arts and ideas chaucer troilus and criseyde book I

Chaucer
Troilus and Criseyde

BkI BkII BkIII BkIV BkV

Book I

Before we part my purpose is to tell

Of Troilus, son of the King of Troy,

And how his love‑adventure rose and fell

From grief to joy, and, after, out of joy,

In double sorrow; help me to employ

My pen, Tisiphone, and to endite

These woeful lines, that weep even as I write.

To thee I call, whose joy is to torment,

O cruel Fury, in thy drear domain!

Help me, that am the sorrowful instrument

Of help to lovers, for I sing their pain

As best I can; and it is true and plain

That a sad fellow suits a sorry mate,

And sorrowing looks a tale of sorrowful fate.

Serving the servants of the god of love,

Not daring love in my ungainliness,

Though I should die for it I look above,

And pray, far off in darkness, for success;

But if this bring delight or ease distress

For any lover that may read this story,

Mine be the labour and be love’s the glory!

But all you lovers bathing in delight,

If any drop of pity in you be,

Remember the despair of some past night

You have endured, and the adversity

Of other folk; you too have bitterly

Complained when love has ventured to displease

You – or you won him with too great an ease.

And pray for those who now are in the case

Of Troilus, which you shall later hear,

That love may bring them to his heaven of grace;

And also pray for me to God so dear

That I may show, or at the least come near

To show the pain of lovers suffering thus,

In the unhappy tale of Troilus.

And also pray for those that have despaired

In love and look for no recovery;

Also for those maliciously ensnared

By wicked tell‑tales, whether he or she;

Pray thus to God in His benignity

To grant them soon their passing from earth’s face

That have despaired of love and of his grace,

Pray also for all those that are at ease,

That God may grant them long continuance

And perseverance in the will to please

Their ladies, for love’s honour and romance;

And I will pray, the better to advance

My soul, for all love’s servants that may be,

And write their woes and live in charity,

And have a true compassion for their pain,

As though I were their brother, close and dear;

Now listen to me in a friendly vein.

For I shall go straight on, as shall appear,

To my main matter now, and you shall hear

The double sorrow of Troilus and Criseyde,

And how that she forsook him ere she died.

It is well known the Greeks in all their strength

Of arms, and with a thousand ships, set out

For Troy and they besieged it at great length –

Ten years it was before they turned about –

With one design (by many means, no doubt)

To take revenge upon the ravishment

Of Helen by Paris; that was why they went.

Now it fell out that living in Troy town

There was a lord of great authority,

Calkas by name, a priest of high renown

And learned in the art of prophecy;

He, by the answer of his deity,

Phoebus Apollo, whom they also call

Apollo Delphicus, knew Troy must fall.

And so when Calkas knew by calculation,

And by the answer this Apollo made,

The Greeks would mount so great a preparation

That Troy must burn and be in ruin laid,

He sought to flee the city, to evade

The doom he knew she was to undergo,

To be destroyed whether she would or no.

And so this wise, foreknowledgeable man

Took purpose quietly to slip away,

And, to the Greek host, following his plan,

He stole in secret from the town, and they

Received him courteously, with great display

Of reverence; they trusted to the skill

Of his advice to ward off every ill.

When this was known, noise of it far and wide

Spread through the town and it was freely spoken

‘Calkas has fled, the traitor, and allied

With those of Greece !’ Their vengeance was awoken

Against a faith so treacherously broken.

‘He and his family and all he owns

Ought to be burnt,’ they shouted, ‘skin and bones !’

Calkas had left behind, in these mischances,

One who knew nothing of his wicked deed,

A daughter, whose unhappy circumstances

Put her in terror for her life indeed,

Not knowing where to go or whom to heed,

For she was both a widow and alone,

Without a friend to whom she might make moan.

Criseyde this lady’s name; and, as for me,

If I may judge of her, in all that place

There was not one so beautiful as she,

So like an angel in her native grace;

She seemed a thing immortal, out of space,

As if a heavenly, perfected creature

Had been sent down to earth, in scorn of nature.

This lady, having daily at her ear

Her father’s shame and treason to the town,

Out of her mind, almost, with grief and fear,

Dressed in her widow’s weeds of silken brown,

Sought Hector out and on her knees went down,

Tenderly weeping, and in piteous fashion

Excused herself and begged for his compassion.

This Hector was by nature full of pity

And saw she was in misery and dread,

One of the fairest, too, in all the city;

So, in his kindness cheering her, he said

‘Your father’s treason – put it from your head !

A curse upon it ! You yourself in joy

Shall stay among us while you please, in Troy.

‘All shall be done to honour and respect you,

As much as if you had your father here;

I’ll see that there are people to protect you,

And I shall try to keep an open ear.’

She gave him humble thanks and, drawing near,

Began her thanks again, but he prevented her;

Then she went quietly home, he had contented her.

So in her house, with such in her employ

As it concerned her honour to uphold,

She stayed, and, long as she remained in Troy,

Held her high rank, was loved by young and old,

And was well spoken of; I am not told

Whether she had children; if she had or no

My author does not say. I let it go.

And things fell out, as often in a war,

With varying chance for Trojan and for Greek;

At times the men of Troy paid dearly for

Their city, but at others nothing weak

Their enemies found them; upwards to the peak

Then down and under Fortune whirled them fast

Upon her wheel, until their anger passed.

