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.«»Ye, holy God,« quod she, »what thyng is that?What? Bet than swyche fyve? I, nay, iwys!For al this world ne kan I reden whatIt sholde ben.Som jape, I trowe, is this.And but youreselven telle us what it is,My wit is for to arede it al to lene.As help me God, I not nat what ye mene.«»And I youre borugh, ne nevere shal for meThis thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve.«»And why so, uncle myn? Why so?« quod she.»By God,« quod he, »that wol I telle as blyve.For proudder womman were ther noon on lyve,And ye it wyst, yn al the toun of Troye.I jape nought, as evere have I joye.«Tho gan she wondren more than byfornA thousandfold, and doun hire eyen caste,For nevere sith the tyme that she was bornTo knowe thyng desired she so faste.And with a syk she seyde hym at the laste,»Now, uncle myn, I nel yow nowght displese,Nor axen more that may do yow disese.«So after this, with many wordes glade,And frendly tales, and with mery chere,Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wadeIn many an unkouth, glad, and dep matere,As frendes don whanne thei ben met yfere,Til she gan axen hym how Ector ferde,That was the townes wal and Grekes yerde.»Ful wel, I thanke it God,« quod Pandarus,»Save in his arm he hath a litel wownde –And ek his fresshe brother Troylus,The wyse, worthi Ector the secounde,In whom that alle vertu lyst abounde,As alle trowth and alle gentilesse,Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.«»In good feyth, em,« quod she, »that lyketh me.They faren wel, God save hem bothe two.For trewely I holde it gret deynte,A kynges sone in armes wel to do,And ben of goode condicions therto.For gret power and moral vertu hereIs seelde yseye in o persone yfere.«»In good fayth, that is soth,« quod Pandarus.»But by my trouthe, the kyng hath sones tweye –That is to mene, Ector and Troylus –That certeynly, though that I sholde deye,They ben as voyde of vices, dar I seye,As ony men that lyven under the sonne.Hire myght is wyde yknowe, and what they konne.Of Ector nedeth it no more for to telle:In al this world ther nys a bettre knyghtThan he, that is of worthinesse welle,And he wel more vertu hath than myght.This knoweth many a wis and worthi wyght.The same pris of Troylus I seye –God help me so, I knowe not swyche tweye.«»Be God,« quod she, »of Ector that is soth.Of Troylus the same thing trowe I;For dredeles, men tellen that he dothIn armes day by day so worthily,And bereth hym here at hom so gentillyTo every wight, that alle prys hath heOf hem that me were levest preysed be.«»Ye sey right soth, ywys,« quod Pandarus,»For yesterday whoso hadde with hym ben,He myghte han wondred upon Troylus,For nevere yet so thikke a swarm of benNe fleygh, as Grekes gonne fro hym flen,And thorugh the feld in every wightes ereThere nas no cry but ›Troylus is there!‹Now here, now ther, he hunted hem so faste,Ther nas but Grekes blood, and Troylus.Now hym he hurte, and hym al down he caste;Ay wher he wente, it was arayed thus:He was hire deth, and lyf and sheld for us;That al that day ther dorste noon withstonde,Whil that he held his blody swerd in honde.Therto he is the frendlyeste manOf gret estat that evere I sawh my lyve,And wher hym lyst, best felawshipe kanTo suche as hym thenketh able for to thryve.«And with that word tho Pandarus as blyveHe tok his leve and seyde, »I wol go henne.«»Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,« quod she thenne.»What eyleth yow to be thus wery soone,And namelych of womman? Wol ye so?Nay, sitteth down.By God, I have to doneWith yow, to speke of wysdom er ye go.«And every wight that was aboute hem tho,That herde that gan fer awey to stonde,Whil they two hadde al that hem liste yn honde.Whan that hire tale al brought was to an endeOf hire estat and of hire governaunce,Quod Pandarus, »Now is it tyme I wende.But yet, I say, aryseth and lat us daunce,And cast youre wydewes habit to myschaunce.What lyst yow thus youreself to disfigure,Sith yow is tyd thus faire an aventure?«»A, wel bithought, for love of God,« quod she,»Shal I nat wete what ye mene of this?«»No, this thyng axeth layser,« tho quod he,»And eke me wolde muche greve, iwys,If I it tolde, and ye it toke amys.Yet were it bet my tonge for to stilleThan sey a soth that were ayeyns youre wylle.For, nece, by the goddesse Mynerve,And Juppiter that maketh the thonder rynge,And by the blysful Venus that I serve,Ye be the womman in this world lyvynge –Withoute paramours to my wyttynge –That I best love and lothest am to greve,And that ye wete wel yourself, I leve.«»Iwis, myn uncle,« quod she, »grant mercy,Youre frendshipe have I founden evere yit [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]