Selections from Chaucer Modernised
Troilus and Cresida
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Selections from Chaucer Modernised
Troilus and Cresida
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Next morning Troilus began to clear His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, For love of God, full piteously did say, We must the Palace see of Cresida; For since we yet may have no other feast, Let us behold her Palace at the least! And therewithal to cover his intent A cause he found into the Town to go, And they right forth to Cresid’s Palace went; But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two; For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, Well nigh for sorrow down he ’gan to fall. Therewith when this true Lover ’gan behold, How shut was every window of the place, Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold; For which, with changèd, pale, and deadly face, Without word uttered, forth he ’gan to pace; And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, That no wight his continuance espied. Then said he thus,—O Palace desolate! O house of houses, once so richly dight! O Palace empty and disconsolate! Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light; O Palace whilom day that now art night, Thou ought’st to fall and I to die; since she Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. O, of all houses once the crownèd boast! Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; O ring of which the ruby now is lost, O cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss: Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout; Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out! Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, With changed face, and piteous to behold; And when he might his time aright espy, Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, So piteously, and with so dead a hue, That every wight might on his sorrow rue. Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, And everything to his rememberance Came as he rode by places of the town Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once. Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise. And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I Heard my own Cresid’s laugh; and once at play I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; And yonder once she unto me ’gan say— Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray! And there so graciously did me behold, That hers unto the death my heart I hold. And at the corner of that self-same house Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, So womanly, with voice melodious Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, That in my soul methinks I yet do hear The blissful sound; and in that very place My Lady first me took unto her grace. O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried, When I the process have in memory, How thou hast wearied me on every side, Men thence a book might make, a history; What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy? Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief; Now mercy, Lord! thou know’st well I desire Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; And live and die I will in thy belief; For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, That Cresida again thou send me soon. Constrain her heart as quickly to return, As thou dost mine with longing her to see, Then know I well that she would not sojourn. Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, As Juno was unto the Theban blood, From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. And after this he to the gate did go Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was; And up and down there went, and to and fro, And to himself full oft he said, alas! From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. O would the blissful God now for his joy, I might her see again coming to Troy! And up to yonder hill was I her guide; Alas, and there I took of her my leave; Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;— And hither home I came when it was eve; And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. And of himself did he imagine oft, That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft Men said, what may it be, can no one guess Why Troilus hath all this heaviness? All which he of himself conceited wholly Out of his weakness and his melancholy. Another time he took into his head, That every wight, who in the way passed by, Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, I am right sorry Troilus will die: And thus a day or two drove wearily; As ye have heard; such life ’gan he to lead As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. For which it pleased him in his songs to show The occasion of his woe, as best he might; And made a fitting song, of words but few, Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light; And when he was removed from all men’s sight, With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear, That absent was, ’gan sing as ye may hear. O star, of which I lost have all the light, With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death with wind I steer and sail; For which upon the tenth night if thou fail With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour. As soon as he this song had thus sung through, He fell again into his sorrows old; And every night, as was his wont to do, Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; And all his trouble to the moon he told, And said; I wis, when thou art horn’d anew, I shall be glad if all the world be true. Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, That cause is of my torment and my sorrow; For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, For love of God, run fast above thy sphere; For when thy horns begin once more to spring, Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. The day is more, and longer every night Than they were wont to be—for he thought so; And that the sun did take his course not right, By longer way than he was wont to go; And said, I am in constant dread I trow, That Phäeton his son is yet alive, His too fond father’s car amiss to drive. Upon the walls fast also would he walk, To the end that he the Grecian host might see; And ever thus he to himself would talk:— Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free; Or yonder is it that the tents must be; And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it. And certainly this wind, that more and more By moments thus increaseth in my face, Is of my Lady’s sighs heavy and sore; I prove it thus; for in no other space Of all this town, save only in this place, Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain? A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, Till fully past and gone was the ninth night; And ever at his side stood Pandarus, Who busily made use of all his might To comfort him, and make his heart more light; Giving him always hope, that she the morrow Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. |
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