But how this city came to its destruction

Is not my present purpose to relate,

For it would make too long an introduction

So to digress, and you would have to wait;

But, of the Trojan war and Trojan fate,

All those who can may study the vagaries

In Homer and in Dictys and in Dares.

Though shut within their city by the might

Of the Greek host, which was encamped about,

The men of Troy gave up no ancient rite

Due to their gods; they were indeed devout,

And their most sacred relic, beyond doubt,

Highest in honour, was named, as I recall,

Palladion, which they trusted above all.

And so it happened when there came the time

Of April, when the meadows all are spread

In newest green, when Spring is at its prime

And sweetly smell the flowers, white and red,

In various ways the Trojans, it is said,

Did their observance, as they long had done,

To grace the feast of this Palladion.

And to the temple in their Sunday‑best

They crowded generally, to hear the rite

Of their Palladion, and with the rest

There came, more prominently, many a knight

And many a lady fresh and maiden bright,

In fine array, the greatest and the least,

In honour of the season and the feast.

And among these, in widow’s black, and yet

Unequalled in her beauty, came Criseyde;

Just as an A now heads our alphabet,

She stood unmatchable; she glorified

And gladdened all that crowded at her side;

Never was seen one to be praised so far,

Nor in so black a cloud, so bright a star

As was Criseyde; so all were glad to own

That saw her there, gowned in her widow’s grace;

And yet she stood there, humble and alone

Behind the others in a little space

Close to the door, for modesty; her face

Was cheerful, and the dress that she was wearing

Simple; there was composure in her bearing.

This Troilus, whose custom was to guide

His younger knights, now led them up and down

Through the great temple, and from side to side;

He studied all the ladies in the town,

Bestowing here a smile and there a frown,

Servant to none – none troubled his repose,

And so he praised or slighted whom he chose.

And as he walked he was for ever glancing

To note if any squire of his or knight

Began to sigh, or let his eye go dancing

Towards some woman who had come in sight;

Then he would say ‘God knows, it serves you right !

Softly she lies asleep for love of you,

Who turn in restless pain the whole night through !

‘I’ve heard, God knows, of how you lovers live,

Your mad observances and superstitions,

The pains you take, the services you give

To win your love; when won, what dread suspicions !

And when your prey is lost, what exhibitions

Of woe, fools that you are – and blind, dear brothers !

Not one of you takes warning from the others.’

And with that word he puckered up his look,

As if to say ‘Was that not wisely spoken?’

At which the god of love arose and shook

His angry head, revenge in him awoken,

And showed at once his bow was yet unbroken;

He smote him suddenly and with a will;

And he can pluck as proud a peacock still.

O blind‑eyed world! O blindness of intention)

How often counter to the boasts we air

Fall the effects of arrogant invention!

Caught is the proud, and caught the debonair.

This Troilus has climbed a slippery stair

And little thinks he must come down again;

The expectations of a fool are vain.

As when proud Dobbin5 starts to shy and skip

Across the road, pricked on by too much corn,

Until he feels the lash of the long whip,

And then he thinks ‘Although I may be born

To lead the team, all fat and newly shorn,

Yet I am but a horse, and horse’s law

I must endure as others do, and draw.’

So was it with this proud and fiery knight,

Son of a famous king though he might be;

He had supposed that nothing had the might

To steer his heart against a will as free

As his; yet, at a look, immediately,

He was on fire, and he, in pride above

All others, suddenly was slave to love.

And therefore take example, from this man,

You wise ones, proud ones, worthy ones and all;

Never scorn love, for love so quickly can

Put all the freedom of your heart in thrall;

It has been ever thus and ever shall,

For love can lay his bonds on every creature,

And no one can undo the law of Nature.

Now this has long proved true, and proves so still.

It is a thing that everybody knows;

None, we are told, has greater wit or skill

Than they whom love most powerfully throws;

he strongest men are overcome, and those

Most notable and highest in degree;

This was and is and yet again shall be.

And truly it is well it should be so;

In love the very wisest have delighted,

And they that most of all have felt its woe

Most have been comforted and most requited;

It softens hearts by cruelty excited,

And to the noble gives a nobler name,

And most it teaches fear of vice and shame.

Now since it is not easily withstood

And is a thing of virtue, in its kind,

Forbid love not to bind you as he would,

Since, as he pleases, he has power to bind.

The twig that bends is better, to my mind,

Than that which breaks; and so I would advise

You let love lead you, who is proved so wise.

But to proceed with what I have to say,

And more especially of this king’s son,

Leaving collateral matters by the way,

It is of him I mean to speak or none,

Both in his joy, and his cold cares begun,

And all he did, as touching this affair;

Having begun, let me return to where

This Troilus and his knights were gallivanting

About the temple, quizzing and pointing out

This or that lady, all the while descanting

On where she lived, within town or without,

And it so fell that, looking through the rout,

His eye pierced deeply and at last it struck

Criseyde where she was standing, and there stuck.

And suddenly he felt himself astounded,

Gazing more keenly at her in surprise,

‘Merciful god l O where’ he said, confounded,

‘Have you been hiding, lovely to my eyes?’

He felt his heart begin to spread and rise,

And he sighed softly, lest his friends should hear,

And he recaptured his accustomed sneer.

