What torture ’tis hath fallen in his lair;
So Troil struck now, in his mighty woe,
His head against the wall with wild despair,
He beat his face and breast most piteously,
Writhing his arms and hands in bitter agony.
28
His eyes shed tears for pity of his heart
In copious weeping, till they almost seemed
Two fountains whence abundant waters start:
Deep sobs and sad complainings in him teemed,
And vain words did him from his courage part;
Words that, because the past had been misdreamed,
Went wild about, demanding naught but death,
Scorning and cursing all, — gods, fate, and mortal breath.
29
But this his frenzy slowly yielded place
As length of time did soothe his bitter plaint,
When once more on his bed he hid his face,
The flame of grief still burning sans restraint,
And then, ere time could many moments trace,
Arose to weep and sigh, — like zealous saint, —
Because one head and breast could never bear
The pain he wished to heap them with in his despair.
30
Anon he gan to cry with weeping new:
“O Fortune, fickle, unshamed, curséd wight,
What evil have I done thee in thy view
That thou oppose whate’er gives me delight?
Hast thou no joy sans causing me more rue?
Why dost thou turn thy wrong face to my sight,
Thy favour from me, who have loved thee more, —
As, cruel, thou knowst, — and held thee every god before?
31
“If with my care-free life, so blest in joy,
Thou wert displeased, why soughtst thou not in hate
To bring to earth the lofty pride of Troy?
To make me by my sire’s death desolate?
Or bring on Hector some most cruel annoy,
On him in whom our hope rests all of late?
Why robb’dst thou not Polyxena of life,
Or Paris e’en — or Helen his fair Spartan wife?
32
If Criseis were only left to me
And all else lost, I’d gain in having her
And ne’er repine at other penury;
Yet always thy fell darts themselves bestir
To prey on things that stir thy jealousy;
To show thee fickle thou dost aye prefer;
To take away my joy gives thee delight,
I would that thou hadst slain me ere I knew this plight!
33
“Alas, O Love, O sweet and pleasant Lord,
Who knowest all that in the world doth lie,
How shall my grieving life itself record,
If I lose that sole good, my peace, I cry?
O then, sweet Love, who only dost afford
To my mind solace, hear before I die!
What shall I do if she is ta’en from me,
To whom, by thy great grace, I gave myself all free?
34
“Henceforth, wherever I may dwell, I’ll weep
And always dolorous stay, so long as life
Within mine anguished body lodgeth deep.
O soul, so caitiff made by pain and strife,
From that most wretched flesh alive to leap
Should please thee well. O soul, with sorrows rife,
Escape my body, follow Criseis!
O wherefore not escape such grievous woe as this?
35
“O sad mine eyes, whose solace dwelt entire
In the sweet face of winsome Criseis fair,
How shall ye thrive henceforth? In grief most dire
Ye are from now, since ‘t dwells no longer there,
And all your power must from hence expire,
Conquered and vanquished by my tears and care.
In vain ye shall now other virtues view,
If she, your health and safety, be thus torn from you.
36
“O Criseis mine, sole blessing fair and sweet
Of this deep-stricken soul that calls on thee,
Who will mine anguish now give comfort meet?
Who now bring peace to my love’s agony?
If thou depart, it fits that death come fleet
To this poor wight, who loves thee utterly;
And I shall die a death all undeserved
Because the scornful gods my fault have wrong observed.
37
“Alas, if yet thy parting were delayed
Such time that through long use I bear it might, —
Or yet prepare to feel it less dismayed, —
I would not say I should not with some right
Oppose thy going hence by fate betrayed;
Nay, had it been more clear before my sight,
Through longer thought, to part had easier been, —
To part, whence now it seems that all my woes begin!
38
“O evil-looking, ancient-doating seer,
What ecstasy hath moved thee? what disdain
Hath made thee, Trojan, love the Greeks so dear
Thou must desert to them down on the plain?
Above all prophets, thou wert honoured here,
Native and stranger! — Thou filthy stain
Of treason, evil rede, deceit, annoy —
Oh would I had thee at my mercy’s will in Troy!
39
“O would thou’dst died the day thou hadst escaped —
Hadst fallen dead before the Hellenes’ feet,
When first thy lips so madly gaped,
Demanding her who made to love so sweet!
What heavy grief thy coming here hath shaped,
O loathéd cause of all the woe I meet!
Would that the spear that pierced Prostesilaus,
Had been deep driven in thy heart by Menelaus!
40
“If thou wert dead, then should I live secure,
For who would then my Criseis demand?
