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A maner cote-armure, as seyth the storie,

Biforn Deiphebe, in signe of his victorie,

The whiche cote, as telleth Lollius,

Deiphebe it hadde y-rent from Diomede

The same day; and whan this Troilus 1655

It saugh, he gan to taken of it hede,

Avysing of the lengthe and of the brede,

And al the werk; but as he gan biholde,

Ful sodeinly his herte gan to colde,

As he that on the coler fond with-inne 1660

A broche, that he Criseyde yaf that morwe

That she from Troye moste nedes twinne,

In remembraunce of him and of his sorwe;

And she him leyde ayein hir feyth to borwe

To kepe it ay; but now, ful wel he wiste, 1665

His lady nas no lenger on to triste.

He gooth him hoom, and gan ful sone sende

For Pandarus; and al this newe chaunce,

And of this broche, he tolde him word and ende,

Compleyninge of hir hertes variaunce, 1670

His longe love, his trouthe, and his penaunce;

And after deeth, with-outen wordes more,

Ful faste he cryde, his reste him to restore.

Than spak he thus, `O lady myn Criseyde,

Wher is your feyth, and wher is your biheste? 1675

Wher is your love, wher is your trouthe,' he seyde;

`Of Diomede have ye now al this feste!

Allas, I wolde have trowed at the leste.

That, sin ye nolde in trouthe to me stonde,

That ye thus nolde han holden me in honde! 1680

`Who shal now trowe on any othes mo?

Allas, I never wolde han wend, er this,

That ye, Criseyde, coude han chaunged so;

Ne, but I hadde a-gilt and doon amis,

So cruel wende I not your herte, y-wis, 1685

To slee me thus; allas, your name of trouthe

Is now for-doon, and that is al my routhe.

`Was ther non other broche yow liste lete

To feffe with your newe love,' quod he,

`But thilke broche that I, with teres wete, 1690

Yow yaf, as for a remembraunce of me?

Non other cause, allas, ne hadde ye

But for despyt, and eek for that ye mente

Al-outrely to shewen your entente!

`Through which I see that clene out of your minde 1695

Ye han me cast, and I ne can nor may,

For al this world, with-in myn herte finde

To unloven yow a quarter of a day!

In cursed tyme I born was, weylaway!

That ye, that doon me al this wo endure, 1700

Yet love I best of any creature.

`Now god,' quod he, `me sende yet the grace

That I may meten with this Diomede!

And trewely, if I have might and space,

Yet shal I make, I hope, his sydes blede. 1705

O god,' quod he, `that oughtest taken hede

To fortheren trouthe, and wronges to punyce,

Why niltow doon a vengeaunce of this vyce?

`O Pandare, that in dremes for to triste

Me blamed hast, and wont art oft up-breyde, 1710

Now maystow see thy-selve, if that thee liste,

How trewe is now thy nece, bright Criseyde!

In sondry formes, god it woot,' he seyde,

`The goddes shewen bothe Ioye and tene

In slepe, and by my dreme it is now sene. 1715

`And certaynly, with-oute more speche,

From hennes-forth, as ferforth as I may,

Myn owene deeth in armes wol I seche;

I recche not how sone be the day!

But trewely, Criseyde, swete may, 1720

Whom I have ay with al my might y-served,

That ye thus doon, I have it nought deserved.'

This Pandarus, that alle these thinges herde,

And wiste wel he seyde a sooth of this,

He nought a word ayein to him answerde; 1725

For sory of his frendes sorwe he is,

And shamed, for his nece hath doon a-mis;

And stant, astoned of these causes tweye,

As stille as stoon; a word ne coude he seye.

But at the laste thus he spak, and seyde, 1730

`My brother dere, I may thee do no-more.

What shulde I seyn? I hate, y-wis, Criseyde!

And, god wot, I wol hate hir evermore!

And that thou me bisoughtest doon of yore,

Havinge un-to myn honour ne my reste 1735

Right no reward, I dide al that thee leste.

`If I dide ought that mighte lyken thee,

It is me leef; and of this treson now,

God woot, that it a sorwe is un-to me!

And dredelees, for hertes ese of yow, 1740

Right fayn wolde I amende it, wiste I how.

And fro this world, almighty god I preye,

Delivere hir sone; I can no-more seye.'

Gret was the sorwe and pleynt of Troilus;