Now she was not among the least in stature,

But all her limbs so answerable were

To womanhood, there never was a creature

Less mannish in appearance standing there;

And when she moved, she did so with an air

Of ease and purity, so one could guess

Honour and rank in her, and nobleness.

To him her look and movements, all in all,

Were wonderfully pleasing, with her clear

Semblance of light disdain, when she let fall

A sidelong glance, as one who might appear

To put the question ‘What l May I not stand here?’

And then her face unclouded and shone bright;

Never had he seen so beautiful a sight.

And as he looked at her his pulses thickened;

Such passion, such desire, began to race

That at the bottom of his heart there quickened

The deeply printed image of her face;

His insolent staring now had given place

To drawing in his horns, and gladly too !

Whether to look or not he hardly knew.

He who had thought his cleverness so telling

And lovers’ anguish something to despise,

Was now aware that love had made his dwelling

Within the subtle currents of her eyes;

Now, suddenly, at a mere look, there dies

The spirit in his heart, all is laid low;

Blessed be love that can convert us so!

She in her black, so deeply to his liking,

Above all else he lingered to behold;

But why he stayed and what desire was striking

Upon his sense he neither showed nor told,

And, to maintain his manner as of old,

He looked at other things, or so pretended,

Then back at her, until the service ended.

And after that, not wholly in confusion,

Out of the temple casually he pressed,

Repenting every cynical allusion

That he had made to love, for fear the jest

Might turn against himself; he did his best

To hide his misery, lest the world should know it,

Dissimulating, so as not to show it.

When from the temple he had thus departed,

Back to his palace instantly he turned;

While through and through her image shot and darted

Within him; trying not to seem concerned,

He burnished up his looks, and gaily spurned

At all love’s servants in his speech the while,

To cover up his feelings with a smile;

‘ Lord I What a happy life,’ he said, ‘how blest,

A lover leads ! The cleverest of you, now,

Who serves love most attentively and best,

Comes to more harm than honour, you’ll allow;

Your service is requited god knows how,

Not love for love, but scorn for service true;

There’s a fine rule to bind an Order’ to !

‘All your observances are quite unsure

Of their result, save in a point or so;

No other Order claims so great, so pure

A servitude as yours, and that you know;

But you have worse than that to undergo.

Were I to tell you, though it made good sense,

What the worst is, you all would take offence.

So ‘Yet notice this: what you refrain from doing,

Or indeed do, but with the best intention,

Your lady will be ever misconstruing,

Deem it an injury and start dissension;

If, for some reason of her own invention,

She’s angry, you will get a scolding too;

Dear Lord ! How lucky to be one of you!’

For all this, when he judged it time, he duly

Fell into silence; what was there to gain?

For love had limed his feathers, and so truly,

He scarce had strength enough in him to feign

That he had work to do, and would detain

His followers no longer; sunk in woe,

And at an utter loss he bid them go.

When he was in his chamber and alone,

At his bed’s foot he sank in indecision;

At first he sighed, and then began to groan,

Till, thinking of her thus without remission

As there he sat, he had a waking vision;

His spirit dreamed he saw her, as before,

There in the temple, and he gazed once more.

And thus he made a mirror of his mind

In which he saw her image all entire,

And was well able in his heart to find

That it was high adventure to desire

One such as her; and if he did not tire

In serving her, he well might win to grace

Or be accepted in a servant’s place.

In his imagination neither pain

Nor toil in service ever could be thrown

Away on one so beautiful; again

His passion was no shame, though it were known;

Rather, an honour, as lovers all would own,

Greater than all before; he argued so

In utter ignorance of his coming woe.

He settled then to learn the craft of lover,

And thought to work at it in secrecy;

First he must keep his passion under cover

From every living creature, utterly,

Unless there was some hope of remedy,

Remembering that a love too widely blown

About yields bitter fruit, though sweetly sown.

On, on he thought, and, over and above

All this, what he should speak and what keep in,

What he could do to kindle her to love,

And with a song decided to begin

At once, and so he sang aloud to win

Himself from grief, and gave his full assent

To love Criseyde and never to repent.

And not the gist alone of what was sung

By him, as says my author, Lollius –

But also – bar the difference of tongue –

The very phrases used by Troilus

I shall repeat; they went exactly thus;

He who would hear them as the text rehearses

Will find them all set down in the next verses.

58 The Song of Troilus

‘If there’s no love, O God! What am I feeling?

If there is love, who then, and what, is he?

If love be good, whence comes this sorrow stealing?

If evil, what a wonder it is to me

When every torment and adversity

That comes of him is savoury, to my thinking!

The more I thirst, the more 1 would be drinking.

And if so be I burn at my own pleasure,

Whence comes my wailing, whence my sad complaint?

Why do I weep, if sufering be my treasure?

I know not. Nothing weary, yet I faint!

O quickening death, sweet harm that leaves no taint,

How do 1 find thee measurelessly filling

My heart, unless it be that I am willing?

And yet, if I am willing, wrongfully

I make complaint! Bufeted to and fro,

I am a rudderless vessel in mid‑sea,

Between the double‑winded storms that blow

From ever‑contrary shores; alas, for woe!

What is this wondrous malady that fills me

With fire of ice and ice of fire, and kills me?

And after that ‘ O god of love,’ said he

In piteous tones, ‘dear lord, my spirit is

For ever yours, as yours it ought to be;

I thank you, lord, that I am brought to this.

