As proude Bayard1 gynneth for to skyppe
Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,
Til he a lassch have of the longë whippe,
Than thynketh he, "Thogh I praunce al byforn
First in the trayse, ful fat and newë shorn,
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
I mote endure, and with my feerës 2 drawe.'
So ferd it by this fiers and proudë knyght,
Though he a worthi kyngës sonnë were,
And wende no thinge had had swichë myght,
Ayeins his wille, that scholde his hertë stere3;
That with a look his hertë wex a feere,
That, he that now was moost in pride above,
Wex sodeynly most subgit unto love.
Forthy ensaumple taketh of this man,
Ye wisë, proude, and worthy folkes alle,
To scornen Love, whiche that so soonë kan
The fredom of youre hertës to him thralle;
For evere was, and evere schal befalle,
That Love is he that alle thing may bynde;
For may no man fordon the lawe of kynde3.
That this be soth hath proved and doth yit;
For this trowe I ye knowen alle and some,
Men reden not that folk han gretter wit
Than thei that hath ben most with love ynome;
And strengest folk ben therwith overcome,
The worthiest and the grettest of degree;
This was and is, and yit men schal it see.
And treweliche it sit wel to be so,
For alderwysest han therwith ben plesed,
And thai that han ben aldermost in wo,
With love han ben conforted most and esed;
And oft it hath the cruel herte apesed,
And worthi folk made worthier of name,
causeth most to dreden vice and schame.
1Bay, a common name for a horse.
And sith it may not godely ben withstonde,
And is a thing so vertuous in kynde,
Refuseth not to Love for to ben bonde,
Syn, as him selven list, he may yow bynde,
The yerde is bet that bowen wol and wynde
Than that that brest2; and therfor I yow rede
To folowen him that so wel kan yow lede.
[Pandarus, the uncle of Criseyde and the friend of Troylus, has told her, of Troylus' love. She is left alone, and sees him returning from battle.]
With this he tok his leve, and home he wente;
A, Lord! so he was glad, and wel bygon!
Criseyde aros, no longer she ne stente,
But streght into hire closet wente anon,
And set hire down, as stille as any ston,
And every word gon up and down to wynde,
That he hadde seyde, as it come hire to mynde,
And wex somdel3 astoned in hire thought,
Right for the newë cas; but when that she
Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought
Of peril, why she aught aferëd be:
For man may love of possibilité
A woman so, his hertë may to-breste*,
And she nought love ayeyn, but if hire leste.
But as she sat allon and thoughte thus,
Ascry aroos at scarmich al withoute,
And men cried in the street, 'Se Troilus
Hath right now put to flyght the Grekës route.'
With that gan al hire meyné for to shoute:
'A! go we se, caste up the yatës wide,
For thorwgh this strete he moot to paleys ryde ;'
For oother way is to the gatës noon,
Of Dardanus, ther1 open is the cheyne:
With that come he, and alle his folk anon,
An esy pace rydynge, in routës tweyne,
Right as his happy day was 2, sothe to seyne :
For which men seyn may nought distourbed be
That shal bytyden of necessité.
This Troilus sat on his bayë stede
Al armed save his hed ful richely,
And wonded was his hors, and gan to blede,
On whiche he rood a paas ful softëly:
But swiche a knyghtly sightë trewëly
As was on hym, was nought, withouten faile,
To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle.
So like a man of armës and a knyght,
He was to sen, fulfild of heigh prowesse ;
For bothe he hadde a body, and a myght
To don that thyng, as wele as hardynesse;
And ek to sen hym in his gere hym dresse,
So fressh, so yong, so weldy semëd he,
It was an heven upon hym for to se.
His helm to-hewen was in twenty places,
That by a tyssew heng his bak byhynde,
His shelde to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces,
In which men myghtë many an arwe fynde,
That thyrled haddë horn, and nerf, and rynde ;
And ay the peple criede, 'Here cometh oure joye,
And, next his brother, holder up of Troye.'
For which he wex a litel rede for schame
Whan he the peple upon him herdë crien,
That to byholde it was a noble game,
How sobreliche he castë down his eighen :
Criseyd anon gan al his chere aspyen,
And leet so softe it in hire herte synken,
That to hire self she seyde, 'Who yaf me drynken *?'
1 where.
3 at foot's pace.
as though it were a lucky day for him.
who has given me a love-potion?
For of hire owën thought she wex al rede, Remembrynge hire right thus, 'Lo! this is he, Which that myn uncle swerth he moot be dede, But I on hym have mercy and pité:'
And with that thought, for pure ashamëd she Gan in hire hed to pulle, and that as faste, While he and al the peple forby paste.
And gan to caste, and rollen up and down
Within hire thought his excellent prowesse,
And his estat, and also his renoun,
His wit, his shappe, and ek his gentilnesse;
But moost hire favour was for his distresse
Was al for hire, and thought it as a rowthe1
To sleen swich oon, if that he mentë trouthe.
Now myghte som envýous jangle thus,
'This was a sodeyn love, how myghte it be
That she so lightly lovede Troylus,
Right for the firstë sightë?' Ye, pardé?
Now who so seith so, moot he never ythe2!
For every thyng a gynnyng hath it nede
Er al be wrought, withouten any drede.
For I sey nought that she so sodeynly
Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne
To like hym firste, and I have told yow why;
And efter that, his manhod and his pyne
Made love withinne hire hertë for to myne;
For which by proces, and by goode servyse,
He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse.
2 y-thé: succeed, prosper.
[Troylus' long courtship is at last rewarded with the love of Criseyde.]
O soth is seyd, that helëd for to be,
As of a fevere, or other gret syknesse,
Men mostë drynke, as men may oftë se,
Ful bittre drynk: and for to han gladnesse
Men drynken of peynës, and gret distresse :
I mene it here, as for this aventure,
That thorwgh a peyne hath fonden al his cure.
And now swetnessë semeth more swete,
That bitternesse assayed was byforn;
For out of wo in blissë now they flete,
Non swich they felten syn that they were born;
Now is this bet than bothë two be lorn!
For love of God! take every womman hede,
To werken thus, if it cometh to the nede.
Criseyde, al quyt from every drede and teene,
As she that justë cause hadde hym to triste,
Made hym swich feste, it joië was to seene,
When she his trouthe and clene entente wiste:
And as aboute a tre, with many a twiste,
Bytrent and writh1 the sootë wodëbynde,
Gan ich of hem in armës other wynde.
And as the new abaysëd nyghtyngale,
That stynteth first, when she bygynneth synge,
When that she hereth any herdës tale,
Or in the heggës any wight sterynge;
And, after, syker2 doth hire vois out rynge;
Right so Criseyde, when hire dredë stente,
Opned hire herte, and told hym hire entente.
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