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|
Hector thus ded, as ye han herd me seid,
And Achilles in his tent ileied
With his woundis mortal, freshe, and grene,
Upon a morwe, whan the sonne shene
Enchasid had away the dirke nyght,
Agamenoun, the wyse worthi knyght,
In his werkis passingly prudent,
Hath in al haste for his lordis sent.
[Agamemnon is convinced that Fortune has sealed
Troy's doom. He advises that the Greeks wait for Achilles's
wounds to heal and seek a two months' truce from Priam to
burn the dead and forestall the threat of pestilence. During the
truce, Palamedes renews his dispute over Agamemnon's
governance. Agamemnon chooses his moment and then
confronts Palamedes in open audience with the Greek leaders
(lines 9-152).]
"Sothly," quod he, "yif ye taken hede,
Me semeth pleinly it were no nede,
Avisely yif ye list adverte,
To muse so nor grucchen in youre herte
Of al this hoste that I have governance,
Wisly considered every circumstaunce,
How I th'estat (whiche no man may denye)
Wolde in no maner never occupie
By other title than fre elleccioun,
Nat interrupt by mediacioun
Of brocage, roted upon mede,
Ay undermeynt with favour or falshede,
Depict with colour of trewe entencioun
To support swiche false ambicioun;
Of whiche thing here I wil me quyte
Tofore yow alle that I am not to wyte
In any wyse of so highe offence
But stonde clere in my conscience
Withoute spot of any swiche veynglorie
Touchinge th'estat, whiche is transitorie.
Yet nevertheles I have do my cure
With al my wit to helpen and procure
That everything touching the commounté
Persevere myght in prosperité,
Havyng the eye of myn inward sight
Unto the estat of every maner wyght
That were committed to my governance,
With gret labour and besy attendaunce,
Indifferent unto highe and lowe,
To helpe and fostre wher I coude knowe
That any stood in meschef or in nede,
Day and nyght for to taken hede,
As I best koude, by avisenesse,
Ay dillygent that nat felle in distresse.
For sothfastly, whoso loke aright,
Mi daies thinkyng and my wache anight
And of myn hert th'inly advertence
Withoute fraude, slouth, or necligence
Was feithfully with al my fulle myght
Me to aquyte to every maner wight,
Liche his estat withoute excepcioun;
So that no man justly of resoun,
Greke nor other that is now alyve,
Unto my gilt dewly may ascrive
Any falsehed, engyn, or trecherie
Of love or hate, favour or flaterie
In any cause named in special,
But that I have ben eliche egal
To oon and alle with al my besy peyne,
That no man hath mater to compleyne
For his party, of highe nor lowe estat.
And to devoide al rancour and debat
Amongis yow, I have do my dever
In general thing and particuler,
That hertoward nothing hath mescheved.
And God wot wel, it shuld nat agrevid
To my herte t'aset at any prys,
Yow t'achose by youre discret avis
Som other to this domynacioun
And I to have ben in subjeccioun
With ese of herte and tranquillité
Liche other lordis here of my degré
And in my wil fully han obeied -
Like on of yow outterly to have deyed
In the quarel that we han undirtake,
Yif destiné had it so yshape:
I seie in soth, me is ful loth to feyne.
And overmore also, wher ye compleyne
That I was chose withoute your assent,
Merveileth nat, sith ye ne were present;
Nor longe after, yif ye remembre aright,
Toward Troye your weie was nat dight.
Yif ye considre, it was after ner
Or that ye cam passed ful two yer;
And so longe t'abide youre commynge
It hadde ben to Grekis gret hyndrynge,
Passynge harme, and ful gret damage,
And huge lettynge unto oure viage.
For yif we had withouten any wene
On your comynge taried at Athene,
It likly is - ye can nat wel seie nay -
To have be there yit into this day.
And whereas ye, though it be nat credible,
Affermen eke for an impossible
That Grekis shuld in any maner wyse
Dor take on hem any gret emprise
In youre abscence manly to achewe,
It is but wynde, nothinge for to leve.
For so it be to you noon offence,
The Grekis han withoute youre presence
Thorugh her force on water and on lond
Ful many thing parformed with her hond
And acheved thorugh her worthines.
And of o thing that in me ye gesse
(This to seyne, that of my degré
I shulde in herte so rejoisshe me
Of this lordshipe and this grete estat,
The more to be pompos and elat
In chere or port that I it occupie)
But me to aquite trewly and nat lye
And to devoide al suspecioun,
I wil make a resignacioun
Tofore yow alle, for to excuse me.
Now beth avised discretly for to se
Whom ye list han ageyn tomorwe prime
Withoute settynge of any lenger tyme,
Prolonging forthe, or any more delay."
And thus thei made an ende of that day
And went her weye only for that nyght
Til on the morwe that Titan shadde his light,
At whiche tyme a conseil general
The Grekis hilde; but moste in special
Of lordis was ther congregacioun,
As I have tolde, for the eleccioun.
And whan thei were alle met ifere,
Agamenoun anoon, as ye shal here,
Seide evene thus, with sadde countenaunce.
"Lo, sirs," quod he, "touchynge governaunce
That I have had and domynacioun,
I have herto with hool affeccioun
And clene entent do my besynes
That everything might in welfulnes
To youre encres perseveren and contune.
Recorde I take of God and Fortune,
Whiche han conservid and the cause be
You for to floure in felicité,
That youre honour and highe noblesse
Stant hool and sounde yit in sikirnes.
And while your fame is most in flouringe,
As semeth me, it is right wel sittinge
Myne estat fully to resygne,
Specially while Fortune is benygne;
For of so many that be now present
I am allone insufficient
Withoute helpe for to bere a charge:
Men with to moche may overlade a barge
And namely in tempest and in rage.