If she be woman or goddess out of bliss

That you have made me serve, I know not, I;

But as her man I mean to live and die.

‘You in her eyes are standing mightily,

As in a place worthy of your divine

Virtue; if I, or if my service be

Acceptable to you, be you benign !

And all my royalty I here resign

Into her hand, as humbly as I can,

As to my lady, and become her man.’

The fire of love – which God preserve me from –

Deigned not to spare in him his royal blood,

But held him like a thrall in martyrdom

And did not pay the high respect it should

Have paid his virtue or his soldierhood,

But burnt him in so many ways anew

That sixty times a day his face changed hue.

His thought of her so much began to mount

From day to day, to quicken and increase

In passion, that he held of no account

His other duties; often to release

Himself from torment and in hope of peace

He pressed for glimpses of her, but the flame

More fiercely burnt, the nearer that he came.

‘The nearer to the flame, the hotter ‘tis’,

As everyone among you is aware;

But were he far or near, I can say this

By night or day, in wisdom or despair,

His heart – the eye within his breast – was there,

Fixed upon her, more lovely in his view

Than was Polyxena, and Helen too.

There never passed an hour of the day

But that at least a thousand times he cried

‘Lovely and good, to thee, as best I may,

I give my service; would to God, Criseyde,

You would take pity on me before I died!

Dear heart, alas! my health, prosperity

And life are lost unless you pity me!’

So all his other troubles left his head,

Fears for the siege, his safety, they all went;

There were no other fawns of fancy bred

In him by passion: all his argument

Was for her pity, all his good intent

Was to be hers – her man – while life gave breath

That would be life indeed, his cure from death.

The deadly showers that are the proof of arms,

Where Hector and his brothers showed their zest,

Never once moved him now, though these alarms

Still found him, as before, among the best

On horse or foot; and longer than the rest

He stayed where danger was, and, as to that,

He did such work as must be wondered at,

But not to show his hatred of the Greek,

Nor even for the rescue of the town;

What made him battle‑mad was just to seek

A single end, namely to win renown

And please his lady better; up and down

And day by day in arms, he beat the life

Out of the Greeks, went through them like a knife.

And from then on love robbed him of his sleep

And made an enemy of his food; his sorrow

Increased and multiplied, he could not keep

His countenance and colour, eve or morrow,

Had anyone noticed it; he sought to borrow

The names of other illnesses, to cover

His hot fire, lest it showed him as a lover.

He said he had a fever and was ill.

I cannot say whether his lady knew

And feigned an ignorance, or if she still

Knew nothing – one or other of the two;

But I am well assured that it is true

It did not seem that she so much as thought

About him, or his griefs, or what he sought.

And knowing this, the fever in him ran

Almost to madness, for his fear was this,

That she already loved some other man

And had no care for any love of his.

His heart was bleeding into an abyss,

And yet, to win the world, in all his woe,

He could not bring himself to tell her so.

Yet he, in moments of release from care,

Scolded himself, and over and again

Would say ‘O fool ! now you are in the snare,

Who used to mock at lovers and their pain;

Now you are caught, go on and gnaw your chain!

You lectured lovers, saying they were senseless,

For just those things in which you are defenceless.

‘And what will lovers say, do you suppose,

Should this be known? Ever, behind your back,

There will be scornful laughter: "There he goes,

Our man of wisdom, bold in his attack

And his irreverent scorn for us who lack

His judgement! Now, thank God, he’ll join the dance

Of those whom love hastes slowly to advance!"

‘But O thou woeful Troilus, would to God,

Since thou must love by force of destiny,

Thy heart were set on one that understood

Thy sorrow, though she lacked in sympathy !

But she, thy lady, is as cold to thee

As is the frost under a winter moon,

And thou art snow in fire, and lost as soon.

‘Ah, would to God that I had reached the harbour

Of death, to which my miseries must lead !

Lord, what a comfort to me, what an arbour !

I should be quit of languishing indeed!

For if it’s blown abroad how much I bleed

In secret, I’ll be mocked a thousand times

Worse than the fools they pillory in rhymes.

‘Ah, help me, God ! And help me, sweetest heart !

Yes, I am caught – none ever caught so fast!

Dear love, have mercy on me, take my part,

Save me from death; and, until life is past,

More than myself I’ll love you, to the last !

Gladden me, sweetheart, with a friendly glance,

Though I may never hope for better chance !’

These words and many another he let flow;

And all his lamentations would resound

With her dear name, to tell her of his woe,

Till in salt tears he very nearly drowned.

But all for nought, she never heard a sound;

And to reflect a little on that folly

A thousand times increased his melancholy.

Bewailing in his chamber thus alone,

To him there came a friend called Pandarus;

He slid in unperceived and heard him groan,

And, seeing his distress, addressed him thus:

‘Good gracious! What’s the reason for this fuss?

Merciful God, whatever can it mean?

Is it the Greeks have made you look so lean?

‘ Is it some fit of conscience or remorse

That now has brought you round to your devotions?

Ah, you are weeping for your sins, of course;

The dread of punishment has bred these oceans.

God save the Greeks if they and their commotions

Can wring our jolliest fellows in a mangle

And give the lustiest life a holy angle !’

These words he rattled off in the belief

They would convert his sorrows to vexation;

Anger, for once, might overmaster grief,

And rouse his heart to sudden indignation;

He knew of course, by common reputation,

There was no braver soldier in the war

Than he, or one who cherished honour more.

