And estward roos, to him that coude it knowe,
1420
[Fortuna maior], [than] anoon Criseyde,
With herte sore, to Troilus thus seyde:—
204. 'Myn hertes lyf, my trist and my plesaunce,
That I was born, allas! what me is wo,
That day of us mot make desseveraunce!
1425
For tyme it is to ryse, and hennes go,
Or elles I am lost for evermo!