And sith ye bene so discret and sage,
Of my berthene late me be releved
So that no man therwith be agrevid;
But late us alle of oon entencioun,
Withoute strife or dissencioun,
Chesen swiche oon that be most acceptable
To yow echon and most covenable,
Yow to governe by discressioun."
And thei echon with hool affeccioun
Assentid ben. To speke in general,
Here men may se how it is natural
Men to delite in thinge that is newe:
The trust of peple is feint and untrewe,
Ay undiscrete and ful of doubilnes
And variable of hir sikernesse,
Ay awaitynge in her oppinioun
After chaunge and transmutacioun,
Selde or never stondyng hool in oon
(Today thei love, tomorwe it is gon),
In whom ful selde is any sikernes.
For only now of newfongilnes
That hath enbracid her affeccioun
Thei have in stede of Agamenoun
Of newe chose, only of favour,
Pallamydes to ben her governour,
And of Grece, liche as thei desyre,
To have the septre of the hool empire,
And to be called in every cost
Emperour of the Grekis host,
Right as toforn was Agamenoun.
And this was fyn and conclusioun
For thilke day of her parlement.
And after that, every man is went
To his loggynge, home the righte wey.
[After the truce expires, Priam takes the field with one
hundred and fifty thousand troops. His old hatred for the
Greeks now doubled by Hector's death, he slays many foes.
The King of Persia is killed in the fighting, and the next day
Priam seeks a truce in order to embalm his body. Meanwhile,
the funeral rites for Hector begin, and warriors from the two
sides exchange visits. Achilles is taken by a desire to visit Troy
(lines 324-550).]
And forthe he went on a certein day
Toward Troye in al the hast he may,
Unarmyd sothly, as myn auctor seith,
Withoute assuraunce or any other feith
Excepte the trew, whoso be lefe or loth.
And first of al unto the temple he goth
Of Appollo. Halwed was the feste
Thorughoute the toun doun unto the lest,
That clepid was the anyversarie,
As ye han herde - what shuld I lenger tarie -
And many worthi present wer therat
Amyd the temple, of highe and lowe estat,
Lordis and ladyes of affeccioun
From every part gadered of the toun.
Now was the cors of this worthi knyght
As freshe of colour kepte unto the sight,
As lifly eke and as quik of hewe
To beholde as any rose newe
Thorugh vertu only of the gommys swete
And the bawme that gan aboute flete
To every joynt and eche extremyté.
And at this feste and solempnyté
Was Eccuba and yonge Polycene,
So wommanly and goodly on to sene,
With many other of highe estat and lowe
Tofore the cors sittynge on a rowe
With heer untressid, clad in wedis blake,
That evere in on swich a sorwe make
That routhe was and pité for to sene
How thei pleyne and the deth bemene
Of worthi Hector, of knyghthod grounde and welle.
But trowe ye (as Guydo list to telle)
That Polycene in al hir woful rage
Ichaungid hath upon hir visage
Hir natif colour, as fresche to the sight
As is the rose or the lillye whight,
Outher the freshenes of hir lippes rede,
For al the terys that she gan to shede
On hir chekis, as any cristal clere?
Hir heer also resemblyng to gold wyre,
Whiche lay abrood like unto the sight
Of Phebus bemys in his spere bright
When he to us doth his light avale.
And ay she rent with hir fyngeris smale
Hir golden here on hir blake wede,
Of whiche thing Achilles toke good hede
And gan merveille gretly in his thought
How God or Kynde ever myght have wrought
In her werkis so fair a creature:
For he thought he myghte nat endure
To beholde the brightnes of hir face,
For he felt thorugh his herte pace
The percyng stremys of hir eyen two;
Cupides brond hath hym markid so
For love of hir that in his desire
He brent as hoote in soth as any fire,
And after sone with sodeyn colde he quoke,
And alweye fix on hir he hadde his loke,
So that the arwe of the god Cupide
Percid hym evene thorugh the syde
To the herte and yaf hym swiche a wounde
That nevere was lyke for to sounde.
And ay in oon his loke on hir he caste,
As he durste, and gan to presse faste
Toward hir, namly, with his eye,
That hym thought he most nedis deye
But yif that he founde in hir some grace.
Ther was no geyn, for pleinly in that place
Of newe he was kaught in lovis snare,
That of helth and of al welfare
He was dispeired in his herte so
That he ne knew what was best to do.
Eche other thing, I do yow wel assure,
He set at nought and toke of hit no cure;
His thought was hool on hir and on no mo.
The longe day thus went he to and fro,
Til Phebus char lowe gan declyne
His golden axtre that so cler doth shine
(This to seyne, the sonne wente doun)
Whan Eccuba, Quene of Troye toun,
And hir daughter Pollycene also
Oute of the temple to the paleis go;
And ay Achilles on hir hadde a sight
While he myght, til for lak of light
He may no more have leyser oportune
To loke on hir, cursed be Fortune.
For whiche in haste he makid hathe his went
With his knyghtes home unto his tent,
Wher he anon withoute more tariyng
To bedde goth, ful trist in compleyning,
Ay in hymsilf casting up and doun
In his mynde and eke in his resoun
From hed to foot hir bewté everydel.
And in his hert he felt and knewe ful wel
That final cause of his languysshinge
Was Polycene, of bewté most passinge:
For love of whom so moche peine he felte
That with the hete he thought his herte melte,
Ay on his bedde walwyng to and fro
For the constreint of his hidde wo,
For whiche almost him thoughte that he deide;
And to himsilfe even thus he seide.
