And dryve it forth un-to that blisful morwe,
That thou hir see, that cause is of thy sorwe.
59. Now rys, my dere brother Troilus;
For certes, it noon honour is to thee
To wepe, and in thy bed to [iouken] thus.
410
For trewely, of o thing trust to me,
If thou thus ligge a day, or two, or three,
The folk wol wene that thou, for cowardyse,
Thee feynest syk, and that thou darst not ryse.'