His resons, as I may my rymes holde, 90
I yow wol telle, as techen bokes olde.
Which vois eek quook, and ther-to his manere
Goodly abayst, and now his hewes rede,
Now pale, un-to Criseyde, his lady dere, 95
With look doun cast and humble yolden chere,
Lo, thalderfirste word that him asterte
Was, twyes, mercy, mercy, swete herte!
The nexte word was, god wot, for I have,
As feythfully as I have had konninge,
Ben youres, also god my sowle save;
And shal, til that I, woful wight, be grave.
And though I dar ne can un-to yow pleyne,
Y-wis, I suffre nought the lasse peyne. 105
I may out-bringe, and if this yow displese,
That shal I wreke upon myn owne lyf
Right sone, I trowe, and doon your herte an ese, 109
If with my deeth your herte I may apese.
But sin that ye han herd me som-what seye,
Now recche I never how sone that I deye.
It mighte han maad an herte of stoon to rewe; 114
And Pandare weep as he to watre wolde,
And poked ever his nece newe and newe,
And seyde, wo bigon ben hertes trewe!
For love of god, make of this thing an ende,
Or slee us bothe at ones, er that ye wende.
I noot nought what ye wilne that I seye.
I? what? quod he, that ye han on him routhe,
For goddes love, and doth him nought to deye.
Now thanne thus, quod she, I wolde him preye
To telle me the fyn of his entente; 125
Yet wiste I never wel what that he mente.
Quod Troilus, O goodly fresshe free!
That, with the stremes of your eyen clere,
Ye wolde som-tyme freendly on me see, 130
And thanne agreën that I may ben he,
With- oute braunche of vyce in any wyse,
In trouthe alwey to doon yow my servyse
With al my wit and al my diligence, 135
And I to han, right as yow list, comfort,
Under your yerde, egal to myn offence,
As deeth, if that I breke your defence;
And that ye deigne me so muche honoure,
Me to comaunden ought in any houre. 140
Secret, and in my paynes pacient,
And ever-mo desire freshly newe,
To serven, and been y-lyke ay diligent,
And, with good herte, al holly your talent 145
Receyven wel, how sore that me smerte,
Lo, this mene I, myn owene swete herte.
And resonable, a lady for to werne!
Now, nece myn, by natal Joves fest, 150
Were I a god, ye sholde sterve as yerne,
That heren wel, this man wol no-thing yerne
But your honour, and seen him almost sterve,
And been so looth to suffren him yow serve.
Ful esily, and ful debonairly,
Avysing hir, and hyed not to faste
With never a word, but seyde him softely,
Myn honour sauf, I wol wel trewely,
And in swich forme as he can now devyse, 160
Receyven him fully to my servyse,
Wolde, in honour of trouthe and gentilesse,
As I wel mene, eek mene wel to me, 164
And myn honour, with wit and besinesse,
Ay kepe; and if I may don him gladnesse,
From hennes-forth, y-wis, I nil not feyne:
Now beeth al hool, no lenger ye ne pleyne.
A kinges sone al-though ye be, y-wis, 170
Ye shul na- more have soverainetee
Of me in love, than right in that cas is;
Ne I nil forbere, if that ye doon a-mis,
To wrathen yow; and whyl that ye me serve,
Cherycen yow right after ye deserve. 175
Beth glad, and draweth yow to lustinesse,
And I shal trewely, with al my might,
Your bittre tornen al in-to swetnesse; 179
If I be she that may yow do gladnesse,
For every wo ye shal recovere a blisse;
And him in armes took, and gan him kisse.
To hevene threw, and held his hondes hye,
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