"Allas," quod he, "how me is wo begoon,
That of my sorwe knowe ende noon,
For I suppose, sith the world began
Ne was ther nevere a wofuller man:
For I that whilom was of so gret myght,
So renomed of every maner wyght
Thorughoute the world, bothe of highe and lowe,
For ther was noon in sothe that koude knowe
A man in armys that was more famus
Nor iholde more victorius,
Tofore this tyme remembrid be no stile
Into this day - allas, the harde while -
Nouther Hector pleinly nor noon other,
Of Polycene that was the worthi brother,
That power had whan thei with me mette,
For al her myght, me to oversette,
Nor in the felde my force for to daunte,
Here prively as I me dar avaunte.
But now, allas, a mayde of tender age
Hath sodeinly me brought in swiche a rage
That with the stremys of hir eyen tweyne
She percid hath and corve every veyne
Of myn hert, that I may nat asterte
For to be ded thorugh constreint of my smerte.
For who shal now wissen me or teche,
Or who, allas, shal now be my leche,
Or who shal now helpe me or save?
Ther is but deth and after that my grave,
For other hope pleinly is ther noon,
Save in hir mercy, allas, and that is goon.
For nouther prayer, tresour, nor richesse,
Force nor myght, nouther highe prowesse,
Highnes of blood, birthe, nor kynrede
May availlen or helpen in this nede
To meven hir, nor my sadde trouthe,
Upon my wo evere to have routhe.
What newe furie or importune rage
Hath brought myn herte into swyche outrage
Ageynes whiche I can not debate:
To love hir best that dedly doth me hate.
And in good feith, who wisly list adverte,
Litel wonder though she me hate of herte,
Sith I am come hyder fro so ferre
On hir kynrede for to make werre,
In the whiche to my confusioun
Hir knyghtly brother, most worthi of renoun,
Have fatally with myn hondis slawe,
Whiche in this worlde hadde no felawe
Of worthinesse nor of manlyhede.
Allas, allas, now may I quake and drede
And of my lyf fallen in dispeire,
For how shuld I be bold to have repeire
Or dorn, allas, comen in hir sight,
I woful wreche, I unhappy wyght?
Or how shal I ben hardy to appere
In the presence of hir eyen clere?
Certys, I se non other mene weye
But finally that I muste deye,
So dispeired I stonde on every syde,
Of other helpe I can me nat provyde."
And right anoon with profounde sighes depe
This Achilles brast oute for to wepe
With dedly chere, pale and funeral,
And with his face turned to the wal,
That routhe was and pité for to sene
The hertly furie of his peynes kene.
For so oppressed he was in his thought
Of lyf nor deth that he roughte nought,
And this contuneth til it drow to nyght,
That Titan hath withdrawe his clere light.
And evere in oon lith this woful man
Iliche sike, of colour pale and wan,
Withoute slepe, so fretyng was his sorwe,
Til Lucifer on the nexte morwe,
Tofore the sonne, with his bemys clere
Ful lustely gan for to appere
In the orient, whan this Achilles,
Unpacient, withoute reste or pes,
Quakynge evere in his fevere newe
(As it was sene pleinly in his hewe),
Til he abreide of anguysshe sodeynly
And called oon that was with hym prevy
And of counseil whom he tristeth wel;
And unto hym he telleth everydel
From point to point with him how it stood
And sent him forthe because he koude his god
On his message streight to Troye toun
With ful avis and informacioun
Of this mater to Eccuba the Quene
Thorugh his wisdam for to ben a mene,
Yif he myght by his discrecioun
Fynde any waye of savacioun
Unto his lord that he lovyd so.
And to the quene anon he is go
And his mater wysly gan conveie
Toforn or he of grace wolde preie
That she enjoieth to yeve hym audience,
For in his tale ther was noon offence:
He was no fool or newe for to lere.
Wherfore the quene goodly gan hym here
Of al that evere hym liketh for to seyn;
Ther was no worde ylost nor spoke in veyn,
For his tale no man koude amende.
And craftely he gan to discende
To the substaunce and tolde clerly out,
With premisses ful wel brought about,
That finally in conclusioun
The chefe, he seide, of his entencioun
Effectuously, yif it wolde be,
Was for to make pes and unité
Atwene Grekis and the folke of Troye.
To whiche thing he knew no better woye
Than of the werre, for her alder ese,
By his wit prudently t'apese
The mortal strife and the bitter rage
By allyaunce only of mariage,
Yif that hir liste, this wyse, worthi quene,
That hir doughter, faire Pollycene,
May weddid be unto Achilles.
Wherthorugh ther myght be a final pes,
Yif Eccuba thorugh hir discresioun,
Thorugh hir wit and mediacioun
And hir prudence myght aboute brynge
That Priamus were fully assentynge
That Achilles myght his doughter wyve,
So that it myght performyd ben as blyve
(Lyke as I have made mencioun)
By covenaunt only and condicioun
That the Grekis shal her werre lete
And suffre him to lyven in quyete,
Yif the mariage of this ilke tweyne
Parformed be and knyt up in a cheyne.
And whan the quene hath knowen his entent,
Ful sobirly, by good avysement,
Toforn or that any word asterte,
Ful pitously she syghed in hir herte,
And at the laste with a sobir chere
She seide thus to the messager.
"My frend," quod she, "touching thi request,
I can no more make the beheste,
But at the leste I wil condiscende
What lyth in me to bringe to an ende
Thi lordis wil with al myn herte entere.
But hereupon I muste firste requere
The kynges wil, yif he wil yeve assent
To the purpos for whiche thou art sent.
And overmore I muste wyte also
Yif that Parys be willyng eke therto,
Of whiche thing with every circumstaunce
I wil mysilfe maken enqueraunce
Ful feithfully of Priam and Parys
The menewhyle, what is her avys,
Withoute more withinne dayes thre,
At whiche tyme come ageyn to me
From Achilles, yif he wil the sende,
And finally thou shalt knowe an ende
Of this mater and an answere pleyn."
