Troilus and Crisyde | Page 9

lettre that she wroot, y gesse?'

`Nay, never yet, y-wis,' quod Troilus.
`Now,' quod Pandare, `herkneth,
it was thus. --
"Phebus, that first fond art of medicyne,'
Quod she, `and coude in
every wightes care 660
Remede and reed, by herbes he knew fyne,

Yet to him-self his conning was ful bare;
For love hadde him so
bounden in a snare,
Al for the doughter of the kinge Admete,
That
al his craft ne coude his sorwe bete." -- 665
`Right so fare I, unhappily for me;
I love oon best, and that me
smerteth sore;
And yet, paraunter, can I rede thee,
And not my-self;
repreve me no more.
I have no cause, I woot wel, for to sore 670
As
doth an hauk that listeth for to pleye,
But to thyn help yet somwhat
can I seye.
`And of o thing right siker maystow be,
That certayn, for to deyen in
the peyne,
That I shal never-mo discoveren thee; 675
Ne, by my
trouthe, I kepe nat restreyne
Thee fro thy love, thogh that it were
Eleyne,
That is thy brotheres wif, if ich it wiste;
Be what she be,
and love hir as thee liste.
`Therfore, as freend fullich in me assure, 680
And tel me plat what is
thyn enchesoun,
And final cause of wo that ye endure;
For douteth
no-thing, myn entencioun
Nis nought to yow of reprehencioun,
To
speke as now, for no wight may bireve 685
A man to love, til that
him list to leve.
`And witeth wel, that bothe two ben vyces,
Mistrusten alle, or elles
alle leve;
But wel I woot, the mene of it no vyce is,
For to trusten
sum wight is a preve 690
Of trouthe, and for-thy wolde I fayn remeve

Thy wrong conseyte, and do thee som wight triste,
Thy wo to telle;
and tel me, if thee liste.

`The wyse seyth, "Wo him that is allone,
For, and he falle, he hath
noon help to ryse;" 695
And sith thou hast a felawe, tel thy mone;

For this nis not, certeyn, the nexte wyse
To winnen love, as techen us
the wyse,
To walwe and wepe as Niobe the quene,
Whos teres yet
in marbel been y-sene. 700
`Lat be thy weping and thi drerinesse,
And lat us lissen wo with other
speche;
So may thy woful tyme seme lesse.
Delyte not in wo thy
wo to seche,
As doon thise foles that hir sorwes eche 705
With
sorwe, whan they han misaventure,
And listen nought to seche hem
other cure.
`Men seyn, "To wrecche is consolacioun
To have an-other felawe in
his peyne;"
That oughte wel ben our opinioun, 710
For, bothe thou
and I, of love we pleyne;
So ful of sorwe am I, soth for to seyne,

That certeynly no more harde grace
May sitte on me, for-why ther is
no space.
`If god wole thou art not agast of me, 715
Lest I wolde of
thy lady thee bigyle,
Thow wost thy-self whom that I love, pardee,

As I best can, gon sithen longe whyle.
And sith thou wost I do it for
no wyle,
And sith I am he that thou tristest most, 720
Tel me
sumwhat, sin al my wo thou wost.'
Yet Troilus, for al this, no word seyde,
But longe he ley as stille as he
ded were;
And after this with sykinge he abreyde,
And to Pandarus
voys he lente his ere, 725
And up his eyen caste he, that in fere
Was
Pandarus, lest that in frenesye
He sholde falle, or elles sone dye;
And cryde `A-wake' ful wonderly and sharpe;
`What? Slombrestow
as in a lytargye? 730
Or artow lyk an asse to the harpe,
That hereth
soun, whan men the strenges plye,
But in his minde of that no
melodye
May sinken, him to glade, for that he
So dul is of his
bestialitee?' 735
And with that, Pandare of his wordes stente;

And Troilus yet him no

word answerde,
For-why to telle nas not his entente
To never no
man, for whom that he so ferde.
For it is seyd, `Man maketh ofte a
yerde 740
With which the maker is him-self y-beten
In sondry
maner,' as thise wyse treten,
And namely, in his counseyl tellinge
That toucheth love that oughte
be secree;
For of him-self it wolde y-nough out-springe, 745
But-if
that it the bet governed be.
Eek som-tyme it is craft to seme flee
Fro
thing which in effect men hunte faste;
Al this gan Troilus in his herte
caste.
But nathelees, whan he had herd him crye 750
`Awake!' he gan to
syke wonder sore,
And seyde, `Freend, though that I stille lye,
I am
not deef; now pees, and cry no more;
For I have herd thy wordes and
thy lore;
But suffre me my mischef to biwayle, 755
For thy
proverbes may me nought avayle.
`Nor other cure canstow noon for me.
Eek I nil not be cured, I wol
deye;
What knowe I of the quene Niobe?
Lat be thyne olde
ensaumples, I thee preye.' 760
`No,' quod tho Pandarus, `therfore I
seye,
Swich is delyt of foles to biwepe
Hir wo, but seken bote they
ne kepe.
`Now knowe I that ther reson in the fayleth.
But tel me, if I
wiste what she were 765
For whom that thee al this