From Geoffrey Chaucer's "Troilus and Criseyde", Book IV, lines 1653-1701

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From Troilus and Criseyde, Book IV, lines 1527-1652:
Criseyde comforts Troilus

Geoffrey Chaucer (1342 - 1400):
Troilus and Criseyde
Book IV, lines 1653-1701: The day of their separation comes near

	To this answerde Troilus and seyde,
	`Now god, to whom ther nis no cause ywrye,
1655	Me glade, as wis I never unto Criseyde,
	Syn thilke day I saugh hir first with ye,
	Was fals, ne never shal til that I dye.
	At shorte wordes, wel ye may me leve;
	I can no more, it shal be founde at preve.'

1660 `Graunt mercy, goode myn, ywis,' quod she,

`And blisful Venus lat me never sterve

Er I may stonde of plesaunce in degree

To quyte him wel, that so wel can deserve;

And whyl that God my wit wol me conserve,

1665 I shal so doon, so trewe I have yow founde,

That ay honour to me-ward shal rebounde.

`For trusteth wel, that your estat royal

Ne veyn delit, nor only worthinesse

Of yow in werre, or torney marcial,

1670 Ne pompe, array, nobley, or eek richesse,

Ne made me to rewe on your distresse;

But moral vertue, grounded upon trouthe,

That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe!

`Eek gentil herte and manhod that ye hadde,

1675 And that ye hadde, as me thoughte, in despyt

Every thing that souned into badde,

As rudenesse and poeplish appetyt;

And that your reson brydled your delit,

This made, aboven every creature,

1680 That I was your, and shal, whyl I may dure.

`And this may lengthe of yeres not for-do,

Ne remuable fortune deface;

But Jupiter, that of his might may do

The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace,

1685 Er nightes ten, to meten in this place,

So that it may your herte and myn suffyse;

And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye ryse.'

And after that they longe ypleyned hadde,

And ofte ykist, and streite in armes folde,

1690 The day gan ryse, and Troilus him cladde,

And rewfulliche his lady gan biholde,

As he that felte dethes cares colde,

And to hir grace he gan him recomaunde;

Wher him was wo, this holde I no demaunde.

1695 For mannes heed imaginen ne can,

Ne entendement considere, ne tonge telle

The cruel peynes of this sorwful man,

That passen every torment doun in helle.

For whan he saugh that she ne mighte dwelle,

1700 Which that his soule out of his herte rente,

Withouten more, out of the chaumbre he wente.

Explicit Liber Quartus.

Next:
From Troilus and Criseyde, Book V, lines 1-91:
The exchange of Criseyde and Antenor

1660	`Graunt mercy, goode myn, ywis,' quod she,
	`And blisful Venus lat me never sterve
	Er I may stonde of plesaunce in degree
	To quyte him wel, that so wel can deserve;
	And whyl that God my wit wol me conserve,
1665	I shal so doon, so trewe I have yow founde,
	That ay honour to me-ward shal rebounde.

	`For trusteth wel, that your estat royal
	Ne veyn delit, nor only worthinesse
	Of yow in werre, or torney marcial,
1670	Ne pompe, array, nobley, or eek richesse,
	Ne made me to rewe on your distresse;
	But moral vertue, grounded upon trouthe,
	That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe!

	`Eek gentil herte and manhod that ye hadde,
1675	And that ye hadde, as me thoughte, in despyt
	Every thing that souned into badde,
	As rudenesse and poeplish appetyt;
	And that your reson brydled your delit,
	This made, aboven every creature,
1680	That I was your, and shal, whyl I may dure.

	`And this may lengthe of yeres not for-do,
	Ne remuable fortune deface;
	But Jupiter, that of his might may do
	The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace,
1685	Er nightes ten, to meten in this place,
	So that it may your herte and myn suffyse;
	And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye ryse.'

	And after that they longe ypleyned hadde,
	And ofte ykist, and streite in armes folde,
1690	The day gan ryse, and Troilus him cladde,
	And rewfulliche his lady gan biholde,
	As he that felte dethes cares colde,
	And to hir grace he gan him recomaunde;
	Wher him was wo, this holde I no demaunde.

1695	For mannes heed imaginen ne can,
	Ne entendement considere, ne tonge telle
	The cruel peynes of this sorwful man,
	That passen every torment doun in helle.
	For whan he saugh that she ne mighte dwelle,
1700	Which that his soule out of his herte rente,
	Withouten more, out of the chaumbre he wente.