It was an heven his wordës for to here,
And thanne he wolde synge in this manere :-

'Love', that of erth and se hath governaunce!
Love, that his hestës hath in heven hye!
Love, that with an holsom alliaunce

Halt peples joynëd, as hym list hem gye2!
Lovë, that knetteth law and compaignye,
And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle!
Bynd this acorde, that I have told and telle !

'That, that the world, with faith which that is stable,
Dyverseth so, his stoundës3 concordynge ;-
That elementz, that ben so discordable,
Holden a bond perpetualy durynge ;—

That Phebus mot his rosy carte forth brynge,
And that the mone hath lordschip over the nyght ;-
Al this doth Love, ay heryed' be his myght!

'That, that the se, that gredy is to flowen,
Constreyneth to a certeyn endë so
Hise flodës, that so fiersly they ne growen
To drenchen erth and al for evermo;
And if that Love aught lete his brydel go,
Al that now loveth asonder sholde lepe,
And lost were al that Love halt now to hepe 5.

'Soo, wolde Gode, that auctour is of kynde,
That with his bond Love, of his vertu, liste
To cerclen hertës alle, and fastë bynde,
That from his bond no wighte the wey out wyste!
And hertës colde, hem wolde I that he twiste,
To make hem love, and that hem liste ay rewe
On hertës soore, and kepe hem that ben trewe.'

2 guide.

*

*

*

1 This song is paraphrased from Boethius, Cons. 2, met. 8.

3 times. ' praised.

[Criseyde is to be sent away to her father Calchas, in the Grecian camp, in exchange for Antenor, who has been taken prisoner. She vows fidelity, and tells Troylus why she loves him, promising to return on the tenth night.]

'For trusteth wel that your estat real,
Ne veyn delite, nor oonly worthinesse
Of yow in werre or tournay marcial,
Ne pomp, array, nobley, or ek richesse,
Ne madë me to rewe on youre distresse,
But moral virtu, grounded upon trowthe,
That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe.

'Eke gentil herte, and manhode that ye hadde,
And that ye hadde (as me thought) in despite
Every thyng that souned in-to1 badde,
As rudenesse, and poeplish2 appetite,
And that your reson brideled your delite,
This made, aboven every creature,

That I was youre, and shal whil I may dure.

'And this may length of yerës nought fordo,
Ne remuable fortunë deface;

But Juppiter, that of his myght may do
The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace,
Er nyghtës ten to meten in this place,
So that it may youre herte and myn suffise!
And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye rise.'

*

[Troylus wanders about, waiting for Criseyde's return.]

And therwithalle, his meynye for to blende3,
A cause he fond in townë for to go,
And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende;

1 tended towards.

2 vulgar.

3 to deceive his companions.

But Lord! this sely Troilus was wo!
Hym thought his sorwful hertë braste atwo;
For when he saugh hire dorres sperred1 alle,
Wel neigh for sorwe adoun he gan to falle.

Therwith, when he was ware, and gan biholde,
How shet was every wyndow of the place,
As frost hym thoughte his hertë gan to colde;
For which, with chaunged deedlich palë face,
Withouten word, he forth bygan to pace;
And, as God wolde, he gan so fastë ryde,
That no wight of his contenaunce espyde.

Than seyde he thus:-'O paleys desolat!
O hous of housses, whilom best yhight!
O paleys empty and disconsolat!

O thou lanterne, of which queynt is the light!
O paleys, whilom day, that now art nyght!
Wel oughtestow to falle, and I to dye,
Syn she is went that wont was us to gye2.

'O paleys, whilom crowne of houses alle,
Enlumyned with sonne of allë blisse!
O rynge, fro which the ruby is out falle!
O cause of wo, that cause has ben of blisse!
Yit syn I may no bet, fayn wolde I kysse
Thy coldë dorës, dorste I for this route;
And farewel shryne, of which the seint is oute !

Therwith he caste on Pandarus his yë,
With chaunged face, and pitous to beholde ;
And when he myght his tyme aright espyë,
Ay as he rood, to Pandarus he tolde
His newë sorwe, and ek his joyes olde,
So pitously, and with so dede an hewe,
That every wight myght on his sorwes rewe.

Fro thennes-forth he rydeth up and down,
And every thynge com hym to remembraunce,
As he rood forth by places of the town,
In which he whilom had al his plesaunce:
‘Lo! yond saugh I myn owën lady daunce ;
And in that temple, with hire eyën clere,
Me caughtë first my rightë lady deere.

:

'And yonder have I herd ful lustily
My deerë hertë laughe; and yonder pleye
Saugh Ich hire oonës ek ful blisfully;
And yonder oonës to me gan she seye,
'Now goodë swetë! love me wel, I preye;
And yond so gladly gan she me beholde,
That to the deth myn herte is to hir holde.

'And at that corner in the yonder hous,
Herde I myn alderlevest1 lady deere,
So wommanly, with vois melodyous,
Syngen so wel, so goodely and so clere,
That in my soulë yit me thynkth I here
The blisful sown; and in that yonder place
My lady first me took unto hire grace.'

2

Than thought he thus, 'O blisful lord Cupide !
When I the processe have[al] in memórie,
How thow me hast werreyed on every syde,
Men myght a book make of it lyk a stórie !
What nede is thee to seke on me victórie,
Syn I am thyn, and holly at thi wille?
What joye hastow thyn owen folk to spille?

'Wel hastow, lord, ywroke on me thyn ire,
Thow myghty god! and dredeful for to greve !
Now mercy, god! thow woost wel I desire
Thy grace moost, of allë lustës leeve !
And lyve and dye I wol in thy beleve;
For which I naxe3 in guerdon but a boone,
That thow Criseyde ayein me sendë soone.

1 best beloved.

2 made war on.

3 ask not.

'Destreyne hire herte as fastë to retourne,
As thow doost myn to longen hire to see;
Than woot I wel that she nyl naught sojourne:
Now blisful lord so cruwel thow ne be
Unto the blod of Troye, I preyë the,

As Juno was unto the blod Thebane,

For which the folk of Thebes caughte hire bane.'

And efter this he to the yatës wente,
Ther as Criseyde out rood a ful good pas,
And up and doun ther made he many a wente,
And to himself ful ofte he seyde, 'Allas!
Fro hennës rood my blisse and my solas !
As wolde blisful God now for his joye,
I myght hire seen ayein com into Troye !

'And to the yonder hille I gan hire gyde;
Allas! and ther I took of hire my leeve;
And yond I saugh hire to hire fader ryde,
For sorwe of which myn hertë shal to-cleve;
And hider hom I com when it was eve;
And here I dwelle, out-cast from allë joye,
And shal, til I may seen her eft1 in Troye.'

And of hym-self ymagynëd he ofte,

To be defet 2, and pale, and waxen lesse

Than he was wont, and that men seydë softe,
'What may it be? who kan the sothë gesse,
Why Troylus hath al this hevynesse?'
And al this nas but his melencolye,
That he hadde of hym-self swich fantasye.

Another tyme ymagynen he wolde,

That every wyght that wentë by the weye Hadde of him routhe, and that they seyën sholde, 'I am right sory, Troilus wol deye.'

And thus he drof a day yit forth or tweye,

As ye han herd; swich lyf right gan he lede,

As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede,