Previous: From Troilus and Criseyde, Book III, lines 1-49: Prologue

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	And, lord, so that his herte gan to quappe,
	Heringe hir come, and shorte for to syke!
	And Pandarus, that ledde hir by the lappe,
60	Com ner, and gan in at the curtin pyke,
	And seyde, `God do bote on alle syke!
	See, who is here yow comen to visyte;
	Lo, here is she that is your deeth to wyte.'

	Ther-with it semed as he wepte almost;
65	`A ha,' quod Troilus so rewfully,
	`Wher me be wo, O mighty God, thow wost!
	Who is al there? I se nought trewely.'
	`Sire,' quod Criseyde, `it is Pandare and I.'
	`Ye, swete herte? Allas, I may nought ryse
70	To knele, and do yow honour in som wyse.'

	And dressede him upward, and she right tho
	Gan bothe here hondes softe upon him leye,
	`O, for the love of God, do ye not so
	To me,' quod she, `Ey! What is this to seye?
75	Sire, come am I to yow for causes tweye;
	First, yow to thonke, and of your lordshipe eke
	Continuance I wolde yow biseke.'

	This Troilus, that herde his lady preye
	Of lordship him, wex neither quyk ne deed,
80	Ne mighte a word for shame to it seye,
	Although men sholde smyten of his heed.
	But lord, so he wex sodeinliche reed,
	And sire, his lesson, that he wende konne,
	To preyen hir, is thurgh his wit yronne.

85	Cryseyde al this aspyede wel ynough,
	For she was wys, and lovede him never the lasse,
	Al nere he malapert, or made it tough,
	Or was to bold, to singe a fool a masse.
	But whan his shame gan somwhat to passe,
90	His resons, as I may my rymes holde,
	I yow wole telle, as techen bokes olde.

	In chaunged vois, right for his verray drede,
	Which vois eek quook, and therto his manere
	Goodly abayst, and now his hewes rede,
95	Now pale, unto Criseyde, his lady dere,
	With look doun cast and humble yolden chere,
	Lo, the alderfirste word that him asterte
	Was, twyes, `Mercy, mercy, swete herte!'

	And stinte a whyl, and whan he mighte out bringe,
100	The nexte word was, `God woot, for I have,
	As feyfully as I have had konnynge,
	Ben youres, also God so my soule save;
	And shal til that I, woful wight, be grave.
	And though I dar ne can unto yow pleyne,
105	Ywis, I suffre nought the lasse peyne.

	`Thus muche as now, O wommanliche wyf,
	I may out bringe, and if this yow displese,
	That shal I wreke upon myn owne lyf
	Right sone, I trowe, and doon your herte an ese,
110	If with my deeth your herte I may apese.
	But syn that ye han herd me som-what seye,
	Now recche I never how sone that I deye.'

Next: From Troilus and Criseyde, Book III, lines 113-154: Troilus declares his love for Criseyde