Troilus and Criseyde Part 27

'Now rys, my dere brother Troilus; For certes, it noon honour is to thee To wepe, and in thy bedde to iouken 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 Troilus answerde, 'O brother dere, 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. 420

'But sin of fyne force I moot aryse, I shal aryse as sone as ever I may; And G.o.d, to whom myn herte I sacrifyse, So sende us hastely the tenthe day!

For was ther never fowl so fayn of May, 425 As I shal been, whan that she cometh in Troye, That cause is of my torment and my Ioye.

'But whider is thy reed,' quod Troilus, 'That we may pleye us best in al this toun?'

'Bi G.o.d, my conseil is,' quod Pandarus, 430 'To ryde and pleye us with king Sarpedoun.'

So longe of this they speken up and doun, Til Troilus gan at the laste a.s.sente To ryse, and forth to Sarpedoun they wente.

This Sarpedoun, as he that honourable 435 Was ever his lyve, and ful of heigh prowesse, 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 n.o.blesse, As seyden bothe the moste and eek the leste, 440 Was never er that day wist at any feste.

Nor in this world ther is non instrument Delicious, through wind, or touche, of 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 ye.

But what avayleth this to Troilus, That for his sorwe no-thing of it roughte? 450 For ever in oon his herte pietous 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. 455

These ladies eek that at this feste been, 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, 460 Was absent, lo, this was his fantasye, That no wight sholde make melodye.

Nor ther nas houre in al the day or night, Whan he was ther-as no wight mighte him here, That he ne seyde, 'O lufsom lady bright, 465 How have ye faren, sin that ye were here?

Wel-come, y-wis, myn owene lady dere.'

But welaway, al this nas but a mase; Fortune his howve entended bet to glase.

The lettres eek, that she of olde tyme 470 Hadde him y-sent, he wolde allone rede, An hundred sythe, a-twixen noon and pryme; Refiguringe hir shap, hir womanhede, With-inne his herte, and every word and dede That pa.s.sed was, and thus he droof to an ende 475 The ferthe day, and seyde, he wolde wende.

And seyde, 'Leve brother Pandarus, Intendestow that we shal here bleve Til Sarpedoun wol forth congeyen us?

Yet were it fairer that we toke our leve. 480 For G.o.ddes love, lat us now sone at eve Our leve take, and homward lat us torne; For trewely, I nil not thus soiourne.'

Pandare answerde, 'Be we comen hider To fecchen fyr, and rennen hoom ayeyn? 485 G.o.d helpe me so, I can not tellen whider We mighten goon, if I shal soothly seyn, Ther any wight is of us more fayn Than Sarpedoun; and if we hennes hye Thus sodeinly, I holde it vilanye. 490

'Sin that we seyden that we wolde bleve With him a wouke; and now, thus sodeinly, The ferthe day to take of him oure leve, He wolde wondren on it, trewely!

Lat us holde forth our purpos fermely; 495 And sin that ye bihighten him to byde, Hold forward now, and after lat us ryde.'

Thus Pandarus, with alle peyne and wo, Made him to dwelle; and at the woukes ende, Of Sarpedoun they toke hir leve tho, 500 And on hir wey they spedden hem to wende.

Quod Troilus, 'Now G.o.d me grace sende, That I may finden, at myn hom-cominge, Criseyde comen!' And ther-with gan he singe.

'Ye, hasel-wode!' thoughte this Pandare, 505 And to him-self ful softely he seyde, 'G.o.d woot, refreyden may this hote fare, Er Calkas sende Troilus Criseyde!'

But natheles, he Iaped thus, and seyde, And swor, y-wis, his herte him wel bihighte, 510 She wolde come as sone as ever she mighte.

Whan they un-to the paleys were y-comen Of Troilus, they doun of hors alighte, And to the chambre hir wey than han they nomen.

And in-to tyme that it gan to nighte, 515 They spaken of Crysede the brighte.

And after this, whan that hem bothe leste, They spedde hem fro the soper un-to reste.

On morwe, as sone as day bigan to clere, This Troilus gan of his sleep tabrayde, 520 And to Pandare, his owene brother dere, 'For love of G.o.d,' ful pitously he seyde, 'As go we seen the paleys of Criseyde; For sin we yet may have namore feste, So lat us seen hir paleys at the leste.' 525

And ther-with-al, his meyne for to blende, A cause he fond in toune for to go, And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende.

But lord! This sely Troilus was wo!

Him thoughte his sorweful herte braste a-two. 530 For whan he saugh hir dores sperred alle, Wel neigh for sorwe a-doun he gan to falle.

Therwith, whan he was war and gan biholde How shet was every windowe of the place, As frost, him thoughte, his herte gan to colde; 535 For which with chaunged deedlich pale face, With-outen word, he forth bigan to pace; And, as G.o.d wolde, he gan so faste ryde, That no wight of his contenance aspyde.

