I never dide a thing with more peyne
Than wryte this, to which ye me constreyne;’
‘God woot, of thing ful ofte looth bigonne
Cometh ende good; and nece myn, Criseyde, 1235
That ye to him of hard now ben y-wonne
Oughte he be glad, by god and yonder sonne!
For-why men seyth, “impressioun[e]s lighte
Ful lightly been ay redy to the flighte.”
And hard was it your herte for to grave;
Now stint, that ye no longer on it honge,
Al wolde ye the forme of daunger save.
But hasteth yow to doon him joye have;
For trusteth wel, to longe y-doon hardnesse 1245
Causeth despyt ful often, for distresse.’
Lo, Troilus, right at the stretes ende,
Com ryding with his tenthe some y-fere,
Al softely, and thiderward gan bende 1250
Ther-as they sete, as was his wey to wende
To paleys-ward; and Pandare him aspyde,
And seyde, ‘nece, y-see who cometh here ryde!
Lest he may thinke that ye him eschuwe.’
‘Nay, nay,’ quod she, and wex as reed as rose. 1256
With that he gan hir humbly to saluwe,
With dreedful chere, and ofte his hewes muwe;
And up his look debonairly he caste,
And bekked on Pandare, and forth he paste. 1260
Or goodly was beseyn, that ilke day!
God woot wher he was lyk a manly knight!
What sholde I drecche, or telle of his aray?
Criseyde, which that alle these thinges say, 1265
To telle in short, hir lyked al y-fere,
His persone, his aray, his look, his chere,
So wel, that never, sith that she was born,
Ne hadde she swich routhe of his distresse;
And how-so she hath hard ben her-biforn,
To god hope I, she hath now caught a thorn.
She shal not pulle it out this nexte wyke;
God sende mo swich thornes on to pyke!
Felte iren hoot, and he bigan to smyte,
And seyde, ‘nece, I pray yow hertely,
Tel me that I shal axen yow a lyte.
A womman, that were of his deeth to wyte,
With- outen his gilt, but for hir lakked routhe, 1280
Were it wel doon?’ Quod she, ‘nay, by my trouthe!’
Ye felen wel your-self that I not lye;
Lo, yond he rit!’ Quod she, ‘ye, so he dooth.’
‘Wel,’ quod Pandare, ‘as I have told yow thrye, 1285
Lat be your nyce shame and your folye,
And spek with him in esing of his herte;
Lat nycetee not do yow bothe smerte.’
Considered al thing, it may not be; 1290
And why, for shame; and it were eek to sone
To graunten him so greet a libertee.
‘For playnly hir entente,’ as seyde she,
Was for to love him unwist, if she mighte,
And guerdon him with no-thing but with sighte.’ 1295
If that I may; this nyce opinioun
Shal not be holden fully yeres two.’
What sholde I make of this a long sermoun?
He moste assente on that conclusioun 1300
As for the tyme; and whan that it was eve,
And al was wel, he roos and took his leve.
And right for joye he felte his herte daunce;
And Troilus he fond alone a-bedde, 1305
That lay as dooth these loveres, in a traunce,
Bitwixen hope and derk desesperaunce.
But Pandarus, right at his in-cominge,
He song, as who seyth, ‘lo! sumwhat
I bringe.’
Y-buried thus?’ ‘It am I, freend,’ quod he.
‘Who, Troilus? nay helpe me so the mone,’
Quod Pandarus, ‘thou shalt aryse and see
A charme that was sent right now to thee,
The which can helen thee of thyn accesse, 1315
If thou do forth-with al thy besinesse.’
And Pandarus gan him the lettre take,
And seyde, ‘pardee, god hath holpen us;
Have here a light, and loke on al this blake.’ 1320
But ofte gan the herte glade and quake
Of Troilus, whyl that he gan it rede,
So as the wordes yave him hope or drede.
That she him wroot, for sumwhat he biheld 1325
On which, him thoughte, he mighte his herte reste,
Al covered she the wordes under sheld.
Thus to the more worthy
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