From Geoffrey Chaucer's "Troilus and Criseyde", Book IV, lines 218-336

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From Troilus and Criseyde, Book IV, lines :
After deliberation, the Trojans decide to exchange Criseyde for Antenor

Geoffrey Chaucer (1342 - 1400):
Troilus and Criseyde
Book IV, lines 218-336: Troilus pities himself for the decision of the Trojans

	Departed out of parlement echone,
	This Troilus, withoute wordes mo,
220	Unto his chaumbre spedde him faste allone,
	But if it were a man of his or two,
	The whiche he bad out faste for to go,
	Bycause he wolde slepen, as he seyde,
	And hastely upon his bed him leyde.

225 And as in winter leves been biraft,

Ech after other, til the tree be bare,

So that ther nis but bark and braunche ylaft,

Lyth Troilus, biraft of ech wel-fare,

Ybounden in the blake bark of care,

230 Disposed wood out of his wit to breyde,

So sore him sat the chaunginge of Criseyde.

He rist him up, and every dore he shette

And windowe eek, and tho this sorweful man

Upon his beddes syde adoun him sette,

235 Ful lyk a deed image, pale and wan;

And in his brest the heped wo bigan

Out breste, and he to werken in this wyse

In his woodnesse, as I shal yow devyse.

Right as the wilde bole biginneth springe

240 Now here, now there, ydarted to the herte,

And of his deeth roreth in compleyninge,

Right so gan he aboute the chaumbre sterte,

Smyting his brest ay with his festes smerte;

His heed to the wal, his body to the grounde

245 Ful oft ofte he swapte, himselven to confounde.

His eyen two, for pitee of his herte,

Out stremeden as swifte welles tweye;

The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte

His speche him refte, unnethes mighte he seye,

250 `O deeth, allas! Why niltow do me deye?

Acursed be the day which that nature

Shoop me to ben a lyves creature!'

But after, whan the furie and the rage

Which that his herte twiste and faste threste,

255 By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan asswage,

Upon his bed he leyde him doun to reste;

But tho bigonne his teeres more out breste,

That wonder is, the body may suffyse

To half this wo, which that I yow devyse.

260 Than seyde he thus, `Fortune! Allas the whyle!

What have I doon, what have I thus agilt?

How mightestow for routhe me bigyle?

Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt?

Shal thus Criseyde awey, for that thou wilt?

265 Allas! How maystow in thyn herte finde

To been to me thus cruel and unkinde?

`Have I thee nought honoured al my lyve,

As thou wel woost, above the goddes alle?

Why wiltow me fro joye thus depryve?

270 O Troilus, what may men now thee calle

But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle

Into miserie, in which I wol biwayle

Criseyde, allas! Til that the breeth me fayle?

`Allas, Fortune! If that my lyf in Ioye

275 Displesed hadde unto thy foule envye,

Why ne haddestow my fader, king of Troye,

Biraft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye,

Or slayn my-self, that thus compleyne and crye,

I, combre-world, that may of no-thing serve,

280 But ever dye, and never fully sterve?

`If that Criseyde allone were me laft,

Nought roughte I whider thou woldest me stere;

And hir, allas! Than hastow me biraft.

But ever more, lo! This is thy manere,

285 To reve a wight that most is to him dere,

To preve in that thy gerful violence.

Thus am I lost, ther helpeth no defence!

`O verray lord of love, O God, allas!

That knowest best myn herte and al my thought,

290 What shal my sorwful lyf don in this cas

If I for-go that I so dere have bought?

Syn ye Cryseyde and me han fully brought

Into your grace, and bothe our hertes seled,

How may ye suffre, allas! It be repeled?

295 `What I may doon, I shal, whyl I may dure

On lyve in torment and in cruel peyne,

This infortune or this disaventure,

Allone as I was born, ywis, compleyne;

Ne never wil I seen it shyne or reyne;

300 But ende I wil, as Edippe, in derknesse

My sorwful lyf, and dyen in distresse.

`O wery goost, that errest to and fro,

Why niltow fleen out of the wofulleste

Body, that ever mighte on grounde go?

305 O soule, lurkinge in this wo, unneste,

Flee forth out of myn herte, and lat it breste,

And folwe alwey Criseyde, thy lady dere;

Thy righte place is now no lenger here!

`O wofulle eyen two, syn your disport

310 Was al to seen Criseydes eyen brighte,

What shal ye doon but, for my discomfort,

Stonden for nought, and wepen out your sighte?

Syn she is queynt, that wont was yow to lighte,

In veyn fro-this-forth have I eyen tweye

315 Yformed, syn your vertue is a-weye.

`O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne

Of thilke woful soule that thus cryeth,

Who shal now yeven comfort to the peyne?

Allas, no wight; but when myn herte dyeth,

320 My spirit, which that so unto yow hyeth,

Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve;

For thy no fors is, though the body sterve.

`O ye loveres, that heighe upon the wheel

Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure,

325 God leve that ye finde ay love of steel,

And longe mot your lyf in joye endure!

But whan ye comen by my sepulture,

Remembreth that your felawe resteth there;

For I lovede eek, though I unworthy were.

330 `O olde, unholsom, and mislyved man,

Calkas I mene, allas! What eyleth thee

To been a Greek, syn thou art born Troian?

