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Geoffrey Chaucer - The Canterbury Tales;The Knyghtes Tale
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     To been hymself the grete hertes bane-
     For after Mars he serveth now Dyane.
        Cleer was the day, as I have toold er this,
     And Theseus, with alle joye and blis,
     With his Ypolita, the faire quene,
     
     And Emelye, clothed al in grene,
     On huntyng be they riden roially,
     And to the grove, that stood ful faste by,
     In which ther was an hert, as men hym tolde,
     Duc Theseus the streighte wey hath holde,
     
     And to the launde he rideth hym ful right,
     For thider was the hert wont have his flight,
     And over a brook, and so forth in his weye.
     This duc wol han a cours at hym, or tweye,
     With houndes swiche as that hym list comaunde.
     
     And whan this duc was come unto the launde,
     Under the sonne he looketh, and anon
     He was war of Arcite and Palamon,
     That foughten breme, as it were bores two;
     The brighte swerdes wenten to and fro
     
     So hidously, that with the leeste strook
     It semed as it wolde felle an ook;
     But what they were, nothyng he ne woot.
     This duc his courser with his spores smoot,
     And at a stert he was bitwix hem two,
     
     And pulled out a swerd, and cride, "Hoo!
     Namoore, up peyne of lesynge of youre heed!
     By myghty Mars, he shal anon be deed
     That smyteth any strook, that I may seen!
     But telleth me what myster men ye been,
     
     That been so hardy for to fighten heere
     Withouten juge or oother officere,
     As it were in a lystes roially?"
     This Palamon answerde hastily,
     And seyde, "Sire, what nedeth wordes mo?
     
     We have the deeth disserved, bothe two.
     Two woful wrecches been we, two caytyves,
     That been encombred of oure owene lyves,
     And as thou art a fightful lord and juge,
     Ne yeve us neither mercy ne refuge,
     
     But sle me first for seinte charitee;
     But sle my felawe eek as wel as me-
     Or sle hym first, for, though thow knowest it lite,
     This is thy mortal foo, this is Arcite,
     That fro thy lond is banysshed on his heed,
     
     For which he hath deserved to be deed.
     For this is he, that cam unto thy gate,
     And seyde that he highe Philostrate.
     Thus hath he japed thee ful many a yer,
     And thou hast maked hym thy chief Squier,
     
     And this is he that loveth Emelye.
     For sith the day is come that I shal dye,
     I make pleynly my confessioun
     That I am thilke woful Palamoun,
     That hath thy prisoun broken wikkedly.
     
     I am thy mortal foo, and it am I
     That loveth so hoote Emelye the grighte,
     That I wol dye present in hir sighte;
     Wherfore I axe deeth and my juwise-
     But sle my felawe in the same wise
     
     For bothe han we deserved to be slayn."
     This worthy duc answered anon agayn,
     And seyde, "This is a short conclusioun,
     Youre owene mouth, by your confessioun,
     Hath dampned yow, and I wol it recorde.
     
     It nedeth noght to pyne yow with the corde,
     Ye shal be deed, by myghty Mars the rede!"
     The queene anon, for verray wommanhede,
     Gan for to wepe, and so dide Emelye,
     And alle the ladyes in the compaignye.
     
     Greet pitee was it, as it thoughte hem alle,
     That evere swich a chaunce sholde falle.
     For gentilmen they were of greet estaat,
     And no thyng but for love was this debaat,
     And saugh hir blody woundes wyde and soore,
     
     And alle crieden, both lasse and moore,
     "Have mercy, lord, upon us wommen alle!"
     And on hir bare knees adoun they falle,
     And wolde have kist his feet ther as he stood;
     Til at the laste aslaked was his mood,
     
     For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
     And though he first for ire quook and sterte,
     He hath considered shortly in a clause
     The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause,
     And although that his ire hir gilt accused,
     
     Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excused.
     As thus, he thoghte wel, that every man
     Wol helpe hym-self in love, if that he kan,
     And eek delivere hym-self out of prisoun;
     And eek his herte hadde compassioun
     
     Of wommen, for they wepen evere in oon.
     And in his gentil herte he thoughte anon,
     And softe unto hym-self he seyde, "Fy
     Upon a lord that wol have no mercy,
     But been a leoun, bothe in word and dede,
     
     To hem that been in repentaunce and drede,
     As wel as to a proud despitous man,
     That wol maynteyne that he first bigan!
     That lord hath litel of discrecioun
     That in swich cas kan no divisioun,
     
     But weyeth pride and humblesse after oon."
     And shortly, whan his ire is thus agoon,
     He gan to looken up with eyen lighte,
     And spak thise same wordes al on highte:
        "The God of love, A! benedicite!
     
