"And with that word he gan to waxen reed ... And sobreliche on hir he threw his look..."
What wole ye more, lufsom lady dere? Lat Troye and Troyan fro your herte pace! Dryf out that bittre hope, and make good chere, And clepe ayein the beautee of your face, That ye with salte teres so deface. For Troye is brought in swich a jupartye, That, it to save, is now no remedye. And thenketh wel, ye shal in Grekes finde A more parfit love, er it be night, Than any Troyan is, and more kinde, And bet to serven yow wol doon his might. And if ye vouche sauf, my lady bright, I wol ben he to serven yow myselve, Ye, lever than be lord of Greces twelve! And with that word he gan to waxen reed, And in his speche a litel wight he quook, And caste asyde a litel wight his heed, And stinte a whyle; and afterward awook, And sobreliche on hir he threw his look, And seyde: I am, al be it yow no joye, As gentil man as any wight in Troye." (p. 544)