Troilus and Criseyde Part 7

'In every thing, I woot, ther lyth mesure. 715 For though a man forbede dronkenesse, He nought for-bet that every creature Be drinkelees for alwey, as I gesse; Eek sith I woot for me is his distresse, I ne oughte not for that thing him despyse, 720 Sith it is so, he meneth in good wyse.

'And eek I knowe, of longe tyme agoon, His thewes goode, and that he is not nyce.

Ne avauntour, seyth men, certein, he is noon; To wys is he to do so gret a vyce; 725 Ne als I nel him never so cheryce, That he may make avaunt, by Iuste cause; He shal me never binde in swiche a clause.

'Now set a cas, the hardest is, y-wis, Men mighten deme that he loveth me; 730 What dishonour were it un-to me, this?

May I him lette of that? Why nay, pardee!

I knowe also, and alday here and see, Men loven wommen al this toun aboute; Be they the wers? Why, nay, with-outen doute. 735

'I thenk eek how he able is for to have Of al this n.o.ble toun the thriftieste, To been his love, so she hir honour save; For out and out he is the worthieste, Save only Ector, which that is the beste. 740 And yet his lyf al lyth now in my cure, But swich is love, and eek myn aventure.

'Ne me to love, a wonder is it nought; For wel wot I my-self, so G.o.d me spede, Al wolde I that noon wiste of this thought, 745 I am oon the fayreste, out of drede, And goodlieste, who-so taketh hede; And so men seyn in al the toun of Troye.

What wonder is it though he of me have Ioye?

'I am myn owene woman, wel at ese, 750 I thank it G.o.d, as after myn estat; Right yong, and stonde unteyd in l.u.s.ty lese, With-outen Ialousye or swich debat; Shal noon housbonde seyn to me "Chekmat!"

For either they ben ful of Ialousye, 755 Or maisterful, or loven novelrye.

'What shal I doon? To what fyn live I thus?

Shal I nat loven, in cas if that me leste?

What, par dieux! I am nought religious!

And though that I myn herte sette at reste 760 Upon this knight, that is the worthieste, And kepe alwey myn honour and my name, By alle right, it may do me no shame.'

But right as whan the sonne shyneth brighte, In March, that chaungeth ofte tyme his face, 765 And that a cloud is put with wind to flighte Which over-sprat the sonne as for a s.p.a.ce, A cloudy thought gan thorugh hir soule pace, That over-spradde hir brighte thoughtes alle, So that for fere almost she gan to falle. 770

That thought was this: 'Allas! Sin I am free, Sholde I now love, and putte in Iupartye My sikernesse, and thrallen libertee?

Allas! How dorste I thenken that folye?

May I nought wel in other folk aspye 775 Hir dredful Ioye, hir constreynt, and hir peyne?

Ther loveth noon, that she nath why to pleyne.

'For love is yet the moste stormy lyf, Right of him-self, that ever was bigonne; For ever som mistrust, or nyce stryf, 780 Ther is in love, som cloud is over that sonne: Ther-to we wrecched wommen no-thing conne, Whan us is wo, but wepe and sitte and thinke; Our wreche is this, our owene wo to drinke.

'Also these wikked tonges been so prest 785 To speke us harm, eek men be so untrewe, That, right anoon as cessed is hir lest, So cesseth love, and forth to love a newe: But harm y-doon, is doon, who-so it rewe.

For though these men for love hem first to-rende, 790 Ful sharp biginning breketh ofte at ende.

'How ofte tyme hath it y-knowen be, The treson, that to womman hath be do?

To what fyn is swich love, I can nat see, Or wher bicometh it, whan it is ago; 795 Ther is no wight that woot, I trowe so, Wher it bycomth; lo, no wight on it sp.o.r.neth; That erst was no-thing, in-to nought it torneth.

'How bisy, if I love, eek moste I be To plesen hem that Iangle of love, and demen, 800 And coye hem, that they sey non harm of me?

For though ther be no cause, yet hem s.e.m.e.n Al be for harm that folk hir freendes quemen; And who may stoppen every wikked tonge, Or soun of belles whyl that they be ronge?' 805

And after that, hir thought bigan to clere, And seyde, 'He which that no-thing under-taketh, No thing ne acheveth, be him looth or dere.'

And with an other thought hir herte quaketh; Than slepeth hope, and after dreed awaketh; 810 Now hoot, now cold; but thus, bi-twixen tweye, She rist hir up, and went hir for to pleye.

Adoun the steyre anoon-right tho she wente In-to the gardin, with hir neces three, And up and doun ther made many a wente, 815 Flexippe, she, Tharbe, and Antigone, To pleyen, that it Ioye was to see; And othere of hir wommen, a gret route, hir folwede in the gardin al aboute.

This yerd was large, and rayled alle the aleyes, 820 And shadwed wel with blosmy bowes grene, And benched newe, and sonded alle the weyes, In which she walketh arm in arm bi-twene; Til at the laste Antigone the shene Gan on a Troian song to singe clere, 825 That it an heven was hir voys to here. --

She seyde, 'O love, to whom I have and shal Ben humble subgit, trewe in myn entente, As I best can, to yow, lord, yeve ich al For ever-more, myn hertes l.u.s.t to rente. 830 For never yet thy grace no wight sente So blisful cause as me, my lyf to lede In alle Ioye and seurtee, out of drede.