Than seyde he thus; 'O paleys desolat, 540 O hous, of houses whylom best y-hight, O paleys empty and disconsolat, O thou lanterne, of which queynt is the light, O paleys, whylom day, that now art night, Wel oughtestow to falle, and I to dye, 545 Sin she is went that wont was us to gye!

'O paleys, whylom croune of houses alle, Enlumined with sonne of alle blisse!

O ring, fro which the ruby is out-falle, O cause of wo, that cause hast been of lisse! 550 Yet, sin I may no bet, fayn wolde I kisse Thy colde dores, dorste I for this route; And fare-wel shryne, of which the seynt is oute!'

Ther-with he caste on Pandarus his ye With chaunged face, and pitous to biholde; 555 And whan he mighte his tyme aright aspye, Ay as he rood, to Pandarus he tolde His newe sorwe, and eek his Ioyes olde, So pitously and with so dede an hewe, That every wight mighte on his sorwe rewe. 560

Fro thennesforth he rydeth up and doun, And every thing com him to remembraunce As he rood forbi places of the toun In whiche he whylom hadde al his plesaunce.

'Lo, yond saugh I myn owene lady daunce; 565 And in that temple, with hir eyen clere, Me coughte first my righte lady dere.

'And yonder have I herd ful l.u.s.tily My dere herte laugh, and yonder pleye Saugh I hir ones eek ful blisfully. 570 And yonder ones to me gan she seye, "Now goode swete, love me wel, I preye."

And yond so goodly gan she me biholde, That to the deeth myn herte is to hir holde.

'And at that corner, in the yonder hous, 575 Herde I myn alderlevest lady dere So wommanly, with voys melodious, Singen so wel, so goodly, and so clere, That in my soule yet me thinketh I here The blisful soun; and, in that yonder place, 580 My lady first me took un-to hir grace.'

Thanne thoughte he thus, 'O blisful lord Cupyde, Whanne I the proces have in my memorie, How thou me hast wereyed on every syde, Men might a book make of it, lyk a storie. 585 What nede is thee to seke on me victorie, Sin I am thyn, and hoolly at thy wille?

What Ioye hastow thyn owene folk to spille?

'Wel hastow, lord, y-wroke on me thyn ire, Thou mighty G.o.d, and dredful for to greve! 590 Now mercy, lord, thou wost wel I desire Thy grace most, of alle l.u.s.tes leve, And live and deye I wol in thy bileve, For which I naxe in guerdon but a bone, That thou Criseyde ayein me sende sone. 595

'Distreyne hir herte as faste to retorne As thou dost myn to longen hir to see; Than woot I wel, that she nil nought soiorne.

Now, blisful lord, so cruel thou ne be Un-to the blood of Troye, I preye thee, 600 As Iuno was un-to the blood Thebane, For which the folk of Thebes caughte hir bane.'

And after this he to the yates wente Ther-as Criseyde out-rood a ful good paas, And up and doun ther made he many a wente, 605 And to him-self ful ofte he seyde 'Allas!

From hennes rood my blisse and my solas!

As wolde blisful G.o.d now, for his Ioye, I mighte hir seen ayein come in-to Troye!

'And to the yonder hille I gan hir gyde, 610 Allas! And there I took of hir my leve!

And yond I saugh hir to hir fader ryde, For sorwe of which myn herte shal to-cleve.

And hider hoom I com whan it was eve; And here I dwelle out-cast from alle Ioye, 615 And shal, til I may seen hir eft in Troye.'

And of him-self imagened he ofte To ben defet, and pale, and waxen lesse Than he was wont, and that men seyden softe, 'What may it be? Who can the sothe gesse 620 Why Troilus hath al this hevinesse?'

And al this nas but his malencolye, That he hadde of him-self swich fantasye.

Another tyme imaginen he wolde That every wight that wente by the weye 625 Had of him routhe, and that they seyen sholde, 'I am right sory Troilus wole deye.'

And thus he droof a day yet forth or tweye.

As ye have herd, swich lyf right gan he lede, As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede. 630

For which him lyked in his songes shewe Thencheson of his wo, as he best mighte, And made a song of wordes but a fewe, Somwhat his woful herte for to lighte.

And whan he was from every mannes sighte, 635 With softe voys he, of his lady dere, That was absent, gan singe as ye may here.

'O sterre, of which I lost have al the light, With herte soor wel oughte I to bewayle, That ever derk in torment, night by night, 640 Toward my deeth with wind in stere I sayle; For which the tenthe night if that I fayle The gyding of thy bemes brighte an houre, My ship and me Caribdis wole devoure.'

This song whan he thus songen hadde, sone 645 He fil ayein in-to his sykes olde; And every night, as was his wone to done, He stood the brighte mone to beholde, And al his sorwe he to the mone tolde; And seyde, 'Y-wis, whan thou art horned newe, 650 I shal be glad, if al the world be trewe!

'I saugh thyn hornes olde eek by the morwe, Whan hennes rood my righte lady dere, That cause is of my torment and my sorwe; For whiche, O brighte Lucina the clere, 655 For love of G.o.d, ren faste aboute thy spere!