The Canterbury Tales, and Other Poems
That ye will scornen any woman so;
Eke, God wot, love and I be far asunder;
I am disposed bet, so may I go,* *fare or prosper
Unto my death to plain and make woe;
What I shall after do I cannot say,
But truely as yet *me list not play.* *I am not disposed
*for sport
“Mine heart is now in tribulatioun;
And ye in armes busy be by day;
Hereafter, when ye wonnen have the town,
Parauntre* then, so as it happen may, *peradventure
That when I see that I never *ere sey,* *saw before*
Then will I work that I never ere wrought;
This word to you enough sufficen ought.
“To-morrow eke will I speak with you fain,* *willingly
So that ye touche naught of this mattere;
And when you list, ye may come here again,
And ere ye go, thus much I say you here:
As help me Pallas, with her haires clear,
If that I should of any Greek have ruth,
It shoulde be yourselfe, by my truth!
“I say not therefore that I will you love;
*Nor say not nay;* but, in conclusioun, *nor say I that
I meane well, by God that sits above!” I will not*
And therewithal she cast her eyen down,
And gan to sigh, and said; “O Troye town!
Yet bid* I God, in quiet and in rest *pray
I may you see, or *do my hearte brest!”* *cause my heart to break*
But in effect, and shortly for to say,
This Diomede all freshly new again
Gan pressen on, and fast her mercy pray;
And after this, the soothe for to sayn,
Her glove he took, of which he was full fain,
And finally, when it was waxen eve,
And all was well, he rose and took his leave.
Cressida retired to rest:
Returning in her soul ay up and down
The wordes of this sudden Diomede,<85>
His great estate,* the peril of the town, *rank
And that she was alone, and hadde need
Of friendes’ help; and thus began to dread
The causes why, the soothe for to tell,
That she took fully the purpose for to dwell.* *remain (with the
Greeks)
The morrow came, and, ghostly* for to speak, *plainly
This Diomede is come unto Cresseide;
And shortly, lest that ye my tale break,
So well he for himselfe spake and said,
That all her sighes sore adown he laid;
And finally, the soothe for to sayn,
He refte* her the great** of all her pain. *took away **the greater
part of
And after this, the story telleth us
That she him gave the faire baye steed
The which she ones won of Troilus;
And eke a brooch (and that was little need)
That Troilus’ was, she gave this Diomede;
And eke, the bet from sorrow him to relieve,
She made him wear a pensel* of her sleeve. *pendant <86>
I find eke in the story elleswhere,
When through the body hurt was Diomede
By Troilus, she wept many a tear,
When that she saw his wide woundes bleed,
And that she took to keepe* him good heed, *tend, care for
And, for to heal him of his sorrow’s smart,
Men say, I n’ot,* that she gave him her heart. *know not
And yet, when pity had thus completed the triumph of
inconstancy, she made bitter moan over her falseness to one of
the noblest and worthiest men that ever was; but it was now too
late to repent, and at all events she resolved that she would be
true to Diomede — all the while weeping for pity of the absent
Troilus, to whom she wished every happiness. The tenth day,
meantime, had barely dawned, when Troilus, accompanied by
Pandarus, took his stand on the walls, to watch for the return of
Cressida. Till noon they stood, thinking that every corner from
afar was she; then Troilus said that doubtless her old father bore
the parting ill, and had detained her till after dinner; so they
went to dine, and returned to their vain observation on the
walls. Troilus invented all kinds of explanations for his
mistress’s delay; now, her father would not let her go till eve;
now, she would ride quietly into the town after nightfall, not to
be observed; now, he must have mistaken the day. For five or
six days he watched, still in vain, and with decreasing hope.
Gradually his strength decayed, until he could walk only with a
staff; answering the wondering inquiries of his friends, by saying
that he had a grievous malady about his heart. One day he
dreamed that in a forest he saw Cressida in the embrace of a
boar; and he had no longer doubt of her falsehood. Pandarus,
however, explained away the dream to mean merely that
Cressida was detained by her father, who might be at the point
of death; and he counselled the disconsolate lover to write a
letter, by which he might perhaps get at the truth. Troilus
complied, entreating from his mistress, at the least, a “letter of
hope;” and the lady answered, that she could not come now, but
would so soon as she might; at the same time “making him great
feast,” and swearing that she loved him best — “of which he
found but bottomless behest [which he found but groundless
promises].” Day by day increased the woe of Troilus; he laid
himself in bed, neither eating, nor drinking, nor sleeping, nor
speaking, almost distracted by the thought of Cressida’s
unkindness. He related his dream to his sister Cassandra, who
told him that the boar betokened Diomede, and that,
wheresoever his lady was, Diornede certainly had her heart, and
she was his: “weep if thou wilt, or leave, for, out of doubt, this
Diomede is in, and thou art out.” Troilus, enraged, refused to
believe Cassandra’s interpretation; as well, he cried, might such
a story be credited of Alcestis, who devoted her life for her
husband; and in his wrath he started from bed, “as though all
whole had him y-made a leach [physician],” resolving to find
out the truth at all hazards. The death of Hector meanwhile
enhanced the sorrow which he endured; but he found time to
write often to Cressida, beseeching her to come again and hold
her truth; till one day his false mistress, out of pity, wrote him
again, in these terms:
“Cupide’s son, ensample of goodlihead,* *beauty, excellence
O sword of knighthood, source of gentleness!