And home he goth to Achilles ageyn
With ful glad chere, his lord the mor to plese;
And for to sette his herte bet at ese,
Avisely of highe discrecioun,
He hath so made his relacioun
And told his tale in so thrifti wyse,
As he that koude his wordis so devyse
To bringe in hope to his lordis herte
With ful reles of his peynes smert,
Wherby he made his sorwe to withdrawe.
And thus while hope gan for to adawe
Amyd his brest, Eccuba the Quene
To Priam spak of this Polycene,
Touchinge the sonde of this Achilles
And of his profre for to make a pes;
She tolde hym al and forgat nothinge.
Wherof astonyd, Priamus the Kyng
Spak nat a word half an oures space
But in hymsilfe gan for to compasse
Ful prudently what it myghte mene
That Achilles wolde have Polycene
Unto his wyf, ay wondring mor and more;
And at the last, sighynge wonder sore,
He discloseth the conceit of his herte
And seide, "Allas, how sore it doth me smerte
To remembre how I may have no pes -
The grete offence of this Achilles
Towardis me pleinly whan that he
Slowe worthi Hector thoru his cruelté,
That hooly was upon every side
Th'assuraunce, governour, and guyde
Of me and myn platly for to seyne
And therwithal of myn eyen tweyne
He was allone the verray sothfast lyght,
Shelde, and protectour thorugh his grete myght
And his manhod ageyn the mortal rage
Of Grekis werre in my croked age.
But now, allas, to my confusioun
He slawen is, so worthi of renoun,
Be Achilles, whiche may not out of mynde,
That in myn hert I can nevere fynde
To ben allyed with my mortal foo,
Rote and grounde of al my sorwe and wo.
It were ful harde myn herte to apese
To loven hym that causeth myn unese
On every half, wherthorugh my cruel foon,
The proude Grekis, hertid ben echon
Ageynes me, now Fortune is contrarie,
Torned of newe my quarel to apaire,
That causeth Grekis, wood and furious,
On me, allas, to be presumptuous
Only for Hector is me berafte away.
But sithen I noon other chese may,
Ageynes herte, though it for anger ryve,
In this mater assay I shal to strive,
Though me be loth and sitteth me ful sore;
Yit to eschewe harmys that ben more,
Whiche likly ben hereafter for to falle,
And for to save myn other sonys alle,
I wil concent that this Achilles,
So that he make a trewe final pes
Atwene Grekis and also this cité
Withoute more pleinly, how that he
Have unto wyfe my doughter Polycene.
But list that he any tresoun mene,
My wil is, first, howso that it wende,
Of his beheste that he make an ende
Withoute fraude - this is myn avis."
To whiche conseil assenteth eke Parys
And more rathe in conclusioun,
For ther was made noon excepcioun
In the treté of the Quene Eleyne,
That Menelaye evere shulde atteyne
Hir to recure ageyn unto his wyf,
For whiche Paris withoute noise or strife
Or grucchinge outher unto this entent
Withinne hymsilf was fully of assent,
Therby hopynge withoute fere or drede
Perpetuelly Eleyne to possede
Right at his lust and no man shal seie nay.
And after this uppon the thridde day
Achilles hath, to wyte of this mater,
To Eccuba sent his messanger;
And she tolde hym the answere of the kyng,
Ceriously gynnynge and endynge,
And how that he assenteth wel therto
And Paris eke and she hirsilfe also,
Yif it so were pleynly, she hym tolde,
Touchinge the pes that the purpos holde
And firste that he his heste bring aboute
That thei be sure; thanne him dar not doute
That he shal have his purpos everydel,
Yif that he wirke prudently and wel.
And hereupon with informacioun
This messanger oute of Troye toun
Withoute abood, in al the haste he may,
To Achilles helde the righte way
And tolde him hool th'effect of this mater.
And he alweie fervent and entere
In herte brent hoot as any glede
And saw ther was no waye for to spede
But only pes, as ye han herd me telle;
And ay his brest with sighes gan to swelle
For the love of this Polycene
And cast alway amonge his peines kene
To his purpos a weie for to fynde.
And whiles he was besy in his mynde
How he shuld his purpos bringe aboute
And in hymsilf cast many a doute,
Anoon Dispeir in a rage upsterte
And cruellé caughte hym by the herte,
Whiche hath hym throwe into swiche a were
That hym thoughte it nas in his power
His beheste to fulfille in dede,
Excepte he hadde wel the lasse drede
Everything to putten in certeyn,
Wenyng no Greke wolde his lust withseyn,
From his desire to be variable.
And to hymsilf thus was he favourable
For to parforme and no thing denye
Al that was lusty to his fantasye,
As is the maner of lovers everychon,
That thei suppose to acheve anon
What thing it be that thei take on honde,
In what disjoint that the mater stonde,
Altheigh it be a verray impossible:
In her foly thei ben so credible.
And so Achilles trusteth finally
To fulfille his hestes outterly,
Supposyng ay for his worthines,
For his manhod and his highe prowes,
In whiche he dide hymsilfe glorifie
Somwhat of pride and of surquedie,
How the Grekis shulde be dispeired,
Bothe of her trust and her myght apeired
Upon Troyens to wynnen any londe,
Yif it so were he withdrowe his honde
To helpen hem, and therwithal also
Home into Grece that thei wolde go
From the sege only for his sake
And her quarel outterly forsake,
But it so were this hardy, ferse Achille
With hem abood the cité for to spille.
For whiche thing the lordis by assent
Assemblid wern to heren the entent
Amonge hem alle of this Achilles,
By the biddynge of Pallamydes.
