"Ther he was slayn, his loking doun he caste; And in himself he lough right at the wo..."
"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 withouten 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 doun from thennes faste he gan avyse This litel spot of erthe, that with the see Enbraced 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 himself 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." (p. 552)