Troilus and Criseyde Part 19

The noyse of peple up-stirte thanne at ones, As breme as blase of straw y-set on fyre; 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 --

'That is so wys, and eek so bold baroun, 190 And we han nede to folk, as men may see; He is eek oon, the grettest of this toun; O Ector, lat tho fantasyes be!

O king Priam,' quod they, 'thus seggen we, That al our voys is to for-gon Criseyde;' 195 And to deliveren Antenor they preyde.

O Iuvenal, lord! Trewe is thy sentence, That litel witen folk what is to yerne That they ne finde in hir desyr offence; For cloud of errour let hem not descerne 200 What best is; and lo, here ensample as yerne.

This folk desiren now deliveraunce Of Antenor, that broughte hem to mischaunce!

For he was after traytour to the toun 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 which delibered was by parlement For Antenor to yelden out Criseyde, And it p.r.o.nounced by the president, Al-theigh that Ector 'nay' ful ofte preyde.

And fynaly, what wight that it with-seyde, 215 It was for nought, it moste been, and sholde; For substaunce of the parlement it wolde.

Departed out of parlement echone, 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.

And as in winter leves been biraft, 225 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, 230 So sore him sat the chaunginge of Criseyde.

He rist him up, and every dore he shette 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.

Right as the wilde bole biginneth springe 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

His eyen two, for pitee of his herte, Out stremeden as swifte welles tweye; The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte His speche him refte, unnethes mighte he seye, 'O deeth, allas! Why niltow do me deye? 250 A-cursed be the day which that nature Shoop me to ben a lyves creature!'

But after, whan the furie and the rage Which that his herte twiste and faste threste, By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan a.s.swage, 255 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.

Than seyde he thus, 'Fortune! Allas the whyle! 260 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?

Allas! How maystow in thyn herte finde 265 To been to me thus cruel and unkinde?

'Have I thee nought honoured al my lyve, As thou wel wost, above the G.o.ddes alle?

Why wiltow me fro Ioye thus depryve?

O Troilus, what may men now thee calle 270 But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle In-to miserie, in which I wol biwayle Criseyde, allas! Til that the breeth me fayle?

'Allas, Fortune! If that my lyf in Ioye Displesed hadde un-to thy foule envye, 275 Why ne haddestow my fader, king of Troye, By-raft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye, Or slayn my-self, that thus compleyne and crye, I, combre-world, that may of no-thing serve, But ever dye, and never fully sterve? 280

'If that Criseyde allone were me laft, Nought roughte I whider thou woldest me stere; And hir, allas! Than hastow me biraft.

But ever-more, lo! This is thy manere, To reve a wight that most is to him dere, 285 To preve in that thy gerful violence.

Thus am I lost, ther helpeth no defence!

'O verray lord of love, O G.o.d, allas!

That knowest best myn herte and al my thought, What shal my sorwful lyf don in this cas 290 If I for-go that I so dere have bought?

Sin ye Cryseyde and me han fully brought In-to your grace, and bothe our hertes seled, How may ye suffre, allas! It be repeled?

'What I may doon, I shal, whyl I may dure 295 On lyve in torment and in cruel peyne, This infortune or this disaventure, Allone as I was born, y-wis, compleyne; Ne never wil I seen it shyne or reyne; But ende I wil, as Edippe, in derknesse 300 My sorwful lyf, and dyen in distresse.

'O wery goost, that errest to and fro, Why niltow fleen out of the wofulleste Body, that ever mighte on grounde go?

O soule, lurkinge in this wo, unneste, 305 Flee forth out of myn herte, and lat it breste, And folwe alwey Criseyde, thy lady dere; Thy righte place is now no lenger here!

'O wofulle eyen two, sin your disport Was al to seen Criseydes eyen brighte, 310 What shal ye doon but, for my discomfort, Stonden for nought, and wepen out your sighte?

Sin she is queynt, that wont was yow to lighte, In veyn fro-this-forth have I eyen tweye Y-formed, sin your vertue is a-weye. 315

'O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne Of thilke woful soule that thus cryeth, Who shal now yeven comfort to the peyne?

Allas, no wight; but when myn herte dyeth, My spirit, which that so un-to yow hyeth, 320 Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve; For-thy no fors is, though the body sterve.

