That; sin ye nolde in trouthe to me stonde,
That ye thus nolde han holden me in honde! 1680
Allas, I never wolde han wend, er this,
That ye, Criseyde, coude han chaunged so;
Ne, but I hadde a-gilt and doon amis, 1684
So cruel wende I not your herte, y-wis,
To slee me thus; allas, your name of trouthe
Is now for-doon, and that is al my routhe.
To feffe with your newe love,’ quod he, 1689
‘But thilke broche that I, with teres wete,
Yow yaf, as for a remembraunce of me?
Non other cause, allas, ne hadde ye
But for despyt, and eek for that ye mento
Al-outrely to shewen your entento!
Ye han me cast, and I ne can nor may,
For al this world, with-in myn herte finde
T’unloven yow a quarter of a day!
In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway!
That ye, that doon me al this wo endure,
Yet love I best of any creature. 1701
That I may meten with this Diomede!
And trewely, if I have might and space,
Yet shal I make, I hope, his sydes blede.
O god,’ quod he, ‘that oughtest taken hede
To fortheren trouthe, and wronges to punyce, 1707
Why niltow doon a vengeaunce on this vyce?
Me blamed hast, and wont art ofte upbreyde, 1710
Now maystow see thy-selve, if that thee liste,
How trewe is now thy nece, bright Criseyde!
In sondry formes, god it woot,’ he seyde,
‘The goddes shewen bothe joye and tene
In slepe, and by my dreme it is now sene.
From hennes-forth, as ferforth as I may,
Myn owene deeth in armes wol I seche;
I recche not how sone be the day!
But trewely, Criseyde, swete may, 1720
Whom I have ay with al my might y-served,
That ye thus doon, I have it nought deserved.’
And wiste wel he seyde a sooth of this,
He nought a word ayein to him answerde;
For sory of his frendes sorwe he is, 1726
And shamed, for his nece hath doon a-mis;
And stant, astoned of these causes tweye,
As stille as stoon; a word ne coude he seye.
‘My brother dere, I may thee do no-more.
What shulde I seyn? I hate, y-wis, Criseyde!
And god wot, I wol hate hir evermore!
And that thou me bisoughtest doon of yore, 1734
Havinge un-to myn honour ne my reste
Right no reward, I dide al that thee leste.
It is me leef; and of this treson now,
God woot, that it a sorwe is un-to me!
And dredelees, for hertes ese of yow, 1740
Right fayn wolde I amende it, wiste I how.
And fro this world, almighty god I preye,
Delivere hir sone; I can no-more seye.’
But forth hir cours fortune ay gan to holde. 1745
Criseyde loveth the sone of Tydeus,
And Troilus mot wepe in cares colde.
Swich is this world; who-so it can biholde,
In eche estat is litel hertes reste; 1749
God leve us for to take it for the beste!
Of Troilus, this ilke noble knight,
As men may in these olde bokes rede,
Was sene his knighthod and his grete might.
And dredelees, his ire, day and night, 1755
Ful cruelly the Grekes ay aboughte;
And alwey most this Diomede he soughte.
With blody strokes and with wordes grete,
Assayinge how hir speres weren whette;
And god it woot, with many a cruel hete
Gan Troilus upon his helm to- bete.
But natheles, fortune it nought ne wolde,
Of otheres hond that either deyen sholde.—
The armes of this ilke worthy man, 1766
Than wolde I of his batailles endyte.
But for that I to wryte first bigan
Of his love, I have seyd as that I can. 1769
His worthy
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