lo, I hem here.

But I coniure thee, Criseyde, and oon,

And two, thou Troilus, whan thow mayst goon,

That at myn hous ye been at my warninge,

For I ful wel shal shape youre cominge;

'And eseth ther your hertes right y-nough;

And lat see which of yow shal bere the belle

To speke of love a-right!' ther-with he lough,

'For ther have ye a layser for to telle.'

Quod Troilus, 'How longe shal I dwelle

Er this be doon?' Quod he, 'Whan thou mayst ryse,

This thing shal be right as I yow devyse.'

With that Eleyne and also Deiphebus

Tho comen upward, right at the steyres ende;

And Lord, so than gan grone Troilus,

His brother and his suster for to blende.

Quod Pandarus, 'It tyme is that we wende;

Tak, nece myn, your leve at alle three,

And lat hem speke, and cometh forth with me.'

She took hir leve at hem ful thriftily,

As she wel coude, and they hir reverence

Un-to the fulle diden hardely,

And speken wonder wel, in hir absence,

Of hir, in preysing of hir excellence,

Hir governaunce, hir wit; and hir manere

Commendeden, it Ioye was to here.

Now lat hir wende un-to hir owne place,

And torne we to Troilus a-yein,

That gan ful lightly of the lettre passe

That Deiphebus hadde in the gardin seyn.

And of Eleyne and him he wolde fayn

Delivered been, and seyde that him leste

To slepe, and after tales have reste.

Eleyne him kiste, and took hir leve blyve,

Deiphebus eek, and hoom wente every wight;

And Pandarus, as faste as he may dryve,

To Troilus tho com, as lyne right;

And on a paillet, al that glade night,

By Troilus he lay, with mery chere,

To tale; and wel was hem they were y-fere.

Whan every wight was voided but they two,

And alle the dores were faste y-shette,

To telle in short, with-oute wordes mo,

This Pandarus, with-outen any lette,

Up roos, and on his beddes syde him sette,

And gan to speken in a sobre wyse

To Troilus, as I shal yow devyse:

'Myn alderlevest lord, and brother dere,

God woot, and thou, that it sat me so sore,

When I thee saw so languisshing to-yere,

For love, of which thy wo wex alwey more;

That I, with al my might and al my lore,

Have ever sithen doon my bisinesse

To bringe thee to Ioye out of distresse,

'And have it brought to swich plyt as thou wost,

So that, thorugh me, thow stondest now in weye

To fare wel, I seye it for no bost,

And wostow which? For shame it is to seye,

For thee have I bigonne a gamen pleye

Which that I never doon shal eft for other,

Al-though he were a thousand fold my brother.

'That is to seye, for thee am I bicomen,

Bitwixen game and ernest, swich a mene

As maken wommen un-to men to comen;

Al sey I nought, thou wost wel what I mene.

For thee have I my nece, of vyces clene,

So fully maad thy gentilesse triste,

That al shal been right as thy-selve liste.

'But god, that al wot, take I to witnesse,

That never I this for coveityse wroughte,

But only for to abregge that distresse,

For which wel nygh thou deydest, as me thoughte.

But, gode brother, do now as thee oughte,

For goddes love, and kep hir out of blame,

Sin thou art wys, and save alwey hir name.

'For wel thou wost, the name as yet of here

Among the peple, as who seyth, halwed is;

For that man is unbore, I dar wel swere,

That ever wiste that she dide amis.

But wo is me, that I, that cause al this,

May thenken that she is my nece dere,

And I hir eem, and trattor eek y-fere!

'And were it wist that I, through myn engyn,

Hadde in my nece y-put this fantasye,

To do thy lust, and hoolly to be thyn,

Why, al the world up-on it wolde crye,

And seye, that I the worste trecherye

Dide in this cas, that ever was bigonne,

And she for-lost, and thou right nought y-wonne.