And whan thei wern gadrid alle ifere,
Toforn hem alle, like as ye shal here,
This Achilles hath his tale gonne
And seide: "Sirs, that so moche konne
Bothe of wisdam and of highe prudence,
So renomed eke of sapience
Thorughoute the worlde and of discrecioun,
And ben so worthi also of renoun,
Kynges, dukis, of whom the rial name
From est to west flouring yit in fame,
Bothe of knyghthod and of manlihede,
To that I seie I praye you taketh hede:
This to seyne, yif that ye considere
The pleyn entent of oure comynge hider
By good avis and discrecioun
Had no grounde founded on resoun
Nor cause roted on no titel of right,
Yif it so be, that ye liften up youre sight
And adverten clerly in youre mynde,
Ful fer abak wit was sette behynde,
Prudent lokynge and avisenesse.
For first whan we of foly hastynesse
Toke upon us to come fro so ferre
Ageynes Troyens for to gynne a werre
And to juparde oure lyves everychon
For the love of o man allone -
Ye weten alle, I trowe, whom I mene,
Kynge Menelay, defrauded of his quene,
To telle trouthe (me list nat for to feyne) -
For ye wel wite only that Eleyne
Was grounde and gynnynge of al this debate,
For whom so many worthi of estate,
Recurles of any remedye,
Life and good han putte in jupartie,
Oure londis left and oure regiouns,
Oure cités eke and oure riche tounes,
Whiche by oure absence stonde desolat.
Wives and childer eke disconsolat
In wo abide, mournynge, and distresse,
Whiles that we, the sothe to expresse,
Fro day to day beset on every syde,
Lyn in the felde and oure deth abide
In sorwe and care, in labour and in wo.
And with al this ye wete wel also,
Sithen tyme that the werre began,
Of oure Grekis how many worthi man
Hath loste his lyf thorugh dethis fatal wounde,
That myght herto have lyved and be sounde
At home in Grece assured wel in joye,
Yif thei ne hadde comen unto Troye -
That to remembre it is ful gret pité.
And over this I seie also for me:
Amonge Troyens in her cruel mood
I have ylost so moche of my blood
That hath ful ofte made me pale of hewe.
This other day also, grene and newe,
I hadde of Hector swiche a mortal wounde
With a quarel sharpe whet and grounde
Above the thighe - so kene was the hed -
The same day aforn that he was ded,
Of verray hap as it was yshape,
That fro the deth unnethe I myghte eskape.
Whiche yit al freshe is uppon me sene
Large and wyde and as yit but grene,
The smert of whiche sore yit I pleyne.
And in good feith, me semeth that Eleyne,
Yif ye adverte wysly in your thought,
With swiche a pris shulde nat be bought,
Wherthorugh oure lyf and oure good yfere
And oure honour arn yput in were
And dredfully hangen in ballaunce.
For yif that ye in youre remembraunce
Conceyve aright and casten up and doun
The sodeyn chaunge and revolucioun
That fallen hath sith the werre gan,
The slaughter and deth of many worthi man
That for hir sake hath here lost his lyf,
Yet the werst of this mortal strif
Doth most rebounde into oure damage
To disencres and eke disavauntage
And likly is to encrese more,
Yif ordynaunce be nat made therfore
And remedie shape on outher side,
By fyn only that Eleyne abide
With hem of Troye, stille here in the toun.
And late us cast by good inspeccioun
For oure ese som other mene way
So that the kyng called Menelay
Chese hym a wyf in som other lond
Lyk his estat be suraunce or be bonde,
Under wedlock confermed up of newe,
That unto hym wole be founde trewe,
Sithen that he withoute gilt or synne
May be the law from Eleyne twynne;
For of dyvos causis ben ynowe
Thorughoute the worlde of every wight knowe
Of avoutri for the foule vice.
For to lawe is no prejudice,
Though Menelay justly hir forsake
Whan so hym list and another take
That shal him bet bothe queme and plese.
And so to us it shal be ful gret ese,
Whan the werre is brought to an ende,
Whiche likly is many man to shende,
Yif it so be that it forthe contune.
The grete labour is so inportune
That we ne shal no while mowe sustene;
For this is soth withouten any wene:
Troyens yit ben flourynge in her myght
And with hem han ful many worthi knyght
To helpen hem, of highe and lowe degré;
And therwithal so stronge is her cyté
On every parte withouten and withinne
That we ar nat likly for to wynne
In oure purpos, though we evere abide.
Wherfore be wisdam lete us voide pride
And wilfulnes, only of prudence
To han the eye of oure advertence
To oure profyt more than to veynglorie;
And while oure honour shyneth by victorie,
A wysdam is to withdrawe oure hond,
Sith we may nat constreyne by no bond
Fortunys whele for to abide stable.
Wherfor I rede, or she be mutable,
This gery goddes with hir double cher,
Let us yeve up swiche thing as lithe in wer
Whiles that we mow oure worship save:
For of the werre the laude yit we have,
Considered wel how by oure manlyhede
Oure moste fo, Hector, is now dede.
And while that we in oure honour floure,
My counseil is, or Fortune loure,
As I seide er, to chaunge hir brighte face,
While that best we stonde in hir grace,
By on assent and oon oppinioun
Withouten any contradiccioun
Of hert and wil, bothe of on and alle,
Or oure honour on any party palle,
Into Grece home that we retourne.
For yif that we lenger here sojourne
On the quarel that we have longe swed,
Douteles - it may nat bene eschewed -
Ful gret damage - this withoute faile -
Or we have don shal folwen at the taile:
Wherfore best is oure foly up resigne.
And while oure hap is welful and benygne,
Most blaundisshinge and of face faire,
The tyme is best to maken oure repeire,
While that we stonde in party and in al
With oure enemyes in honour perigal
And fer above pleinly, yif that we
Koude han an eye to oure felicité,
Whiche that is in his ascenceoun.