     How myghty and how greet a lord is he!
     Ayeyns his myght ther gayneth none obstacles,
     He may be cleped a god for hise myracles,
     For he kan maken at his owene gyse
     Of everich herte as that hym list divyse.
     
     Lo heere, this Arcite and this Palamoun
     
     That quitly weren out of my prisoun,
     And myghte han lyved in Thebes roially,
     And witen I am hir mortal enemy,
     And that hir deth lith in my myght also;
     
     And yet hath love, maugree hir eyen two,
     Ybroght hem hyder bothe for to dye!
     Now looketh, is nat that an heigh folye?
     Who may been a fole, but if he love?
     Bihoold, for Goddes sake that sit above,
     
     Se how they blede?  Be they noght wel arrayed?
     Thus hath hir lord, the God of Love, ypayed
     Hir wages and hir fees for hir servyse!
     And yet they wenen for to been ful wyse,
     That serven love, for aught that may bifalle!
     
     But this is yet the beste game of alle,
     That she, for whom they han this jolitee,
     Kan hem therfore as muche thank, as me!
     She woot namoore of al this hoote fare,
     By God, than woot a cokkow or an hare!
     
     But all moot ben assayed, hoot and coold;
     A man moot ben a fool, or yong or oold;
     I woot it by myself ful yore agon,
     For in my tyme a servant was I oon.
     And therfore, syn I knowe of loves peyne,
     
     And woot how soore it kan a man distreyne,
     As he that hath ben caught ofte in his laas,
     I yow foryeve al hoolly this trespaas,
     At requeste of the queene that kneleth heere,
     And eek of Emelye, my suster deere.
     
     And ye shul bothe anon unto me swere,
     That nevere mo ye shal my contree dere,
     Ne make werre upon me, nyght ne day,
     But been my freendes in al that ye may,
     I yow foryeve this trespas, every deel."
     
     And they hym sworen his axyng, faire and weel,
     And hym of lordship and of mercy preyde,
     And he hem graunteth grace, and thus he seyde:
        "To speke of roial lynage and richesse,
     Though that she were a queene or a princesse,
     
     Ech of you bothe is worthy doutelees
     To wedden whan tyme is, but nathelees
     I speke as for my suster Emelye,
     For whom ye have this strif and jalousye:
     Ye woot yourself, she may nat wedden two
     
     Atones, though ye fighten everemo!
     That oon of you, al be hym looth or lief,
     He moot go pipen in an yvy-leef-
     This is to seyn, she may nat now han bothe,
     Al be ye never so jalouse, ne so wrothe.
     
     And forthy, I yow putte in this degree;
     That ech of yow shal have his destynee
     As hym is shape, and herkneth in what wyse;
     Lo, heere your ende of that I shal devyse.
        My wyl is this, for plat conclusioun,
     
     Withouten any repplicacioun,
     If that you liketh, take it for the beste,
     That everich of you shal goon where hym leste,
     Frely, withouten raunson, or daunger,
     And this day fifty wykes fer ne ner,
     
     Everich of you shal brynge an hundred knyghtes
     Armed for lystes up at alle rightes,
     Al redy to darreyne hire by bataille.
     And this bihote I yow withouten faille,
     Upon my trouthe, and as I am a knyght,
     
     That wheither of yow bothe that hath myght,
     This is to seyn, that wheither he, or thow
     May with his hundred, as I spak of now,
     Sleen his contrarie, or out of lystes dryve,
     Thanne shal I yeve Emelya to wyve,
     
     To whom that Fortune yeveth so fair a grace.
     Tho lystes shal I maken in this place,
     And God so wisly on my soule rewe,
     As I shal evene juge been, and trewe.
     Ye shul noon oother ende with me maken,
     
     That oon of yow ne shal be deed or taken.
     And if yow thynketh this is weel ysayd,
     Seyeth youre avys and holdeth you apayd;
     This is youre ende and youre conclusioun."
     Who looketh lightly now but Palamoun?
     
     Who spryngeth up for joye but Arcite?
     Who kouthe tellen, or who kouthe endite
     The joye that is maked in the place,
     Whan Theseus hath doon so fair a grace?
     But doun on knees wente every maner wight,
     
     And thonken hym with al hir herte and myght,
     And namely the Thebans, often sithe.
     And thus with good hope and with herte blithe
     They taken hir leve, and homward gonne they ride
     To Thebes with hise olde walles wyde.
     
