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Cassandre goeth, and he with cruell herte
Foryate his wo, for anger of his speech,
And fro his bedde all suddainly he start,
As though a hole him had I made a leech,
And day by day he gan require and seech
A sooth of this, with all his full cure,
And thus he driveth forth his aventure.

Fortune which that permutation

Of all things hath, as it is her committed,
Through purveyaunce and disposition
Of high Jove, as reignes shall ben flitted
Fro folk to folk, or whan they shal ben smitted,
Gan pull away the feathers bright of Troy
Fro day to day till they ben bare of joy.

Emong all this, the fine of the ieopardie
Of Hector gan approchen wonder blive,
The fate would his soule should vnbodie,
And shapen had a meane it out to drive,
Ayenst which fate him helpeth not to strive,
But on a day to fighten gan he wend,
At which alas, he caught his lives end.

For which me thinketh every manner wight
That haunteth armes, ought to bewaile
The death of him that was so noble a knight:
For as he drough a king by thauentaile
Unware of this, Achilles through the maile
And through the bodie gan him for to rive,
And thus the worthy knight was reft of live.

For whom, as old bookes tellen us,
Was made such wo, that tong it may uat tell,
And namely, the sorow of Troilus,
That next him was of worthinesse the well,
And in this wo gan Troilus to dwell,
That what for sorow, love, and for unrest,
Full oft a day he bad his herte brest.

But nathelesse, tho he gon him dispaire,
And drede aye that his lady was untrue,
Yet aye on her his herte gan repaire,
And as these lovers done, he sought aye new
To get ayen Creseide bright of hew,
And in his herte he went her excusing,
That Calcas caused all her tarying.

And oft time he was in purpose great,
Himselven like a pilgrime to disguise,
To seene her, but he may not counterfeat,
To ben unknowen of folke that weren wise,
Ne find excuse aright that may suffise,
If he among the Grekes knowen were,
For which he wept full oft many a tere.

To her he wrote yet oft time all new,
Full pitonsly, he left it nat for slouth,
Beseeching her, sens that he was true,
That she wol come ayen, and hold her trouth,
For which Creseide upon a day for routh,
I take it so, touching all this matere,
Wrote him ayen, and said as ye may here.

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"Your letters fall the paper all iplainted,
Conceived hath mine hertes pite,

I have eke seene with teares all depainted,
Your letter, and how that ye requiren me
To come ayen, which yet ne may not be,
But why, least that this letter founden were,
No mention ne make I now for fere.

"Grevous to me (God wote) is your unrest,
Your hast, and that the Goddes ordinaunce
It seemeth nat ye take it for the best,
Nor other thing nis in your remembraunce,
As thinketh me, but only your pleasaunce,
But beth not wroth, and that I you beseech,
For that I tary is all for wicked speech.

"For I have heard well more than I wend
Touching us two, how thinges have istond,
Which I shall with dissimuling amend,
And beth nat wroth, I have eke understond,
How ye ne do but holden me in hond,
But now no force, I can nat in you gesse,
But all trouth and all gentilnesse.

"Come I woll, but yet in such disjoint
I stond as now, that what yere or what day
That this shall be, that can I nat appoint,
But in effect I pray you as I may

Of your good word, and of your friendship aye,
For truly while that my life may dure,
As for a friend ye may in me assure.

"Yet pray I you, no evill ye ne take
That it is short which that I to you write,
dare nat there I am well letters make,
Ne never yet ne could I well endite,
Eke great effect, men write in place lite,
Thentent is all, and nat the letters space,
And fareth well, God have you in his grace.
"La vostre C."

This Troilus thought this letter all straunge
Whan he it saw, and sorowfully he sight,
Him thought it like a kalends of eschaunge,
But finally he full ne trowen might,

That she ne would him holden that she hight,
For with ful evell will list him to leve,

That loveth well in such case, though him greve.

But nathelesse, men saine that at the last,
For any thing, men shall the soothe see,
And such a case betide, and that as fast,
That Troilus well understood that she
Nas nat so kind as that her ought to be,
And finally, he wote now out of dout,
That all is lost that he hath ben about.

Stood on a day in his melancholy
This Troilus, and in suspectioun
Of her, for whom he wend to dye,
And so befell, that throughout Troie toun;
As was the guise, iborne was up and doun
A manner cote armoure, as saith the story,
Beforne Deiphebe, insigne of his victory.

