Who fhal now trowen on any othis mo?
Alas! I never would have wende er this
That ye, Crefeidè, coulde have chaungid fo,
Ne but I had agilte and done amis;
So cruel wende I nat your herte iwis
To flee me thus; alas! your name of trouthe
Is now fordone, and that is al my routhe.
Was there none othir broche you lift to lete
To feffè with your newè love, (quod he)
But thilkè broche that I with teris wete
You yave as for a remembraunce of me?
None other caufe, alas! ne haddin ye
But for difpite, and eke for that ye mente
All uttirly to fhewin your entente:
Through which I fe that clene out of your minde
Ye have me caft, and I ne can nor maie
For al this world within mine hertè finde
To' unlovin you a quartir of a daie;
In curfid time I borne was, welawaie!
That you that done me all this wo endure
Yet love I the beft of any creture.
Now God (quod he) me fendin yet the grace
That I maie metin with this Diomede,
And truily if I have might and fpace
Yet fhal I make I hope his fidis blede:
Now God (quod he) that aughtist takin hede
To forthrin trouthe, and wrongis to punice,
Why n'ilt thou don a vengeaunce of this vice? 1708
O Pandarus! that in dremes for to triste
Me blamid haft, and wonte art oft upbreide,
Now maist thou fene thy felfe, if that the lift,
How trewe is now thy necè bright Crefeide:
In fondry formis, (God it wote) he seide,
The goddis fhewin bothè joie and tene
In flepe, and by my dreme it is now fene.
And certainly, withoutin morè fpeche,
From henais forthe, as ferforthe as I maie,
Mine owne deth in armis wol I feche,
I ne retche nat how fonè be the daie;
But trewily, Crefeidè, fwetè Maie!
Whom I have ay with al my might iferved,
That ye thus done I have it nat deferved.
This Pandarus, that al thefe thingis herde,
And wifte wel that he faid a fothe of this,
He nat a worde ayen to him answerde,
For fory of his frend'is forow' he is,
And fhamid for his nece hath done amis,
And ftante aftonied of thefe caufis twaie
As ftil as ftone; o worde ne coulde he faie.
But at the last thus he yfpake and feide:
My brothir dere! I may do the no more;
What fhould I faine? I hate iwis Crefeide,
And God it wote I wol hate her er-more;
And that thou me befoughtift don of yore,
Having unto mine honour ne my refte
Right no regarde, I did al that the lefte.
Volume IX.
Yf I did aught which that might likin the
It is inc lefe, and of this trefon now
God wote that it a forow is to me,
And dredeleffe, for hert'is efe of you,
Right faine I would amende it wift I how,
And fro this world Almighty God I praie,
Delivir her fone! I can no more faie.
Great was the woe and plaint of Troilus,
But forthe her courfe Fortune aie gan to holde,
Crefeide lovith the fonne of Tydeus,
And Troilus mote wepe in caris colde:
Such is this worlde, who fo it can beholde;
In eche estate is litill hert'is refte;
God leve us to takin it for the befte!
In many cruil bataile, out of drede,
Of Troilus this ilkè noble knight
(As men maie in these oldè bokis rede)
Was fene his knighthod and his gretè might,
And dredèleffe his irè daie and night
Ful cruilly the Grekis aie abought,
And alwaie moft this Diomede he fought.
And oftin timis I finde that thei mette
With blody ftrokis and with wordis grete,
Affaying how ther speris werin whette;
And God it wote with many' a cruil hete
Gan Troilus upon his helme to bete:
But nathèleffe Fortune it naught ne would
Of eithir's honde that eithir dyin should.
And if I had itakin for to write
The armis of this ilkè worthy man,
'Than would I of his battailis endite;
But for that I to writin first began
Of his love, I have faidin as I can
His worthy dedis, who so liste 'hem here,
Rede Dares, he can tel 'hem al ifere.
Befeching every lady bright of hewe,
And every gentil woman, what she be,
Al be it that Crefeidè was untrewe,
That for that gilt ye be nat wroth with me,
Ye maie her gilte in othir bokis fe;
And gladdir I would writin if you lefte
Of Penepole's trouth and gode Alcefte.
Ne faie I nat this al only for men,
But most for women that betrayid be
Through fals folke, God yeve 'hem forow, Amen!
That with ther gretè witte and fubtilte
Betrayin you, and this commevith me
To fpeke; and in effecte you al I praie
Beth ware of men, and herkenith what I faie: 1785
Go, litil boke, go litill tragedie,
There God my makir yet er that I die
So fende me might to make fome comedie;
But, litill boke, make thou the none envie,
But fubject ben unto al poefie,
And kiffe the steppes wher as thou feift pace
Of Virgil, Ovide, Homer, Lucan, Stace.
And for there is so grete diverfite
In English, and in writing of our tonge,
So praie I to God that none mifwrite the,
Ne the miffe-metre for defaute of tonge;
And redde where fo thou be or ellis fonge
That thou be undirftonde God I befeche;
But yet to purpose of my rathir fpeche.
The wrathe, as I began you for to feie,
Of Troilus the Grekis boughtin dere,
For thousandis his hondis madin deye,
As he that was withoutin any pere,
Save in his time Hector, as I can here;
But welawaie! (fave onely Godd'is wil)
Difpitoufly him flough the fierse Achil.
And whan that he was flain in this manere
His lightè gofte ful blisfully is went
Up to the' holowneffe of the feventh sphere,
In his place leting everiche element,
And there he fawe, with ful avifèment,
The erratike fterres, herkening harmonie,
With fownis ful of hevins melodie.
And doun from thennis fast he gan avise
This litil fpotte of erth that with the fe
Enbracid is, and fully gan difpife
This wretchid world, and helde al vanite
In refpecte of the plaine felicite
That is in heven above, and at the laft
There he was flaine his loking doun he cast.
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