Chaucer's Pale Blue Dot

 Moving towards the conclusion of Troilus and Criseyde —"This litel spot of erthe" -

 

The wraththe, as I began yow for to seye,

Of Troilus, the Grekes boughten dere;

For thousandes his hondes maden deye,

As he that was with-outen any pere,

Save Ector, in his tyme, as I can here.

But weylaway, save only goddes wille,

Dispitously him slough the fiers Achille.

 

And whan that he was slayn in this manere

His lighte goost ful blisfully is went

Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere,

In convers letinge every element;

And ther he saugh, with ful avysement,

The erratik sterres, herkeninge armonye

With sownes fulle of hevenish melodye.

 

And down from thennes faste he gan avyse

This litel spot of erthe, that with the see

Embraced is, and fully gan despyse

This wrecched world, and held al vanitee

To respect of the pleyn felicitee

That is in hevene above; and at the laste,

Ther he was slayn, his loking doun he caste;

 

And in him-self he lough right at the wo

Of hem that wepten for his deeth so faste;

And dampned al our werk that folweth so

The blinde lust, the which that may not laste

And sholden al our herte on hevene caste,

And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,

Ther as Mercurie sorted him to dwelle.

 

Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love,

Swich fyn hath al his grete worthinesse;

Swich fyn hath his estat  real above,

Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse;

Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse.

And sthus bigan his lovinge of Criseyde,

As I have told, and in this wyse he deyde.

 

O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, 

In which that love up groweth with your age,

Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,

And of your herte up-casteth the visage

To thilke god that after his image

Yow made, and thinketh all nis but a fayre

This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.

 

 

—oOo—