From Geoffrey Chaucer's "Troilus and Criseyde", Book III, lines 1415-1519

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From Troilus and Criseyde, Book III, lines 1338-1414:
Troilus and Criseyde stay up all night

Geoffrey Chaucer (1342 - 1400):
Troilus and Criseyde
Book III, lines 1415-1519: Morning comes and Troilus and Criseyde complain about the shortness of the night

1415	But whan the cok, comune astrologer,
	Gan on his brest to bete, and after crowe,
	And Lucifer, the dayes messager,
	Gan for to ryse, and out hir bemes throwe;
	And estward roos, to him that coude it knowe,
1420	Fortuna Major, than anoon Criseyde,
	With herte sore, to Troilus thus seyde: --

`Myn hertes lyf, my trist and my plesaunce,

That I was born, allas! What me is wo,

That day of us mot make desseveraunce!

1425 For tyme it is to ryse, and hennes go,

Or elles I am lost for evermo!

O night, allas! Why niltow over us hove,

As longe as whanne Almena lay by Jove?

`O blake night, as folk in bokes rede,

1430 That shapen art by God this world to hyde

At certeyn tymes with thy derke wede,

That under that men mighte in reste abyde,

Wel oughte bestes pleyne, and folk thee chyde,

That there as day with labour wolde us breste,

1435 That thou thus fleest, and deynest us nought reste!

`Thou doost, allas! To shortly thyn offyce,

Thou rakel night, ther God, makere of kinde,

Thee, for thyn hast and thyn unkinde vyce,

So faste ay to our hemi-spere binde.

1440 That never more under the ground thou winde!

For now, for thou so hyest out of Troye,

Have I forgon thus hastily my joye!'

This Troilus, that with tho wordes felte,

As thoughte him tho, for pietous distresse,

1445 The blody teeres from his herte melte,

As he that never yet swich hevinesse

Assayed hadde, out of so greet gladnesse,

Gan therwithal Criseyde his lady dere

In armes streyne, and seyde in this manere: --

1450 `O cruel day, accusour of the Joye

That night and love han stole and faste ywryen,

Acursed be thy coming into Troye,

For every bore hath oon of thy bright yen!

Envyous day, what list thee so to spyen?

1455 What hastow lost, why sekestow this place,

Ther God thy lyght so quenche, for his grace?

`Allas! What han thise loveres thee agilt,

Dispitous day? Thyn be the pyne of helle!

For many a lovere hastow shent, and wilt;

1460 Thy pouring in wol nowher lete hem dwelle.

What proferestow thy light here for to selle?

Go selle it hem that smale seles graven,

We wol thee nought, us nedeth no day haven.'

And eek the sonne Tytan gan he chyde,

1465 And seyde, `O fool, wel may men thee dispyse,

That hast the Dawing al night by thy syde,

And suffrest hir so sone up fro thee ryse,

For to disesen loveres in this wyse.

What! Holde your bed ther, thou, and eek thy Morwe!

1470 I bidde God, so yeve yow bothe sorwe!'

Therwith ful sore he sighte, and thus he seyde,

`My lady right, and of my wele or wo

The welle and rote, O goodly myn, Criseyde,

And shal I ryse, allas! And shal I go?

1475 Now fele I that myn herte moot atwo!

For how sholde I my lyf an houre save,

Syn that with yow is al the lyf I have?

`What shal I doon, for certes, I not how,

Ne whanne, allas! I shal the tyme see,

1480 That in this plit I may be eft with yow;

And of my lyf, God woot, how that shal be,

Syn that desyr right now so byteth me,

That I am deed anoon, but I retourne.

How sholde I longe, allas! Fro yow sojourne?

1485 `But nathelees, myn owene lady bright,

Yit were it so that I wiste outrely,

That I, your humble servaunt and your knight,

Were in your herte set so fermely

As ye in myn, the which thing, trewely,

1490 Me levere were than thise worldes tweyne,

Yet sholde I bet enduren al my peyne.'

To that Cryseyde answerde right anoon,

And with a syk she seyde, `O herte dere,

The game, y-wis, so ferforth now is goon,

1495 That first shal Phebus falle fro his spere,

And every egle been the dowves fere,

And every roche out of his place sterte,

Er Troilus out of Criseydes herte!

`Ye he so depe in-with myn herte grave,

1500 That, though I wolde it turne out of my thought,

As wisly verray God my soule save,

To dyen in the peyne, I koude nought!

And, for the love of God that us bath wrought,

Lat in your brayn non other fantasye

1505 So crepe, that it cause me to dye!

`And that ye me wolde han as faste in minde

As I have yow, that wolde I yow biseche;

And, if I wiste soothly that to finde,

God mighte not a poynt my joyes eche!

1510 But, herte myn, withoute more speche,

Beth to me trewe, or elles were it routhe;

For I am thyn, by God and by my trouthe!