‘What mischief brings you here, or has selected

This moment to intrude upon my care,’

Said Troilus, ‘who am by all rejected?

For love of God, and at my earnest prayer,

Take yourself off; for how are you to bear

Seeing me die? And therefore go away,

For die I must; there is no more to say.

‘But if you think me ill because of fear,

You may take back your scorn; for I am one

Whom other cares oppress and hold me here,

Greater than anything the Greeks have done,

Which it is death for me to think upon;

But though I will not tell you, or reveal it,

Do not be angry, for I must conceal it.’

Pandarus, almost melting with compassion,

Kept. saying ‘ O alas ! What can it be?

Dear friend, are love and friendship out of fashion?

If ever truth, as between you and me,

Existed, never show such cruelty

As not to share your miseries with candour !

Don’t you know well that it is I? It’s Pandar!

‘Come, let me have a part in your despair,

And even if I cannot comfort you

One of the rights of friendship is to share

Not only in pleasure, but in sorrow too;

I have and ever shall, in false and true,

In right and wrong, backed you and loved you well,

So do not hide your grief from me, but tell.’

This sorrowful Troilus began to sigh

And said ‘God grant it may be for the best

To tell you everything and satisfy

Your longing, though it burst my very breast;

And yet I know you cannot give me rest.

Still, lest you think I do not trust a friend,

Here’s how it stands; now listen and attend.

‘Love, against whom he who would most securely

Seek a defence will find it least availing,

So grievously assails me, that he surely

Is teaching me despair; my heart is sailing

Straight into death, so burning, so prevailing

Are my desires, and it were greater joy

To die than to be King of Greece or Troy.

‘Dear Pandar, best of friends, I’ve said enough;

I’ve told you the whole secret of my woe.

For God’s love, think my cares are dangerous stuff

And keep them hidden; only you must know,

For great would be the evils that could flow

From them if they were known; be happy, friend,

Leave me in grief unknown to meet my end.’

‘What could be more unnatural or darter

Than hiding this, you fool?’ said Pandarus,

‘Perhaps the very one you’re pining after

Is placed where my advice could profit us.’

‘A wonder that would be 1’ said Troilus,

‘In your own love‑affairs you seldom shine,

So how the devil can you help in mine?’

‘Now listen, Troilus,’ said Pandar,

‘Yes, Fool though I be, it happens every day

That one whose life is ruined by excess

Can save his friend from going the same way;

I saw a blind man go, the other day,

Where others tumbled down who had their eyes;

Besides, the fool may often guide the wise.

‘A whetstone is no instrument for cutting,

Yet it can put an edge on cutting tools;

I may have lost my way when I went rutting,

But my mistakes should teach you all the rules.

The wise, I say, may take advice from fools;

If you’ll take warning, you’ll improve your wits.

Things are defined best by their opposites.

‘How ever could one know what sweetness is

If one had never tasted bitterness?

For inward happiness was never his

Who never was in sorrow or distress.

Set white by black, and shame by worthiness,

Each seems the more so by its opposite;

So say the wise, and so we all admit.

‘And, as this law of contraries will show,

I who have often striven with immense

Troubles in love, ought all the more to know

How to advise you and to talk good sense

About what staggers you; take no offence

If I should wish to help you, and to share

Your heavy load. So much the less to bear !

‘I am well aware that things are much with me

As with Oenone, the fair shepherdess,

Who wrote to your good brother, Paris – she

Made a lament out of her wretchedness;

You saw the letter that she wrote, I guess?’

‘No, not as yet, I think,’ said Troilus.

‘Indeed?’ said Pandar, ‘Listen, it went thus:

"‘Phoebus, who was the first to find the art

Of medicine, knew, for everybody’s care,

What herbs to give, he knew them all by heart;

But in his own case found his wits were bare,

For love had caught and bound him in a snare;

And it was all for King Admetus’ daughter;

His potions did him no more good than water."

‘It’s just the same, unhappily, with me;

I love one best, and oh my heart is sore !

And yet perhaps I know the remedy

For you, if not for me; then say no more.

I have no cause – I know it well – to soar

Like a young falcon, up and off to play,

Still, to help you, there’s something I can say.

‘One thing there is of which you can be certain;

Though I should die in torture, for no pain ,

Would I betray you; I will draw the curtain

Upon your secret; nor will I restrain

You, were it Helen’s love you would obtain,

Your brother’s lady, were it known to me;

Love whom you like, whoever she may be !

‘Tell me straight out what was the origin,

Since you must trust me fully as a friend –

The cause of all this fever you are in;

And have no fear to speak, I don’t intend

Or not just now, to scold or reprehend;

No one can wean a lover from the cup

Of love, until he choose to give it up.

‘Let me inform you there are these two vices,

Trusting in everyone, and trusting none.

But there’s a happy mean, and that suffices;

For it’s a proof, if you can trust to one,

Of constancy and truth; and therefore shun

Excess, and give your trust to somebody

And tell your grief; and, if you like, tell me.

100

‘ "Woe to the man", they say, "who is alone,

For when he falls there’s none to help him rise."

But since you have a friend, tell him your moan !

The best way, certainly, to win the prize

Of love is not – according to the wise –

To wallow and weep like Niobe the Queen

Whose tears (in marble) still are to be seen.

