That sleep ayein the brighte sonnes hete.
1240
178. And by this boor, faste in his armes folde,
Lay kissing ay his lady bright Criseyde:
For sorwe of which, whan he it gan biholde,
And for despyt, out of his slepe he breyde,
And loude he cryde on Pandarus, and seyde,
1245
'O Pandarus, now knowe I crop and rote!
I nam but deed, ther nis non other bote!