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In veyn fro-this-forth have I eyen tweye

Y-formed, sin your vertue is a-weye. 315

`O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne

Of thilke woful soule that thus cryeth,

Who shal now yeven comfort to the peyne?

Allas, no wight; but when myn herte dyeth,

My spirit, which that so un-to yow hyeth, 320

Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve;

For-thy no fors is, though the body sterve.

`O ye loveres, that heighe upon the wheel

Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure,

God leve that ye finde ay love of steel, 325

And longe mot your lyf in Ioye endure!

But whan ye comen by my sepulture,

Remembreth that your felawe resteth there;

For I lovede eek, though I unworthy were.

`O olde, unholsom, and mislyved man, 330

Calkas I mene, allas! What eyleth thee

To been a Greek, sin thou art born Troian?

O Calkas, which that wilt my bane be,

In cursed tyme was thou born for me!

As wolde blisful Iove, for his Ioye, 335

That I thee hadde, where I wolde, in Troye!'

A thousand sykes, hottere than the glede,

Out of his brest ech after other wente,

Medled with pleyntes newe, his wo to fede,

For which his woful teres never stente; 340

And shortly, so his peynes him to-rente,

And wex so mat, that Ioye nor penaunce

He feleth noon, but lyth forth in a traunce.

Pandare, which that in the parlement

Hadde herd what every lord and burgeys seyde, 345

And how ful graunted was, by oon assent,

For Antenor to yelden so Criseyde,

Gan wel neigh wood out of his wit to breyde,

So that, for wo, he niste what he mente;

But in a rees to Troilus he wente. 350

A certeyn knight, that for the tyme kepte

The chaumbre-dore, un-dide it him anoon;

And Pandare, that ful tendreliche wepte,

In-to the derke chaumbre, as stille as stoon,

Toward the bed gan softely to goon, 355

So confus, that he niste what to seye;

For verray wo his wit was neigh aweye.

And with his chere and loking al to-torn,

For sorwe of this, and with his armes folden,

He stood this woful Troilus biforn, 360

And on his pitous face he gan biholden;

But lord, so often gan his herte colden,

Seing his freend in wo, whos hevinesse

His herte slow, as thoughte him, for distresse.

This woful wight, this Troilus, that felte 365

His freend Pandare y-comen him to see,

Gan as the snow ayein the sonne melte,

For which this sorwful Pandare, of pitee,

Gan for to wepe as tendreliche as he;

And specheles thus been thise ilke tweye, 370

That neyther mighte o word for sorwe seye.

But at the laste this woful Troilus,

Ney deed for smert, gan bresten out to rore,

And with a sorwful noyse he seyde thus,

Among his sobbes and his sykes sore, 375

`Lo! Pandare, I am deed, with-outen more.

Hastow nought herd at parlement,' he seyde,

`For Antenor how lost is my Criseyde?'

This Pandarus, ful deed and pale of hewe,

Ful pitously answerde and seyde, `Yis! 380

As wisly were it fals as it is trewe,

That I have herd, and wot al how it is.

O mercy, god, who wolde have trowed this?

Who wolde have wend that, in so litel a throwe,

Fortune our Ioye wolde han over-throwe? 385

`For in this world ther is no creature,

As to my doom, that ever saw ruyne

Straungere than this, thorugh cas or aventure.

But who may al eschewe, or al devyne?

Swich is this world; for-thy I thus defyne, 390

Ne trust no wight to finden in Fortune

Ay propretee; hir yeftes been comune.

`But tel me this, why thou art now so mad

To sorwen thus? Why lystow in this wyse,

Sin thy desyr al holly hastow had, 395

So that, by right, it oughte y-now suffyse?

But I, that never felte in my servyse

A frendly chere or loking of an ye,

Lat me thus wepe and wayle, til I dye.

`And over al this, as thou wel wost thy-selve, 400

This town is ful of ladies al aboute;

And, to my doom, fairer than swiche twelve

As ever she was, shal I finde, in som route,

Ye, oon or two, with-outen any doute.

For-thy be glad, myn owene dere brother, 405

If she be lost, we shal recovere another.

`What, god for-bede alwey that ech plesaunce

In o thing were, and in non other wight!

If oon