And there his sorwes that he spared hadde
205	He yaf an issue large, and `Deeth!' he cryde;
	And in his throwes frenetyk and madde
	He cursed Jove, Appollo, and eek Cupyde,
	He cursed Ceres, Bacus, and Cipryde,
	His burthe, himself, his fate, and eek nature,
210	And, save his lady, every creature.

	To bedde he goth, and weyleth there and torneth
	In furie, as dooth he, Ixion in helle;
	And in this wyse he neigh til day sojorneth.
	But tho bigan his herte a lyte unswelle
215	Thorugh teeres which that gonnen up to welle;
	And pitously he cryde upon Criseyde,
	And to himself right thus he spak, and seyde:

	`Wher is myn owene lady lief and dere,
	Wher is hir whyte brest, wher is it, where?
220	Wher ben hir armes and hir eyen clere,
	That yesternight this tyme with me were?
	Now may I wepe allone many a tere,
	And graspe aboute I may, but in this place,
	Save a pilowe, I finde nought to enbrace.

225	`How shal I do? Whan shal she com ayeyn?
	I noot, allas! Why leet ich hir to go?
	As wolde God, ich hadde as tho be sleyn!
	O herte myn, Criseyde, O swete fo!
	O lady myn, that I love and no mo!
230	To whom for evermo myn herte I dowe;
	See how I deye, ye nil me not rescowe!

	`Who seeth yow now, my righte loode-sterre?
	Who sit right now or stant in your presence?
	Who can conforten now your hertes werre?
235	Now I am gon, whom yeve ye audience?
	Who speketh for me right now in myn absence?
	Allas, no wight; and that is al my care;
	For wel woot I, as yvel as I ye fare.

	`How sholde I thus ten dayes ful endure,
240	Whan I the firste night have al this tene?
	How shal she doon eek, sorwful creature?
	For tendernesse, how shal she this sustene,
	Swich wo for me? O pitous, pale, and grene
	Shal been your fresshe wommanliche face
245	For langour, er ye torne unto this place.'

	And whan he fil in any slomeringes,
	Anoon biginne he sholde for to grone,
	And dremen of the dredfulleste thinges
	That mighte been; as, mete he were allone
250	In place horrible, makinge ay his mone,
	Or meten that he was amonges alle
	His enemys, and in hir hondes falle.

	And therwithal his body sholde sterte,
	And with the stert al sodeinliche awake,
255	And swich a tremour fele aboute his herte,
	That of the feer his body sholde quake;
	And therewithal he sholde a noyse make,
	And seme as though he sholde falle depe
	From heighe a-lofte; and than he wolde wepe,

260	And rewen on himself so pitously,
	That wonder was to here his fantasye.
	Another tyme he sholde mightily
	Conforte himself, and seyn it was folye,
	So causeles swich drede for to drye,
265	And eft biginne his aspre sorwes newe,
	That every man mighte on his sorwes rewe.

	Who koude telle aright or ful discryve
	His wo, his pleynt, his langour, and his pyne?
	Nought al the men that han or been on lyve.
270	Thou, redere, mayst thyself ful wel devyne
	That swich a wo my wit can not defyne.
	On ydel for to write it sholde I swynke,
	Whan that my wit is wery it to thinke.

	On hevene yet the sterres were sene,
275	Although ful pale ywaxen was the mone;
	And whyten gan the orisonte shene
	Al estward, as it wont is for to done.
	And Phebus with his rosy carte sone
	Gan after that to dresse him up to fare,
280	Whan Troilus hath sent after Pandare.

Next: From Troilus and Criseyde, Book V, lines 281-413: Pandarus comforts Troilus and urges him to rise