The whiche cote, as telleth Lollius,
Deiphebe it hath rent fro Diomede
The same day, and whan this Troilus
It saw, he gan to taken of it hede,
Avising of the length and of the brede,
And all the werke, but as he gan behold,
Full sodainly his herte gan to cold.

As he that on the coler found within
A brooch, that he Creseide yave at morow
That she from Troy must nedes twin,
In remembraunce of him, and of his sorow,
And she him laid ayen her faith to borow,
To keepe it aye: but now full well he wist,
His lady nas no longer on to trist.

He goth him home, and gan full soone send
For Pandarus, and all this newe chaunce,
And of this broch, he told him word and end,
Complaining of her hertes variaunce,
His longe love, his trouth, and his pennaunce,
And after Death, without words more,
Full fast he cried, his rest him to restore.

Than spake he thus, "O lady mine Creseide,
Where is your faith, and where is your behest?
Where is your love, where is your trouth" he seide,
"Of Diomede have ye now all the fest?
Alas, I would have trowed at the least,
That sens ye nolde in trouthe to me stond,
That ye thus nolde have holden me in hond.

"Who shall now trowen on any othes mo?
Alas I never would have wend ere this,
That ye, Creseide, could have chaunged so,
Ne but I had agilt, and done amis;
So cruell wend I nat your herte iwis,
To slea me thus, alas your name of trouth
Is now fordone, and that is all my routh.

"Was there noue other broche you list lete,
To feast with your new love," (quod he)
"But thilke broche that I with teres wete
You yave, as for a remembraunce of me?
None other cause alas, ne had ye,

But for dispite, and eke for that ye ment
All utterly to shewen your entent.

"Through which I see, that clene out of your mind
Ye have me cast, and I ne can nor may
For all this world within mine berte find,
To unloven you a quarter of a day:
In cursed time I borne was, welaway,
That you that done me all this wo endure,
Yet love I best of any creature.

"Now God" (quod he) "me sende yet the grace,
That I may meten with this Diomede,
And truely, if I have might and space,
Yet shall I make I hope his sides blede:
Now God" (quod he) that oughtest taken hede
To forthren trouth, and wronges to punice,
Why nilt thou don a vengeance of this vice.

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"O Pandarus, that in dremes for to trist
Me blamed hast, and wont art oft upbreide,
Now mayst thou seen thy self, if that thee list,
How trew is now thy nece, bright Creseide:
In sundry formes (God it wote)" he seide,
"The gods shewen both joy and tene
In slepe, and by my dreme it is now sene.

"And certainely, withouten more speech,
From henceforth, as ferforth as I may,
Mine owne death in armes woll I seech,
I retche nat how soone be the day,
But truely Creseide, sweet Maie,
Whom I have with all my might iserved,
That ye thus done, I have it nat deserved."

This Pandarus, that all these thinges herd,
And wiste well he said a sooth of this,
He nat a word ayen to him answerd,
For sorie of his friends sorrow he is,

And shame for his nece hath done amis,
And stant astonied of these causes twey,
As still as stone, o word ne could he sey.

But at the last, thus he spake and seide,
"" My brother dere, I may do thee no more,
What should I saine, I hate iwis Creseide,
And God it wote, I woll hate her evermore :
And that thou me besoughtest done of yore,
Having vnto mine honour ne my rest
Right no regard, I did all that thee lest.

"If I did aught that might liken thee,
It is me lefe, and of this treason now,
God wote that it a sorrow is to me,
And dredelesse, for hertes ease of you,
Right faine I would amend it, wist I bow:
And fro this world, Almighty God I pray
Deliver her soone, I can no more say."

Great was the sorow and plaint of Troilus,
But forth her course fortune aye gan hold,
Creseide loveth the sonne of Tideus,
And Troilus mote wepe in cares cold,
Such is this world, who so it can behold,
In eche estate is little hertes rest,
God leve vs to take it for the best.

In many cruell battaile out of drede,
Of Troilus, this ilke noble knight,
(As men may in these old bookes rede)

Was seen his knighthood and his great might,
And dredelesse his ire day and night
Full cruelly the Grekes aye abought,
And alway most this Diomede, he sought.

And oft time (I finde) that they mette
With bloody strokes, and with wordes great,
Assaying how hir speares were whette,
And God it wote, with many a cruell heat
Gan Troilus vpon his helme to beat,
But nathelesse, fortune it naught ne would
Of others hond that either dien should.

