If I am so disposed to haste my end,
Then let my wild desire have all its way;
Release me, naught thou canst my purpose bend, —
For this is death to which I run to-day;
Release me, Pandar, — by Heaven’s name
I swear, if unreleased, I’ll slay me just the same.
35
“O let me from this world my body free,
Which lives too sad: O let me somehow die.
That my false lady may contented be,
That lady who will follow by and by
To the black realm of shades and grief and dree:
O let me slay me; in this life I spy
Things worse than death.” He spake and grasped the blade,
Which Pandar still held back, by all these acts dismayed.
36
And then between them was a wrestling great,
With loud uproar, while Pandar held him tight;
And, had not Troil been more weak of late,
His friend’s high valour had been vanquished quite,
So Troil tossed him round in his mad hate;
But, in the end, with hard-exerted might
Pandaro wrenched the prince’s sword away,
Made him sit down — to weep and all his wrath allay.
37
And, after some lament, toward him he turned
And spake in words so piteous-sad as these:
“Troil, in thee toward me I have discerned
Such honest faith that, should I ever please
To dare to ask thou slay thyself unearned
For me or other, thou wouldst gladly seize
On death and, sans delay, commit the deed, —
As I would glad for thee to mine own death proceed.
38
“Yet thou, despite my prayers, wilt not consent
Bravely away from hateful death to fly;
For, had not greater strength to me been lent
Just now than thine, I should have seen thee die;
Thy vows I had not thought so little meant;
I had not thought to see thee fail and lie;
Although thy words may still amended be,
If thou wilt but observe my speech effectively.
39
“So far as I can note, thou now dost ween
That Criseis hath to Diomede turned;
And, if from what thou saidst I right did glean,
Thou hast from nothing else this new fear learned
Than a mere dream, which only so doth mean
Because in it a boar was clear discerned;
And, then, sans wishing more the truth to know,
Thou’ldst end, through death, the gloomy plaints that irk thee so.
40
“’Tis folly, I have often said to thee,
To think on dreams or on their shows rely;
None ever was, or is, or e’er will be
That can its truth securely signify,
For, when one sleeps, then idly fantasy
Doth only changing forms to one descry,
And many, who on one thing full believed,
Have, after, only opposites to hap perceived.
41
“So in this case all things may issue well,
This omen thou hast seen — this very beast,
Though thou art sure he did with malice swell,
Hath come to show no evil in the least
But more that, through his actions, he might tell
Something of use to thee — as might a priest.
What can it profit, then, to slay thee now
O Prince? or make to love and moaning one more vow?
42
“The thing was to be scanned quite differently
From the quick way thou didst it vainly view;
First it had wished that, with all pow’r in thee,
Thou closely look and know if it were true;
And, if it proved to be but falsity,
Nor safely founded, — then ‘twere only due
Thou shake off faith in dreams and all deceit
Which pointed to thy loss, thy pain and woe complete.
43
“And if the thing proved tristful verity,
Thou wert of Criseis deserted quite,
Yet in thy thoughts to plan deliberately
For only death were ill in Heaven’s sight
And wrong for thee; for, sooth, I cannot see,
Who would not blame that act as far from right;
Nay, if more truly resolute thou’ldst be,
‘Twere fit to scorn her, then, as she had scorned thee.
44
“If but with death thy grave thoughts do them please,
Urging thou’lt feel, thereby, of grief less fire,
The way thou soughtest was not one to seize;
Another means should furnish thy desire —
Surely thy thoughts have told thee that release
Were thine beyond Troy’s gates, where Greeks stand dire,
Ready to slay thee with a keen delight,
Nor pause to beg thy pardon for a valorous fight.
45
“When thou wilt die, we’ll go together, then;
Armed and against all Greece, we’ll fight that day,
Like valiant youths and prized, selected men,
Who die avengéd in a virile way;
Nay, I will never hold thee back again,
Will not myself avoid, but seek to slay
Greek upon Greek. Yea, friend, I do descry
What a just cause moves now thy wish to fight and die.”
46
Troil a long time shook in wrath deep-stirred,
But listened as he could, though much in pain;
And, after long he had Pandaro heard,
He fell to tears and, grieving, wept again,
Turned tow’rd his friend, who, eager, caught each word
To see if folly now he would disdain
Or change his mad emprise. And in this guise
He spoke in tears and oft he broke his speech with sighs:
47
“Pandar, thou canst of this be ever sure, —
Thine am I with all might of heart and soul,
And thine in life or death I will endure,
Life hard or soft! And if, when fury stole,
Lately of me, all wit and mind mature,
Thou heldst me back with stern and rough control,
Thy act was one that first my health desired;
And so thy valour must be of me much admired.
