Upon the wallës fast ek wolde he walke,
And on the Grekes oost' he woldë se ;

And to hymself right thus he wolde talke :-
'Lo, yonder is myn owen lady free,

Or ellës yonder, ther the tentës bee,

And thennës comth this eyr that is so soote",
That in my soule I feele it doth me boote.

'And hardyly, this wynd that moore and moore
Thus stoundemele encresseth in my face,
Is of my ladys depë sykës sore;

I preve it thus, for in noon other place
Of al this town, save oonly in this space,
Feele I no wynd that souneth so lyke peyne;
It seith 'Allas! whi twynned be we tweyne ?'

This longë tyme he dryveth forth right thus,
Til fully passed was the nynthë nyght;
And ay bysyde hym was this Pandarus,
That bisily dide al his fullë myght

Hym to confort, and make his hertë light;
Yevynge hym hope alwey, the tenthë morwe
That she shal come, and stenten al his sorwe.

(Criseyde, in her father's tent, is wooed by Diomede, and gradually yields to him.]

Retournynge in hir soule ay up and doun
The wordës of this sodeyn Diomede,
His gret estate, and peril of the town,
And that she was allon, and hadde nede
Of frendes help; and thus bygan to breae'
The cause whi, the sothë for to telle,
That sche tok fully purpos for to dwelle".

⚫ to remain with her father, instead of returning to Troy

The morwe com, and gostly for to speke,
This Diomede is com unto Criseyde;

And shortly, lest that ye my talë breke,
So wel he for hymselfë spak and seyde,
That alle hire sykës soore adown he layde;
And finaly, the sothë for to seyne,

He refte hire of the grete of al hire peyne.

And cfter this, the storie telleth us,
That she him yaf the fairë bayë steede,
The which she ones wan of Troilus;
And eke a broch (and that was litel nede)
That Troilus1 was, she yaf this Diomede;
And ek the bet from sorw hym to releve,
She made hym were a pensel 2 of hire sleve

I fynde ek in storyës elleswhere,
When thorugh the body hirt was Dyomede
Of Troilus, tho weep she many a teere,

When that she saugh hise wydë woundes blede,
And that she took to kepen hym good hede,
And for to hele hym of his sorwes smerte,
Men seyn, I not, that she yaf hym hire herte.

But trewelyche, the storye telleth us,
Ther made never womman morë wo
Than she, when that she falsede Troylus;
She seyde, ‘Allas! for now is clene ago1
My name of trouthe in love for evermo;
For I have falsed oon the gentileste
That evere was, and oon the worthieste.

'Allas! of me unto the worldës ende
Shal neither ben ywriten nor ysonge
No good word, fer thise bokës wol me shende":
Irolled schal I ben on many a tonge;
Thorughout the world my bellë schal be

'Troilus's. 'pennoncel (made). 3 ne wot know not.

=

ronge;

And wommen most wol haten me of alle ;
Allas! that swich a cas me sholdë falle !

'They wol seyn, in as muche as in me is,
I have hem don dishonoure, walaway!
Al be I not the firste that dide amys,
What helpeth that to don my blame away?
But syn I se ther is no better way,
And that to late is now for me to rewe,
To Dyomede algate1 I wol be trewe.

'But, Troilus, syn I no better may,
And syn that thus departen ye and I,
Yet preye
I God so yeve yow right good day;
As for the gentilestë trewëly,

That evere I say, to serven faithfully,

And best kan ay his lady honour kepe ;'
And with that word she braste anon to wepc.

'And certes, yow to haten shal I nevere,
And frendës love, that shal ye han of me,

And my good word, al shold I lyven evere;
And trewëly I wol right sory be,

For to sen yow in adversité ;

And giltëlees I wot wel I yow leeve,

And al shal passe, and thus tak I my leve."

But trewëly how longe it was betweyne,
That she forsok hym for this Dyomede,
Ther is non auctour telleth it, I wene;
Tak every man now to his bokës hede,
He shal no timë fynden, out of drede;
For though that he bigan to wowe hire soone,
Er he hire wan, yet was ther more to doone.

Ne me ne list this sely womman chyde
Ferther than the storië wol devyse;
Hire name, allas! is publyshed so wyde,
That for hire gilte it ought ynough suffise;
And if I myght excuse hire any wyse,

For she so sory was for hire untrouthe,
Iwis I wold excuse hire yet for routhe.

[Troylus discovers Criseyde's infidelity, and meets his death.
fighting desperately.]

The wrath, as I bigan yow for to seye,
Of Troilus, the Grekës boughten deere ;
For thousandës his hondës maden dye,
As he that was withouten any peere,
Save Ector in his tyme, as I kan here;
But, walawey! save only Goddës wille,
Dispitously hym slough the fiers Achille.

And when that he was slayn in this manere,
His lightë gost ful blisfully is went
Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere,
In convers letynge everych element1;
And ther he saugh, with ful avysëment,
The erratyk sterrës, herkenynge armonye,
With sownës ful of hevenyssh melodye.

And down from thennes faste he gan avyse
This litel spot of erth, that with the se
Embraced is; and fully gan despise
This wreched world, and held al vanyté,
To respect of the pleyn felicité

That is in hevene above: and at the laste,
Ther he was slayn, his lokyng down he caste

And in hymself he lough right at the wo
Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste,

And dampned al our werk that folweth so

The blynde lust, the which that may not laste,
And sholden al our herte on hevene caste;

From the seventh or uttermost heaven all the others would appear convex, or convers.

And forth he wentë, shortly for to telle,
Ther as Mercurie sorted hym to dwelle.

Swich fyn hath, lo! this Troilus for love!
Swich fyn hath al his gretë worthynesse!
Swich fyn hath his estat reäl2 above!

Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse !
Swich fyn hath falsë worldës brotelnesse3!
And thus bigan his lovynge of Cryseyde,
As I have told, and in this wise he deyde.

O yongë fresshë folkës, he or she,

In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeireth hom fro worldly vanyté,

4

And of your herte up casteth the visage
To thilke God, that after his ymage

Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire,
This world that passeth soon, as flourës faire.

And loveth hym the which that, right for love,
Upon a crois, our soulës for to beye,
First starf and roos, and sit in heven above,
For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al holly on hym leye;
And syn he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?

Lo! here of payens cursed oldë rites!

Lo! here what alle hire goddës may availle !
Lo! here this wreched worldës appetites !
Lo! here the fyn and guerdon for travaille,
Of Jove, Apollo, of Mars, and swich rascaille!
Lo! here the forme of olde clerkës speche
In poetrie, if ye hire bokës seche.