101

‘Let be your weeping and your dreariness

And let’s have lighter topics for relief;

Your time of sorrow then will seem the less,

Do not delight in grief to seek more grief,

As do those fools, who, when they strike a reef,

Egg misery on with misery, resolved

To lend no ear or have their problem solved.

102

‘People have said it is a consolation

To find a fellow‑sufferer in woe;

A view that ought to have our approbation

Since we are both of us tormented so

By love; I feel so wretched, as you. know,

That surely there could be no heavier doom

Upon my shoulders. Why? There isn’t room !

103

‘ I hope to God you do not think me shady,

One who would trick you of her by a wile?

You know yourself I love a certain lady

As best I can – it’s gone on a long while.

And since you know I do it for no guile,

And trust me better than to think me double,

Tell me a little; for you know my trouble.’

104

Yet, for all this, no word said Troilus,

But lay there long, like one upon a bier;

Then he broke out in sighing, and he thus

Turned round, and lent to Pandar’s voice an ear.

His eyes rolled up, and Pandar was in fear

Some frenzy had taken him and he might fall

Into a fit and die, and end it all.

105

‘Wake up !’ cried Pandarus; his voice was sharp.

‘Are you asleep? Is this a lethargy?

Or are you like some ass that hears a harp,

And gets the sound of strings in harmony,

But in his mind there sinks no melody,

He finds no pleasure to be had in it,

So dull and bestial is his donkey‑wit?’

106

Pandarus stopped with that, and silence fell,

For still no answer came from Troilus,

Whose fixed intention was never to tell

A soul for whom it was he suffered thus;

The wise have told us it is dangerous

To cut a stick, for he who cuts it may

Live to be beaten with it, one fine day.

107

And this is specially true, they say, in love;

What touches love is secret, or should be.

Rumours of love spring out and spread enough,

Unless it’s governed very carefully.

And there are times when one should seem to flee

The thing pursued; it is the hunter’s art.

Troilus turned this over in his heart.

108

Nevertheless, on hearing Pandar’s shrill

‘Wake up !’ he gave a sigh that seemed to come

With anguish, and he said ‘Though I lie still,

Dear friend, I am not deaf; could you be dumb

A little? I have heard your rules of thumb;

So leave me to my wretchedness and grief;

Truly your proverbs bring me no relief.

109

‘And they are all the cure you have for me;

I do not want a cure, I want to die.

What do I care about Queen Niobe?

Drop your old parallels, they don’t apply.’

‘No?’ Pandarus retorted, ‘That is why

I said just now it is a fool’s delight

To hug his grief, rather than put things right.

110

‘I see that you are losing hold on reason;

But answer me, if she you hold so dear

Were known to me, might not a word in season,

If you permit it, whispered in her ear

By me – the things you dare not speak, for fear –

Draw forth her pity for a certain youth ?

‘Never, by God,’ he said, ‘and by my truth!

111

‘What, not if I went earnestly about it,

As if my life depended on the need?’

‘No,’ Troilus said, ‘I’d rather die without it.’

‘And why?" Because you never could succeed.’

‘Are you so sure of that?’ ‘I am indeed,’

He said, ‘however skilful you may be,

She’ll ne’er be won by such a wretch as me.’

112

Said Pandarus : ‘Alas ! How can this be,

Despairing, without reason, of your case?

What! She’s alive – your lady – isn’t she?

How do you know that you are out of grace?

Such troubles, if you look them in the face,

Aren’t without remedy; do not think your cure

Impossible! The future’s never sure.

113

‘I grant you’re suffering from as sharp a pain

As Tityus" does – the fellow down in Hell,

Whose stomach birds tear out and tear again,

Vultures, they call them, so the old books tell;

But for all that I cannot have you dwell

In an opinion so ridiculous

As that there cannot be a cure for us.

114

‘But just because you have a coward heart

And angry ways, and foolish, wilful scares

About not trusting me, you won’t impart,

You will not stir to mend your own affairs

So much as to give reasons for your airs,

But lie there dumb for hours at a stretch;

What woman could feel love for such a wretch?

115

‘What else will she suppose about your death,

If you should die, and she not know the cause,

Save that in fear you yielded up your breath

Because the Greeks besiege us. You should pause

And think what thanks she’ll give you, what applause,

For that! She’ll say, and so will all the town,

"The wretch is dead, the devil drag him down!"

116

‘Here you may weep alone, cry out and kneel,

But, love a woman when she doesn’t know it

And she’ll requite in ways you cannot feel;

Unknown, unkissed; "unsought‑for" means "forgo it’

Many a one who loved and did not show it

Has bought love dear, a twenty‑winter drouth

Of knowing her, that never kissed her mouth.

117

‘What! Should he therefore fall into despair,

Turn infidel in love – for grief, I mean?

Or kill himself although she still seems fair?

No, no ! But ever constant, fresh and green,

To love and serve his lady, his heart’s queen,

And think himself rewarded that he serves her,

More by a thousand times than he deserves her.’

118

And of these words young Troilus took heed,

And saw at once the folly he was in;

What Pandarus had said was true indeed;

To kill himself was not the way to win,

For it was both unmanly and a sin,

Nor would his lady ever know the fashion

Of his death, not knowing of his pain and passion.

119

And at the thought he sorrowfully sighed

And said ‘Alas! What then is best to do?’