And if I had itaken for to write
The armes of this ilke worthy man,
Than would I of his battailes endite,
And for that I to writen first began
Of his love, I have said as I can
His worthy deedes, who so list hem here,
Rede Dares, he can tell hem all ifere.

Beseeching every lady bright of hew,
And every gentill woman, what she be,
Albeit that Creseide was untrew,

That for that gilt ye be nat wroth with me,
Ye may her gilt in other bookes see,
And gladder I would write, if you lest,
Penelopes trouth, and good Alceste.

Ne say I nat this all onely for these men,
But most for women that betraied be

Throgh false folk, God yeve hem sorow, amen,
That with hir great wit and subtilte
Betraien you and this meveth me
To speake, and in effect you all I pray
Beth ware of men, and hearkeneth what I say,

Go, little booke, go, my little tregedie, There God my maker yet ere that I die, So send me might to make some comedie: But little booke, make thou none envie, But subject ben vnto all poesie,

And kisse the steps whereas thou seest pace Of Uergil, Ovid, Homer, Lucan, and Stace.

And for there is so great diversite
In English, and in writing of our tong,
So pray 'I to God, that none miswrite thee,
Ne the misse metre, for defaut of tong:
And redde where so thou be, or eles song,
That thou be vnderstond, God I beseech,
But yet to purpose of my rather speech.

The wrath (as I began you for to sey)
Of Troilus, the Greekes boughten dere,
For thousandes his houdes maden dey,
As he that was withouten any pere,
Save in his time Hector, as I can here,
But welaway, save onely Goddes will,
Dispitously him slough the fierce Achill.

And whan that he was slain in this manere,
His light ghoste full blisfully is went
Up to the hollownesse of the seventh sphere,
In his place leting everiche element,
And there he saw with full avisement
The erratike sterres, herkening armonie,
With sownes full of Heavens melodie.

And doun from thence, fast he gan avise
This little spot of earth, that with the see
Enbraced is, and fully gan despise
This wretched world, and held all vanite
To respect of the plaine felicite

That is in Heaven above: and at the last,
There he was slaine, his looking doun he cast,

And in himselfe he lough, right at the wo
Of hem that wepten for his death so fast,
And dampned all our werkes that followeth so
The blinde lust, whiche that may nat last,
And shoulden all our herte on Heaven cast,
And forth he went, shortely for to tell,
There as Mercurie sorted him to dwell.

Such fine bath lo this Troilus for love,

Such fine hath all his great worthinesse,
Such fine hath his estate royall above,

Such fine his lust, such fine hath his noblesse,
Such fine hath false worldes brotelnesse,
And thus began his loving of Creseide,

As I have told, and in this wise he deide.

young fresh folkes, he or she,

In which that love vp groweth with your age,
Repaireth home from worldly vanite,
And of your bertes vp casteth the visage
To thilke God, that after his image
You made, and thinketh all nis but a faire,
This world that passeth sone, as floures faire.

And loveth him the which that right for love
Upon a crosse our soules for to bey,
First starfe and rose, and sit in Heven above,
For he nill falsen no wight dare I sey,
That wol his herte all wholly on him ley,
And sens he best to love is and most meeke,
What needeth fained loves for to seeke.

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Lo here of painems cursed olde rites,
Lo here what all hir goddes may availe,
Lo here this wretched worldes appetites,
Lo here the fine and guerdon for travaile,
Of Jove, Apollo, of Mars, and such raskaile,
Lo here the forme of olde clerkes speech
In poetrie, if ye hir bookes seech.

O morall Gower, this booke I direct
To thee, and to the philosophicall Strode,
To vouchsafe there need is, to correct,
Of your benignities and zeales good,
And to the soothfast Christ that starfe on rood,
With all mine herte of mercy ever I pray,
And to the Lord aright, thus I speake and say,

Thou one, two, and three, eterne on live,
'That raignest aie in thre, two, and one,
Uncircumscript, and all maist circumscrive,
Us from visible and invisible fone
Defend, and to thy mercy everichone,
So make vs, Jesus, to thy mercy digne,
For love of maide, and mother thine benigne.

THUS ENDETH THE FIFTH AND LAST BOOKE OF TROILUS.

THE TESTAMENT OF CRESEIDE.

A DOLY season till a carefull ditc,
Should corespond, and be equivolent,
Right so it was whan I began to write
This tragedy, the weder right fervent,
Whan Aries in middes of the Lent,
Showres of haile gan fro the north discend,
That scantly fro the cold I might me defend.

