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And on the morwe un-to the yate he wente,

And up and down, by west and eek by este,

Up-on the walles made he many a wente.

But al for nought; his hope alwey him blente; 1195

For which at night, in sorwe and sykes sore,

He wente him hoom, with-outen any more.

This hope al clene out of his herte fledde,

He nath wher-on now lenger for to honge;

But for the peyne him thoughte his herte bledde, 1200

So were his throwes sharpe and wonder stronge.

For when he saugh that she abood so longe,

He niste what he iuggen of it mighte,

Sin she hath broken that she him bihighte.

The thridde, ferthe, fifte, sixte day 1205

After tho dayes ten, of which I tolde,

Bitwixen hope and drede his herte lay,

Yet som-what trustinge on hir hestes olde.

But whan he saugh she nolde hir terme holde,

He can now seen non other remedye, 1210

But for to shape him sone for to dye.

Ther-with the wikked spirit, god us blesse,

Which that men clepeth wode Ialousye,

Gan in him crepe, in al this hevinesse;

For which, by-cause he wolde sone dye, 1215

He ne eet ne dronk, for his malencolye,

And eek from every companye he fledde;

This was the lyf that al the tyme he ledde.

He so defet was, that no maner man

Unneth mighte him knowe ther he wente; 1220

So was he lene, and ther-to pale and wan,

And feble, that he walketh by potente;

And with his ire he thus himselven shente.

But who-so axed him wher-of him smerte,

He seyde, his harm was al aboute his herte. 1225

Pryam ful ofte, and eek his moder dere,

His bretheren and his sustren gonne him freyne

Why he so sorwful was in al his chere,

And what thing was the cause of al his peyne?

But al for nought; he nolde his cause pleyne, 1230

But seyde, he felte a grevous maladye

A-boute his herte, and fayn he wolde dye.

So on a day he leyde him doun to slepe,

And so bifel that in his sleep him thoughte,

That in a forest faste he welk to wepe 1235

For love of hir that him these peynes wroughte;

And up and doun as he the forest soughte,

He mette he saugh a boor with tuskes grete,

That sleep ayein the brighte sonnes hete.

And by this boor, faste in his armes folde, 1240

Lay kissing ay his lady bright Criseyde:

For sorwe of which, whan he it gan biholde,

And for despyt, out of his slepe he breyde,

And loude he cryde on Pandarus, and seyde,

`O Pandarus, now knowe I crop and rote! 1245

I nam but deed; ther nis non other bote!

`My lady bright Criseyde hath me bitrayed,

In whom I trusted most of any wight,

She elles-where hath now hir herte apayed;

The blisful goddes, through hir grete might, 1250

Han in my dreem y-shewed it ful right.

Thus in my dreem Criseyde I have biholde' —

And al this thing to Pandarus he tolde.

`O my Criseyde, allas! What subtiltee.

What newe lust, what beautee, what science, 1255

What wratthe of iuste cause have ye to me?

What gilt of me, what fel experience

Hath fro me raft, allas! Thyn advertence?

O trust, O feyth, O depe aseuraunce,

Who hath me reft Criseyde, al my plesaunce? 1260

`Allas! Why leet I you from hennes go,

For which wel neigh out of my wit I breyde?

Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?

God wot I wende, O lady bright, Criseyde,

That every word was gospel that ye seyde! 1265

But who may bet bigylen, yf him liste,

Than he on whom men weneth best to triste?

`What shal I doon, my Pandarus, allas!

I fele now so sharpe a newe peyne,

Sin that ther is no remedie in this cas, 1270

That bet were it I with myn hondes tweyne

My-selven slow, than alwey thus to pleyne.

For through my deeth my wo sholde han an ende,

Ther every day with lyf my-self I shende.'

Pandare answerde and seyde, `Allas the whyle 1275

That I was born; have I not seyd er this,

That dremes many a maner man bigyle?

And why? For folk expounden hem a-mis.

How darstow seyn that fals thy lady is,

For any dreem, right for thyn owene drede? 1280

Lat be this thought, thou canst no dremes rede.

`Paraunter, ther thou dremest of this boor,

It may so be that it may signifye

Hir fader, which that old is and