`Beth glad forthy, and live in sikernesse;

Thus seyde I never er this, ne shal to mo;

1515 And if to yow it were a gret gladnesse

To turne ayein, soone after that ye go,

As fayn wolde I as ye, it were so,

As wisly God myn herte bringe at reste!'

And him in armes took, and ofte keste.

Next:
From Troilus and Criseyde, Book III, lines 1520-1554:
Separated, Troilus and Criseyde think about each other

	`Myn hertes lyf, my trist and my plesaunce,
	That I was born, allas! What me is wo,
	That day of us mot make desseveraunce!
1425	For tyme it is to ryse, and hennes go,
	Or elles I am lost for evermo!
	O night, allas! Why niltow over us hove,
	As longe as whanne Almena lay by Jove?

	`O blake night, as folk in bokes rede,
1430	That shapen art by God this world to hyde
	At certeyn tymes with thy derke wede,
	That under that men mighte in reste abyde,
	Wel oughte bestes pleyne, and folk thee chyde,
	That there as day with labour wolde us breste,
1435	That thou thus fleest, and deynest us nought reste!

	`Thou doost, allas! To shortly thyn offyce,
	Thou rakel night, ther God, makere of kinde,
	Thee, for thyn hast and thyn unkinde vyce,
	So faste ay to our hemi-spere binde.
1440	That never more under the ground thou winde!
	For now, for thou so hyest out of Troye,
	Have I forgon thus hastily my joye!'

	This Troilus, that with tho wordes felte,
	As thoughte him tho, for pietous distresse,
1445	The blody teeres from his herte melte,
	As he that never yet swich hevinesse
	Assayed hadde, out of so greet gladnesse,
	Gan therwithal Criseyde his lady dere
	In armes streyne, and seyde in this manere: --

1450	`O cruel day, accusour of the Joye
	That night and love han stole and faste ywryen,
	Acursed be thy coming into Troye,
	For every bore hath oon of thy bright yen!
	Envyous day, what list thee so to spyen?
1455	What hastow lost, why sekestow this place,
	Ther God thy lyght so quenche, for his grace?

	`Allas! What han thise loveres thee agilt,
	Dispitous day? Thyn be the pyne of helle!
	For many a lovere hastow shent, and wilt;
1460	Thy pouring in wol nowher lete hem dwelle.
	What proferestow thy light here for to selle?
	Go selle it hem that smale seles graven,
	We wol thee nought, us nedeth no day haven.'

	And eek the sonne Tytan gan he chyde,
1465	And seyde, `O fool, wel may men thee dispyse,
	That hast the Dawing al night by thy syde,
	And suffrest hir so sone up fro thee ryse,
	For to disesen loveres in this wyse.
	What! Holde your bed ther, thou, and eek thy Morwe!
1470	I bidde God, so yeve yow bothe sorwe!'

	Therwith ful sore he sighte, and thus he seyde,
	`My lady right, and of my wele or wo
	The welle and rote, O goodly myn, Criseyde,
	And shal I ryse, allas! And shal I go?
1475	Now fele I that myn herte moot atwo!
	For how sholde I my lyf an houre save,
	Syn that with yow is al the lyf I have?

	`What shal I doon, for certes, I not how,
	Ne whanne, allas! I shal the tyme see,
1480	That in this plit I may be eft with yow;
	And of my lyf, God woot, how that shal be,
	Syn that desyr right now so byteth me,
	That I am deed anoon, but I retourne.
	How sholde I longe, allas! Fro yow sojourne?

1485	`But nathelees, myn owene lady bright,
	Yit were it so that I wiste outrely,
	That I, your humble servaunt and your knight,
	Were in your herte set so fermely
	As ye in myn, the which thing, trewely,
1490	Me levere were than thise worldes tweyne,
	Yet sholde I bet enduren al my peyne.'

	To that Cryseyde answerde right anoon,
	And with a syk she seyde, `O herte dere,
	The game, y-wis, so ferforth now is goon,
1495	That first shal Phebus falle fro his spere,
	And every egle been the dowves fere,
	And every roche out of his place sterte,
	Er Troilus out of Criseydes herte!

	`Ye he so depe in-with myn herte grave,
1500	That, though I wolde it turne out of my thought,
	As wisly verray God my soule save,
	To dyen in the peyne, I koude nought!
	And, for the love of God that us bath wrought,
	Lat in your brayn non other fantasye
1505	So crepe, that it cause me to dye!

	`And that ye me wolde han as faste in minde
	As I have yow, that wolde I yow biseche;
	And, if I wiste soothly that to finde,
	God mighte not a poynt my joyes eche!
1510	But, herte myn, withoute more speche,
	Beth to me trewe, or elles were it routhe;
	For I am thyn, by God and by my trouthe!

	`Beth glad forthy, and live in sikernesse;
	Thus seyde I never er this, ne shal to mo;
1515	And if to yow it were a gret gladnesse
	To turne ayein, soone after that ye go,
	As fayn wolde I as ye, it were so,
	As wisly God myn herte bringe at reste!'
	And him in armes took, and ofte keste.