Troilus and Crisyde | Page 7

sondry wyse ay newe, 440
That sixty tyme a day he
loste his hewe.
So muche, day by day, his owene thought,
For lust to hir, gan quiken
and encrese,
That every other charge he sette at nought;
For-thy ful

ofte, his hote fyr to cese, 445
To seen hir goodly look he gan to prese;

For ther-by to ben esed wel he wende,
And ay the ner he was, the
more he brende.
For ay the ner the fyr, the hotter is,
This, trowe I, knoweth al this
companye. 450
But were he fer or neer, I dar seye this,
By night or
day, for wisdom or folye,
His herte, which that is his brestes ye,

Was ay on hir, that fairer was to sene
Than ever were Eleyne or
Polixene. 455
Eek of the day ther passed nought an houre
That to him-self a
thousand tyme he seyde,
`Good goodly, to whom serve I and laboure,

As I best can, now wolde god, Criseyde,
Ye wolden on me rewe er
that I deyde! 460
My dere herte, allas! myn hele and hewe
And lyf
is lost, but ye wole on me rewe.'
Alle othere dredes weren from him fledde,
Both of the assege and his
savacioun;
Ne in him desyr noon othere fownes bredde 465
But
argumentes to his conclusioun,
That she on him wolde han
compassioun,
And he to be hir man, whyl he may dure;
Lo, here his
lyf, and from the deeth his cure!
The sharpe shoures felle of armes
preve, 470
That Ector or his othere bretheren diden,
Ne made him
only ther-fore ones meve;
And yet was he, wher-so men wente or
riden,
Founde oon the beste, and lengest tyme abiden
Ther peril
was, and dide eek such travayle 475
In armes, that to thenke it was
mervayle.
But for non hate he to the Grekes hadde,
Ne also for the rescous of
the toun,
Ne made him thus in armes for to madde,
But only, lo, for
this conclusioun, 480
To lyken hir the bet for his renoun;
Fro day to
day in armes so he spedde,
That alle the Grekes as the deeth him
dredde.
And fro this forth tho refte him love his sleep,
And made his mete his

foo; and eek his sorwe 485
Gan multiplye, that, who-so toke keep,

It shewed in his hewe, bothe eve and morwe;
Therfor a title he gan
him for to borwe
Of other syknesse, lest of him men wende
That
the hote fyr of love him brende, 490
And seyde, he hadde a fever and ferde amis;
But how it was, certayn,
can I not seye,
If that his lady understood not this,
Or feyned hir she
niste, oon of the tweye;
But wel I rede that, by no maner weye, 495

Ne semed it as that she of him roughte,
Nor of his peyne, or
what-so-ever he thoughte.
But than fel to this Troylus such wo,
That he was wel neigh wood; for
ay his drede
Was this, that she som wight had loved so, 500
That
never of him she wolde have taken hede;
For whiche him thoughte he
felte his herte blede.
Ne of his wo ne dorste he not biginne
To tellen
it, for al this world to winne.
But whanne he hadde a space fro his care, 505
Thus to him-self ful
ofte he gan to pleyne;
He sayde, `O fool, now art thou in the snare,

That whilom Iapedest at loves peyne;
Now artow hent, now gnaw
thyn owene cheyne;
Thou were ay wont eche lovere reprehende 510

Of thing fro which thou canst thee nat defende.
`What wol now every lover seyn of thee,
If this be wist, but ever in
thyn absence
Laughen in scorn, and seyn, `Lo, ther gooth he,
That
is the man of so gret sapience, 515
That held us lovers leest in
reverence!
Now, thonked be god, he may goon in the daunce
Of
hem that Love list febly for to avaunce!'
`But, O thou woful Troilus,
god wolde,
Sin thou most loven thurgh thi destinee, 520
That thow
beset were on swich oon that sholde
Knowe al thy wo, al lakkede hir
pitee:
But al so cold in love, towardes thee,
Thy lady is, as frost in
winter mone,
And thou fordoon, as snow in fyr is sone.' 525
`God wolde I were aryved in the port
Of deth, to which my sorwe wil

me lede!
A, lord, to me it were a gret comfort;
Than were I quit of
languisshing in drede.
For by myn hidde sorwe y-blowe on brede 530

I shal bi-Iaped been a thousand tyme
More than that fool of whos
folye men ryme.
`But now help god, and ye, swete, for whom
I pleyne, y-caught, ye,
never wight so faste!
O mercy, dere herte, and help me from 535

The deeth, for I, whyl that my lyf may laste,
More than my-self wol
love yow to my laste.
And with som freendly look gladeth me, swete,

Though never more thing ye me bi-hete!'
This wordes and ful manye an-other to 540
He spak, and called ever
in his compleynte
Hir name, for to tellen hir his wo,
Til neigh that
he in salte teres dreynte.
Al was for nought, she herde nought his
pleynte;
And whan that he bithoughte