And wert thou dead, I were not left for sure,
For Criseis would not part from Troy’s dear land;
If thou wert dead, no griefs could then endure
Equal to these that now my joy withstand.
Therefore thy life is of my death the cause —
And of the curse that will not let my dolour pause.”
41
A thousand sighs more burning hot than fire
Thus issued from his deep love-smitten heart,
Mixed with laments and words of sad desire,
Without respect how each word played its part;
And so these plaints availed through power dire
The youth could sigh no more by any art
And fell asleep; but yet he slept not long,
For in a trice again he felt his grief grow strong.
42
Another sigh; and to his feet he rose,
Went to the door which he had lately barred,
Opened it wide, and called a varlet close —
A trusty wight — and cried, “Stare not so hard,
But stir thee, fellow, from thy soft repose;
Bring Pandar here; let nothing him retard.”
Then straight he turned him to his grief-dark room,
Filled yet with sighs and clinging drowsiness and gloom.
43
Pandaro came, already knowing well
That which the Greek envoys had asked full plain,
And how the Trojan lords agreeing fell
To render Criseis to her sire again:
Whence in his face full great dismay did dwell:
And there to Troil, pondering still his pain,
Entered the prince’s dark and silent room,
All impotent to speak a word of cheer or gloom.
44
But Troil, when he saw h
is comrade well,
Ran and embraced the worthy Pandaro,
Yet wept so sore no poet e’er could tell
The story of his tears; and then for woe
The anxious friend, too, into weeping fell
In that same wise; and both in moaning low
Continued some time then to weep and mourn,
Saying no words so were their troubled hearts forlorn.
45
At last when Troil found him calm again,
To Pandar he began: “Death’s man am I,
For all my joyaunce now is turned to pain,
From wretched me my comfort all doth fly
At envious Fortune’s will, and in its train
My solace and my pleasaunce I descry.
Hast not yet learned my cause for misery —
That Criseis by the Greeks is torn away from me?”
46
And Pandar answered, who had wept no less:
“Alack! I wish thy words were not so true,
Alack for me, whose faith would ne’er confess
Thy joy, so sweet and pure, could change to rue, —
Fail thee so soon; nor could I ever guess
That harm, save first it showed itself to view,
Could come and could despoil thee so complete!
Now all my lore I see is turned into defeat!
47
“But yet, why give thyself such anguish now?
Why feel thine is such grief and such torment?
Thou’st had what thou hast willed, I trow;
Thou oughtest then in heart feel more content:
These and all other woes to me allow,
To me who long have loved, but ne’er been sent
Or shown one favour of the dame I woo, —
The lady who alone can give me peace for rue.
48
“And, look thou too, old Troy is full enough
Of ladies fair and gracious to the eye!
And, as thy virtue never won rebuff, —
Choose e’en the fairest, and she’ll make reply,
‘No boon could seem to her of richer stuff
Than devoir paid by thee with love and sigh’:
If therefore, being sage, thou Criseis forego,
Thou canst of many others gain great grace I know.
49
“And men in sooth I oft have heard declare
That new love always chases old away; —
Some new amour will banish that despair
Thou feelest now, if thou do as I say.
Wish not to die then for this lady fair,
Wish not to be thine own foe so to-day:
Dost think through tears to have her back again?
Through tears, lest she should go, dost hope her to retain?”
50
And Troil, hearing Pandar, wept anew
And still more strong, protesting, after, brave:
“I pray God send at once the death that’s due,
If ever I commit excess so grave;
Let other damsels be as fair to view
And blithe as they may wish; none ever gave
To earth such beauty, I confess, as she
To whom I’m vowed and whose in all I wish to be.
51
“From her fair eyes have flown the subtle sparks
Which have inflamed me with their amorous fire;
A thousand times they’ve left in mine their marks,
And gently borne with them sweet Love’s desire
Straight to my heart, — to shine there in its darks
As Amor willed; and there gan first inspire
That ardour whose great fervour still directs
My valour when it moves to its most true effects.
52
“However I might wish’t, who wish it not,
I could not check its potent warmth and glow,
Nay, if ‘twere greater, I should grieve no jot;
And more — from only Criseis, I know,
To part were grief and such a bitter lot
My love-flamed heart could not endure the blow:
No other dame is there (and none I scorn)
Who is her peer in aught, — and none such e’er was born!
53
“Then how could other’s comfort e’er aspire,
Or even Love himself, that I should turn
To any other lady my desire?
Within I have to bear enough heart-burn,
But rather would I yield me to the fire, —
To woes yet more extreme, — than I should yearn
To put my mind on other lady’s eyes, —
Or leave, O god of love, this world of joy and sighs.