     Explicit secunda pars
     
     Sequitur pars tercia
     
        I trowe men wolde deme it necligence,
     If I foryete to tellen the dispence
     Of Theseus, that gooth so bisily
     To maken up the lystes roially;
     That swich a noble theatre as it was,
     
     I dar wel seyen, in this world ther nas.
     The circuit a myle was aboute,
     Walled of stoon, and dyched al withoute.
     Round was the shap, in manere of compas,
     Ful of degrees the heighte os sixty pas,
     
     That whan a man was set on o degree,
     He lette nat his felawe for to see.
     Estward ther stood a gate of marbul whit,
     Westward, right swich another in the opposit;
     And shortly to concluden, swich a place
     
     Was noon in erthe, as in so litel space.
     For in the lond ther was no crafty man
     That geometrie or ars-metrik kan,
     Ne portreitour, ne kervere of ymages,
     That Theseus ne yaf him mete and wages
     
     The theatre for to maken and devyse.
     And for to doon his ryte and sacrifise
     He estward hath upon the gate above,
     In worship of Venus, goddesse of love,
     Doon make an auter and an oratorie.
     
     And on the gate westward, in memorie
     Of Mars, he maked hath right swich another,
     That coste largely of gold a fother.
     And northward, in a touret on the wal
     Of alabastre whit, and reed coral,
     
     An oratorie, riche for to see,
     In worship of Dyane, of chastitee,
     Hath Theseus doon wroght in noble wyse.
     But yet hadde I foryeten to devyse
     The noble kervyng and the portreitures,
     
     The shap, the contenaunce, and the figures,
     That weren in thise oratories thre.
     First in the temple of Venus maystow se
     Wroght on the wal, ful pitous to biholde,
     The broken slepes and the sikes colde,
     
     The sacred teeris and the waymentynge,
     The firy strokes, and the desirynge
     That loves servauntz in this lyf enduren;
     The othes that her covenantz assuren;
     Plesaunce and Hope, Desir, Foolhardynesse,
     
     Beautee and Youthe, Bauderie, Richesse,
     Charmes and Force, Lesynges, Flaterye,
     Despense, Bisynesse, and Jalousye,
     That wered of yelewe gooldes a gerland,
     And a cokkow sittynge on hir hand;
     
     Festes, instrumentz, caroles, daunces,
     Lust and array, and alle the circumstaunces
     Of love, whiche that I rekned, and rekne shal,
     By ordre weren peynted on the wal,
     And mo than I kan make of mencioun;
     
     For soothly, al the mount of Citheroun,
     Ther Venus hath hir principal dwellynge,
     Was shewed on the wal in portreyynge,
     With al the gardyn and the lustynesse.
     Nat was foryeten the Porter Ydelnesse,
     
     Ne Narcisus the faire, of yore agon,
     Ne yet the folye of kyng Salamon,
     And eek the grete strengthe of Ercules,
     Thenchauntementz of Medea and Circes,
     Ne of Turnus, with the hardy fiers corage,
     
     The riche Cresus, kaytyf in servage;
     Thus may ye seen, that wysdom ne richesse,
     Beautee ne sleighte, strengthe, hardynesse,
     Ne may with Venus holde champartie,
     For as hir list, the world than may she gye.
     
     Lo, alle thise folk so caught were in hir las,
     Til they for wo ful ofte seyde `allas!`
     Suffiseth heere ensamples oon or two-
     And, though, I koude rekene a thousand mo.
        The statue of Venus, glorious for to se,
     
     Was naked, fletynge in the large see,
     And fro the navele doun al covered was
     With wawes grene, and brighte as any glas.
     A citole in hir right hand hadde she,
     And on hir heed, ful semely for to se,
     
     A rose gerland, fressh and wel smellynge;
     Above hir heed hir dowves flikerynge.
     Biforn hir stood hir sone, Cupido,
     Upon his shuldres wynges hadde he two,
     And blynd he was, as it was often seene.
     
     A bowe he bar, and arwes brighte and kene.
        Why sholde I noght as wel eek telle yow al
     The portreiture, that was upon the wal
     Withinne the temple of myghty Mars the rede?
     Al peynted was the wal in lengthe and brede
     
     Lyk to the estres of the grisly place
     That highte the grete temple of Mars in Trace,
     In thilke colde frosty regioun
     Ther as Mars hath his sovereyn mansioun.
     First on the wal was peynted a forest
     
     In which ther dwelleth neither man ne best,
     With knotty knarry bareyne trees olde,
     Of stubbes sharpe and hidouse to biholde,
     In which ther ran a rumbel and a swough
     As though a storm sholde bresten every bough.
     
