(Liv. III.)
Whom should I thanken but you, God of Love,
Of all this blisse, in which to bathe I ginne?
And thanked be ye, Lorde, for that I love,
This is the right life that I am inne
To flemen all maner vice and sinne.
This doeth me so to vertue for to entende
That daie by daie I in my will amende....
And who says that for to love is vice,....
He either is envious, or right nice,
Or is unmightie for his shrewdness
To loven....
But I with all mine herte and all my might,
As I have said, woll love unto my last
My owne dere herte, and all mine owne knight,
In whiche mine herte growen is so fast,
And his in me, that it shall ever last.
(Liv. II.)
But as God would, of swough she abraide
And gan to sighe, and Troïlus she cride,
And he answerde: «Lady mine, Creseide,
Live ye yet?» And let his swerde doun glide:
«Ye, herte mine, that thanked be Cupide»
(Quod she), and there withal she sore sight,
And he began to glade her as he might.
Took her in armes two and kist her oft,
And her to glad, he did al his entent,
For which her gost, that flickered ale a loft,
Into her woful herte agen it went:
But at the last, as that her eye glent
Aside, anon she gan his sworde aspie,
As it lay bare, and began for feare crie.
And asked him why he had it out drawn,
And Troïlus anon the cause her told,
And how himself therwith he wold have slain,
For which Creseide upon him gan behold,
An gan him in her armes faste fold
And said: «O mercy God, lo which a dede!
Alas, how nigh we weren bothe dede!»
(Liv. IV).