Quod Pandarus, ‘that ye swich foly wroughte!
They mighte deme thing they never er thoughte!
Ne yeve a wight a cause to devyne; 765
Your wommen slepen alle, I under-take,
So that, for hem, the hous men mighte myne;
And slepen wolen til the sonne shyne.
And whan my tale al brought is to an ende,
Unwist, right as I com, so wol I wende.
Quod he, ‘so as ye wommen demen alle,
That for to holde in love a man in honde,
And him hir “leef” and “dere herte” calle,
And maken him an howve above a calle,
I mene, as love an other in this whyle, 776
She doth hir-self a shame, and him a gyle.
Ye woot your-self, as wel as any wight,
How that your love al fully graunted is
To Troilus, the worthieste knight, 781
Oon of this world, and ther-to trouthe plyght,
That, but it were on him along, ye nolde
Him never falsen, whyl ye liven sholde.
This Troilus, right platly for to seyn,
Is thurgh a goter, by a privè wente,
In-to my chaumbre come in al this reyn,
Unwist of every maner wight, certeyn,
Save of my-self, as wisly have I joye, 790
And by that feith I shal Pryam of Troye!
That, but he be al fully wood by this,
He sodeynly mot falle in-to wodnesse,
But-if god helpe; and cause why this is,
He seyth him told is, of a freend of his,
How that ye sholde love oon that hatte
Horaste, 797
For sorwe of which this night shalt been his laste.’
Gan sodeynly aboute hir herte colde, 800
And with a sky she sorwfully answerde,
‘Allas! I wende, who-so tales tolde
My dere herte wolde me not holde
So lightly fals! allas! conceytes wronge,
What harm they doon, for now live I to longe! 805
I knowe him not, god helpe me so,’ quod she;
‘Allas! what wikked spirit tolde him thus?
Now certes, eem, to-morwe, and I him see,
I shal ther-of as ful excusen me 810
As ever dide womman, if him lyke’;
And with that word she gan ful sore syke.
Which clerkes callen fals felicitee,
Y-medled is with many a bitternesse! 815
Ful anguisshous than is, god woot,’ quod she,
‘Condicioun of veyn prosperitee;
For either joyes comen nought y-fere,
Or elles no wight hath hem alwey here.
With what wight so thou be, or how thou pleye,
Either he woot that thou, joye, art muable,
Or woot it not, it moot ben oon of tweye;
Now if he woot it not, how may he seye
That he hath verray joye and selinesse, 825
That is of ignoraunce ay in derknesse?
As every joye of worldly thing mot flee,
Than every tyme he that hath in memorie,
The drede of lesing maketh him that he
May in no parfit selinesse be. 831
And if to lese his joye he set a myte,
Than semeth it that joye is worth ful lyte.
That trewely, for ought I can espye, 835
Ther is no verray wele in this world here.
But O, thou wikked serpent Jalousye,
Thou misbeleved and envious folye,
Why hastow Troilus me mad untriste,
That never yet agilte him, that I wiste?’
‘Why uncle myn,’ quod she, ‘who tolde him this?
Why doth my dere herte thus, allas?’
‘Ye woot, ye nece myn,’ quod he, ‘what is;
I hope al shal be wel that is amis. 845
For ye may quenche al this, if that yow leste,
And doth right so, for I holde it the beste.’
‘And god to-forn, so that it shal suffyse.’
‘To-morwe? allas, that were a fayr,’ quod he, 850
‘Nay, nay it may not stonden in this wyse;
For, nece myn, thus wryten clerkes wyse,
That peril is with drecching in y-drawe;
Nay, swich abodes been nought worth an hawe.
For whan a chaumber a-fyr is, or an halle,
Wel more
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