‘If you are willing,’ Pandarus replied,

‘The best would be to tell, and tell me true;

And, on my honour, I will see you through;

If I seem slow, or find no remedy,

Drag me in pieces, hang me on a tree.’

120

‘Yes, so you say,’ said Troilus, plunged in care,

‘God knows it will be none the better so;

Help will be hard indeed in this affair,

For – well I know it – Fortune is my foe;

Not one of all the men that come and go

On earth can set at naught her cruel wheel;

She plays with us and there is no appeal.’

121

Said Pandar, ‘You blame Fortune for your fall

Because you’re angry; yes, at last I see.

Don’t you know Fortune is the same for all,

Common to everyone in some degree?

Yes, there’s this comfort for you; goodness me,

Just as her joys pass over and are gone,

So come her tribulations, and pass on.

122

‘For if her wheel should ever cease to turn

Fortune would then no longer Fortune belt;

But since her wheel is always on the churn,

Perhaps her very mutability

May bring about what you desire to see;

She may be going to help you in this thing;

For all you know, you have good cause to sing.

123

‘Accordingly I make it my petition,

Give up this grief, stop looking at the ground !

For he that seeks a cure from his physician

Will have to take the bandage off his wound.

May I be chained to Cerberus, Hell’s Hound,

Though it be for my sister – your love‑sorrow –

If, by my will, she is not yours tomorrow!

124

‘Look up, I say, and tell me who she is

At once, that I may go about your need;

Come, do I know her? Can’t you tell me this?

For if I do, there’s hope I may succeed.’

A vein in Troilus began to bleed,

For he was hit, and reddened up in shame.

‘Aha ! said Pandar, ‘here we start the game!’

125

And on the word, he gave him a good shaking,

And said ‘Her name, you thief! You’ve got to tell!’

And foolish Troilus then started quaking,

As if some fiend were taking him to Hell,

And said ‘The fountain of my woe, my well

Of grief, my sweetest foe, is called Criseyde.’

He trembled at the word, he almost died.

126

When Pandar heard the name that he had given,

Lord, he was glad, and said ‘My dearest friend,

I wish you joy, by Jupiter in Heaven!

Love has done well for you! O happy end!

Be cheerful; wisdom and good name attend

Upon her, she has gentle breeding too;

Whether she’s beautiful I leave to you.

127

‘I never have known one of her position

So generous, so happy in her mood,

So friendly in her speech and disposition,

Or one that had more grace in doing good,

And how to do it better understood;

And, to cap all, as far as honour stretches,

Compared to such as she is, kings are wretches.

128

‘And so, take heart; the first point, certainly,

In noble natures, truly apprehended

And properly established, is to be

At peace within themselves, division ended;

So should you be, for what is there but splendid

In loving well and in a worthy place?

You should not call it Fortune; call it Grace.

129

‘Then think of this, and let it gladden you;

Your lady has great virtues as you know;

It follows that she has compassion too,

Where goodness is so general; and so

Bespecially attentive to forgo

Any demand that injures her good name,

For virtue does not stretch itself to shame.

130

‘Happy indeed the day that I was born,

To see you settled in so fair a place!

Upon my word I truly could have sworn

You never would have won to such a grace

In love! Do you know why? You used to chase

And chaff the god of love, and in your spite

Called him "Saint Idiot, Lord of Fools’ Delight" !

131

‘And many a sly, sophisticated prod

You gave, and said that people who were prone

To serve in love were very Apes of God;

And some, you said, would munch their meat alone,

Lying in bed and heaving up a groan;

" White‑fevered ones", you called them, "shivering lovers".

"Pray god," you said, "not one of them recovers."

132

‘And some of them took on about the cold

Rather too much – so you asserted roundly –

And others were pretending when they told

Of sleepless nights, when they were sleeping soundly.

That’s how they hoped to rise, but were profoundly

Mistaken, so you said, for they would fall;

That’s how you went on jesting at them all.

133

‘You also said that far the greater part

Of lovers spoke in general, and took care,

If they should fail with one, to learn the art

Of finding compensation otherwhere.

Now I could jest at you, if jest it were;

Nevertheless I’d stake my life, God knows,

And swear that you were never one of those.

134

‘Now beat your breast, and say to him above

"Have mercy on me, Lord, for I repent,

If I said ill; I am myself in love."

Speak from your heart, let it be truly meant.’

Said Troilus, ‘Lord Cupid, I consent;

Pardon my mockeries! If thou forgive,

I never more will mock thee while I live:

135

‘Well said, indeed,’ said Pandar, ‘that should stop

The god’s displeasure; he should feel appeased.

And now that you have wept so many a drop,

And said those things whereby a god is pleased,

I hope to God your sorrow will be eased,

And think that she, the cause of all your grief,

Hereafter may be cause of its relief.

136

‘A soil that nurtures weeds and poisonous stuff

Brings forth these herbs of healing just as oft.

Next to the foulest nettle, thick and rough,

Rises the rose in sweetness, smooth and soft;

And next the valleys rise the hills aloft,

And next the dark of night the glad tomorrow;

And joy is on the borderland of sorrow.

137

‘So, lay a temperate hand upon the bridle;

Wait for the tide in patience, for the best,

Or otherwise our labour will be idle;

More haste, less speed; the faster for a rest.

Be diligent, true, secret, self‑possessed,

But gay and open‑hearted; persevere

In serving love, and then you need not fear.