But list som man wil make objeccioun
That we may nat so oure honour save,
To repeire pleynly but we have
Eleyne ageyn that is cause of al,
To whiche thing anoon answer I shal:
Yif any man in his fantasie
To dishonour or to vyllenye
Arrette wolde in any maner kynde
We to gon hom and leven hir behynde,
Shortly to seyn, I holde it be no shame,
Sith that we han on as gret of name
As is Eleyne and of berthe as good,
Amongis us ycome of kynges blood,
Suster to Priam, lord of Troye toun,
Exyona, whom that Thelamoun
In kepyng hath, yif I shal nat feyne,
In Troye toun as Paris hath Eleyne.
And sithe now it may bene noon other,
Lete the ton be sette ageyn the tother
And the surplus of olde enmyté
Betwyxen us and Troye the cité.
My conseil is, for oure bothen ese,
By on assent wysly to appese,
This al and som, and that we hennes wende.
I can no more; my tale is at an ende."
To whom anoon Kyng Menelaus,
For verray ire wood and furious,
And Kyng Thoas, the duke eke of Athene,
As thei that myght no lenger hym sustene
(To suffren hym thei were so rekeles),
Spak alle attonis unto Achilles.
Nat only thei but thorugh inpacience
The court, perturbid, withoute providence,
With tumult gonne to repreve
This Achilles and proudly hem commeve
Ageynes hym and hys oppinioun,
And seide shortly in conclusioun
Unto his reed thei nold nevere assent
Nor condescende to nothing that he ment,
To be governed by hym in this cas.
For whiche thing anoon Achilles was
So full of ire and rancour in his hert
That sodeinly from his se he sterte,
And went his way, as he were in a rage,
Triste and pale, and a wood visage,
And shortly seide, for hym list nat feyne,
That he ne wolde lenger don his peyne
To helpen hem, howso that thei spede,
Ageynes Troyens for no maner nede,
And bad anon, this hardy Achilles,
To his knyghtes called Mirmidones
That thei no more with spere nor with shelde
To helpe Grekis entren into the felde
But kepe hem clos at home withinne her tent.
Thus in his ire he yaf commaundement
To alle his men, as ye han herd devise,
Hem to withdrawe at every hyghe emprise,
Whansoevere thei goon into bataille.
And in this while skarsenes of vitaille
Fil in the hoste of fleshe, bred, and wyn,
That many Greke brought unto the fyn,
For thei ne myght endure for distresse,
Constreint of hunger dide hem so oppresse,
Til at the last Kyng Pallamydes,
As he that was in no thing rekeles,
Hath therupon maked purviaunce,
Remedie, and redy ordinaunce.
And by assent and counseil of echon
He hath ysent wyse Agamenoun,
The worthi kyng, to Messa there beside,
A litel ile, only to provide
For the Grekis, yif he myghte spede,
Hem to releve in this grete nede.
And Thelephus, kyng of thilke lond,
Of gentilnes hath put to his hond,
As he that was large and wonder fre
And renomyd of humanité,
To socour hem, commaundinge anoon
His purvyours in al haste to goon
From every party abouten enviroun
Thorugh alle the boundis of his regioun
And feithfully to cerchyn every coste
To take up vitaille for the Grekis host.
And after that ful hastely he made
To stuffe her shippes pleinly, and to lade
With everything that was necessarie
To the Grekis, and be water carie
At the request of Agamenoun,
Withoute tariynge or dilacioun.
And so the kyng with plenté of vitaille
Fraught and ylade gan anon to saille
Toward the sege, he and his meyné,
Ay costeiynge by the Grekysshe se.
The wynde was good, and the kyng as blyve
With his navie at Troye dide aryve
In fewe dayes, and Grekis anon right
Of his repeire were ful glad and lyght,
Of his expleit and his gode speed,
That he so wel hath born hym in this nede.
And after this Pallamydes anoon,
As seith Guydo, is to his shippes goon
For to considre and loken al aboute
Wher nede was withinne and withoute,
Any of hem to mendyn or repeire,
As he that list for no cost to spare
In everything, withoute necligence,
Touching his charge to don his dilligence,
Til the trews fully wern oute ronne
And the werris new ageyn begonne,
Whiche many man sothly dere abought.
And ceriously to write how thei wrought
My purpos is pleinly in sentence,
Under support of youre pacience.
[When the war resumes, Deiphebus, one of Priam's sons,
is mortally wounded by Palamedes. He calls on Paris to
avenge him, and Paris kills Palamedes with a poisoned arrow,
as the Greeks are routed. Only the valor of Ajax Telamon
saves them from complete destruction. The Greeks appeal to
Achilles for help, but he does nothing, fearing to offend
Polyxena. With Palamedes dead, Agamemnon reassumes his
role as the Greek leader. Troilus inflicts heavy losses on the
Greeks, and they seek a two-month truce from Priam, during
which Agamemnon sends Ulysses and others to prevail on
Achilles to return to battle. Achilles refuses, and the Greek
lords, meeting in council with Agamemnon, are at the point of
abandoning the war, until Calchas tells them that they are
destined to conquer Troy (lines 1223-2028).]
The trewes passid of the monthes tweyne,
Into the feld the Grekis hem ordeyne,
And thei of Troye ageyn hem issen oute.
And worthi Troylus with an huge route
The Grekis gan alderfirst assaille,
And with his swerd he made first to raile
The rede blod thorugh her harnes bright,
That as the deth thei fledde fro his sight;
For he that day thorugh his cruelté
Cast hym fully avenged for to be
Upon the deth of Hector, outterly.
And as Dares reherseth specially,
A thousand knyghtes this Troyan champioun
That day hath slayn, ridyng up and doun,
As myn auctor, Guydo, list endite,
Save after hym I can no ferther write -
In his boke he yeveth him swiche a name -
That by his manhod and his knyghtly fame
The Grekis alle wer put unto the flight
Al thilke day, til it drowe to nyght.
