God wot I wende, O lady bright, Criseyde,
1265
That every word was gospel that ye seyde!
But who may bet bigylen, if him liste,
Than he on whom men weneth best to triste?
182. What shal I doon, my Pandarus, allas!
I fele now so sharpe a newe peyne,
1270
Sin that ther is no remedie in this cas,
That bet were it I with myn hondes tweyne