Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 13401400)Extracts from Troylus and Criseyde
B
And hire cité beseged al aboute,
Hire olde usagës woldë thai noght letten,
As for to honoure hire goddës ful devoute,
But aldermost in honour, out of doute,
They had a relyk hight Palladioun,
That was hire trist aboven everichoun.
Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede
With newë grene, of lusty Veer the prime,
And swotë smellen floures, white and rede;
In sondry wisë schewed, as I rede,
The folk of Troye hire observaunces olde,
Palladyones festë for to holde.
In general ther wentë many a wyght
To herken of Palladyoun servise,
And namëly so mony a lusty knyght,
So many a lady fresshe, and mayden bryght,
Ful wele araied, bothë moste and leste,
Ye, bothë for the seson and the feeste.
In wydewes habit blak; but nathëles,
Right as oure firstë lettre is now an A,
In beauté first so stood sche makëles;
Hire goodly lokyng gladded al the prees:
Nas nevere seyn thyng to ben preysed derre,
Nor under cloudë blak so bright a sterre,
That hire byhelden in hire blakë wede;
And yet sche stood ful low and stille allone
Byhynden other folk in litel brede,
And neygh the dore, ay under schames drede,
Symple of atyre, and debonair of cheere,
Wyth ful asseured lokynge and manere.
His yongë knyhtës, ladde hem up and down,
In thilkë largë temple on every syde,
Byholdynge ay the ladies of the town;
Now here now ther, for no devocioun
Hadde he to non to reven him his reste,
But gan to preyse and lakken whom him leste.
If knyght or sqwyer of his compaynye
Gan for to sigh, or lete his eyen bayten
On any woman that he koude aspye;
He woldë smyle, and holden it folye,
And seye him thus:—‘God wot sche slepeth softe
For love of the, whan thow turnest ful ofte.
Ye lovers, and youre lewde observaunces,
And which a labour folk han in wynnynge
Of love, and in the kepynge which doutaunces;
And when your preye is lost, wo and penaunces;
O, verrey foolës! nice and blynde be ye;
Ther is not oon kan war by other be.’
Ascaunces, lo! is this nought wysly spoken?
At whiche the God of Love gan loken rowe
Right for despit, and shoop for to ben wroken.
He kydde anon his bowë nas not broken:
For, sodenly he hitte him attë fulle,
And yet as proude a pacok can he pulle.
How often falleth al the effecte contraire
Of surquidrye and foul presumpcioun,
For kaught is proud, and kaught is debonaire!
This Troylus is clomben on the staire,
And litel weneth that he schal descenden;
But alday fayleth thinge that fooles wenden.
Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,
Til he a lassch have of the longë whippe,
Than thynketh he, ‘Thogh I praunce al byforn
First in the trayse, ful fat and newë shorn,
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
I mote endure, and with my feerës drawe.’
Though he a worthi kyngës sonnë were,
And wendë no thinge had had swichë myght,
Ayeins his wille, that scholde his hertë stere;
That with a look his hertë wex a feere,
That, he that now was moost in pride above,
Wex sodeynly most subgit unto love.
Ye wisë, proude, and worthy folkës alle,
To scornen Love, whiche that so soonë kan
The fredom of youre hertës to him thralle;
For evere was, and evere schal befalle,
That Love is he that allë thing may bynde;
For may no man fordon the lawe of kynde.
For this, trowe I, ye knowen alle and some,
Men reden not that folk han gretter wit
Than thei that hath ben most with love ynome;
And strengest folk ben therwith overcome,
The worthiest and the grettest of degree;
This was and is, and yit men schal it see.
For alderwysest han therwith ben plesed,
And thai that han ben aldermost in wo,
With love han ben conforted most and esed;
And oft it hath the cruel herte apesed,
And worthi folk made worthier of name,
And causeth most to dreden vice and schame.
And is a thing so vertuous in kynde,
Refuseth not to Love for to ben bonde,
Syn, as him selven list, he may yow bynde,
The yerde is bet that bowen wol and wynde
Than that that brest; and therfor I yow rede
To folowen him that so wel kan yow lede.
With this he tok his leve, and home he wente;
A, Lord! so he was glad, and wel bygon!
Criseyde aros, no longer she ne stente,
But streght into hire closet wente anon,
And set hire down, as stille as any ston,
And every word gon up and down to wynde,
That he hadde seyde, as it come hire to mynde,
Right for the newë cas; but when that she
Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought
Of peril, why she aught aferëd be:
For man may love of possibilité
A woman so, his hertë may to-breste,
And she nought love ayeyn, but if hire leste.