     And dounward from an hille, under a bente,
     Ther stood the temple of Mars Armypotente,
     Wroght al of burned steel, of which the entree
     Was long and streit, and gastly for to see,
     And therout came a rage and suche a veze,
     
     That it made al the gate for to rese.
     The northren lyght in at the dores shoon,
     For wyndowe on the wal ne was ther noon,
     Thurgh which men myghten any light discerne.
     The dore was al of adamant eterne,
     
     Yclenched overthwart and endelong
     With iren tough, and for to make it strong
     Every pyler, the temple to sustene,
     Was tonne-greet of iren bright and shene.
     Ther saugh I first the dirke ymaginyng
     
     Of felonye, and al the compassyng,
     The crueel ire, reed as any gleede,
     The pykepurs, and eek the pale drede,
     The smyler with the knyfe under the cloke,
     The shepne brennynge with the blake smoke,
     
     The tresoun of the mordrynge in the bedde,
     The open werre, with woundes al bibledde,
     Contek, with blody knyf and sharp manace,
     Al ful of chirkyng was that sory place.
     The sleer of hymself yet saugh I ther,
     
     His herte-blood hath bathed al his heer;
     The nayl ydryven in the shode a nyght,
     The colde deeth, with mouth gapyng upright.
     Amyddes of the temple sat Meschaunce,
     With Disconfort and Sory Contenaunce.
     
     Yet saugh I Woodnesse laughynge in his rage,
     Armed Compleint, Outhees, and fiers Outrage;
     The careyne in the busk with throte ycorve,
     A thousand slayn, and nat of qualm ystorve,
     The tiraunt with the pray by force yraft,
     
     The toun destroyed, ther was nothyng laft.
     Yet saugh I brent the shippes hoppesteres,
     The hunte strangled with the wilde beres,
     The sowe freten the child right in the cradel,
     The cook yscalded, for al his longe ladel.
     
     Noght was foryeten by the infortune of Marte,
     The cartere over-ryden with his carte,
     Under the wheel ful lowe he lay adoun.
     Ther were also, of Martes divisioun,
     The barbour, and the bocher, and the smyth
     
     That forgeth sharpe swerdes on his styth.
     And al above, depeynted in a tour,
     Saugh I Conquest sittynge in greet honour,
     With the sharpe swerd over his heed
     Hangynge by a soutil twyned threed.
     
     Depeynted was the slaughtre of Julius,
     Of grete Nero, and of Antonius;
     Al be that thilke tyme they were unborn,
     Yet was hir deth depeynted therbiforn
     By manasynge of Mars, right by figure;
     
     So was it shewed in that portreiture,
     As is depeynted in the sterres above
     Who shal be slayn or elles deed for love.
     Suggiseth oon ensample in stories olde,
     I may nat rekene hem alle though I wolde.
     
        The statue of Mars upon a carte stood
     Armed, and looked grym as he were wood,
     And over his heed ther shynen two figures
     Of sterres, that been cleped in scriptures
     That oon Puella, that oother Rubeus.
     
     This god of armes was arrayed thus:
     A wolf ther stood biforn hym at his feet,
     With eyen rede, and of a man he eet.
     With soutil pencel was depeynt this storie,
     In redoutynge of Mars and of his glorie.
     
        Now to the temple of Dyane the chaste
     As shortly as I kan I wol me haste,
     To telle yow al the descripsioun.
     Depeynted been the walles up and doun
     Of huntyng and of shamefast chastitee.
     
     Ther saugh I, how woful Calistopee
     Whan that Diane agreved was with here,
     Was turned from a womman til a bere,
     And after was she maad the loode-sterre;-
     Thus was it peynted, I kan sey yow no ferre-
     
     Hir sone is eek a sterre, as men may see.
     Ther saugh I Dane, yturned til a tree,
     I mene nat the goddesse Diane,
     But Penneus doughter which that highte Dane.
     Ther saugh I Attheon an hert ymaked,
     
     For vengeaunce that he saugh Diane al naked.
     I saugh how that hise houndes have hym caught
     And freeten hym, for that they knewe hym naught.
     Yet peynted was a litel forthermoor
     How Atthalante hunted the wilde boor,
     
     And Meleagree, and many another mo,
     For which Dyane wroghte hym care and wo.
     Ther saugh I many another wonder storie,
     The whiche me list nat drawen to memorie.
     This goddesse on an hert ful hye seet,
     
     With smale houndes al aboute hir feet;
     And undernethe hir feet she hadde a moone,
     Wexynge it was, and sholde wanye soone.
     In gaude grene hir statue clothed was,
     With bowe in honde, and arwes in a cas.
     
     Hir eyen caste she ful lowe adoun,
     Ther Pluto hath his derke regioun.
     A womman travaillynge was hir biforn;
     But for hir child so longe was unborn
     Ful pitously Lucyna gan she calle,
     
     And seyde, "Help, for thou mayst best of alle!"
     Wel koude he peynten lyfly, that it wroghte,
     With many a floryn he the hewes boghte.
        Now been thise listes maad, and Theseus,
     That at his grete cost arrayed thus
     
     The temples, and the theatre every deel,
     Whan it was doon, hym lyked wonder weel.-
     But stynte I wole of Theseus a lite,
     And speke of Palamon and of Arcite.
     The day approcheth of hir retournynge,
     
     That everich sholde an hundred knyghtes brynge
     The bataille to darreyne, as I yow tolde.
     And til Atthenes, hir covenantz for to holde,
     Hath everich of hem broght an hundred knyghtes,
     Wel armed for the werre at alle rightes.
     
     And sikerly, ther trowed many a man,
     That nevere sithen that the world bigan,
     As for to speke of knyghthod of hir hond,
     As fer as God hath maked see or lond,
     Nas of so fewe so noble a compaignye.
     
     For every wight that lovede chivalrye,
     And wolde, his thankes, han a passant name,
     Hath preyed that he myghte been of that game;
     And wel was hym that therto chosen was.
     For if ther fille tomorwe swich a cas
     
     Ye knowen wel, that every lusty knyght
     That loveth paramours, and hath his myght,
     Were it in Engelond or elles where,
     They wolde, hir thankes, wilnen to be there,
     To fighte for a lady, benedicitee!
     
     It were a lusty sighte for to see.
     And right so ferden they with Palamon,
     With hym ther wenten knyghtes many on.
     Som wol ben armed in an haubergeoun,
     In a bristplate, and in a light gypoun,
     
     And somme woln have a paire plates large,
     And somme woln have a Pruce sheeld, or a targe,
     Somme woln ben armed on hir legges weel,
     And have an ax, and somme a mace of steel.
     Ther is no newe gyse, that it nas old;
     
     Armed were they, as I have yow told,
     Everych after his opinioun.
     Ther maistow seen comyng with Palamoun
     Lygurge hym-self, the grete kyng of Trace.
     Blak was his berd, and manly was his face,
     
     The cercles of hise eyen in his heed,
     They gloweden bitwyxen yelow and reed,
     And lik a griff on looked he aboute,
     With kempe heeris on hise browes stoute,
     Hise lymes grete, hise brawnes harde and stronge,
     
     Hise shuldres brode, hise armes rounde and longe;
     And as the gyse was in his contree,
     Ful hye upon a chaar of gold stood he,
     With foure white boles in the trays.
     In stede of cote-armure, over his harnays
     
     With nayles yelewe and brighte as any gold
     He hadde a beres skyn, colblak, for-old;
     His longe heer was kembd bihynde his bak,
     As any ravenes fethere it shoon for-blak.
     A wrethe of gold arm-greet, of huge wighte,
     
     Upon his heed, set ful of stones brighte,
     Of fyne rubyes and of dyamauntz.
     Aboute his chaar ther wenten white alauntz,
     Twenty and mo, as grete as any steer,
     To hunten at the leoun or the deer,
     
     And folwed hym, with mosel faste ybounde,
     Colored of gold, and tourettes fyled rounde.
     An hundred lordes hadde he in his route,
     Armed ful wel, with hertes stierne and stoute.
        With Arcita, in stories as men fynde,
     
     The grete Emetreus, the kyng of Inde,
     Upon a steede bay, trapped in steel,
     Covered in clooth of gold dyapred weel,
     Cam ridynge lyk the god of armes, Mars.
     His cote-armure was of clooth of Tars,
     
     Couched with perles white and rounde and grete.
     His sadel was of brend gold newe ybete;
     A mantelet upon his shuldre hangynge
     Bret-ful of rubyes rede, as fyr sparklynge.
     His crispe heer lyk rynges was yronne,
     
     And that was yelow, and glytered as the sonne.
     His nose was heigh, hise eyen bright citryn,
     Hise lippes rounde, his colour was sangwyn;
     A fewe frakenes in his face yspreynd,
     Bitwixen yelow and somdel blak ymeynd,
     
     And as a leoun he his looking caste.
     Of fyve and twenty yeer his age I caste;
     His berd was wel bigonne for to sprynge,
     His voys was as a trompe thonderynge.
     Upon his heed he wered of laurer grene
     
     A gerland, fressh and lusty for to sene.
     Upon his hand he bar for his deduyt
     An egle tame, as any lilye whyt.
     An hundred lordes hadde he with hym there,
     Al armed, save hir heddes, in al hir gere,
     
     Ful richely in alle maner thynges.
     For trusteth wel, that dukes, erles, kynges,
     Were gadered in this noble compaignye,
     For love, and for encrees of chivalrye.
     Aboute this kyng ther ran on every part
     
     Ful many a tame leoun and leopard,
     And in this wise thise lordes alle and some
     Been on the sonday to the citee come,
     Aboute pryme, and in the toun alight.
     This Theseus, this duc, this worthy knyght,
     
     Whan he had broght hem into his citee,
     And inned hem, everich in his degree,
     He festeth hem, and dooth so greet labour
     To esen hem and doon hem al honour,
     That yet men weneth that no maner wit
     
     Of noon estaat ne koude amenden it.
     The mynstralcye, the service at the feeste,
     The grete yiftes to the mooste and leeste,
     The riche array of Theseus paleys,
     Ne who sat first ne last upon the deys,
     
     What ladyes fairest been, or best daunsynge,
     Or which of hem kan dauncen best and synge,
     Ne who moost felyngly speketh of love,
     What haukes sitten on the perche above,
     What houndes liggen in the floor adoun-
     
     Of al this make I now no mencioun;
     But, al theffect, that thynketh me the beste,
     Now cometh the point, and herkneth if yow leste.
        The sonday nyght, er day bigan to sprynge,
     Whan Palamon the lsrke herde synge,
     
     Al though it nere nat day by houres two,
     Yet song the larke, and Palamon also.
     With hooly herte and with an heigh corage
     He roos, to wenden on his pilgrymage,
     Unto the blisful Citherea benigne,
     
     I mene Venus, honurable and digne.
     And in hir houre he walketh forth a pas
     Unto the lystes, ther hire temple was,
     And doun he kneleth, with ful humble cheer,
     And herte soor, and seyde in this manere.
     
        "Faireste of faire, O lady myn, Venus,
     Doughter to Jove, and spouse of Vulcanus,
     Thow glader of the Mount of Citheron,
     For thilke love thow haddest to Adoon,
     Have pitee of my bittre teeris smerte,
     
     And taak myn humble preyere at thyn herte.
     Allas, I ne have no langage to telle
     Theffectes, ne the tormentz of myn helle!
     Myn herte may myne harmes nat biwreye,
     I am so confus that I kan noght seye.
     
     But mercy, lady bright! that knowest weele
     My thought, and seest what harmes that I feele.
     Considere al this, and rewe upon my soore,
     As wisly, as I shal for everemoore,
     Emforth my myght, thy trewe servant be,
     
     And holden werre alwey with chastitee.
     That make I myn avow, so ye me helpe.
     I kepe noght of armes for to yelpe,
     Ne I ne axe nat tomorwe to have victorie,
     Ne renoun in this cas, ne veyne glorie
     
     Of pris of armes blowen up and doun,
     But I wolde have fully possessioun
     Of Emelye, and dye in thy servyse.
     Fynd thow the manere how, and in what wyse-
     I recche nat, but it may bettre be
     
     To have victorie of hem, or they of me-
     So that I have my lady in myne armes.
     For though so be, that Mars is god of armes,
     Youre vertu is so greet in hevene above
     That if yow list, I shal wel have my love.
     
     Thy temple wol I worshipe everemo,
     And on thyn auter, where I ride or go,
     I wol doon sacrifice and fires beete.
     And if ye wol nat so, my lady sweete,
     Thanne preye I thee, tomorwe with a spere
     
     That Arcita me thurgh the herte bere.
     Thanne rekke I noght, whan I have lost my lyf,
     Though that Arcita wynne hir to his wyf.
     This is theffect and ende of my preyere,
     Yif me my love, thow blisful lady deere!"
     
     Whan the orison was doon of Palamon,
     His sacrifice he dide, and that anon,
     Ful pitously with alle circumstaunce;
     Al telle I noght as now his observaunce.
     But atte laste, the statue of Venus shook,
     
     And made a signe wherby that he took
     That his preyere accepted was that day.
     For thogh the signe shewed a delay,
     Yet wiste he wel that graunted was his boone,
     And with glad herte he wente hym hoom ful soone.
     
        The thridde houre inequal, that Palamon
     Bigan to Venus temple for to gon,
     Up roos the sonne, and up roos Emelye,
     And to the temple of Dyane gan hye.
     Hir maydens that she thider with hir ladde,
     
     Ful redily with hem the fyr they ladde,
     Thencens, the clothes, and the remenant al
     That to the sacrifice longen shal.
     The hornes fulle of meeth, as was the gyse,
     Ther lakked noght to doon hir sacrifise,
     
     Smokynge the temple, ful of clothes faire.
     This Emelye, with herte debonaire,
     Hir body wessh with water of a welle-
     But how she dide hir ryte I dar nat telle,
     But it be any thing in general;
     
     And yet it were a game to heeren al,
     To hym that meneth wel it were no charge,
     But it is good a man been at his large.-
        Hir brighte heer was kempt untressed al,
     A coroune of a grene ook cerial
     
     Upon hir heed was set, ful fair and meete.
     Two fyres on the suter gan she beete,
     And dide hir thynges as men may biholde
     In Stace of Thebes, and thise bookes olde.
     Whan kyndled was the fyr, with pitous cheere
     
     Unto Dyane she spak as ye may heere.
        "O chaste goddesse of the wodes grene,
     To whom bothe hevene and erthe and see is sene,
     Queene of the regne of Pluto derk and lowe,
     Goddesse of maydens, that myn herte hast knowe
     
     Ful many a yeer, and woost what I desire,
     As keep me fro thy vengeaunce and thyn ire,
     That Attheon aboughte cruelly.
     Chaste goddesse, wel wostow that I
     Desire to ben a mayden al my lyf,
     
     Ne nevere wol I be no love ne wyf.
     I am, thow woost, yet of thy compaignye,
     A mayde, and love huntynge and venerye,
     And for to walken in the wodes wilde,
     And noght to ben a wyf, and be with childe.
     
     Noght wol I knowe the compaignye of man;
     Now helpe me, lady, sith ye may and kan,
     For tho thre formes that thou hast in thee.
     And Palamon, that hath swich love to me,
     And eek Arcite, that loveth me so sore,
     
     This grace I preye thee, withoute moore,
     As sende love and pees bitwixe hem two,
     And fro me turne awey hir hertes so,
     That al hir hoote love and hir desir,
     And al hir bisy torment and hir fir,
     
     Be queynt, or turned in another place.
     And if so be thou wolt do me no grace,
     And if my destynee be shapen so
     That I shal nedes have oon of hem two,
     As sende me hym that moost desireth me.
     
     Bihoold, goddesse, of clene chastitee,
     The bittre teeris that on my chekes falle.
     Syn thou art mayde and kepere of us alle,
     My maydenhede thou kepe and wel conserve,
     And whil I lyve a mayde, I wol thee serve."
     
     The fires brenne upon the auter cleere,
     Whil Emelye was thus in hir preyere;
     But sodeynly she saugh a sighte queynte,
     For right anon oon of the fyres queynte,
     And quyked agayn, and after that anon
     
     That oother fyr was queynt and al agon.
     And as it queynte, it made a whistelynge
     As doon thise wete brondes in hir brennynge;
     And at the brondes ende out ran anon
     As it were blody dropes many oon;
     
     For which so soore agast was Emelye
     That she was wel ny mad, and gan to crye;
     For she ne wiste what it signyfied.
     But oonly for the feere thus hath she cried,
     And weep that it was pitee for to heere;
     
     And therwithal Dyane gan appeere,
     With bowe in honde, right as an hunteresse,
     And seyde, "Doghter, stynt thyn hevynesse.
     Among the goddes hye it is affermed,
     And by eterne word writen and confermed,
     
     Thou shalt ben wedded unto oon of tho
     That han for thee so muchel care and wo.
     But unto which of hem I may nat telle,
     Farwel, for I ne may no lenger dwelle.
     The fires whiche that on myn auter brenne
     
     Shule thee declaren, er that thou go henne,
     Thyn aventure of love, as in this cas."
     And with that word, the arwes in the caas
     Of the goddesse clateren faste and rynge,
     And forth she wente, and made a vanysshynge,
     
     For which this Emelye astoned was,
     And seyde, "What amounteth this, allas!
     I putte me in thy proteccioun,
     Dyane, and in thy disposicioun!"
     And hoom she goth anon the nexte weye.
     
     This is theffect, ther is namoore to seye.
        The nexte houre of Mars folwynge this
     Arcite unto the temple walked is
     Of fierse Mars, to doon his sacrifise
     With alle the rytes of his payen wyse.
     
     With pitous herte and heigh devocioun
     Right thus to Mars he seyde his orisoun.
        "O stronge god, that in the regnes colde
     Of Trace honoured art and lord yholde,
     And hast in every regne and every lond
     
     Of armes al the brydel in thyn hond,
     And hem fortunest as thee lyst devyse,
     Accepte of me my pitous sacrifise.
     If so be that my youthe may deserve,
     And that my myght be worthy for to serve
     
     Thy godhede, that I may been oon of thyne,
     Thanne preye I thee to rewe upon my pyne.
     For thilke peyne, and thilke hoote fir,
     In which thou whilom brendest for desir
     Whan that thow usedest the greet beautee
     
     Of faire yonge fresshe Venus free,
     And haddest hir in armes at thy wille-
     Al though thee ones on a tyme mysfille
     Whan Vulcanus hadde caught thee in his las,
     And foond thee liggynge by his wyf, allas!-
     
     For thilke sorwe that was in thyn herte
     Have routhe as wel, upon my peynes smerte!
     I am yong and unkonnynge as thow woost,
     And, as I trowe, with love offended moost
     That evere was any lyves creature;
     
     For she that dooth me al this wo endure,
     Ne reccheth nevere wher I synke or fleete.
     And wel I woot, er she me mercy heete,
     I moot with strengthe wynne hir in the place.
     And wel I woot, withouten help or grace
     
     Of thee, ne may my strengthe noght availle.
     Thanne help me, lord, tomorwe in my bataille
     For thilke fyr that whilom brente thee,
     As wel as thilke fyr now brenneth me!
     And do that I tomorwe have victorie,
     
     Myn be the travaille and thyn be the glorie.
     Thy sovereyn temple wol I moost honouren
     Of any place, and alwey moost labouren
     In thy plesaunce, and in thy craftes stronge,
     And in thy temple I wol my baner honge,
     
     And alle the armes of my compaignye;
     And evere-mo, unto that day I dye,
     Eterne fir I wol biforn thee fynde.
     And eek to this avow I wol me bynde;
     My beerd, myn heer, that hongeth long adoun,
     
     That nevere yet ne felte offensioun
     Of rasour, nor of shere, I wol thee yeve,
     And ben thy trewe servant whil I lyve.
     Now lord, have routhe upon my sorwes soore;
     Yif me the victorie, I aske thee namoore!"
     
        The preyere stynt of Arcita the stronge;
     The rynges on the temple dore that honge,
     And eek the dores clatereden ful faste,
     Of which Arcita somwhat hym agaste.
     The fyres brenden upon the auter brighte,
     
     That it gan al the temple for to lighte,
     And sweete smel the ground anon upyaf,
     And Arcita anon his hand uphaf,
     And moore encens into the fyr he caste,
     With othere rytes mo, and atte laste
     
     The statue of Mars bigan his hauberk rynge,
     And with that soun he herde a murmurynge,
     Ful lowe and dym, and seyde thus, `Victorie!`
     For which he yaf to Mars honour and glorie;
     And thus with joye and hope wel to fare,
     
     Arcite anon unto his in is fare,
     As fayn as fowel is of the brighte sonne.
        And right anon swich strif ther is bigonne
     For thilke grauntyng in the hevene above
     Bitwixe Venus, the Goddesse of Love,
     
     And Mars the stierne God armypotente,
     That Jupiter was bisy it to stente;
     Til that the pale Saturnus the colde,
     That knew so manye of aventures olde,
     Foond in his olde experience an art
     
     That he ful soone hath plesed every part.
     As sooth is seyd, elde hath greet avantage;
     In elde is bothe wysdom and usage;
     Men may the olde atrenne, and noght atrede.
     Saturne anon, to stynten strif and drede,
     
     Al be it that it is agayn his kynde,
     Of al this strif he gan remedie fynde.
     "My deere doghter Venus," quod Saturne,
     "My cours, that hath so wyde for to turne,
     Hath moore power than woot any man.
     
     Myn is the drenchyng in the see so wan,
     Myn is the prison in the derke cote,
     Myn is the stranglyng and hangyng by the throte,
     The murmure, and the cherles rebellyng,
     The groynynge, and the pryvee empoysonyng.
     
     I do vengeance and pleyn correccioun,
     Whil I dwelle in the signe of the leoun.
     Myn is the ruyne of the hye halles,
     The fallynge of the toures and of the walles
     Upon the mynour, or the carpenter.
     
     I slow Sampsoun shakynge the piler,
     And myne be the maladyes colde,
     The derke tresons, and the castes olde;
     My lookyng is the fader of pestilence.
     Now weep namoore, I shal doon diligence
     
     That Palamon, that is thyn owene knyght,
     Shal have his lady, as thou hast him hight.
     Though Mars shal helpe his knyght, yet nathelees
     Bitwixe yow ther moot be somtyme pees,
     Al be ye noght of o compleccioun-
     
     That causeth al day swich divisioun.
     I am thyn aiel, redy at thy wille,
     Weep now namoore, I wol thy lust fulfille."
     Now wol I stynten of the goddes above,
     Of Mars and of Venus, goddesse of Love,
     
     And telle yow, as pleynly as I kan,
     The grete effect for which that I bygan.
     
Explicit tercia pars.
     
     Sequitur pars quarta.
     
        Greet was the feeste in Atthenes that day,
     And eek the lusty seson of that May
     Made every wight to been in such plesaunce
     
     That al that Monday justen they and daunce,
     And spenten it in Venus heigh servyse.
     And by the cause that they sholde ryse
     Eerly for to seen the grete fight,
     Unto hir rest wenten they at nyght.
     
     And on the morwe, whan that day gan sprynge,
     Of hors and harneys, noyse and claterynge
     Ther was in hostelryes al aboute.
     And to the paleys rood ther many a route
     Of lordes, upon steedes and palfreys.
     
     Ther maystow seen divisynge of harneys
     So unkouth and so riche, and wroght so weel,
     Of goldsmythrye, of browdynge, and of steel;
     The sheeldes brighte, testeres, and trappures;
     Gold-hewen helmes, hauberkes, cote-armures;
     
     Lordes in parementz on hir courseres,
     Knyghtes of retenue and eek squieres,
     Nailynge the speres, and helmes bokelynge,
     Giggynge of sheeldes, with layneres lacynge.
     There as nede is, they weren nothyng ydel.
     
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