• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

And I, emforth my conninge and my might,

Have and ay shal, how sore that me smerte, 1000

Ben to yow trewe and hool, with a myn herte;

`And dredelees, that shal be founde at preve. —

But, herte myn, what al this is to seyne

Shal wel be told, so that ye noght yow greve,

Though I to yow right on your-self compleyne. 1005

For ther-with mene I fynally the peyne,

That halt your herte and myn in hevinesse,

Fully to sleen, and every wrong redresse.

`My goode, myn, not I for-why ne how

That Ialousye, allas! That wikked wivere, 1010

Thus causelees is cropen in-to yow;

The harm of which I wolde fayn delivere!

Allas! That he, al hool, or of him slivere,

Shuld have his refut in so digne a place,

Ther Iove him sone out of your herte arace! 1015

`But O, thou Iove, O auctor of nature,

Is this an honour to thy deitee,

That folk ungiltif suffren here iniure,

And who that giltif is, al quit goth he?

O were it leful for to pleyne on thee, 1020

That undeserved suffrest Ialousye,

Of that I wolde up-on thee pleyne and crye!

`Eek al my wo is this, that folk now usen

To seyn right thus, "Ye, Ialousye is love!"

And wolde a busshel venim al excusen, 1025

For that o greyn of love is on it shove!

But that wot heighe god that sit above,

If it be lyker love, or hate, or grame;

And after that, it oughte bere his name.

`But certeyn is, som maner Ialousye 1030

Is excusable more than som, y-wis.

As whan cause is, and som swich fantasye

With pietee so wel repressed is,

That it unnethe dooth or seyth amis,

But goodly drinketh up al his distresse; 1035

And that excuse I, for the gentilesse.

`And som so ful of furie is and despyt

That it sourmounteth his repressioun;

But herte myn, ye be not in that plyt,

That thanke I god, for whiche your passioun 1040

I wol not calle it but illusioun,

Of habundaunce of love and bisy cure,

That dooth your herte this disese endure.

`Of which I am right sory but not wrooth;

But, for my devoir and your hertes reste, 1045

Wher-so yow list, by ordal or by ooth,

By sort, or in what wyse so yow leste,

For love of god, lat preve it for the beste!

And if that I be giltif, do me deye,

Allas! What mighte I more doon or seye?' 1050

With that a fewe brighte teres newe

Owt of hir eyen fille, and thus she seyde,

`Now god, thou wost, in thought ne dede untrewe

To Troilus was never yet Criseyde.'

With that hir heed doun in the bed she leyde, 1055

And with the shete it wreigh, and syghed sore,

And held hir pees; not o word spak she more.

But now help god to quenchen al this sorwe,

So hope I that he shal, for he best may;

For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe 1060

Folwen ful ofte a mery someres day;

And after winter folweth grene May.

Men seen alday, and reden eek in stories,

That after sharpe shoures been victories.

This Troilus, whan he hir wordes herde, 1065

Have ye no care, him liste not to slepe;

For it thoughte him no strokes of a yerde

To here or seen Criseyde, his lady wepe;

But wel he felte aboute his herte crepe,

For every teer which that Criseyde asterte, 1070

The crampe of deeth, to streyne him by the herte.

And in his minde he gan the tyme acurse

That he cam there, and that that he was born;

For now is wikke y-turned in-to worse,

And al that labour he hath doon biforn, 1075

He wende it lost, he thoughte he nas but lorn.

`O Pandarus,' thoughte he, `allas! Thy wyle

Serveth of nought, so weylaway the whyle!'

And therwithal he heng a-doun the heed,

And fil on knees, and sorwfully he sighte; 1080

What mighte he seyn? He felte he nas but deed,

For wrooth was she that shulde his sorwes lighte.

But nathelees, whan that he speken mighte,

Than seyde he thus, `God woot, that of this game,

Whan al is wist, than am I not to blame!' 1085

Ther-with the sorwe so his herte shette,

That from his eyen fil there not a tere,

And every spirit his vigour in-knette,

So they astoned or oppressed were.

The feling of his sorwe, or of his fere, 1090

Or of ought elles, fled was out of towne;

And doun he fel