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Geoffrey Chaucer - The Canterbury Tales;The Knyghtes Tale
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THE KNYGHTES TALE.
     
        Iamque domos patrias Scithice post aspera gentis prelia
     laurigero &c. Thebaid, xii, 519.
     
     Heere bigynneth the knyghtes tale.
     
        Whilom, as olde stories tellen us,
     Ther was a duc that highte Theseus;
     Of Atthenes he was lord and governour,
     That gretter was ther noon under the sonne.
     Ful many a riche contree hadde he wonne,
     What with his wysdom and his chivalrie;
     
     He conquered al the regne of Femenye,
     That whilom was ycleped Scithia,
     And weddede the queene Ypolita,
     And broghte hir hoom with hym in his contree,
     With muchel glorie and greet solempnytee,
     
     And eek hir yonge suster Emelye.
     And thus with victorie and with melodye
     Lete I this noble duk to Atthenes ryde,
     And al his hoost, in armes hym bisyde.
     And certes, if it nere to long to heere,
     
     I wolde have toold yow fully the manere
     How wonnen was the regne of Femenye
     By Theseus, and by his chivalrye,
     And of the grete bataille for the nones
     Bitwixen Atthenes and Amazones,
     
     And how asseged was Ypolita
     The faire hardy queene of Scithia,
     And of the feste that was at hir weddynge,
     And of the tempest at hir hoom-comynge;
     But al the thyng I moot as now forbere,
     
     I have, God woot, a large feeld to ere,
     And wayke been the oxen in my plough,
     The remenant of the tale is long ynough.
     I wol nat letten eek noon of this route,
     Lat every felawe telle his tale aboute,
     
     And lat se now who shal the soper wynne;-
     And ther I lefte, I wol ayeyn bigynne.
        This duc of whom I make mencioun,
     Whan he was come almoost unto the toun,
     In al his wele and in his mooste pride,
     
     He was war, as he caste his eye aside,
     Where that ther kneled in the hye weye
     A compaignye of ladyes, tweye and tweye,
     Ech after oother, clad in clothes blake;
     But swich a cry and swich a wo they make,
     
     That in this world nys creature lyvynge
     That herde swich another waymentynge!
     And of this cry they nolde nevere stenten,
     Til they the reynes of his brydel henten.
     "What folk been ye, that at myn hom-comynge
     
     Perturben so my feste with criynge?"
     Quod Theseus, "hav ye so greet envye
     Of myn honour, that thus compleyne and crye?
     Or who hath yow mysboden or offended?
     And telleth me if it may been amended,
     
     And why that ye been clothed thus in blak?"
     The eldeste lady of hem alle spak-
     Whan she hadde swowned with a deedly cheere,
     That it was routhe for to seen and heere-
     And seyde, "Lord, to whom Fortune hath yeven
     
     Victorie, and as a conqueror to lyven,
     Nat greveth us youre glorie and youre honour,
     But we biseken mercy and socour.
     Have mercy on oure wo and oure distresse,
     Som drope of pitee thurgh thy gentillesse
     
     Upon us wrecched wommen lat thou falle;
     For certes, lord, ther is noon of us alle
     That she ne hath been a duchesse or a queene.
     Now be we caytyves, as it is wel seene-
     Thanked be Fortune, and hir false wheel,
     
     That noon estat assureth to be weel.
     And certes, lord, to abyden youre presence,
     Heere in the temple of the goddesse Clemence
     We han ben waitynge al this fourtenyght;
     Now help us, lord, sith it is in thy myght!
     
     I wrecche, which that wepe and waille thus,
     Was whilom wyf to kyng Cappaneus,
     That starf at Thebes, cursed be that day!
     And alle we that been in this array
     And maken al this lamentacioun,
     
     We losten alle oure housbondes at that toun,
     Whil that the seege theraboute lay.
     And yet now the olde Creon, weylaway!
     That lord is now of Thebes the Citee,
     Fulfild of ire and of iniquitee,
     
     He, for despit and for his tirannye,
     To do the dede bodyes vileynye,
     Of alle oure lordes, whiche that been slawe,
     He hath alle the bodyes on an heep ydrawe,
     And wol nat suffren hem, by noon assent,
     
     Neither to been yburyed nor ybrent,
     But maketh houndes ete hem in despit."
     And with that word, withouten moore respit,
     They fillen gruf, and criden pitously,
     "Have on us wrecched wommen som mercy
     
     And lat oure sorwe synken in thyn herte."
        This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte
     With herte pitous, whan he herde hem speke;
     Hym thoughte that his herte wolde breke,
     Whan he saugh hem so pitous and so maat,
     
     That whilom weren of so greet estaat.
     And in his armes he hem alle up hente,
     And hem conforteth in ful good entente,
     And swoor his ooth, as he was trewe knyght,
     He solde doon so ferforthyl his myght
     
     Upon the tiraunt Creon hem to wreke,
     That all the peple of Grece sholde speke
     How Creon was of Theseus yserved,
     As he that hadde his deeth ful wel deserved.
     And right anoon, withouten moore abood,
     
     His baner he desplayeth, and forth rood
     To Thebesward, and al his hoost biside,
     No neer Atthenes wolde he go ne ride,
     Ne take his ese fully half a day,
     But onward on his wey that nyght he lay-
     
     And sente anon Ypolita the queene,
     And Emelye, hir yonge suster sheene,
     Unto the toun of Atthenes to dwelle-
     And forth he rit; ther is namoore to telle.
     The rede statue of Mars, with spere and targe,
     
     So shyneth, in his white baner large,
     That alle the feeldes gliteren up and doun,
     And by his baner gorn is his penoun
     Of gold ful riche, in which ther was ybete
     The Mynotaur which that he slough in Crete.
     
     Thus rit this duc, thus rit this conquerour,
     And in his hoost of chivalrie the flour,
     Til that he cam to Thebes, and alighte
     Faire in a feeld, ther as he thoughte fighte.
     But shortly for to speken of this thyng,
     
     With Creon, which that was of Thebes kyng,
     He faught, and slough hym manly as a knyght
     In pleyn bataille, and putte the folk to flyght,
     And by assaut he wan the citee after,
     And rente adoun bothe wall, and sparre, and rafter.
     
     And to the ladyes he sestored agayn
     The bones of hir housbondes that weren slayn,
     To doon obsequies as was tho the gyse.
     But it were al to longe for to devyse
     The grete clamour and the waymentynge
     
     That the ladyes made at the brennynge
     Of the bodies, and the grete honour
     That Theseus, the noble conquerour,
     Dooth to the ladyes, whan they from hym wente;
     But shortly for to telle is myn entente.
     
        Whan that his worthy duc, this Theseus,
     Hath Creon slayn, and wonne Thebes thus,
     Stille in that feeld he took al nyght his reste
     And dide with al the contree as hym leste.
     To ransake in the taas of bodyes dede,
     
     Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede,
     The pilours diden bisynesse and cure,
     After the bataille and disconfiture;
     And so bifel, that in the taas they founde
     Thurgh-girt with many a grevous blody wounde,
     
     Two yonge knyghtes liggynge by and by,
     Bothe in oon armes wroght ful richely,
     Of whiche two Arcita highte that oon,
     And that oother knyght highte Palamon.
     Nat fully quyke, ne fully dede they were,
     
     But by here cote-armures, and by hir gere,
     The heraudes knewe hem best, in special,
     As they that weren of the blood roial
     Of Thebes, and of sustren two yborn.
     Out of the taas the pilours han hem torn,
     
     And had hem caried softe unto the tente
     Of Theseus, and he ful soone hem sente
     To Atthenes to dwellen in prisoun
     Perpetuelly, he nolde no raunsoun.
     And whan this worthy due hath thus ydon,
     
     He took his hoost, and hoom he rood anon,
     With laurer crowned, as a conquerour,
     And ther he lyveth in joye and in honour
     
     Terme of his lyve, what nedeth wordes mo?
     And in a tour, in angwissh and in wo,
     
     Dwellen this Palamon and eek Arcite
     For evermoore, ther may no gold hem quite.
        This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,
     Till it fil ones, in a morwe of May,
     That Emelye, that fairer was to sene
     
     Than is the lylie upon his stalke grene,
     And fressher than the May with floures newe-
     For with the rose colour stroof hir hewe,
     I noot which was the fairer of hem two-
     Er it were day, as was hir wone to do,
     
     She was arisen, and al redy dight-
     For May wole have no slogardrie a-nyght;
     The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,
     And maketh hym out of his slepe to sterte,
     And seith, `arys and do thyn observaunce,`
     
     This maked Emelye have remembraunce
     To doon honour to May, and for to ryse.
     Yclothed was she fressh, for to devyse,
     Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse,
     Bihynde hir bak, a yerde long, I gesse,
     
     And in the gardyn, at the sonne upriste,
     She walketh up and doun, and as hir liste
     She gadereth floures, party white and rede,
     To make a subtil gerland for hir hede,
     And as an aungel hevenysshly she soong.
     
     The grete tour, that was so thikke and stroong,
     Which of the castel was the chief dongeoun,
     Ther as the knyghtes weren in prisoun,
     Of whiche I tolde yow, and tellen shal,
     Was evene joynant to the gardyn wal
     
     Ther as this Emelye hadde hir pleyynge.
     Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morwenynge,
     And Palamoun, this woful prisoner,
     As was his wone, by leve of his gayler,
     Was risen, and romed in a chambre on heigh,
     
     In which he al the noble citee seigh,
     And eek the gardyn, ful of braunches grene,
     Ther as this fresshe Emelye the shene
     Was in hire walk, and romed up and doun.
     This sorweful prisoner, this Palamoun,
     
     Goth in the chambre romynge to and fro,
     And to hym-self compleynynge of his wo.
     That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, `allas!`
     And so bifel, by aventure or cas,
     That thurgh a wyndow, thikke of many a barre
     
     Of iren greet, and square as any sparre,
     He cast his eye upon Emelya,
     
     And therwithal he bleynte, and cryede "A!"
     As though he stongen were unto the herte.
     And with that cry Arcite anon upsterte
     
     And seyde, "Cosyn myn, what eyleth thee,
     That art so pale and deedly on to see?
     Why cridestow? who hath thee doon offence?
     For Goddess love, taak al in pacience
     Oure prisoun, for it may noon oother be;
     
     Fortune hath yeven us this adversitee.
     Som wikke aspect or disposicioun
     Of Saturne by sum constellacioun
     Hath yeven us this, al though we hadde it sworn.
     So stood the hevene, whan that we were born.
     
     We moste endure it, this the short and playn."
     This Palamon answerde and seyde agayn,
     "Cosyn, for sothe, of this opinioun
     Thow hast a veyn ymaginacioun.
     This prison caused me nat for to crye,
     
     But I was hurt right now thurgh-out myn eye
     Into myn herte, that wol my bane be.
     The fairnesse of that lady, that I see
     Yond in the gardyn romen to and fro,
     Is cause of al my criyng and my wo.
     
     I noot wher she be womman or goddesse,
     But Venus is it, soothly as I gesse."
     And therwithal, on knees doun he fil,
     And seyde, "Venus, if it be thy wil,
     Yow in this gardyn thus to transfigure
     
     Bifore me, sorweful wrecche creature,
     Out of this prisoun helpe that we may scapen!
     And if so be my destynee be shapen
     By eterne word to dyen in prisoun,
     Of oure lynage have som compassioun,
     
     That is so lowe ybroght by tirannye."
        And with that word Arcite gan espye
     Wher-as this lady romed to and fro,
     And with that sighte hir beautee hurte hym so,
     That if that Palamon was wounded sore,
     
     Arcite is hurt as moche as he, or moore.
     And with a sigh he seyde pitously,
     "The fresshe beautee sleeth me sodeynly
     Of hir, that rometh in the yonder place!
     And but I have hir mercy and hir grace
     
     That I may seen hir atte leeste weye,
     I nam but deed, ther is namoore to seye."
     This Palamon, whan he tho wordes herde,
     Dispitously he looked and answerde,
     "Wheither seistow this in ernest or in pley?"
     
     "Nay," quod Arcite, "in ernest by my fey,
     God helpe me so, me list ful yvele pleye."
     This Palamon gan knytte his browes tweye;
     "It nere," quod he, "to thee no greet honour
     For to be fals, ne for to be traitour
     
     To me, that am thy cosyn and thy brother,
     Ysworn ful depe, and ech of us til oother,
     That nevere for to dyen in the peyne,
     Til that the deeth departe shal us tweyne,
     Neither of us in love to hyndre other,
     
     Ne in noon oother cas, my leeve brother,
     But that thou sholdest trewely forthren me
     In every cas, as I shal forthren thee.
     This was thyn ooth, and myn also certeyn,
     I woot right wel thou darst it nat withseyn.
     
     Thus artow of my conseil, out of doute;
     And now thou woldest falsly been aboute
     To love my lady, whom I love and serve
     And evere shal, til that myn herte sterve.
     Nay, certes, false Arcite, thow shalt nat so!
     
     I loved hir first, and tolde thee my wo
     As to my conseil, and to my brother sworn,
     To forthre me as I have toold biforn,
     For which thou art ybounden as a knyght
     To helpen me, if it lay in thy myght,
     
     Or elles artow fals, I dar wel seyn."
        This Arcite ful proudly spak ageyn,
     "Thow shalt," quod he, "be rather fals than I.
     But thou art fals, I telle thee outrely,
     For paramour I loved hir first er thow.
     
     What, wiltow seyn thou wistest nat yet now
     Wheither she be a womman or goddesse?
     Thyn is affeccioun of hoolynesse,
     And myn is love as to a creature;
     For which I tolde thee myn aventure
     
     As to my cosyn and my brother sworn.
     I pose, that thow lovedest hir biforn;
     Wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe
     That `who shal yeve a lovere any lawe?`
     Love is a gretter lawe, by my pan,
     
     Than may be yeve of any erthely man.
     And therfore positif lawe and swich decree
     Is broken al day for love in ech degree.
     A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed,
     He may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed,
     
     Al be she mayde, or wydwe, or elles wyf.
     And eek it is nat likly, al thy lyf,
     To stonden in hir grace, namoore shal I,
     For wel thou woost thyselven, verraily,
     That thou and I be dampned to prisoun
     
     Perpetuelly, us gayneth no faunsoun.
     We stryven as dide the houndes for the boon,
     They foughte al day, and yet hir part was noon.
     Ther cam a kyte, whil they weren so wrothe,
     And baar awey the boon bitwixe hem bothe.
     
     And therfore at the kynges court, my brother,
     Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother.
     Love if thee list, for I love, and ay shal;
     And soothly, leeve brother, this is al.
     Heere in this prisoun moote we endure,
     
     And everich of us take his aventure."
        Greet was the strif and long bitwix hem tweye,
     If that I hadde leyser for to seye-
     But to theffect; it happed on a day,
     To telle it yow as shortly as I may,
     
     A worthy duc, that highte Perotheus,
     That felawe was unto duc Theseus
     Syn thilke day that they were children lite,
     Was come to Atthenes his felawe to visite,
     And for to pleye as he was wont to do-
     
     For in this world he loved no man so,
     And he loved hym als tendrely agayn.
     So wel they lovede, as olde bookes sayn,
     That whan that oon was deed, soothly to telle,
     His felawe wente and soughte hym doun in helle.
     
     But of that storie list me nat to write;
     Duc Perotheus loved wel Arcite,
     And hadde hym knowe at Thebes yeer by yere,
     And finally, at requeste and preyere
     Of Perotheus, withouten any raunsoun
     
     Duc Theseus hym leet out of prisoun
     Frely to goon, wher that hym liste overal,
     In swich a gyse as I you tellen shal.
     This was the forward, pleynly for tendite,
     Bitwixen Theseus and hym Arcite,
     
     That if so were that Arcite were yfounde
     Evere in his lif, by day or nyght or stounde,
     In any contree of this Theseus,
     And he were caught, it was acorded thus,
     That with a swerd he sholde lese his heed;
     
     Ther nas noon oother remedie ne reed,
     But taketh his leve and homward he him spedde;
     Lat hym be war, his nekke lith to wedde!
        How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite!
     The deeth he feeleth thurgh his herte smyte,
     
     He wepeth, wayleth, crieth pitously,
     To sleen hymself he waiteth prively.
     He seyde, "Allas, that day that he was born!
     Now is my prisoun worse than biforn;
     Now is me shape eternally to dwelle
     
     Nat in purgatorie but in helle.
     Allas, that evere knew I Perotheus!
     For elles hadde I dwelled with Theseus,
     Yfetered in his prisoun evermo;
     Thanne hadde I been in blisse, and nat in wo.
     
     Oonly the sighte of hire whom that I serve,
     Though that I nevere hir grace may deserve,
     Wolde han suffised right ynough for me.
     O deere cosyn Palamon," quod he,
     "Thyn is the victorie of this aventure.
     
     Ful blisfully in prison maistow dure.-
     In prisoun? certes, nay, but in Paradys!
     Wel hath Fortune yturned thee the dys,
     That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence;
     For possible is, syn thou hast hir presence,
     
     And art a knyght, a worthy and an able,
     That by som cas, syn Fortune is chaungeable,
     Thow maist to thy desir som tyme atteyne.
     But I, that am exiled and bareyne
     Of alle grace, and in so greet dispeir
     
     That ther nys erthe, water, fir, ne eir,
     Ne creature, that of hem maked is,
     That may me heelp, or doon confort in this,
     Wel oughte I sterve in wanhope and distresse,
     Farwel, my lif, my lust, and my galdnesse!
     
     Allas, why pleynen folk so in commune
     On purveyaunce of God or of Fortune,
     That yeveth hem ful ofte in many a gyse
     Wel bettre than they kan hem-self devyse?
     Som man desireth for to han richesse,
     
     That cause is of his moerdre of greet siknesse.
     And som man wolde out of his prisoun fayn,
     That in his hous is of his meynee slayn.
     Infinite harmes been in thai mateere,
     We witen nat what thing we preyen here.
     
     We faren as he that dronke is as a mous;
     A dronke man woot wel he hath an hous,
     But he noot which the righte wey is thider,
     And to a dronke man the wey is slider.
     And certes, in this world so faren we;
     
     We seken faste after felicitee,
     But we goon wrong ful often trewely.
     Thus may we seyen alle, and namely I,
     That wende and hadde a greet opinioun
     That if I myghte escapen from prisoun,
     
     Thanne hadde I been in joye and perfit heele,
     Ther now I am exiled fro my wele.
     Syn that I may nat seen you, Emelye,
     I nam but deed, ther nys no remedye."
        Upon that oother syde, Palamon,
     
     
     Whan that he wiste Arcite was agon,
     Swich sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour
     Resouneth of his youlyng and clamour.
     The pure fettres on his shynes grete
     Weren of his bittre salte teeres wete.
     
     "Allas," quod he, "Arcite, cosyn myn!
     Of al oure strif, God woot, the fruyt is thyn.
     Thow walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
     And of my wo thow yevest litel charge.
     Thou mayst, syn thou hast wysdom and manhede,
     
     Assemblen alle the folk of oure kynrede,
     And make a werre so sharp on this citee,
     That by som aventure, or som tretee,
     Thow mayst have hir to lady and to wyf,
     For whom that I moste nedes lese my lyf.
     
     For as by wey of possibilitee,
     Sith thou art at thy large of prisoun free,
     And art a lord, greet is thyn avauntage
     Moore than is myn, that sterve here in a cage.
     For I moot wepe and wayle, whil I lyve,
     
     With al the wo that prison may me yeve,
     And eek with peyne that love me yeveth also,
     That doubleth al my torment and my wo."
     Therwith the fyr of jalousie up-sterte
     Withinne his brest, and hente him by the herte
     
     So woodly, that he lyk was to biholde
     The boxtree, or the asshen dede and colde.
     Thanne seyde he, "O cruel goddes, that governe
     This world with byndyng of youre word eterne,
     And writen in the table of atthamaunt
     
     Youre parlement and youre eterne graunt,
     What is mankynde moore unto you holde
     Than is the sheep that rouketh in the folde?
     For slayn is man right as another beeste,
     And dwelleth eek in prison and arreeste,
     
     And hath siknesse, and greet adversitee,
     And ofte tymes giltelees, pardee!
     What governance is in this prescience
     That giltelees tormenteth innocence?
     And yet encresseth this al my penaunce,
     
     That man is bounden to his observaunce,
     For Goddes sake, to letten of his wille,
     Ther as a beest may al his lust fulfille.
     And whan a beest is deed, he hath no peyne,
     But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne,
     
     Though in this world he have care and wo.
     Withouten doute it may stonden so.
     The answere of this lete I to dyvynys,
     But well I woot, that in this world greet pyne ys.
     Allas, I se a serpent or a theef,
     
     That many a trewe man hath doon mescheef,
     Goon at his large, and where hym list may turne!
     But I moot been in prisoun thurgh Saturne,
     And eek thurgh Juno, jalous and eek wood,
     That hath destroyed wel ny al the blood
     
     Of Thebes, with hise waste walles wyde.
     And Venus sleeth me on that oother syde
     For jalousie and fere of hym Arcite."
        Now wol I stynte of Palamon a lite,
     And lete hym in his prisoun stille dwelle,
     
     And of Arcita forth I wol yow telle.
     The somer passeth, and the nyghtes longe
     Encressen double wise the peynes stronge
     Bothe of the lovere and the prisoner;
     I noot which hath the wofuller mester.
     