How might a wight in torment and in dread,
And healeless,* you send as yet gladness? *devoid of health
I hearteless, I sick, I in distress?
Since ye with me, nor I with you, may deal,
You neither send I may nor heart nor heal.
“Your letters full, the paper all y-plainted,* *covered with
Commoved have mine heart’s pitt; complainings
I have eke seen with teares all depainted
Your letter, and how ye require me
To come again; the which yet may not be;
But why, lest that this letter founden were,
No mention I make now for fear.
“Grievous to me, God wot, is your unrest,
Your haste,* and that the goddes’ ordinance *impatience
It seemeth not ye take as for the best;
Nor other thing is in your remembrance,
As thinketh me, but only your pleasance;
But be not wroth, and that I you beseech,
For that I tarry is *all for wicked speech.* *to avoid malicious
gossip*
“For I have heard well more than I wend* *weened, thought
Touching us two, how thinges have stood,
Which I shall with dissimuling amend;
And, be not wroth, I have eke understood
How ye ne do but holde me on hand; <87>
But now *no force,* I cannot in you guess *no matter*
But alle truth and alle gentleness.
“Comen I will, but yet in such disjoint* *jeopardy, critical
I stande now, that what year or what day position
That this shall be, that can I not appoint;
But in effect I pray you, as I may,
For your good word and for your friendship ay;
For truely, while that my life may dure,
As for a friend, ye may *in me assure.* *depend on me*
“Yet pray I you, *on evil ye not take* *do not take it ill*
That it is short, which that I to you write;
I dare not, where I am, well letters make;
Nor never yet ne could I well endite;
Eke *great effect men write in place lite;* *men write great matter
Th’ intent is all, and not the letter’s space; in little space*
And fare now well, God have you in his grace!
“La Vostre C.”
Though he found this letter “all strange,” and thought it like “a
kalendes of change,” <88> Troilus could not believe his lady so
cruel as to forsake him; but he was put out of all doubt, one day
that, as he stood in suspicion and melancholy, he saw a “coat-
armour” borne along the street, in token of victory, before
Deiphobus his brother. Deiphobus had won it from Diomede in
battle that day; and Troilus, examining it out of curiosity, found
within the collar a brooch which he had given to Cressida on the
morning she left Troy, and which she had pledged her faith to
keep for ever in remembrance of his sorrow and of him. At this
fatal discovery of his lady’s untruth,
Great was the sorrow and plaint of Troilus;
But forth her course Fortune ay gan to hold;
Cressida lov’d the son of Tydeus,
And Troilus must weep in cares cold.
Such is the world, whoso it can behold!
In each estate is little hearte’s rest;
God lend* us each to take it for the best! *grant
In many a cruel battle Troilus wrought havoc among the
Greeks, and often he exchanged blows and bitter words with
Diomede, whom he always specially sought; but it was not their
lot that either should fall by the other’s hand. The poet’s
purpose, however, he tells us, is to relate, not the warlike deeds
of Troilus, which Dares has fully told, but his love-fortunes:
Beseeching ev’ry lady bright of hue,
And ev’ry gentle woman, *what she be,* *whatsoever she be*
Albeit that Cressida was untrue,
That for that guilt ye be not wroth with me;
Ye may her guilt in other bookes see;
And gladder I would writen, if you lest,
Of Penelope’s truth, and good Alceste.
Nor say I not this only all for men,
But most for women that betrayed be
Through false folk (God give them sorrow, Amen!)
That with their greate wit and subtilty
Betraye you; and this commoveth me
To speak; and in effect you all I pray,
Beware of men, and hearken what I say.
Go, little book, go, little tragedy!
There God my maker, yet ere that I die,
So send me might to make some comedy!
But, little book, *no making thou envy,* *be envious of no poetry* <89>
But subject be unto all poesy;
And kiss the steps, where as thou seest space,
Of Virgil, Ovid, Homer, Lucan, Stace.
And, for there is so great diversity
In English, and in writing of our tongue,
So pray I God, that none miswrite thee,
Nor thee mismetre for default of tongue!
And read whereso thou be, or elles sung,
That thou be understanden, God I ’seech!* *beseech
But yet to purpose of my *rather speech.* *earlier subject* <90>
The wrath, as I began you for to say,
Of Troilus the Greekes boughte dear;
For thousandes his handes *made dey,* *made to die*
As he that was withouten any peer,
Save in his time Hector, as I can hear;
But, well-away! save only Godde’s will,
Dispiteously him slew the fierce Achill’.
And when that he was slain in this mannere,
His lighte ghost* full blissfully is went *spirit
Up to the hollowness of the seventh sphere <91>
In converse leaving ev’ry element;
And there he saw, with full advisement,* *observation, understanding
Th’ erratic starres heark’ning harmony,
With soundes full of heav’nly melody.