138

"‘The heart divided over many places

Is nowhere firm in any," say the wise.

Such hearts can never gain a lady’s graces;

And some who love are like the man who tries

To plant a herb or tree, and then will rise

And pull it up, to see if it’s alive

Next day; no wonder if it does not thrive.

139

‘And since the god of lovers has bestowed

A worthy place upon you, stand you fast !

Into a happy harbour you have rowed,

And so I say, in spite of sorrows past,

Hope for the best; because unless you blast

Our work by over‑haste, or by despair,

There’s hope for a good end to your affair.

140

‘Do you know why I feel the less dismay

In thinking how this matter might be tendered

In treating with my niece? The learned say

That never man or woman was engendered

Unapt to suffer love; we’re all surrendered

To a celestial or a natural kind"‘.

One or the other, and so I hope to find

141

‘Some grace in her; and in regard to her,

In the young beauty of her womanhood,

It would not be becoming to prefer

A love celestial, even if she could.

Not yet at least; it’s clearly for her good

To love and cherish some distinguished knight;

Not to would show a vicious appetite.

142

‘So I am ready, and shall always be,

To go to work for you in this affair –

For both of you – I have a hope in me

To please you later; you’re a sage young pair

And know how to keep counsel. Take good care

That no one is the wiser of it; thus

We shall be happy – all the three of us.

143

‘And on my honour, at this moment too,

I have been struck by quite a happy thought;

And what it is I shall impart to you. I think since

Love, in goodness, has not brought

You out of all your wicked ways for nought;

He’ll make you the best pillar, I suppose,

Of his whole cult, the more to grieve his foes 1

144

‘Example why: think of those learned men

Who most have erred against God’s holy law,

And whom He has converted back again

From heresy, because He wished to draw

Them back to Him; and they stand most in awe

Of God, strongest in faith, it is confessed;

I understand they combat error best’

145

When Troilus heard Pandarus consenting

To help him in the loving of Criseyde,

His grief, as one might say, was less tormenting,

But hotter grew his love, and he replied

With sobered look (although his heart inside

Was dancing), ‘Blessed Venus from on high

Help me to earn your thanks before I die !

146

‘Is there a means to make my suffering less

Till this be done, dear friend? Can you achieve it?

What will you say of me and my distress?

I dread her anger – how will she receive it?

Suppose she will not listen or believe it?

I dread it all; and then, that it should spring

From you, her uncle l She’ll hear no such thing.’

147

And Pandarus retorted ‘ I should worry.

Afraid the Man will fall out of the Moon?

Lord, how I hate your foolishness and flurry !

Mind your own business ! Let me beg a boon

Of you: leave everything to me, and soon

You’ll find I’ve acted in your interest.’

‘Well, friend,’ he answered, ‘do as you think best,

148

‘But listen to me, Pandar, just a word !

I would not have you think me so demented

As to desire – in all that you have heard –

Anything shameful, or to be repented;

I’d rather die. So let her be contented,

I mean no villainy; make it understood

That every thought I have is for her good.’

149

Pandarus gave a laugh, and he replied

‘With me for surety? That’s what they all say.

I shouldn’t care if she had stood beside

And heard it all ! Farewell! I must away.

Adieu ! Take heart ! God speed us both today !

Give me this work, hand me this job to do;

Mine be the labour, and the sweets to you !’

150

This Troilus fell down upon his knees,

Seized Pandar in his arms and held him fast;

‘Death to the Greeks! Down with our enemies!’

He cried, ‘and God will help; the worst is past !

You may be sure, if life in me will last,

With God’s good help, there’s some of them will smart !

Pardon this boast; it comes from a full heart.

151

‘Now, Pandarus, here’s all that I can say:

O wise, O wonderful, O man of skill !

O all‑in‑all ! My life and death I lay

In your good hands; help me!" Of course I will.’

‘God bless you; whether it is cure or kill,

Commend me to her; say her lightest breath,’

He added, ‘may command me to the death.’

152

This Pandarus, in eagerness to serve

This his full friend, smiled back and gave his views

‘Farewell, and think I’m trying to deserve

Your thanks;’ he said, ‘I promise you good news:

He turned and off he wandered, in a muse,

Thinking how best to win to her good graces;

What were the proper times, the likely places?

153

For nobody who has a house to build

Goes dashing out to work and make a start

With a rash hand; he waits, if he is skilled,

And sends a line with caution from his heart

To win his purpose, first of all by art;

So Pandar inwardly prepared his plan

And wisely gave it shape ere he began.

154

Then Troilus no longer laid him down,

But sallied out at once upon his bay

And played the lion to defend the town;

Woe to the Greek who met with him that day !

From that time on so winning was his way

With everyone in Troy, he gained in grace;

They loved him that but looked upon his face.

155

For he became the friendliest of men,

The noblest, the most generous and free,

The sturdiest too, one of the best that then,

In his own times, there were, or that could be.

Dead were his jesting and his cruelty;

His loftiness, the arrogance that hurt you,

Yielded their place, exchanging with a virtue.

156

Of Troilus I now shall say no more

Awhile; he is like one that’s gravely wounded,

Who finds the wound no longer is so sore,

But knows the corner has not yet been rounded;

An easy patient, with his faith well founded

On the physician’s skill who is attending,

He faces the adventure now impending.