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But forth hir cours fortune ay gan to holde. 1745

Criseyde loveth the sone of Tydeus,

And Troilus mot wepe in cares colde.

Swich is this world; who-so it can biholde,

In eche estat is litel hertes reste;

God leve us for to take it for the beste! 1750

In many cruel batayle, out of drede,

Of Troilus, this ilke noble knight,

As men may in these olde bokes rede,

Was sene his knighthod and his grete might.

And dredelees, his ire, day and night, 1755

Ful cruelly the Grekes ay aboughte;

And alwey most this Diomede he soughte.

And ofte tyme, I finde that they mette

With blody strokes and with wordes grete,

Assayinge how hir speres weren whette; 1760

And god it woot, with many a cruel hete

Gan Troilus upon his helm to bete.

But natheles, fortune it nought ne wolde,

Of others hond that either deyen sholde. —

And if I hadde y-taken for to wryte 1765

The armes of this ilke worthy man,

Than wolde I of his batailles endyte.

But for that I to wryte first bigan

Of his love, I have seyd as that I can.

His worthy dedes, who-so list hem here, 1770

Reed Dares, he can telle hem alle y-fere.

Bisechinge every lady bright of hewe,

And every gentil womman, what she be,

That al be that Criseyde was untrewe,

That for that gilt she be not wrooth with me. 1775

Ye may hir gilt in othere bokes see;

And gladlier I wole wryten, if yow leste,

Penolopees trouthe and good Alceste.

Ne I sey not this al-only for these men,

But most for wommen that bitraysed be 1780

Through false folk; god yeve hem sorwe, amen!

That with hir grete wit and subtiltee

Bitrayse yow! And this commeveth me

To speke, and in effect yow alle I preye,

Beth war of men, and herkeneth what I seye! — 1785

Go, litel book, go litel myn tragedie,

Ther god thy maker yet, er that he dye,

So sende might to make in som comedie!

But litel book, no making thou nenvye,

But subgit be to alle poesye; 1790

And kis the steppes, wher-as thou seest pace

Virgile, Ovyde, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.

And for ther is so greet diversitee

In English and in wryting of our tonge,

So preye I god that noon miswryte thee, 1795

Ne thee mismetre for defaute of tonge.

And red wher-so thou be, or elles songe,

That thou be understonde I god beseche!

But yet to purpos of my rather speche. —

The wraththe, as I began yow for to seye, 1800

Of Troilus, the Grekes boughten dere;

For thousandes his hondes maden deye,

As he that was with-outen any pere,

Save Ector, in his tyme, as I can here.

But weylawey, save only goddes wille, 1805

Dispitously him slough the fiers Achille.

And whan that he was slayn in this manere,

His lighte goost ful blisfully is went

Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere,

In convers letinge every element; 1810

And ther he saugh, with ful avysement,

The erratik sterres, herkeninge armonye

With sownes fulle of hevenish melodye.

And doun from thennes faste he gan avyse

This litel spot of erthe, that with the see 1815

Embraced is, and fully gan despyse

This wrecched world, and held al vanitee

To respect of the pleyn felicitee

That is in hevene above; and at the laste,

Ther he was slayn, his loking doun he caste; 1820

And in him-self he lough right at the wo

Of hem that wepten for his deeth so faste;

And dampned al our werk that folweth so

The blinde lust, the which that may not laste,

And sholden al our herte on hevene caste. 1825

And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,

Ther as Mercurie sorted him to dwelle. —

Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love,

Swich fyn hath al his grete worthinesse;

Swich fyn hath his estat real above, 1830

Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse;

Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse.

And thus bigan his lovinge of Criseyde,

As I have told, and in this wyse he deyde.

O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, 1835

In which that love up groweth with your age,

Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,

And of your herte up-casteth the visage

To thilke god that after his image

Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre 1840

This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.