`Thenk eek, how elde wasteth every houre
	In eche of yow a party of beautee;
395	And therfore, er that age thee devoure,
	Go love, for, olde, ther wol no wight of thee.
	Lat this proverbe a lore un-to yow be;
	"To late y-war, quod Beautee, whan it paste;"
	And elde daunteth daunger at the laste.

400	`The kinges fool is woned to cryen loude,
	Whan that him thinketh a womman bereth hir hye,
	"So longe mote ye live, and alle proude,
	Til crowes feet be growe under your ye,
	And sende yow thanne a mirour in to prye
405	In whiche that ye may see your face a-morwe!"
	Nece, I bidde wisshe yow no more sorwe.'

	With this he stente, and caste adoun the heed,
	And she bigan to breste a-wepe anoon,
	And seyde, `Allas, for wo! Why nere I deed?
410	For of this world the feith is al agoon!
	Allas! What sholden straunge to me doon,
	Whan he, that for my beste freend I wende,
	Ret me to love, and sholde it me defende?

	`Allas! I wolde han trusted, doutelees,
415	That if that I, thurgh my disaventure,
	Had loved other him or Achilles,
	Ector, or any mannes creature,
	Ye nolde han had no mercy ne mesure
	On me, but alwey had me in repreve;
420	This false world, allas! Who may it leve?

	`What? Is this al the joye and al the feste?
	Is this your reed, is this my blisful cas?
	Is this the verray mede of your beheste?
	Is al this peynted proces seyd, allas!
425	Right for this fyn? O lady myn, Pallas!
	Thou in this dredful cas for me purveye;
	For so astonied am I that I deye!'

	With that she gan ful sorwfully to syke;
	`A! May it be no bet?' quod Pandarus;
430	`By God, I shal no-more come here this wyke,
	And God to-forn, that am mistrusted thus;
	I see ful wel that ye sette lyte of us,
	Or of our deeth! Allas! I woful wrecche!
	Mighte he yet live, of me is nought to recche.

435	`O cruel God, O dispitouse Marte,
	O Furies three of helle, on yow I crye!
	So lat me never out of this hous departe,
	If that I mente harm or vilanye!
	But sith I see my lord mot nedes dye,
440	And I with him, here I me shryve, and seye
	That wikkedly ye doon us bothe deye.

	`But sith it lyketh yow that I be deed,
	By Neptunus, that god is of the see,
	Fro this forth shal I never eten breed
445	Til I myn owene herte blood may see;
	For certayn, I wole deye as sone as he --'
	And up he sterte, and on his wey he raughte,
	Til she agayn him by the lappe caughte.

	Criseyde, which that wel neigh starf for fere,
450	So as she was the ferfulleste wight
	That mighte be, and herde eek with hir eere,
	And saw the sorwful ernest of the knight,
	And in his preyere eek saw noon unright,
	And for the harm that mighte eek fallen more,
455	She gan to rewe and dredde hir wonder sore;

	And thoughte thus, `Unhappes fallen thikke
	Alday for love, and in swich maner cas,
	As men ben cruel in hem-self and wikke;
	And if this man slee here him-self, allas!
460	In my presence, it wol be no solas.
	What men wolde of hit deme I can nat seye;
	It nedeth me ful sleyly for to pleye.'

	And with a sorwful syk she seyde thrye,
	`A! Lord! What me is tid a sory chaunce!
465	For myn estat lyth in jupartye,
	And eek myn emes lyf lyth in balaunce;
	But nathelees, with Goddes governaunce,
	I shal so doon, myn honour shal I kepe,
	And eek his lyf;' and stinte for to wepe.

470	`Of harmes two, the lesse is for to chese;
	Yet have I levere maken him good chere
	In honour, than myn emes lyf to lese;
	Ye seyn, ye no-thing elles me requere?'
	`No, wis,' quod he, `myn owene nece dere.'
475	`Now wel,' quod she, `and I wol doon my peyne;
	I shal myn herte ayeins my lust constreyne.

	`But that I nil not holden him in honde,
	Ne love a man, ne can I not, ne may
	Ayeins my wil; but elles wol I fonde,
480	Myn honour sauf, plese him fro day to day;
	Ther-to nolde I nought ones have seyd nay,
	But that I dredde, as in my fantasye;
	But cesse cause, ay cesseth maladye.

	`And here I make a protestacioun,
485	That in this proces if ye depper go,
	That certaynly, for no savacioun
	Of yow, though that ye sterve bothe two,
	Though al the world on o day be my fo,
	Ne shal I never on him han other routhe.'
490	`I graunte wel,' quod Pandare, `by my trouthe.

	`But may I truste wel ther-to,' quod he,
	`That of this thing that ye han hight me here,
	Ye wol it holden trewely un-to me?'
	`Ye, doutelees,' quod she, `myn uncle dere.'
495	`Ne that I shal han cause in this matere,'
	Quod he, `to pleyne, or after yow to preche?'
	`Why, no, parde; what nedeth more speche?'

	Tho fillen they in othere tales glade,
	Til at the laste, `O good em,' quod she tho,
500	`For love of God, which that us bothe made,
	Tel me how first ye wisten of his wo:
	Wot noon of hit but ye?' He seyde, `No.'
	`Can he wel speke of love?' quod she, `I preye,
	Tel me, for I the bet me shal purveye.'