Yet neverthelesse within mine orature

I stode, whan Titan had his beames bright Withdrawen doun, and scyled vnder cure, And faire Uenus the beaute of the night, Upraise, and sette vnto the weste ful right, Her golden face, in oppositioun

Of god Phebus, directe discending doun.

Throughout the glasse her beames brast so faire,
That I might see on every side me by,
The northren winde had purified the aire,
And shedde his misty cloudes fro the skie:
The froste fresed, the blastes bitterly
Fro pole Artike come whisking loud and shrill,
And caused me remove ayenst my will.

For I trusted that Uenus, loves quene,
To whom somtime I hight obedience,

My faded herte, of love she would make grene,
And ther vpon with humble reverence,
thought to pray her high magnificence,
But for great colde as than I letted was,
Aud in my chambre to the fire can pas.

Though love be hote, yet in a man of age,
It kindleth nat so soone as in youtheed,
Of whom the blood is flowing in a rage,
And in the old, the corage dull and deed,
Of which the fire outward is best remeed,
To help by phisike where that nature failed,
I am expert, for both I have assailed.

I made the fire, and beaked me aboute,
Than tooke I drinke my spirites to comfort,
And armed me wel fro the colde theroute;
To cutte the winter night and make it short
I toke a queare, and left all other sport,
Writen by worthy Chaucer glorious,
Of faire Creseide, and lusty Troilus.

And there I found, after that Diomede
Received had that lady bright of hewe,
How Troilus nere out of his witte abrede,
And wepte sore, with visage pale of hewe:
For which wanhope his teares gan renewe,
While Esperus rejoysed him againe:
Thus while in joy he lived, and while in paine.
Of her behest he had great comforting,
Trusting to Troy that she wold make retour,
Which he desired most of al earthly thing,
For why she was his onely paramour :
But whan he saw passed both day and hour
Of her gainecome, in sorow can oppresse
His wofull herte, in care and hevinesse.

Of his distresse me needeth nat reherse,
For worthy Chaucer in that same booke,
In goodly termes, and in joly verse,
Compiled hath his cares, who wil looke:
To breke my sleepe another queare I tooke,
In which I founde the fatal desteny

Of faire Creseide, which ended wretchedly.

Who wote if al that Chaucer wrate, was trew?
Nor I wote nat if this narracion

Be authorised, or forged of the newe,
Of some poete by his invencion,
Made to report the lamentacion,
And wofull end of this lusty Creseide,

And what distresse she was in or she deide.

Whan Diomede had al his appetite
And more fulfilled of this faire lady,
Upon another sette was all his delite,
And send to her a libel repudy,
And her excluded fro his company :
Than desolate she walked up and downe,
As some men saine, in the court as commune.

O fair Creseide, the floure and a per se
Of Troy and Grece, how were thou fortunate,
To chaunge in filth all thy feminite,
And be with fleshly lust so maculate,
And go among the Grekes early and late,
So giglotlike, taking thy foul pleasaunce?

I have pite thee should fall such mischaunce.

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Yet neverthelesse, what ever men deme or say
In scornfull language of thy brutelnesse,
I shal excuse, as ferforth as I may,
Thy womanhed, thy wisedome and fairnesse :
The which fortune hath put to such distresse,
As her pleased, and nothing through the gilt
Of thee, through wicked langage to be spilt.

This faire lady on this wise destitute
Of al comfort and consolatioun,
Right prively without felowship or refute,
Disheuelde, passed out of the toun

A mile or two vnto a mansioun,

Bilded full gaie, wher her father Calcas Which than among the Grekes dwelling was.

"

Whan her he saw, the cause he gan enquire
Of her comming: she said sighing full sore,
"Fro Diomede had gotten his desire,
He woxe wery and would of me no more.
Quod Calcas, "Doughter, weep thou nat therfore,
Paraventure al cometh for the best,
Welcome to me thou art full dere a gest."

This old Calcas, after the law was tho,
Was keper of the temple as a preest,
In which Uenus and her sonne Cupido
Were honoured, and this chambre was nest,
To which Creseide, with bale enewed in brest,
Used to passe, her praiers for to say,
While at the last vpon a solemne day,

As custome was, the people ferre and nere
Before the noone vnto the temple went,
With sacrifice devout in their manere,
But still Creseide heuie in her entent,
Into the church would nat her selfe present,
For giving of the people any deeming,
Of her expulse fro Diomede the king.

