Troilus to Criseyde

From Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde. 

 

 Troilus to Criseyde (196-203)

 

And if yow lyketh knowen of the fare

Of me, whos wo ther may no wight discryve,

I can no more but, cheste of every care,

At wrytinge of this lettre I was on-lyve

Al redy out my woful gost to dryve;

Which I delaye, and holde him yet in honde,

Upon the sight of matere of your sonde.

 

Myn eyen two, in veyn with which I see,

Of sorweful teres salte arn waken welles;

My song, in pleynte of myn adversitee;

My good in harm; myn ese eek waken helle is.

My joye, in wo; I can sey you nought elles,

But turned is, for which my lyf I warie,

Everich joye or ese in his contrarie.

 

Which with your cominge hoom ayein to Troye

Ye may redresse, and, more a thousand sythe

Than ever ich hadde, encresen in me joye.

For was ther never herte yet so blythe

To han his lyf, as I shal been as swythe

As I youw see; and, though no maner routhe

Commeve yow, yet thinketh on your trouthe.

 

And if so be my gilt hath deeth deserved,

Or if you list no more up-on me see,

In guerdon yet of that I have you served,

Biseche I yow, myn hertes lady free,

That here-upon ye wolden wryte me,

For love of god, my righte lode-sterre,

Ther deeth may make an ende of al my werre.

 

If other cause aught doth yow for to dwelle,

That with your lettre ye me recomforte;

For though to me your absence is an helle,

With pacience I wol my wo comporte,

And with your lettre of hope I wol desporte,

Now wryteth, swete, and lat me thus not pleyne;

With hope, or deeth, delivereth me fro peyne.

 

Y-wis, myn owene dere herte trewe,

I woot that, whan ye next up-on me see,

So lost have I myn hele and eek myn hewe,

Criseyde shal nought conne knowe me?

Y-wis, myn hertes day, my lady free,

So thursteth ay myn herte to biholde

Your beautee, that my lyf unnethe I holde.

 

I sey no more, al have I for to seye,

To you wel more than I telle may;

But whether that ye do me live or deye,

Yet pray I god, so yeve youw right good day.

And fareth wel, goodly fayre fresshe may,

As ye that lyf or deeth mee may commaunde;

And to your trouthe ay me recommaunde.

 

With hele swich that, but ye yeven me

The same hele, I shal noon hele have,

In you lyth, whan yow list that it so be,

The day in which me clothen shal my grave.

In yow my lyf, in yow mifht for to save

Me from disese of alle peynes smerte;

And fare now wel, myn owene swete herte!

 

 

—oOo—