And if ye liggen wel to-night, com ofte,
And careth not what weder is on-lofte. 670
The wyn anon, and whan so that yow leste;
So go we slepe, I trowe it be the beste.’
The voydè dronke, and travers drawe anon,
Gan every wight, that hadde nought to done 675
More in that place, out of the chaumber gon.
And ever-mo so sternelich it ron,
And blew ther-with so wonderliche loude,
That wel neigh no man heren other coude.
With women swiche as were hir most aboute,
Ful glad un-to hir beddes syde hir broughte,
And took his leve, and gan ful lowe loute,
And seyde, ‘here at this closet-dore withoute,
Right over-thwart, your wommen liggen alle, 685
That, whom yow liste of hem, ye may here calle.’
And alle hir wommen forth by ordenaunce
A-bedde weren, ther as I have seyd,
There was no more to skippen nor to traunce, 690
But boden go to bedde, with mischaunce,
If any wight was steringe any-where,
And late hem slepe that a-bedde were.
The olde daunce, and every poynt ther-inne, 695
Whan that he sey that alle thing was we,
He thoughte he wolde up-on his werk biginne,
And gan the stewe-dore al softe un-pinne,
And stille as stoon, with-outen lenger lette,
By Troilus a-doun right he him sette. 700
Of al this werk he tolde him word and ende,
And seyde, ‘make thee redy right anon,
For thou shalt in-to hevene blisse wende.’
‘Now blisful Venus, thou me grace sende,’ 705
Quod Troilus, ‘for never yet no nede
Hadde I er now, ne halvendel the drede.’
For it shal been right as thou wilt desyre;
So thryve I, this night shal I make it wel, 710
Or casten al the gruwel in the fyre.’
‘Yit blisful Venus, this night thou me enspyre,’
Quod Troilus, ‘as wis as I thee serve,
And ever bet and bet shal, til I sterve.
Aspectes badde of Mars or of Saturne,
Or thou combust or let were in my birthe,
Thy fader pray al thilke harm disturne
Of grace, and that I glad ayein may turne;
For love of him thou lovedest in the shawe, 720
I mene Adoon, that with the boor was slawe.
The whiche in forme of bole away thou fette;
Now help, O Mars, thou with thy blody cope,
For love of Cipris, thou me nought ne lette; 725
O Phebus, thenk whan Dane hir-selven shette
Under the bark, and laurer wex for drede,
Yet for hir love, O help now at this nede!
For which Pallas was with Aglauros wrooth, 730
Now help, and eek Diane, I thee biseke,
That this viage be not to thee looth.
O fatal sustren, which, er any clooth
Me shapen was, my destenè me sponne,
So helpeth to this werk that is bi-gonne!’
Art thou agast so that she wol thee byte?
Why, don this furred cloke up-on thy sherte,
And folowe me, for I wol han the wyte;
But byd, and lat me go bifore a lyte.’ 740
And with that word he gan un-do a trappe,
And Troilus he broughte in by the lappe.
That no wight other noyse mighte here;
And they that layen at the dore withoute, 745
Ful sikerly they slepten alle y-fere;
And Pandarus, with a ful sobre chere,
Goth to the dore anon with-outen lette,
Ther-as they laye, and softely it shette.
His nece awook, and asked ‘who goth there?’ 751
‘My dere nece,’ quod he, ‘it am I;
Ne wondreth not, ne have of it no fere;’
And ner he com, and seyde hir in hir ere,
‘No word, for love of god I yow biseche;
Lat no wight ryse and heren of our speche.’ 756
Quod she, ‘and how thus unwist of hem alle?’
‘Here at this secree trappe-dore,’ quod he.
Quod tho Criseyde, ‘lat me som wight calle.’ 760
‘Ey! god forbede
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