And on the morwe in the dawenynge,
The Grekis han at Phebus uprysynge
Iarmed hem with gret dilligence,
Ageyn Troyens to stonden at diffence.
Amonges whom that day, as I rede,
So wel hym bar worthi Diomede
That many Troyan thorugh his cruelté
Hath loste his lyf, til Troilus gan to se
This Diomede in the feld ridyng,
To whom anoon withoute more tariyng,
With his spere throwe into the reste,
This Troilus rod and hit hym oon the breste
So myghtely that of verray nede
Doun of his hors he smet Dyomede,
Albe of wounde he hadde no damage.
And furiously Troilus in his rage
Of envie gan hym to abreide,
Whan he was doun, the love of Cryseide,
Of his deceit and his trecherie.
And Grekis than faste gan hem hye
Amonge the hors in meschef where he lay,
To drawe him oute in al the hast thei may;
And on a sheld, brosed and affraied,
Thei bare him hom, so he was dismaied
Of the stroke, home unto his tent.
And Menelay the same while hath hent
A myghty spere t'avenge Dyomede
And to Troilus faste gan hym spede,
Fully avysed to unhorsen hym anon.
But Troylus first made his stede goon
So swyfte a course toward Menelay
That he anoon at the erthe lay,
So myghtely he hit hym with his spere
That shelde and plate myghte hym nat were
To saven hym from a mortal wounde.
But his knyghtes, anon as thei him founde,
Oute of the pres whan thei han hym rent,
Thei bar hym hom to his owne tent,
The Grekis ay stondyng in distresse
Thorugh the knyghthod and the highe prowes
Of this Troylus, whiche hath hem so beleyn
On every part, where he rod on the pleyn,
Til unto tyme that Agamenoun
Into the felde is avaled doun
With many worthi abouten his baner
That shon ful shene ageyn the sonne cler.
And with his knyghtes ridyng enviroun,
He sore enchased hem of Troye toun,
Woundeth and sleth and put hem to the flight,
Hymsilfe aquytynge lik a manly knyght;
But for al that, withoute more abood
Amongis Troyens fersely as he rood,
This worthi kyng, grete Agamenoun,
With a spere Troylus smet hym doun
Maugre his Grekis - ther geineth no socour.
And whan thei sawe her lord, her governour,
In swyche meschef at the grounde lyende,
Thei hent hym up and made hym to ascende
Thorugh her manhod on his stronge stede.
And he of wyt gan to taken hede
And consider wysly in his thought
In what disjoynt Troylus had hym brought
And how the Grekis, for al her grete pride,
Toforn his swerde myghte nat abide.
He prudently of highe discrecioun,
This noble knyght, Kyng Agamenoun,
As he that hadde ay his advertence
On governaunce thorugh his providence
Whanne he sawe his Grekis gonne faille
And wexe feble to stonden in bataille
For lak of stuf that shulde hem recounforte,
Ful prudently he made hem to resorte,
Everyche of hem, to his owne tent.
And after that he hath to Priam sent
For a trew, to Troye the cité,
For sixe monthes, yif it myghte be.
And by his conseil Priamus the Kyng
Withoute abood granted his axyng,
Albe that somme, as Guydo list endite,
Were evel apaied so longe to respite
Her mortal fon in any maner wyse;
But yit his graunt, as ye han herd devise,
Stood in his strengthe fully, as I rede.
In whiche tyme, of verray womanhede,
Cryseyde list no lenger for to tarie,
Though hir fader wer therto contrarie,
For to visite and to han a sight
Of Diomede, that was become hir knyght,
Whiche had of Troylus late kought a wounde.
And in his tent, whanne she hath hym founde,
Benignely upon his beddis syde
She set hir doun in the silve tyde,
And platly cast in hir owne thought,
Touchinge Troylus, that it was for nought
To lyve in hope of any more recure,
And thought she wolde for no thing be unsure
Of purvyaunce nor withoute stoor:
She yaf anoon, withouten any mor,
Hooly hir herte unto Diomede.
Loo, what pité is in wommanhede,
What mercy eke and benygne routhe
That newly can al her olde trouthe,
Of nature, late slyppe asyde
Rather thanne thei shulde se abide
Any man in meschef for hir sake!
The change is nat so redy for to make
In Lombard Strete of crowne nor doket:
Al paie is good, be so the prente be set.
Her lettre of change doth no man abide.
So that the wynde be redy and the tyde,
Passage is ay, whoso list to passe.
No man is lost that list to seke grace;
Daunger is noon but counterfet disdeyn;
The se is calme and fro rokkis pleyn:
For mercyles never man ne deide
That soughte grace. Recorde of Cryseyde,
Whiche finally hath yoven al hir herte
To Diomede in reles of his smerte,
And praide hym to be right glad and light,
And called hym hir owne man, hir knyght,
And hym behight, rather than he deie,
In everything how she wolde obeye
That were honest, hym to do plesaunce:
For levere she had chaunge and variaunce
Were founde in hir thanne lak of pité,
As sittyng is to femynyté,
Of nature nat to be vengable,
For feith nor othe but rather mercyable
Of mannys lyf stondyng in distresse.
[Agamemnon goes himself to prevail on Achilles to
return to the war. Achilles refuses but allows his Myrmidons to
fight. In the ensuing battle, many of Achilles's men are slain,
and he is caught between his love for Polyxena and his grief
for his men. After another truce, Troilus attacks the
Myrmidons so furiously that their cries and the threat of a
Trojan victory finally move Achilles to take the field in anger.
He and Troilus meet and wound one another. When his wound
heals, Achilles calls his men together and plots Troilus's death
(lines 2178-2646).]