48
“’Twas, in my dream too sudden-felt belief
That moved me late tûw’rd such an errour dire;
Now, tortured less, I see with open grief
My great mistake and my more mad desire;
But, if thou see’t, by Heaven tell me brief
How, through what means — I may the truth inquire
Of my suspicions? Tell me that, I pray,
For I am so disturbed I yet can see no way.”
49
And Pandar answered him: “It seems to me
We might, with letters writ, the lady try;
Because, if now she hath no love for thee,
I do not think we can expect reply,
Or, if she answers, we can clearly see,
From what she writes, if all thy hopes must die, —
Or still in her return thou mayst believe, —
Or if another’s love she now doth glad receive.
50
“Since ye two parted, thou hast never wrote
Nor she writ back to thee. In such a case
She might perhaps hold (and thee justly quote!)
She had done well, awaiting time and place.
And surely were that so, ‘twere best thy note
Chide her indifference — not that she is base
And otherwise offending. Go thou and write;
Seeking and doing w
ell must bring the truth to light!”
51
And now so of himself he wearied Troilo
The prince believed him more than willingly,
And, drawn apart, he ordered some one go
And fetch him things to write, — and speedily.
That done, he fell to thinking safe and slow
How he should write, and then not terribly,
But calm — yet sans delay — the knight began
A letter to his lady that thus sober ran:
52
“O damsel sweet, to whom Love gave me late
And whose he keeps me now, and long shall keep, —
E’en all my life, — with faith inviolate,
Since at thy parting thou didst make it weep
In greater misery than wight can state,
My soul, still bruiséd with its wounds so deep,
Would recommend it to thy courtesy;
And other greeting now it cannot send to thee.
53
“Surely thou canst not now have turned so Greek
Thou wilt my letters wantonly refuse,
Or chide because it is of love they speak;
For from sweet memories, howe’er one choose,
Love cannot die — nor can those chains grow weak
Which held our love conjoined. We must not lose
Either those chains or love. So take, I pray,
These words that I have writ, and read thou all I say.
54
“If servant of his lord might e’er complain,
I should, I feel, have cause for chiding thee
And that I might, in fairness, show my pain
When I regard the pledge thou gavest to me, —
Thy pious passion, promises again,
Thy oaths, sworn me by every deity,
Thou wouldst return in ten days’ little space; —
Forty of them have passed since I beheld thy face.
55
“Yet, since it seems that I should be content
With that that pleases thee, I dare not chide;
But, humbly as I can, ’tis mine intent
To write my thoughts no less by Love’s fire tried;
To say my love is still upon thee bent,
As is my life; and wish I cannot hide —
To know what is thy life’s experience
Since thou dost dwell, exchanged, amid the Grecian tents!
56
“Methinks, if now I do remember well,
Thy father’s lies have had some pow’r with thee,
Or in thy soul new-entered love doth dwell;
Or yet mayhap, — a thing we seldom see, —
The old man is grown kind, and so it fell
Thou wert beholden to his courtesy;
’Tis thence thy inward purposes do show
All contrary, and bring us all lament and woe.
57
“So much beyond our compact thou hast stayed
Surely thou shouldst be thinking of return
To keep with faith the promise thou hast made!
Were’t still the first or third day, I’d discern
It meant but this: I must still undismayed
Wait as I’ve waited and of patience learn!
Hadst thou wished only that, I know for sure
Thou’ldst seen how patiently thy Troil can endure.
58
“But now some new-had lover much I fear
Provides occasion for thy long delay;
Who, if he do, then greater dolour here
Is mine to feel than e’er I felt or may;
And if my fervour merits grief so dear,
’Tis only thine to know it, or to say:
Yet thought thereof so makes me live in dread
That joy and hope are robbed of me and wholly fled.
59
“This dread still makes me groan in hopeless ways, —
Despondent all, when I would quiet be;
This dread alone still conqu’ring on me preys, —
Deep in my thoughts, — and it I cannot flee;
This dread, alas, still haunts me, still me slays,
Nor from it can I ever succour me;
This dread hath brought me in such sad duress
I’m of no use to Venus — and to Mars still less.
60
“My grieving eyes have never ceased to weep
Since thou didst thy departure weary take;
All power to eat, to drink, to rest, to sleep
Is gone; and, speaking, all my words do break
Into sighs only; from my lips can leap
Only the sounds that name thee for my sake —
Sounds that to thee and Love for comfort call;
And they alone, methinks, have saved my life at all.
