Troilus and Criseyde. Geoffrey Chaucer

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      From woe to weal, and after{3} out of joy,

      My purpose is, ere I you partë froy.{4}

      Tisiphoné,{5} thou help me to endite

      These woeful words, that weep as I do write.

      To thee I call, thou goddess of tormént!

      Thou cruel wight, that sorrowest ever in pain;

      Help me, that am the sorry instrument

      That helpeth lovers, as I can, to plain.{6}

      For well it sits,{7} the soothë for to sayn,

      Unto a woeful wight a dreary fere,{8}

      And to a sorry tale a sorry cheer.{9}

      For I, that God of Lovë’s servants serve,

      Nor dare to love for mine unlikeliness,{10}

      Prayë for speed{11}, although I shouldë sterve,{12}

      So far I am from his help in darknéss;

      But natheless, might I do yet gladnéss

      To any lover, or any love avail,{13}

      Have thou the thank, and mine be the traváil.

      But ye lovers that bathen in gladnéss,

      If any drop of pity in you be,

      Remember you for old past heaviness,

      For Goddë’s love, and on adversitý

      That others suffer; think how sometime ye

      Foundë how Lovë durstë you displease;{14}

      Or ellës ye have won it with great ease.

      And pray for them that beën in the case

      Of Troilus, as ye may after hear,

      That Love them bring in heaven to solace;{15}

      And for me pray alsó, that God so dear

      May give me might to show, in some mannére,

      Such pain or woe as Lovë’s folk endure,

      In Troilus’ unseely adventúre{16}

      And pray for them that ekë be despair’d

      In love, that never will recover’d be;

      And eke for them that falsely be appair’d{17}

      Through wicked tonguës, be it he or she:

      Or thus bid{18} God, for his benignity,

      To grant them soon out of this world to pace,{19}

      That be despaired of their lovë’s grace.

      And bid also for them that be at ease

      In love, that God them grant perséverance,

      And send them might their lovës so to please,

      That it to them be worship and pleasance;{20}

      For so hope I my soul best to advance,

      To pray for them that Lovë’s servants be,

      And write their woe, and live in charity;

      And for to have of them compassion,

      As though I were their owen brother dear.

      Now listen all with good entention,{21}

      For I will now go straight to my mattére,

      In which ye shall the double sorrow hear

      Of Troilus, in loving of Cressíde,

      And how that she forsook him ere she died.

      In Troy, during the siege, dwelt “a lord of great authority, a great divine,” named Calchas; who, through the oracle of Apollo, knew that Troy should be destroyed. He stole away secretly to the Greek camp, where he was gladly received, and honoured for his skill in divining, of which the besiegers hoped to make use. Within the city there was great anger at the treason of Calchas; and the people declared that he and all his kin were worthy to be burnt. His daughter, whom he had left in the city, a widow and alone, was in great fear for her life.

      Criseyde was this lady’s name aright;

      As to my doom,{22} in allë Troy citý

      So fair was none, for over ev’ry wight

      So angelic was her native beauty,

      That like a thing immortal seemed she,

      As sooth a perfect heav’nly creatúre,

      That down seem’d sent in scorning of Natúre.{23}

      In her distress, “well nigh out of her wit for pure fear,” she appealed for protection to Hector; who, “piteous of nature,” and touched by her sorrow and her beauty, assured her of safety, so long as she pleased to dwell in Troy. The siege went on; but they of Troy did not neglect the honour and worship of their deities; most of all of “the relic hight Palladion,{24} that was their trust aboven ev’ry one.” In April, “when clothed is the mead with newe green, of jolly Ver the prime,” the Trojans went to hold the festival of Palladion—crowding to the temple, “in all their beste guise,” lusty knights, fresh ladies, and maidens bright.

      Among the which was this Cresséida,

      In widow’s habit black; but natheless,

      Right as our firstë letter is now A,

      In beauty first so stood she makëless;{25}

      Her goodly looking gladded all the press;{26}

      Was never seen thing to be praised derre,{27}

      Nor under blacke cloud so bright a sterre,{28}

      As she was, as they saiden, ev’ry one

      That her behelden in her blackë weed;{29}

      And yet she stood, full low and still, alone,

      Behind all other folk, in little brede,{30}

      And nigh the door, ay under shamë’s drede;{31}

      Simple of bearing, debonair{32} of cheer,

      With a full surë{33} looking and mannére.

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