Ascry aroos at scarmich al withoute,
And men cried in the street, ‘Se Troilus
Hath right now put to flyght the Grekës route.’
With that gan al hire meyné for to shoute:
‘A! go we se, caste up the yatës wide,
For thorwgh this strete he moot to paleys ryde;’
Of Dardanus, ther open is the cheyne:
With that come he, and alle his folk anon,
An esy pace rydynge, in routës tweyne,
Right as his happy day was, sothe to seyne:
For which men seyn may nought distourbed be
That shal bytyden of necessité.
Al armed save his hed ful richely,
And wonded was his hors, and gan to blede,
On whiche he rood a paas ful softëly:
But swiche a knyghtly sightë trewëly
As was on hym, was nought, withouten faile,
To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle.
He was to sen, fulfild of heigh prowesse;
For bothe he hadde a body, and a myght
To don that thyng, as wele as hardynesse;
And ek to sen hym in his gere hym dresse,
So fressh, so yong, so weldy semëd he,
It was an heven upon hym for to se.
That by a tyssew heng his bak byhynde,
His shelde to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces,
In which men myghtë many an arwe fynde,
That thyrled haddë horn, and nerf, and rynde;
And ay the peple criede, ‘Here cometh oure joye,
And, next his brother, holder up of Troye.’
Whan he the peple upon him herdë crien,
That to byholde it was a noble game,
How sobreliche he castë down his eighen:
Criseyd anon gan al his chere aspyen,
And leet so softe it in hire herte synken,
That to hire self she seyde, ‘Who yaf me drynken?’
Remembrynge hire right thus, ‘Lo! this is he,
Which that myn uncle swerth he moot be dede,
But I on hym have mercy and pité:’
And with that thought, for pure ashamëd she
Gan in hire hed to pulle, and that as faste,
While he and al the peple forby paste.
Within hire thought his excellent prowesse,
And his estat, and also his renoun,
His wit, his shappe, and ek his gentilnesse;
But moost hire favour was for his distresse
Was al for hire, and thought it as a rowthe
To sleen swich oon, if that he mentë trouthe.
‘This was a sodeyn love, how myghte it be
That she so lightly lovede Troylus,
Right for the firstë sightë?’ Ye, pardé?
Now who so seith so, moot he never ythe!
For every thyng a gynnyng hath it nede
Er al be wrought, withouten any drede.
Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne
To like hym firste, and I have told yow why;
And efter that, his manhod and his pyne
Made love withinne hire hertë for to myne;
For which by proces, and by goode servyse,
He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse.
O
As of a fevere, or other gret syknesse,
Men mostë drynke, as men may oftë se,
Ful bittre drynk: and for to han gladnesse
Men drynken of peynës, and gret distresse:
I mene it here, as for this aventure,
That thorwgh a peyne hath fonden al his cure.
That bitternesse assayed was byforn;
For out of wo in blissë now they flete,
Non swich they felten syn that they were born;
Now is this bet than bothë two be lorn!
For love of God! take every womman hede,
To werken thus, if it cometh to the nede.
As she that justë cause hadde hym to triste,
Made hym swich feste, it joië was to seene,
When she his trouthe and clene ententë wiste:
And as aboute a tre, with many a twiste,
Bytrent and writh the sootë wodëbynde,
Gan ich of hem in armës other wynde.
That stynteth first, when she bygynneth synge,
When that she hereth any herdës tale,
Or in the heggës any wight sterynge;
And, after, syker doth hire vois out rynge;
Right so Criseyde, when hire dredë stente,
Opned hire herte, and told hym hire entente.
And deyen mot, in aught that he may gesse,
And sodeynly rescous doth hym escapen,
And from his deth is brought in sykernesse;
For al this world, in swich present gladnesse
Was Troilus, and hath his lady swete:
With worsë hap God lat us nevere mete!
In suffisaunce, in blisse, and in syngynges,
This Troilus gan al his lyf to lede:
He spendeth, jousteth, maketh festeyinges,
He yeveth frely ofte, and chaungeth wede;
He halt aboute hym alway, out of drede,
A world of folk, as com hym wel of kynde,
The fressheste and the beste he koudë fynde.
