The same strain of selfishness manifests itself now. Cressida is incapable of being swept away by a great passion. She has a cat-like softness and daintiness and charm, a cat's readiness to attach herself to the person she is with at the moment, and a cat's adaptability to circumstances. She is genuinely distressed at being parted from Troilus, she cries till her eyes have dark rings round them, and even Pandarus is moved at the sight, but she is incapable of exposing herself to any danger or inconvenience for her lover's sake. Like the lady in the _Statue and the Bust_ she hesitates at the thought of difficulty:-- "And if that I me putte in jupartye[85] To stele awey by nighte, and it befalle That I be caught, I shal be holde a spye, Or elles, lo, this drede I most of alle If in the hondes of som wrecche I falle, I am but lost, al be myn herte trewe; Now mighty god, thou on my sorwe rewe! * * * * * But natheles, bityde what bityde, I shal to-morwe at night, by est or weste, Out of the ost stele on som maner syde, And go with Troilus wher-as him leste. This purpos wol I holde, and this is beste. No fors of wikked tonges janglerye,[86] For ever on love han wrecches had envye. To such souls to-morrow never comes, and it is no surprise to find her before long yielding to Diomede's entreaties, as she had formerly yielded to those of Troilus. Boccaccio's heroine at once makes up her mind to flee from the Greek camp, and then is quickly turned from her "high and great intent" by the advent of a new lover. Chaucer with far greater sublety prepares us for the change, and makes her very weakness her excuse:-- But trewely, the story telleth us, Ther made never womman more wo Than she, whan that she falsed Troilus. The reason for this excess of sorrow is characteristic:-- She seyde, "Allas! for now is clene a-go My name of trouthe in love for ever-mo * * * * * Allas, of me unto the worldes ende Shal neither been y-written nor y-songe No good word, for thise bokes wol me shende,[87] O, rolled shal I ben on many a tonge,"[88] and equally characteristic her hasty excuse, "Al be I not the firste that dide amis," and the sublime self-confidence with which in the act of jilting one lover she announces her unalterable fidelity to the next:-- "And sin I see there is no bettre way, And that to late is now for me to rewe, To Diomede algate I wol be trewe." The whole character is drawn with extraordinary delicacy and insight, and with a tenderness which marks Chaucer's large-hearted tolerance. It is comparatively easy for an author to hold up a character to execration, but only the very greatest can show us the weaknesses of human nature without for one moment becoming cynical or contemptuous.