'O ye loveres, that heighe upon the wheel Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure, G.o.d leve that ye finde ay love of steel, 325 And longe mot your lyf in Ioye endure!

But whan ye comen by my sepulture, Remembreth that your felawe resteth there; For I lovede eek, though I unworthy were.

'O olde, unholsom, and mislyved man, 330 Calkas I mene, allas! What eyleth thee To been a Greek, sin thou art born Troian?

O Calkas, which that wilt my bane be, In cursed tyme was thou born for me!

As wolde blisful Iove, for his Ioye, 335 That I thee hadde, where I wolde, in Troye!'

A thousand sykes, hottere than the glede, Out of his brest ech after other wente, Medled with pleyntes newe, his wo to fede, For which his woful teres never stente; 340 And shortly, so his peynes him to-rente, And wex so mat, that Ioye nor penaunce He feleth noon, but lyth forth in a traunce.

Pandare, which that in the parlement Hadde herd what every lord and burgeys seyde, 345 And how ful graunted was, by oon a.s.sent, For Antenor to yelden so Criseyde, Gan wel neigh wood out of his wit to breyde, So that, for wo, he niste what he mente; But in a rees to Troilus he wente. 350

A certeyn knight, that for the tyme kepte The chaumbre-dore, un-dide it him anoon; And Pandare, that ful tendreliche wepte, In-to the derke chaumbre, as stille as stoon, Toward the bed gan softely to goon, 355 So confus, that he niste what to seye; For verray wo his wit was neigh aweye.

And with his chere and loking al to-torn, For sorwe of this, and with his armes folden, He stood this woful Troilus biforn, 360 And on his pitous face he gan biholden; But lord, so often gan his herte colden, Seing his freend in wo, whos hevinesse His herte slow, as thoughte him, for distresse.

This woful wight, this Troilus, that felte 365 His freend Pandare y-comen him to see, Gan as the snow ayein the sonne melte, For which this sorwful Pandare, of pitee, Gan for to wepe as tendreliche as he; And specheles thus been thise ilke tweye, 370 That neyther mighte o word for sorwe seye.

But at the laste this woful Troilus, Ney deed for smert, gan bresten out to rore, And with a sorwful noyse he seyde thus, Among his sobbes and his sykes sore, 375 'Lo! Pandare, I am deed, with-outen more.

Hastow nought herd at parlement,' he seyde, 'For Antenor how lost is my Criseyde?'

This Pandarus, ful deed and pale of hewe, Ful pitously answerde and seyde, 'Yis! 380 As wisly were it fals as it is trewe, That I have herd, and wot al how it is.

O mercy, G.o.d, who wolde have trowed this?

Who wolde have wend that, in so litel a throwe, Fortune our Ioye wolde han over-throwe? 385

'For in this world ther is no creature, As to my doom, that ever saw ruyne Straungere than this, thorugh cas or aventure.

But who may al eschewe, or al devyne?

Swich is this world; for-thy I thus defyne, 390 Ne trust no wight to finden in Fortune Ay propretee; hir yeftes been comune.

'But tel me this, why thou art now so mad To sorwen thus? Why lystow in this wyse, Sin thy desyr al holly hastow had, 395 So that, by right, it oughte y-now suffyse?

But I, that never felte in my servyse A frendly chere or loking of an ye, Lat me thus wepe and wayle, til I dye.

'And over al this, as thou wel wost thy-selve, 400 This town is ful of ladies al aboute; And, to my doom, fairer than swiche twelve As ever she was, shal I finde, in som route, Ye, oon or two, with-outen any doute.

For-thy be glad, myn owene dere brother, 405 If she be lost, we shal recovere another.

'What, G.o.d for-bede alwey that ech plesaunce In o thing were, and in non other wight!

If oon can singe, another can wel daunce; If this be goodly, she is glad and light; 410 And this is fayr, and that can good a-right.

Ech for his vertu holden is for dere, Bothe heroner and faucon for rivere.

'And eek, as writ Zanzis, that was ful wys, "The newe love out chaceth ofte the olde;" 415 And up-on newe cas lyth newe avys.

Thenk eek, thy-self to saven artow holde; Swich fyr, by proces, shal of kinde colde.

For sin it is but casuel plesaunce, Som cas shal putte it out of remembraunce. 420