. . . This felle envious Achilles
To his knyghtes, called Mirmidones,
Upon Troylus gan hym to compleyne,
Besechynge hem for to done her peyne
Ageyn this Troylus in the feld that day
To cachen hym at meschef yif thei may,
And besely to done her dilligence
On hym to han her ful advertence,
By oon assent, wherso that he ride -
Al other thing for to sette asyde
And of nought ellis for to taken hede,
Sauf finally ageyn hym to procede
Yif thei myght cacche hym in a trappe
And withinne hemsilf Troilus for to clap,
To enclose and sette hym rounde aboute
In al wyse that he go nat oute.
And whan he were beset amonge hem alle,
Nat to slen hym, whatsoevere falle,
But thorugh her myght manly hym conserve,
Til he hymsilfe come and make hym sterve
With his swerd, he and noon other wyght.
Lo, here a manhod for to preise aright!
Vengaunce of deth, of rancour, and of pride,
Compassid tresoun, knyghthod leyde aside!
Worthines be envie slawe,
Falshed alofte, trouthe abak ydrawe!
Allas, in armys that it shulde falle,
Of trecherie that the bitter galle
Shuld in this world in any knyght be founde,
That be to trouthe of her order bounde.
Allas, allas, for now this Achilles
Conspired hath with his Mirmidones
The deth of oon the worthiest wyght
That evere was and the beste knyght.
Allas, for wo I fele myn herte blede
For his sake, this story whan I rede.
But whan Fortune hath a thing ordeyned,
Though it be evere wailled and compleined,
Ther is no geyn nor no remedie
Though men on it galen ay and crye,
I can no more touchinge this matere
But write forthe, lik as ye shal here,
How Mirmidones han her lord behight
With al her power and her fulle myght
To fulfillen his comaundement;
And into feld with Grekis thei be went.
But Troylus first, in the opposit,
Of verray knyghthood hath so grete delit
Withoute abood manly hem to mete;
He was ybrent with so fervent hete
Of hardines and of highe corage,
Of worthines and of vasselage
That hym ne list no lenger to abide
But with his folk in began to ride
Amonge Grekis, this stok of highe renoun.
And with his swerd he woundeth and bereth doun,
Sleth and kylleth upon every halfe
So mortally that ther may no salve
Her sores sounde; for ther was but deth,
Wherso he rood, and yelding up the breth,
So furiously he gan hem enchase
And made hem lese in a litel space
Her lond echon and aforn hym fle:
In Troylus swerd ther was swiche cruelté
That maugre hem he the feld hath wonne.
The same tyme whan the brighte sonne
Highe in the south at mydday marke shon,
Evene at the hour whan it drowe to noon,
Whan Mirmidones, gadred alle in oon,
In compasse wyse rounde aboute hym gon
And furiously of oon entencioun,
Thei made a cercle aboute hym enviroun,
Whan thei sawe him of helpe desolaat.
But he of hert nat disconsolat
Upon no side, thorugh his manlyhede,
Lik a lyoun toke of hem noon hede,
But thorugh his famus knyghtly excellence
As a tigre stondeth at diffence,
And manfully gan hem to encombre,
And to lasse and to discres her noumbre.
And somme he maymeth and woundeth to the deth,
And somme he made to yelden up the breth,
And somme he laide to the erthe lowe,
And somme he made for to overthrowe
With his swerd of her blood al wet
At gret meschef at his horse fet;
Upon his stede sturdy as a wal,
This worthy knyght, this man most marcial,
Pleyeth his pley amonge Mirmidones,
Hymsilf, God wote, allone al helpeles.
But tho, allas, what myght his force avail
Whan thre thousand knyghtes hym assail
On every part, bothe in lengthe and brede?
And cowardly first thei slow his stede
With her speris, sharpe and square grounde;
For whiche, allas, he stont now on the grounde
Withoute reskus, refut, or socour,
That was that day of chivalrie flour.
But, weillawey, thei han hym so beset
That from his hed thei smet his basenet,
And brak his harneis, as thei hym assaille,
And severed of stele the myghti stronge maille.
He was disarmyd bothe nekke and hed,
Allas the whyle, and no man toke noon hede
Of alle his knyghtes longynge to the toun;
And yit alweye this Troyan champioun
In knyghtly wyse, naked as he was,
Hymsilfe diffendeth, til Achilles, allas,
Cam ridynge in, furious and wood.
And whan he sawe how Troilus nakid stod,
Of longe fightyng awaped and amaat
And from his folke allone disolat,
Sool by hymsilf at meschef pitously,
This Achilles wonder cruelly,
Behynde unwarly, or that he toke hed,
With his swerd smyteth of his hed
And cast it forthe of cruel cursed herte;
And thought pleynly, it shuld him nat asterte
To shewe his malys, this wolfe unmerciable.
Ful unknyghtly to be more vengable
Upon the body that lay ded and colde -
Allas, that ever it shuld of knyght be tolde,
Wryte, or rehersed, to do so foule a dede,
Or in a boke, allas, that men shuld rede
Of any knyght a story so horrible,
Unto the eris passingly odible -
For this Achille of cruelté, allas,
The dede cors toke oute of the taas,
And vengably bond it, as I fynde,
At the taille of his hors behynde,
And hatfully, that every wyght behilde,
Drowe it hymsilf endelonge the feld
Thorugh the rengis and the wardis alle.
But, O allas, that evere it shulde falle
A knyght to bene in herte so cruel
Or of hatred so dispitous fel
To drawe a man after that he were ded.
O thou, Omer, for shame be now red
And be astonyd, that haldest thisilfe so wyse,
On Achilles to setten swiche a pris.
In thi bokes for his chivalrie
Above echon dost hym magnyfye,
That was so sleighty and so ful of fraude -
Whi yevest thou hym so highe a pris and laude?
Certis, Omer, for al thin excellence
Of rethoryk and of eloquence,
Thi lusty songes and thi dit |