And if that I be giltif, do me deye, 1049
Allas! what mighte I more doon or seye?’
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, 1055
And with the shete it wreigh, and syghed sore,
And held hir pees; not o word spak she more.
So hope I that he shal, for he best may;
For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe 1060
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.
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, 1070
The crampe of deeth, to streyne him by the herte.
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. 1076
‘O Pandarus,’ thoughte he, ‘allas! thy wyle
Serveth of nought, so weylawey the whyle!’
And fil on knees, and sorwfully he sighte;
What mighte he seyn? he felte he nas but deed, 1081
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!’
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, 1090
Or of ought elles, fled was out of towne;
And doun he fel al sodeynly a-swowne.
But al was hust, and Pandare up as faste,
‘O nece, pees, or we be lost,’ quod he, 1095
‘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;
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!’ 1106
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, 1110
Have here my trouthe and many another ooth;
Now speek to me, for it am I, Criseyde!’
But al for nought; yet mighte he not a-breyde.
They gan to frote, and wete his temples tweyne, 1115
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,
But wonder sore he was abayst, y-wis.
And with a syk, whan he gan bet a-wake,
He seyde, ‘O merey, god, what thing is this?’
‘Why do ye with your-selven thus amis?’
Quod tho Criseyde, ‘is this a mannes game? 1126
What, Troilus! wol ye do thus, for shame?’
And al foryaf, and ofte tyme him keste.
He thonked hir, and to hir spak, and seyde 1130
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.
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:’ 1140
And bar the candel to the chimeneye.
Whan she swich othes as hir list devyse
Hadde of him take,
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |