But misfortune comes. Her father Calchas demands her back, and the Trojans decide that they will give her up in exchange for prisoners. At this news she swoons, and Troilus is about to slay himself. Their love at this time seems imperishable; it sports with death, because it constitutes the whole of life. Beyond that better and delicious life which it created, it seems there can be no other: "But as God would, of swough she abraide, And gan to sighe, and Troilus 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 therwithal 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 flikered aie a loft, Into her wofull herte ayen it went: But at the last, as that her eye glent Aside, anon she gan his sworde aspie, As it lay bare, and gan for feare crie. "And asked him why had he it out draw, And Troilus anon the cause her told, And how himself therwith he wold have slain, For which Creseide upon him gan behold, And gan him in her armes faste fold, And said: 'O mercy God, lo which a dede! Alas, how nigh we weren bothe dede!'"[207] At last they are separated, with what vows and what tears! and Troilus, alone in his chamber, murmurs: "'Where is mine owne lady lefe and dere? Where is her white brest, where is it, where? Where been her armes, and her eyen clere That yesterday this time with me were?'... Nor there nas houre in al the day or night, Whan he was ther as no man might him here, That he ne sayd: 'O lovesome lady bright, How have ye faren sins that ye were there? Welcome ywis mine owne lady dere!'... Fro thence-forth he rideth up and doune, And every thing came him to remembraunce, As he rode forth by the places of the toune, In which he whilom had all his pleasaunce: 'Lo, yonder saw I mine owne lady daunce, And in that temple with her eien clere, Me caught first my right lady dere. And yonder have I herde full lustely My dere herte laugh, and yonder play Saw her ones eke ful blisfully, And yonder ones to me gan she say, "Now, good sweete, love me well I pray." And yonde so goodly gan she me behold, That to the death mine herte is to her hold, And at the corner in the yonder house Herde I mine alderlevest lady dere, So womanly, with voice melodiouse, Singen so wel, so goodly, and so clere, That in my soule yet me thinketh I here The blissful sowne, and in that yonder place, My lady first me toke unto her grace.'"[208] None has since found more true and tender words. These are the charming "poetic branches" which flourished amid gross ignorance and pompous parades. Human intelligence in the Middle Age had blossomed on that side where it perceived the light. But mere narrative does not suffice to express his felicity and fancy; the poet must go where "shoures sweet of rain descended soft."