O Calkas, which that wilt my bane be,

In cursed tyme was thou born for me!

335 As wolde blisful Jove, for his joye,

That I thee hadde, where I wolde, in Troye!'

Next:
From Troilus and Criseyde, Book IV, lines 337-427:
Pandarus speaks with Troilus and suggests Troilus should start to love another woman

225	And as in winter leves been biraft,
	Ech after other, til the tree be bare,
	So that ther nis but bark and braunche ylaft,
	Lyth Troilus, biraft of ech wel-fare,
	Ybounden in the blake bark of care,
230	Disposed wood out of his wit to breyde,
	So sore him sat the chaunginge of Criseyde.

	He rist him up, and every dore he shette
	And windowe eek, and tho this sorweful man
	Upon his beddes syde adoun him sette,
235	Ful lyk a deed image, pale and wan;
	And in his brest the heped wo bigan
	Out breste, and he to werken in this wyse
	In his woodnesse, as I shal yow devyse.

	Right as the wilde bole biginneth springe
240	Now here, now there, ydarted to the herte,
	And of his deeth roreth in compleyninge,
	Right so gan he aboute the chaumbre sterte,
	Smyting his brest ay with his festes smerte;
	His heed to the wal, his body to the grounde
245	Ful oft ofte he swapte, himselven to confounde.

	His eyen two, for pitee of his herte,
	Out stremeden as swifte welles tweye;
	The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte
	His speche him refte, unnethes mighte he seye,
250	`O deeth, allas! Why niltow do me deye?
	Acursed be the day which that nature
	Shoop me to ben a lyves creature!'

	But after, whan the furie and the rage
	Which that his herte twiste and faste threste,
255	By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan asswage,
	Upon his bed he leyde him doun to reste;
	But tho bigonne his teeres more out breste,
	That wonder is, the body may suffyse
	To half this wo, which that I yow devyse.

260	Than seyde he thus, `Fortune! Allas the whyle!
	What have I doon, what have I thus agilt?
	How mightestow for routhe me bigyle?
	Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt?
	Shal thus Criseyde awey, for that thou wilt?
265	Allas! How maystow in thyn herte finde
	To been to me thus cruel and unkinde?

	`Have I thee nought honoured al my lyve,
	As thou wel woost, above the goddes alle?
	Why wiltow me fro joye thus depryve?
270	O Troilus, what may men now thee calle
	But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle
	Into miserie, in which I wol biwayle
	Criseyde, allas! Til that the breeth me fayle?

	`Allas, Fortune! If that my lyf in Ioye
275	Displesed hadde unto thy foule envye,
	Why ne haddestow my fader, king of Troye,
	Biraft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye,
	Or slayn my-self, that thus compleyne and crye,
	I, combre-world, that may of no-thing serve,
280	But ever dye, and never fully sterve?

	`If that Criseyde allone were me laft,
	Nought roughte I whider thou woldest me stere;
	And hir, allas! Than hastow me biraft.
	But ever more, lo! This is thy manere,
285	To reve a wight that most is to him dere,
	To preve in that thy gerful violence.
	Thus am I lost, ther helpeth no defence!

	`O verray lord of love, O God, allas!
	That knowest best myn herte and al my thought,
290	What shal my sorwful lyf don in this cas
	If I for-go that I so dere have bought?
	Syn ye Cryseyde and me han fully brought
	Into your grace, and bothe our hertes seled,
	How may ye suffre, allas! It be repeled?

295	`What I may doon, I shal, whyl I may dure
	On lyve in torment and in cruel peyne,
	This infortune or this disaventure,
	Allone as I was born, ywis, compleyne;
	Ne never wil I seen it shyne or reyne;
300	But ende I wil, as Edippe, in derknesse
	My sorwful lyf, and dyen in distresse.

	`O wery goost, that errest to and fro,
	Why niltow fleen out of the wofulleste
	Body, that ever mighte on grounde go?
305	O soule, lurkinge in this wo, unneste,
	Flee forth out of myn herte, and lat it breste,
	And folwe alwey Criseyde, thy lady dere;
	Thy righte place is now no lenger here!

	`O wofulle eyen two, syn your disport
310	Was al to seen Criseydes eyen brighte,
	What shal ye doon but, for my discomfort,
	Stonden for nought, and wepen out your sighte?
	Syn she is queynt, that wont was yow to lighte,
	In veyn fro-this-forth have I eyen tweye
315	Yformed, syn your vertue is a-weye.

	`O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne
	Of thilke woful soule that thus cryeth,
	Who shal now yeven comfort to the peyne?
	Allas, no wight; but when myn herte dyeth,
320	My spirit, which that so unto yow hyeth,
	Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve;
	For thy no fors is, though the body sterve.

	`O ye loveres, that heighe upon the wheel
	Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure,
325	God leve that ye finde ay love of steel,
	And longe mot your lyf in joye endure!
	But whan ye comen by my sepulture,
	Remembreth that your felawe resteth there;
	For I lovede eek, though I unworthy were.

330	`O olde, unholsom, and mislyved man,
	Calkas I mene, allas! What eyleth thee
	To been a Greek, syn thou art born Troian?
	O Calkas, which that wilt my bane be,
	In cursed tyme was thou born for me!
335	As wolde blisful Jove, for his joye,
	That I thee hadde, where I wolde, in Troye!'