But passed into a secrete oratore,
Where she might wepe her wofull destinie,
Behind her backe she closed fast the dore,
And on her knees bare fel doune in hie,
Upon Venus and Cupide angerly
She cried out, and saied in this wise,
"Alas that ever I made you sacrifice.

"Ye gave me ones a divine responsaile,
That I should be the floure of love in Troy,
Now am I made an vnworthy outwaile,
And al in care translated is my joy:
Who shal me gide, who shal me now conuoie,
Sith I fro Diomede, and noble Troilus
Am clene excluded, as abiect, odious?

"O false Cupide, none is to wite but thou
And the mother of love, that blind goddace,
Ye caused me vnderstand alway and trow
The seede of love was sowen on my face,
And aie grew grene through your sople grace;
But now alas, that seede with frost is slaine,
And I fro lovers left and all forlaine."

Whan was this said, doun in an extasie,
Rauished in spirite, in a dreame she fell,
And by apparaunce herde where she did lie,
Cupide the king tinging a siluer bell,
Which men might here fro Heven into Hell:
At whose sound before Cupide aperes
The seven planets discending fro their speres,

Whiche hath power of al thing generable,
To rule and stere by their great influence,
Weder and winde, and course variable:
And first of all Saturne gave his sentence,
Which gave to Cupide litel reverence,
But as a boistous chorle in his manere,
Came crabbedly with austrine loke and chere.

His face frounsed, his lere was like the lede,
His teeth chattered, and sheuered with the chin,
His eien drouped hole sonken in his heed,
Out at his nose the mildrop fast gan rin,
With lippes blo, and chekes leane and thin,
The iseickeles that fro his heer doun hong
Was wonder great, and as a speare as long.

Attour his belte his liart lockes laie,
Feltred vnfaire, over fret with frostes hoore,
His garment and his gate ful gay of graie,
His widdred wede fro him the wind out wore,
A boistous bowe within his honde he bore,
Under his girdle a fashe of felone flains,
Feddred with ise, and heeded with bolstains.

Than Jupiter right faire and amiable,
God of the sterres in the firmament,
And norice to all thing generable,
Fro his father Saturne farre different,
With burly face, and browes bright and brent,
Upon his heed a garlond wonders gaie,
Of flours faire, as it had been in Maie.

His voice was clere, as cristal was his eien,
As golden wier so glittering was his heare,
His garment and his gite ful gaie of grene,
With golden listes gilte on every geare,
A burly brande about his middle he beare,
And in his right hand he had a grounden spere,
Of his father, the wrothe fro vs to bere.

Next after him came Mars, the god of ire,
Of strife, debate, and all discensioun,
To chide and fight, as fierse as any fire,

In harde harnesse hewmonde and habergioun,
And on his haunch a rusty fel fauchoun,
And in his hand he had a rusty sword,
Writhing his face, with many angry word.

Shaking his brande, before Cupide he come
With reed visage, and grisly glowing cien,
And at his mouth a blubber stode of fome,
Like to a bore, whetting his tuskes kene,
Right tulsure like, but temperaunce in tene,
An horne blewe with many boustous bragge,
Which al this world with war hath made to wagge.

Than fair Phebus, lanterne and lampe of light,
Of man and beast, both fruit and florishing,
Tender norice, and banisher of night,
And of the world, causing by his moving
And influence, life in al earthly thing,
Without comfort of whom of force to nought
Must go die, that all this worlde hath wrought.

As king royall, he rode vpon a chare,
The which Phiton somtime gided vnright,
The brightnesse of his face whan it was bare,
Non might behold, for persing of his sight:
This golden carte with firy beames bright,
Foure yoked stedes full different of hewe,
Bout bait or tiring, through the spheres drewe.

The first was sord, with mane as reed as rose Called Eoye into the Orient,

The second stede to name, hight Ethiose, Whitely and pale, and somdele ascendent, The third Perose, right hote and eke fervent, The fourth was blacke, called Phlegone, Which rolleth Phebus doun into the see.

Uenus was there present, that goddes gay,
Her sonnes quarrel to defend, and make
Her owne complaint, cladde in a nice aray
The one half greene, thother half sable blake
White beer as gold, kembet and shede abake,
But in her face seemed great variaunce,
While parfite truth, and whiles inconstaunce,

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