Thorughout the world, of honour and largesse,
That it up rong unto the yate of heven;
And as in love he was in swich gladnesse,
That in his herte he demëd, as I gesse,
That ther nys lovere in this world at ese,
So wel as he, and thus gan love hym plese.
In any other lady hadde iset,
Kan nought the mountaunce of a knotte unbynde
About his herte, of al Criseydes net:
He was so narwe ymasked, and yknet,
That it undon on any manner syde,
That nyl nought ben, for aught that may betide.
This Pandarus, and into gardyn lede,
And swich a feste, and swiche a proces make
Hym of Criseyde, and of hire wommanhede,
And of hire beauté, that, withouten drede,
It was an heven his wordës for to here,
And thanne he woldë synge in this manere:—
Love, that his hestës hath in heven hye!
Lovë, that with an holsom alliaunce
Halt peples joynëd, as hym list hem gye!
Lovë, that knetteth law and compaignye,
And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle!
Bynd this acorde, that I have told and telle!
Dyverseth so, his stoundës concordynge;—
That elementz, that ben so discordable,
Holden a bond perpetualy durynge;—
That Phebus mot his rosy carte forth brynge,
And that the mone hath lordschip over the nyght;—
Al this doth Love, ay heryed be his myght!
Constreyneth to a certeyn endë so
Hise flodës, that so fiersly they ne growen
To drenchen erth and al for evermo;
And if that Love aught lete his brydel go,
Al that now loveth asonder sholdë lepe,
And lost were al that Love halt now to hepe.
That with his bond Love, of his vertu, liste
To cerclen hertës alle, and fastë bynde,
That from his bond no wighte the wey out wyste!
And hertës colde, hem wolde I that he twiste,
To make hem love, and that hem liste ay rewe
On hertës soore, and kepe hem that ben trewe.’
‘F
Ne veyn delite, nor oonly worthinesse
Of yow in werre or tournay marcial,
Ne pomp, array, nobley, or ek richesse,
Ne madë me to rewe on youre distresse,
But moral virtu, grounded upon trowthe,
That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe.
And that ye hadde (as me thought) in despite
Every thyng that souned in-to badde,
As rudënesse, and poeplish appetite,
And that your reson brideled your delite,
This made, aboven every creature,
That I was youre, and shal whil I may dure.
Ne remuable fortunë deface;
But Juppiter, that of his myght may do
The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace,
Er nyghtës ten to meten in this place,
So that it may youre herte and myn suffise!
And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye rise.’
A
A cause he fond in townë for to go,
And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende;
But Lord! this sely Troilus was wo!
Hym thoughte his sorwful hertë braste atwo;
For when he saugh hire dorres sperred alle,
Wel neigh for sorwe adoun he gan to falle.
How shet was every wyndow of the place,
As frost hym thoughte his hertë gan to colde;
For which, with chaunged deedlich palë face,
Withouten word, he forth bygan to pace;
And, as God wolde, he gan so fastë ryde,
That no wight of his contenaunce espyde.
O hous of housses, whilom best yhight!
O paleys empty and disconsolat!
O thou lanterne, of which queynt is the light!
O paleys, whilom day, that now art nyght!
Wei oughtestow to falle, and I to dye,
Syn she is went that wont was us to gye.
Enlumyned with sonne of allë blisse!
O rynge, fro which the ruby is out falle!
O cause of wo, that cause has ben of blisse!
Yit syn I may no bet, fayn wolde I kysse
Thy coldë dorës, dorste I for this route;
And farewel shryne, of which the seint is oute!
With chaunged face, and pitous to beholde;
And when he myght his tyme aright espyë,
Ay as he rood, to Pandarus he tolde
His newë sorwe, and ek his joyes olde,
So pitously, and with so dede an hewe,
That every wight myght on his sorwes rewe.
And every thynge com hym to remembraunce,
As he rood forth by places of the town,
In which he whilom had al his plesaunce:—
‘Lo! yond saugh I myn owën lady daunce;
And in that temple, with hire eyën clere,
Me caughtë first my rightë lady deere.
My deerë hertë laughe; and yonder pleye
Saugh Ich hire oonës ek ful blisfully;
And yonder oonës to me gan she seye,
‘Now goodë swetë! love me wel, I preye;
And yond so gladly gan she me beholde,
That to the deth myn herte is to hir holde.
