Classic Poem

Tyl it as noon, they stoden for to se
Who that ther come; and every manner wight
That com fro fer, they seyden it was she,
Til that thei koude knowen hym aright.
Now was his herte dul, now was it light.
And thus byjaped stonden for to stare
Aboute naught this Troilus and Pandare.

To Pandarus this Troilus tho seyde,
"For aught I woot, byfor noon, sikirly,
Into this town ne comth nat here Criseyde.
She hath ynough to doone, hardyly,
To wynnen from hire fader, so trowe I.
Hire olde fader wol yet make hire dyne
Er that she go; God yeve hys herte pyne!'

Pandare answerede, "It may wel be, certeyn.
And forthi lat us dyne, I the byseche,
And after noon than maystow come ayeyn.'
And hom they go; withoute more speche,
And comen ayeyn; but longe may they seche
Er that they fynde that they after gape.
Fortune hem bothe thenketh for to jape!

Quod Troilus, "I se wel now that she
Is taried with hire olde fader so,
That er she come, it wol neigh even be.
Com forth, I wole unto the yate go.
Thise porters ben unkonnyng evere mo,
And I wol don hem holden up the yate
As naught ne were, although she come late.'

The day goth faste, and after that com eve,
And yet com nought to Troilus Criseyde.
He loketh forth by hegee, by tre, by greve,
And fer his hed over the wal he leyde,
And at the laste he torned hym and seyde,
"By God, I woot hire menyng now, Pandare!
Almoost, ywys, al newe was my care.

"Now douteles, this lady kan hire good;
I woot, she meneth riden pryvely.
I comende hire wisdom, by myn hood!
She wol nat maken peple nycely
Gaure on hire when she comth; but softely
By nyghte into the town she thenketh ride.
And, deere brother, thynk not longe t'-abide.

"We han naught elles for to don, ywis.
And Pandarus, now woltow trowen me?
Have here my trouthe, I se hire! yond she is!
Heve up thyn eyen, man! maistow nat se?'
Pandare answerede, "Nay, so mote I the!
Al wrong, by God! What saistow man, where arte?
That I se yond nys but a fare-carte.'

"Allas! thow seyst right soth,' quod Troilus.
"But, hardily, it is naught al for nought
That in myn herte I now rejoysse thus.
It is ayeyns som good I have a thought.
Not I nat how, but syn that I was wrought,
Ne felte I swich a comfort, dar I seye;
She comth to-nyght, my lif that dorste I leye!'

Pandare answerde, "It may be, wel ynough,'
And held with hym of al that evere he seyde.
But in his herte he thoughte, and softe lough,
And to hymself ful sobreliche he seyde,
"From haselwode, there joly Robyn pleyde,
Shal come al that that thow abidest heere.
Ye, fare wel at the snow of ferne yere!'

The warden of the yates gan to calle
The folk which that withoute the yates were,
And bad hem dryven in hire bestes alle,
Or al the nyght they most bleven there.
And fer withinne the nyght, with many a teere,
This Troilus gan homward for to ride;
For wel he seth it helpeth naught t'abide.