Troilus and Crisyde | Page 8

angry maken,?And with an angre don his sorwe falle,?As for the tyme, and his corage awaken;?But wel he wist, as fer as tonges spaken, 565?Ther nas a man of gretter hardinesse?Than he, ne more desired worthinesse.?`What cas,' quod Troilus, `or what aventure?Hath gyded thee to see my languisshinge,?That am refus of euery creature? 570?But for the love of god, at my preyinge,?Go henne a-way, for certes, my deyinge?Wol thee disese, and I mot nedes deye;?Ther-for go wey, ther is no more to seye.
`But if thou wene I be thus sik for drede, 575?It is not so, and ther-for scorne nought;?Ther is a-nother thing I take of hede?Wel more than ought the Grekes han y-wrought,?Which cause is of my deeth, for sorwe and thought.?But though that I now telle thee it ne leste, 580?Be thou nought wrooth; I hyde it for the beste.'
This Pandare, that neigh malt for wo and routhe,?Ful often seyde, `Allas! what may this be??Now freend,' quod he, `if ever love or trouthe?Hath been, or is, bi-twixen thee and me, 585?Ne do thou never swiche a crueltee?To hyde fro thy freend so greet a care;?Wostow nought wel that it am I, Pandare?
`I wole parten with thee al thy peyne,?If it be so I do thee no comfort, 590?As it is freendes right, sooth for to seyne,?To entreparten wo, as glad desport.?I have, and shal, for trewe or fals report,?In wrong and right y-loved thee al my lyve;?Hyd not thy wo fro me, but telle it blyve.' 595
Than gan this sorwful Troilus to syke,?And seyde him thus, "God leve it be my beste?To telle it thee; for sith it may thee lyke,?Yet wole I telle it, though myn herte breste;?And wel wot I thou mayst do me no reste. 600?But lest thow deme I truste not to thee,?Now herkne, freend, for thus it stant with me.
`Love, a-yeins the which who-so defendeth?Him-selven most, him alder-lest avayleth,?With disespeir so sorwfully me offendeth, 605?That streyght un-to the deeth myn herte sayleth.?Ther-to desyr so brenningly me assaylleth,?That to ben slayn it were a gretter Ioye?To me than king of Grece been and Troye!
`Suffiseth this, my fulle freend Pandare, 610?That I have seyd, for now wostow my wo;?And for the love of god, my colde care?So hyd it wel, I telle it never to mo;?For harmes mighte folwen, mo than two,?If it were wist; but be thou in gladnesse, 615?And lat me sterve, unknowe, of my distresse.'?`How hastow thus unkindely and longe?Hid this fro me, thou fool?' quod Pandarus;?`Paraunter thou might after swich oon longe,?That myn avys anoon may helpen us.' 620?`This were a wonder thing,' quod Troylus,?`Thou coudest never in love thy-selven wisse;?How devel maystow bringen me to blisse?'
`Ye, Troilus, now herke,' quod Pandare,?`Though I be nyce; it happeth ofte so, 625?That oon that exces doth ful yvele fare,?By good counseyl can kepe his freend ther-fro.?I have my-self eek seyn a blind man go?Ther-as he fel that coude loke wyde;?A fool may eek a wys man ofte gyde. 630
`A whetston is no kerving instrument,?And yet it maketh sharpe kerving-tolis.?And ther thou woost that I have ought miswent,?Eschewe thou that, for swich thing to thee scole is;?Thus ofte wyse men ben war by folis. 635?If thou do so, thy wit is wel biwared;?By his contrarie is every thing declared.
`For how might ever sweetnesse have be knowe?To him that never tasted bitternesse??Ne no man may be inly glad, I trowe, 640?That never was in sorwe or som distresse;?Eek whyt by blak, by shame eek worthinesse,?Ech set by other, more for other semeth;?As men may see; and so the wyse it demeth.
`Sith thus of two contraries is a lore, 645?I, that have in love so ofte assayed?Grevaunces, oughte conne, and wel the more?Counsayllen thee of that thou art amayed.?Eek thee ne oughte nat ben yvel apayed,?Though I desyre with thee for to bere 650?Thyn hevy charge; it shal the lasse dere.
`I woot wel that it fareth thus by me?As to thy brother Parys an herdesse,?Which that y-cleped was Oenone,?Wrot in a compleynte of hir hevinesse: 655?Ye say the 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