'Wher-fore, er I wol ferther goon a pas,

Yet eft I thee biseche and fully seye,

That privetee go with us in this cas;

That is to seye, that thou us never wreye;

And be nought wrooth, though I thee ofte preye

To holden secree swich an heigh matere;

For skilful is, thow wost wel, my preyere.

'And thenk what wo ther hath bitid er this,

For makinge of avantes, as men rede;

And what mischaunce in this world yet ther is,

Fro day to day, right for that wikked dede;

For which these wyse clerkes that ben dede

Han ever yet proverbed to us yonge,

That "Firste vertu is to kepe tonge."

'And, nere it that I wilne as now tabregge

Diffusioun of speche, I coude almost

A thousand olde stories thee alegge

Of wommen lost, thorugh fals and foles bost;

Proverbes canst thy-self y-nowe, and wost,

Ayeins that vyce, for to been a labbe,

Al seyde men sooth as often as they gabbe.

'O tonge, allas! So often here-biforn

Hastow made many a lady bright of hewe

Seyd, "Welawey! The day that I was born!"

And many a maydes sorwes for to newe;

And, for the more part, al is untrewe

That men of yelpe, and it were brought to preve;

Of kinde non avauntour is to leve.

'Avauntour and a lyere, al is on;

As thus: I pose, a womman graunte me

Hir love, and seyth that other wol she non,

And I am sworn to holden it secree,

And after I go telle it two or three;

Y-wis, I am avauntour at the leste,

And lyere, for I breke my biheste.

'Now loke thanne, if they be nought to blame,

Swich maner folk; what shal I clepe hem, what,

That hem avaunte of wommen, and by name,

That never yet bihighte hem this ne that,

Ne knewe hem more than myn olde hat?

No wonder is, so god me sende hele,

Though wommen drede with us men to dele.

'I sey not this for no mistrust of yow,

Ne for no wys man, but for foles nyce,

And for the harm that in the world is now,

As wel for foly ofte as for malyce;

For wel wot I, in wyse folk, that vyce

No womman drat, if she be wel avysed;

For wyse ben by foles harm chastysed.

'But now to purpos; leve brother dere,

Have al this thing that I have seyd in minde,

And keep thee clos, and be now of good chere,

For at thy day thou shalt me trewe finde.

I shal thy proces sette in swich a kinde,

And god to-forn, that it shall thee suffyse,

For it shal been right as thou wolt devyse.

'For wel I woot, thou menest wel, parde;

Therfore I dar this fully undertake.

Thou wost eek what thy lady graunted thee,

And day is set, the chartres up to make.

Have now good night, I may no lenger wake;

And bid for me, sin thou art now in blisse,

That god me sende deeth or sone lisse.'

Who mighte telle half the Ioye or feste

Which that the sowle of Troilus tho felte,

Heringe theffect of Pandarus biheste?

His olde wo, that made his herte swelte,

Gan tho for Ioye wasten and to-melte,

And al the richesse of his sykes sore

At ones fledde, he felte of hem no more.

But right so as these holtes and these hayes,

That han in winter dede been and dreye,

Revesten hem in grene, whan that May is,

Whan every ***** lyketh best to pleye;

Right in that selve wyse, sooth to seye,

Wax sodeynliche his herte ful of Ioye,

That gladder was ther never man in Troye.

And gan his look on Pandarus up caste

Ful sobrely, and frendly for to see,

And seyde, 'Freend, in Aprille the laste,

As wel thou wost, if it remembre thee,

How neigh the deeth for wo thou founde me;

And how thou didest al thy bisinesse

To knowe of me the cause of my distresse.

'Thou wost how longe I it for-bar to seye

To thee, that art the man that I best triste;

And peril was it noon to thee by-wreye,

That wiste I wel; but tel me, if thee liste,

Sith I so looth was that thy-self it wiste,

How dorst I mo tellen of this matere,

That quake now, and no wight may us here?

'But natheles, by that god I thee swere,

That, as him list, may al this world governe,

And, if I lye, Achilles with his spere

Myn herte cleve, al were my lyf eterne,

As I am mortal, if I late or yerne

Wolde it b