But leve no dreem, for it is nought to done.
And treweliche eek augurie of thise foules; 380
For fere of which men wenen lese her lyves,
As ravenes qualm, or shryking of thise oules.
To trowen on it bothe fals and foul is.
Allas, allas, so noble a creature
As is a man, shal drede swich ordure! 385
Un-to thy-self that al this thou foryive;
And rys up now with-oute more speche,
And lat us caste how forth may best be drive
This tyme, and eek how freshly we may live 390
Whan that she cometh, the which shal be right-sone;
God help me so, the beste is thus to done.
That we han lad, and forth the tyme dryve;
And eek of tyme cominge us rejoye, 395
That bringen shal our blisse now so blyve;
And langour of these twyës dayes fyve
We shal ther-with so foryete or oppresse,
That wel unnethe it doon shal us duresse.
And trewes lasten al this mene whyle.
Go we pleye us in som lusty route 402
To Sarpedon, not hennes but a myle.
And thus thou shalt the tyme wel bigyle,
And dryve it forth un-to that blisful morwe, 405
That thou hir see, that cause is of thy sorwe.
For certes, it noon honour is to thee
To wepe, and in thy bed to jouken thus.
For trewely, of o thing trust to me, 410
If thou thus ligge a day, or two, or three,
The folk wol wene that thou, for cowardyse,
Thee feynest syk, and that thou darst not ryse.’
This knowen folk that han y-suffred peyne, 415
That though he wepe and make sorwful chere,
That feleth harm and smert in every veyne,
No wonder is; and though I ever pleyne,
Or alwey wepe, I am no-thing to blame,
Sin I have lost the cause of al my game.
I shal aryse, as sone as ever I may; 422
And god, to whom myn herte I sacrifyse,
So sende us hastely the tenthe day!
For was ther never fowl so fayn of May,
As I shal been, whan that she cometh in Troye, 426
That cause is of my torment and my joye.
‘That we may pleye us best in al this toun?’
‘By god, my conseil is,’ quod Pandarus,
‘To ryde and pleye us with king Sarpedoun.’ 431
So longe of this they speken up and doun,
Til Troilus gan at the laste assente
To ryse, and forth to Sarpedoun they wente.
Was ever his lyve, and ful of heigh prowesse, 436
With al that mighte y-served been on table,
That deyntee was, al coste it greet richesse,
He fedde hem day by day, that swich noblesse,
As seyden bothe the moste and eek the leste, 440
Was never er that day wist at any feste.
Delicious, through wind, or touche, or corde,
As fer as any wight hath ever y-went,
That tonge telle or herte may recorde, 445
That at that feste it nas wel herd acorde;
Ne of ladies eek so fayr a companye
On daunce, er tho, was never y-seyn with yë.
That for his sorwe no-thing of it roughte?
For ever in oon his herte piëtous 451
Ful bisily Criseyde his lady soughte.
On hir was ever al that his herte thoughte.
Now this, now that, so faste imagininge,
That glade, y-wis, can him no festeyinge.
Sin that he saw his lady was a-weye,
It was his sorwe upon hem for to seen,
Or for to here on instrumentz so pleye.
For she, that of his herte berth the keye,
Was absent, lo, this was his fantasye, 461
That no wight sholde make melodye.
Whan he was ther-as no wight mighte him here,
That he ne seyde, ‘O lufsom lady bright,
How have ye faren, sin that ye were here? 466
Wel-come, y-wis, myn
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