61
“Well canst thou image, then, the thing I’d do
If I were sure of that which much I fear:
Certain, I trust, I’d slay me in my rue
If ever I should see thy failure clear;
To what end, then, shall I life still pursue,
Once I have lost the hope, so fond and dear,
Of having thee, my soul, of whom I wait
My peace while I shall live — but wait in tearful state?
62
“Sweet song or dalliance with some blithe brigade,
The falcons, dogs, and all festivity,
Bright ladies, temples, all the gay parade,
Which I, of yore, was wont with joy to see, —
All these I shun, like snares in deep hate laid,
Whenever that sad thought comes back to me,
That thou art still so far away from here,
O sweet my life, my hope, and aye my sov’reign dear!
63
“The painted flowers and the verdure new
Which colour now the meads a thousand ways,
Cannot recall my soul from its sad rue,
So much for thee, my lady, burn Love’s rays;
Only that coign of sky delights my view
‘Neath which I think my Criseis dwells and stays;
Always to that coign do I look to cry:
‘She sees it, too, — she now, in whom my hope doth lie.’
64
“I gaze out on the hills that round thee close,
Down on the place that keeps thee hid from me,
And sigh and sigh: ‘Alas, ’tis that and those
Are privileged her love-lit face to see,
And her fair eyes, for which my longing grows,
Afar from them, a life of misery.’
O were I just that hill — or on that hill!
O that I dwelt where I might see her still!
65
“I gaze upon the streams bound for the sea,
To which my Criseis hath her dwelling near,
And say: ‘These streams go where they can her see,
Go there, where they are seen of her, my dear,
In whom my own eyes’ light hath gone to be,
Knowing it shines in her divinely clear;
Alas my life, why cannot streams and I
Change power to flow on there beneath sweet Criseis’ eye?’
66
“And, when the sun sets, enviously I gaze,
Because, methinks, he yearns for my delight,
Drawn on toward thee in amorous amaze,
And so, more soon than wont, to seek thy sight
He hastens on; and then I hate his ways;
I sigh; my pains increase; I pray that night
Descend to earth and thereby rescue thee,
Lest the broad sun I fear, should steal thee thence from me.
67
“And oft to hear some one the place but name,
Where thou dost dwell, — or oft a man to see
Who comes from there, — relights in me the flame
That had seemed growing weak for grief of thee;
And then, methi
nks, I feel a hidden game
Of pleasure in my mind grow cheerily,
And I cry out: ‘O might I come but there
Whence this man comes, and see my heart’s delight so fair!’
68
“But thou, how dost thou mid those arméd knights?
Mid warlike men, mid rumours, neath their tents,
Amid great ambuscades and sundry frights?
Art thou not dazed by fury so intense?
By sounds of arms, by sea-storms in the nights,
To which thou dwellst so near, sans all defense?
Are these not cause, my love, of grave annoy? —
For thou wert wont to live more delicate in Troy!
69
“But true compassion I still have for thee, —
Greater than for myself, — as true I ought.
Return therefore; redeem thy pledge to me
Before I fall into more evil thought:
I pardon gladly, too, the injury
Thy too, too long delay hath on me brought;
Amends I ask none, — save to see thine eyes,
Thy beauteous face, where only dwells my paradise!
70
“I pray thee by that sov’reign high delight
Which thou of me, and I of thee did take,
And, thereto, by thy sweetness fair and bright,
Which flamed our hearts alike for dear Love’s sake;
And then, my lady, by the beauty white,
Which thou dost courteous own, my prayer I make:
By those long sighs, that piteous lament
In which our mutual breath one time so much was spent
71
“By kisses sweet and by the glad embrace
Which drew our hearts together, close and tight;
By all the joyaunce and the talk in grace,
Which ever made more blithe our high delight;
By that faith, too, it pleased thee so to place
In all the words of love thou didst recite,
When last we met (and parted sadly then —
And have not, ever since, the other met again!)
72
“I pray thee, so recall and here return:
And, if perchance some cause prohibits thee,
Then write who, after thy ten day sojourn,
Still holds thee there from coming back to me.
O be not in thy fair speech harsh and stern;
In this, at least, content my life of dree;
And say if I may henceforth hope to have
Any sweet love of thee before I seek my grave.
73
“Give me but hope, and I will wait and pray,
Though that is ever more than misery;
Deny me hope, and I myself will slay,
And end this life so bitter-hard for me: —
Then still, whatever loss befall me may,
The shame is thine and evermore will be,
That thou didst do to death a servant true,
Who ne’er had done thee ill nor giv’n thee cause of rue.
Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 418
