But, on my part, ye may eft-sone him telle,
We usen here no wommen for to selle.’
As breme as blase of straw y-set on fyré;
For infortune it wolde, for the nones, 185
They sholden hir confusioun desyre.
‘Ector,’ quod they, ‘what goost may yow enspyre,
This womman thus to shilde and doon us lese
Daun Antenor?—a wrong wey now ye chese—
And we han nede of folk, as men may see; 191
He is eek oon, the grettest of this toun;
O Ector, lat tho fantasyës be!
O king Pryam,’ quod they, ‘thus seggen we, 194
That al our voys is to for-gon Criseyde;’
And to deliveren Antenor they preyde.
That litel witen folk what is to yerne
That they ne finde in hir desyr offence;
For cloud of errour lat hem not descerne
What best is; and lo, here ensample as yerne. 201
This folk desiren now deliveraunce
Of Antenor, that broughte hem to mischaunce!
Of Troye; allas! they quitte him out to rathe; 205
O nyce world, lo, thy discrecioun!
Criseyde, which that never dide hem skathe,
Shal now no lenger in hir blisse bathe;
But Antenor, he shal com hoom to toune
And she shal out: thus seyden here and howne. 210
For Antenor to yelden up Criseyde,
And it pronounced by the president,
Al-theigh that Ector ‘nay’ ful ofte preyde.
And fynaly, what wight that it withseyde, 215
It was for nought; it moste been, and sholde;
For substaunce of the parlement it wolde.
This Troilus, with-oute wordes mo,
Un-to his chaumbre spedde him faste allone, 220
But-if it were a man of his or two,
The whiche he bad out faste for to go,
By-cause he wolde slepen, as he seyde,
And hastely up-on his bed him leyde.
Eche after other, til the tree be bare,
So that ther nis but bark and braunche y-laft,
Lyth Troilus, biraft of ech wel-fare,
Y-bounden in the blake bark of care,
Disposed wood out of his wit to breyde,
So sore him sat the chaunginge of Criseyde. 231
And windowe eek, and tho this sorweful man
Up-on his beddes syde a-doun him sette,
Ful lyk a deed image pale and wan; 235
And in his brest the heped wo bigan
Out-breste, and he to werken in this wyse
In his woodnesse, as I shal yow devyse.
Now here, now there, y-darted to the herte, 240
And of his deeth roreth in compleyninge,
Right so gan he aboute the chaumbre sterte,
Smyting his brest ay with his festes smerte;
His heed to the wal, his body to the grounde
Ful ofte he swapte, him-selven to confounde. 245
Out stremeden as swifte welles tweye;
The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte
His speche him rafte, unnethes mighte he seye, 249
‘O deeth, allas! why niltow do me deye?
A-cursed be the day which that nature
Shoop me to ben a lyves creature!’
Which that his herte twiste and faste threste, 254
By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan asswage,
Up-on his bed he leyde him doun to reste;
But tho bigonne his teres more out-breste,
That wonder is, the body may suffyse
To half this wo, which that I yow devyse.
What have I doon, what have I thus a-gilt?
How mightestow for reuthe me bigyle?
Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt?
Shal thus Criseyde awey, for that thou wilt? 264
Allas! how maystow in thyn herte finde
To been to me thus cruel and unkinde?
As thou wel wost, above the goddes alle?
Why wiltow me fro joye thus depryve?
O Troilus, what may men now thee calle
But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle 271
In-to miserie in which I wol biwayle
Criseyde, allas! til that the breeth me fayle?
Displesed hadde un-to thy foule envye,
Why ne haddestow my
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