54
“Death and the sepulchre alone can part
The firm, true love which now gives life to me:
And whatsoever ill on me may start
They two, with it, may lead my soul, and see,
Down in the lowest hell, it suffer smart:
For there they’ll weep for Criseis verily, —
The lady whose I’ll be where’er I dwell
If love doth not, through death, forget to bear all well.
55
“Therefore, pardee, cease thou, my Pandaro,
Thy talk of other mistress for my heart —
To enter therein, where henceforth, I know,
I will keep Criseis always with love’s art,
The sure seal of my joys, — however woe
Now plague my mind, which labours in hard part,
Because she goes away of whom we speak, —
Because we see no way to make the change we seek.
56
“Cease then to babble inadvisedly;
For speech to make my pain less is but loss,
And can be nothing more, we two shall see:
For, Pandar, that is folly sheer and dross,
Too crude to cherish in the heart of thee;
For every grief that moves our life across
Doth pass, whatever curséd Fortune brings;
And that man tells no truth who sayeth other things.
57
“But tell me, if my love means aught to thee, —
If still thou think it is a thing so light,
To change one’s love, as late thou spakest me, —
Why thou’st not changed thy path, as is thy right?
Why let thy love cause thee such cruelty
Or, still severe, keep thee in such a plight?
Why dost thou not thyself new dames pursue
That thou thy life with greater peace mayst hence imbue?
58
“If thou, inured to live in love’s torment,
Hast not had power to seek new mistress fair,
Can I, who lived with Love in glad content,
Hope so to drive him from me in my care,
As thou dost urge? And, prithee, what is meant
That now I see quick grief to me repair?
I am in love in very different wise
From that that in thy mind thou idly dost devise.
59
“In faith, Pandar, once Love a mind doth seize
And enters there to be its joy supreme,
Believe me thou, from there Love never flees
Nor can be driven; although sometimes, I deem,
In course of time Love wanes by slow degrees,
Unless he sprang from poverty extreme,
Or grief or death or absence from one’s may!
So have fared many men, it haps, before to-day.
60
“What shall I then, — I, sad misfortuned wight, —
If I lose Criseis in such a way
As I have lost her? Why, too, is it right
An tenor be exchanged for her, O say!
Alack! death were more welcome in my sight;
And never to have seen the light of day,
More blest! My heart despairs. Come Death, draw near,
O come — lest I too long in love should languish here.
61
“O Death, thou’lt be to me as soft and sweet
As life appears to him who lives in joy:
Thy face, once horrid, now as fair I’ll greet,
O hie thee here and finish mine annoy;
O tarry not, for in my veins such heat
Is kindled now it must me soon destroy;
Let thy harsh blow bring comforting to me,
And haste thee to a heart that sore desireth thee.
62
“Slay me; for God’s sweet sake do not consent
That I so long in this dull world should thrive;
And let me see my heart, in glad content,
Part from my corpse, — O let it, Death, arrive, —
I ask it thee pardee; what more is meant
To give me joy than not to be alive?
Thou slayest so much good at thine own will
To slay, and pleasure me, thou hast the power still.”
63
Thus wept in deep lament Prince Troilo,
And Pandar likewise did, for very grief,
Yet often sought to ease his friend’s deep woe
And piteously he offered him relief;
But comfort nothing helped the cruel blow,
While still his weeping grew beyond belief
Continually — and thereto, his lament,
So much for his sad fate had swelled his discontent.
64
And Pandar answered him: “My dearest friend,
If my appeals in nothing pleasure thee,
And if to thee it seems too cruel end
To part from her, anon or presently,
Why not accept the power gods do lend
Now to thy life and seize her instantly
To bear away, as Paris stole from Greece
Helen, that flower of dames, who wrecked the world’s long peace?
65
“Wilt thou in thine own Troy not venture e’en
To carry off a dame that pleaseth thee?
Thou wilt, — if trust at all on me thou lean:
Chase off thy grief; chase ‘t off and so make flee
Thine anguish and these woes too plainly seen;
Dry up thy tears and let thy face be free;
Let thy great spirit show itself once more,
To make sweet Criseis ours, my prince, I do implore.”
66
And then to Pandar Troil made reply:
“I see, my friend, to drive away my pain
Thou wilt at nothing stop but all must try:
Yet all thou urgest, with other things as plain,
I’ve thought on much and raised before mine eye,
The while I’d weep and yield to grief again, —
To grief which somehow doth increase my power,
Keen though its shock hath been to make me pause and cower;
67
“But not therefore could I feel aught constrained
Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 411