'Ye, blisful G.o.d, han me so wel beset In love, y-wis, that al that bereth lyf 835 Imaginen ne cowde how to ben bet; For, lord, with-outen Ialousye or stryf, I love oon which that is most ententyf To serven wel, unwery or unfeyned, That ever was, and leest with harm distreyned. 840

'As he that is the welle of worthinesse, Of trouthe ground, mirour of goodliheed, Of wit Appollo, stoon of sikernesse, Of vertu rote, of l.u.s.t findere and heed, Thurgh which is alle sorwe fro me deed, 845 Y-wis, I love him best, so doth he me; Now good thrift have he, wher-so that he be!

'Whom sholde I thanke but yow, G.o.d of love, Of al this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne?

And thanked be ye, lord, for that I love! 850 This is the righte lyf that I am inne, To flemen alle manere vyce and sinne: This doth me so to vertu for to entende, That day by day I in my wil amende.

'And who-so seyth that for to love is vyce, 855 Or thraldom, though he fele in it distresse, He outher is envyous, or right nyce, Or is unmighty, for his shrewednesse, To loven; for swich maner folk, I gesse, Defamen love, as no-thing of him knowe; 860 Thei speken, but they bente never his bowe.

'What is the sonne wers, of kinde righte, Though that a man, for feblesse of his yen, May nought endure on it to see for brighte?

Or love the wers, though wrecches on it cryen? 865 No wele is worth, that may no sorwe dryen.

And for-thy, who that hath an heed of verre, Fro cast of stones war him in the werre!

'But I with al myn herte and al my might, As I have seyd, wol love, un-to my laste, 870 My dere herte, and al myn owene knight, In which myn herte growen is so faste, And his in me, that it shal ever laste.

Al dredde I first to love him to biginne, Now woot I wel, ther is no peril inne.' 875

And of hir song right with that word she stente, And therwith-al, 'Now, nece,' quod Criseyde, 'Who made this song with so good entente?'

Antigone answerde anoon, and seyde, 'Ma dame, y-wis, the goodlieste mayde 880 Of greet estat in al the toun of Troye; And let hir lyf in most honour and Ioye.'

'Forsothe, so it semeth by hir song,'

Quod tho Criseyde, and gan ther-with to syke, And seyde, 'Lord, is there swich blisse among 885 These lovers, as they conne faire endyte?'

'Ye, wis,' quod freshe Antigone the whyte, 'For alle the folk that han or been on lyve Ne conne wel the blisse of love discryve.

'But wene ye that every wrecche woot 890 The parfit blisse of love? Why, nay, y-wis; They wenen al be love, if oon be hoot; Do wey, do wey, they woot no-thing of this!

Men mosten axe at seyntes if it is Aught fair in hevene; Why? For they conne telle; 895 And axen fendes, is it foul in h.e.l.le.'

Criseyde un-to that purpos nought answerde, But seyde, 'Y-wis, it wol be night as faste.'

But every word which that she of hir herde, She gan to prenten in hir herte faste; 900 And ay gan love hir la.s.se for to agaste Than it dide erst, and sinken in hir herte, That she wex somwhat able to converte.

The dayes honour, and the hevenes ye, The nightes fo, al this clepe I the sonne, 905 Gan westren faste, and dounward for to wrye, As he that hadde his dayes cours y-ronne; And whyte thinges wexen dimme and donne For lak of light, and sterres for to appere, That she and al hir folk in wente y-fere. 910

So whan it lyked hir to goon to reste, And voyded weren they that voyden oughte, She seyde, that to slepe wel hir leste.

Hir wommen sone til hir bed hir broughte.

Whan al was hust, than lay she stille, and thoughte 915 Of al this thing the manere and the wyse.

Reherce it nedeth nought, for ye ben wyse.

A nightingale, upon a cedre grene, Under the chambre-wal ther as she lay, Ful loude sang ayein the mone shene, 920 Paraunter, in his briddes wyse, a lay Of love, that made hir herte fresh and gay.

That herkned she so longe in good entente, Til at the laste the dede sleep hir hente.

And as she sleep, anoon-right tho hir mette, 925 How that an egle, fethered whyt as boon, Under hir brest his longe clawes sette, And out hir herte he rente, and that a-noon, And dide his herte in-to hir brest to goon, Of which she nought agroos, ne no-thing smerte, 930 And forth he fleigh, with herte left for herte.

Now lat hir slepe, and we our tales holde Of Troilus, that is to paleys riden, Fro the scarmuch, of the whiche I tolde, And in his chaumbre sit, and hath abiden 935 Til two or three of his messages yeden For Pandarus, and soughten him ful faste, Til they him founde and broughte him at the laste.

This Pandarus com leping in at ones, And seiyde thus: 'Who hath ben wel y-bete 940 To-day with swerdes, and with slinge-stones, But Troilus, that hath caught him an hete?'

And gan to Iape, and seyde, 'Lord, so ye swete!

But rys, and lat us soupe and go to reste;' 944 And he answerde him, 'Do we as thee leste.'

With al the haste goodly that they mighte, They spedde hem fro the souper un-to bedde; And every wight out at the dore him dighte, And wher him liste upon his wey him spedde; But Troilus, that thoughte his herte bledde 950 For wo, til that he herde som tydinge, He seyde, 'Freend, shal I now wepe or singe?'

Quod Pandarus, 'Ly stille and lat me slepe, And don thyn hood, thy nedes spedde be; And chese, if thou wolt singe or daunce or lepe; 955 At shorte wordes, thow shal trowe me. -- Sire, my nece wol do wel by thee, And love thee best, by G.o.d and by my trouthe, But lak of pursuit make it in thy slouthe.