Herde I myn alderlevest lady deere,
So wommanly, with vois melodyous,
Syngen so wel, so goodely and so clere,
That in my soulë yit me thynkth I here
The blisful sown; and in that yonder place
My lady first me took unto hire grace.’
When I the processe have[al] in memórie,
How thow me hast werreyed on every syde,
Men myght a book make of it lyk a stórie!
What nede is thee to seke on me victórie,
Syn I am thyn, and holly at thi wille?
What joye hastow thyn owën folk to spille?
Thow myghty god! and dredeful for to greve!
Now mercy, god! thow woost wel I desire
Thy gracë moost, of allë lustës leeve!
And lyve and dye I wol in thy beleve;
For which I naxe in guerdon but a boone,
That thow Criseyde ayein me sendë soone.
As thow doost myn to longen hire to see;
Than woot I wel that she nyl naught sojourne:
Now blisful lord! so cruwel thow ne be
Unto the blod of Troye, I preyë the,
As Juno was unto the blod Thebane,
For which the folk of Thebës caughte hire bane.’
Ther as Criseyde out rood a ful good pas,
And up and doun ther made he many a wente,
And to himself ful ofte he seyde, ‘Allas!
Fro hennës rood my blisse and my solas!
As woldë blisful God now for his joye,
I myght hire seen ayein com into Troye!
Allas! and ther I took of hire my leeve;
And yond I saugh hire to hire fader ryde,
For sorwe of which myn hertë shal to-cleve;
And hider hom I com when it was eve;
And here I dwelle, out-cast from allë joye,
And shal, til I may seen her eft in Troye.’
To be defet, and pale, and waxen lesse
Than he was wont, and that men seydë softe,
‘What may it be? who kan the sothë gesse,
Why Troylus hath al this hevynesse?’
And al this nas but his melencolye,
That he hadde of hym-self swich fantasye.
That every wyght that wentë by the weye
Hadde of him routhe, and that they seyën sholde,
‘I am right sory, Troilus wol deye.’
And thus he drof a day yit forth or tweye,
As ye han herd; swich lyf right gan he lede,
As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede.
Thencheson of his wo, as he best myghte,
And made a song of wordës but a fewe,
Somwhat his woful hertë for to lighte:
And when he was from every mannës sighte,
With softë vois, he of his lady deere,
That absent was, gan synge as ye may here.
With hertë soore wel oughte I to bewaylle,
That ever derk in tormente, nyght by nyghtë,
Towarde my deth, with wynde in steere I saylle;
For which the tenthë nyght if that I faile
The gidynge of thi bemës brighte an houre,
My ship and me Caribdes wol devoure.’
He fel ayein into his sikës olde;
And every nyght, as was his wone to doone,
He stood, the bryghtë monë to beholde;
And al his sorwe he to the moonë tolde,
And seyde, ‘Iwis, when thow art hornëd newe
I shal be glad, if al the world be trewe.
Whan hennës rood my rightë lady deere,
That cause is of my torment and my sorwe;
For which, O bryghte Lucina the cleere!
For love of God! renne fast aboute thy spere;
For when thyn hornës newë gynnen sprynge,
Than shal she come that may my blisse brynge.’
Than they ben wont to be, hym thoughtë tho;
And that the sonnë wente his course unright,
By longer weye than it was wont to go;
And seyde, ‘Iwis, me dredeth everemo
The sonnës sonë, Pheton, be on lyve,
And that his fader cart amys he dryve.’
And on the Grekes oost he woldë se;
And to hymself right thus he woldë talke:—
‘Lo, yonder is myn owen lady free,
Or ellës yonder, ther the tentës bee,
And thennës comth this eyr that is so soote,
That in my soule I feele it doth me boote.
Thus stoundemele encresseth in my face,
Is of my ladys depë sykës sore;
I preve it thus, for in noon other place
Of al this town, save oonly in this space,
Feele I no wynd that souneth so lyke peyne;
It seith ‘Allas! whi twynned be we tweyne?’
Til fully passed was the nynthë nyght;
And ay bysyde hym was this Pandarus,
That bisily dide al his fullë myght
Hym to confort, and make his hertë light;
Yevynge hym hope alwey, the tenthë morwe
That she shal come, and stenten al his sorwe.
Retournynge in hir soule ay up and doun
The wordës of this sodeyn Diomede,
His gret estate, and peril of the town,
And that she was allon, and haddë nede
Of frendes help; and thus bygan to brede
The causë whi, the sothë for to telle,
That sche tok fully purpos for to dwelle.
This Diomede is com unto Criseyde;
And shortly, lest that ye my talë breke,
So wel he for hymselfë spak and seyde,
That alle hire sykës soore adown he layde;
And finaly, the sothë for to seyne,
He refte hire of the grete of al hire peyne.
That she him yaf the fairë bayë steede,
The which she onës wan of Troilus;
And eke a broch (and that was litel nede)
That Troilus was, she yaf this Diomede;
And ek the bet from sorw hym to releve,
She made hym were a pensel of hire sleve.
When thorugh the body hirt was Dyomede
Of Troilus, tho weep she many a teere,
When that she saugh hise wydë woundes blede,
And that she took to kepen hym good hede,
And for to hele hym of his sorwes smerte,
Men seyn, I not, that she yaf hym hire herte.
Ther made never womman morë wo
Than she, when that she falsede Troylus;
She seyde, ‘Allas! for now is clene ago
My name of trouthe in love for evermo;
For I have falsed oon the gentileste
That evere was, and oon the worthieste.
Shal neither ben ywriten nor ysonge
No good word, for thise bokës wol me shende:
Irolled schal I ben on many a tonge;
Thorughout the world my bellë schal be ronge;
And wommen most wol haten me of alle;
Allas! that swich a cas me sholdë falle!
I have hem don dishonoure, walaway!
Al be I not the firste that dide amys,
What helpeth that to don my blame away?
But syn I se ther is no better way,
And that to late is now for me to rewe,
To Dyomede algate I wol be trewe.
And syn that thus departen ye and I,
Yet preye I God so yeve yow right good day;
As for the gentilestë trewëly,
That evere I say, to serven faithfully,
And best kan ay his lady honour kepe;’
And with that word she braste anon to wepe.
And frendës love, that shal ye han of me,
And my good word, al shold I lyven evere;
And trewëly I wol right sory be,
For to sen yow in adversité;
And giltëlees I wot wel I yow leeve,
And al shal passe, and thus tak I my leve.’
That she forsok hym for this Dyomede,
Ther is non auctour telleth it, I wene;
Tak every man now to his bokës hede,
He shal no timë fynden, out of drede;
For though that he bigan to wowe hire soone,
Er he hire wan, yet was ther more to doone.
Ferther than the storië wol devyse;
Hire name, allas! is publyshed so wyde,
That for hire gilte it ought ynough suffise;
And if I myght excuse hire any wyse,
For she so sory was for hire untrouthe,
Iwis I wold excuse hire yet for routhe.
The wrath, as I bigan yow for to seye,
Of Troilus, the Grekës boughten deere;
For thousandës his hondës maden dye,
As he that was withouten any peere,
Save Ector in his tyme, as I kan here;
But, walawey! save only Goddës wille,
Dispitously hym slough the fiers Achille.
His lightë gost ful blisfully is went
Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere,
In convers letynge everych element;
And ther he saugh, with ful avysëment,
The erratyk sterrës, herkenynge armonye,
With sownës ful of hevenyssh melodye.
This litel spot of erth, that with the se
Embracëd is; and fully gan despise
This wreched world, and held al vanyté,
To respect of the pleyn felicité
That is in hevene above: and at the laste,
Ther he was slayn, his lokyng down he caste.
Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste,
And dampned al our werk that folweth so
The blyndë lust, the which that may not laste,
And sholden al our herte on hevene caste;
And forth he wentë, shortly for to telle,
Ther as Mercurie sorted hym to dwelle.
Swich fyn hath al his gretë worthynesse!
Swich fyn hath his estat reäl above!
Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse!
Swich fyn hath falsë worldës brotelnesse!
And thus bigan his lovynge of Cryseyde,
As I have told, and in this wise he deyde.
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeireth hom fro worldly vanyté,
And of your herte up casteth the visage
To thilkë God, that after his ymage
Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire,
This world that passeth soon, as flourës faire.
Upon a crois, our soulës for to beye,
First starf and roos, and sit in heven above,
For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al holly on hym leye;
And syn he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
Lo! here what alle hire goddës may availle!
Lo! here this wreched worldës appetites!
Lo! here the fyn and guerdon for travaille,
Of Jove, Apollo, of Mars, and swich rascaille!
Lo! here the forme of oldë clerkës speche
In poetrie, if ye hire bokës seche.