     For shortly for to seyn, this Palamoun
     Perpetuelly is dampned to prisoun
     In cheynes and in fettres to been deed,
     And Arcite is exiled upon his heed
     For evere mo as out of that contree,
     
     Ne nevere mo he shal his lady see.
        Yow loveres axe I now this questioun,
     Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?
     That oon may seen his lady day by day,
     But in prison he moot dwelle alway;
     
     That oother wher hym list may ride or go,
     But seen his lady shal he nevere mo.
     Now demeth as yow liste ye that kan,
     For I wol telle forth, as I bigan.
     
     Explicit prima pars.
     
     Sequitur pars secunda.
     
        Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
     Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde `allas,`
     For seen his lady shal he nevere mo;
     And shortly to concluden al his wo,
     So muche sorwe hadde nevere creature,
     That is, or shal whil that the world may dure.
     
     His sleep, his mete, his drynke is hym biraft,
     That lene he wex and drye as is a shaft.
     Hise eyen holwe and grisly to biholde,
     His hewe falow and pale as asshen colde;
     And solitarie he was and evere allone
     
     And waillynge al the nyght, makynge his mone.
     And if he herde song or instrument,
     Thanne wolde he wepe, he myghte nat be stent.
     So feble eek were hise spiritz, and so lowe,
     And chaunged so, that no man koude knowe
     
     His speche nor his voys, though men it herde.
     And in his geere for al the world he ferde
     Nat oonly lik the loveris maladye
     Of Hereos, but rather lyk manye
     Engendred of humour malencolik
     
     Biforen in his celle fantastik,
     And shortly turned was al up-so-doun
     Bothe habit and eek disposicioun
     Of hym, this woful lovere daun Arcite.
     What sholde I al day of his wo endite?
     
     Whan he endured hadde a yeer or two
     This crueel torment, and this peyne and woo,
     At Thebes in his contree, as I seyde,
     Upon a nyght in sleep as he hym leyde,
     Hym thoughte how that the wynged god Mercurie
     
     Biforn hym stood, and bad hym to be murie.
     His slepy yerde in hond he bar uprighte,
     An hat he werede upon hise heris brighte.
     Arrayed was this god, as he took keep,
     As he was whan that Argus took his sleep;
     
     And seyde hym thus, "To Atthenes shaltou wende,
     Ther is thee shapen of thy wo an ende."
     And with that word Arcite wook and sterte.
     "Now trewely, how soore that me smerte,"
     Quod he, "to Atthenes right now wol I fare,
     
     Ne for the drede of deeth shal I nat spare
     To se my lady that I love and serve,
     In hir presence I recche nat to sterve."
     And with that word he caughte a greet mirour,
     And saugh that chaunged was al his colour,
     
     And saugh his visage al in another kynde.
     And right anon it ran hym in his mynde,
     That sith his face was so disfigured
     Of maladye, the which he hadde endured,
     He myghte wel, if that he bar hym lowe,
     
     Lyve in Atthenes, everemoore unknowe,
     And seen his lady wel ny day by day.
     And right anon he chaunged his array,
     And cladde hym as a povre laborer,
     And al allone, save oonly a squier
     
     That knew his privetee and al his cas,
     Which was disgised povrely, as he was,
     To Atthenes is he goon, the nexte way.
     And to the court he wente, upon a day,
     And at the gate he profreth his servyse,
     
     To drugge and drawe, what so men wol devyse.
     And shortly of this matere for to seyn,
     He fil in office with a chamberleyn,
     The which that dwellynge was with Emelye,
     For he was wys and koude soone espye
     
     Of every servant which that serveth here.
     Wel koude he hewen wode, and water bere,
     For he was yong and myghty for the nones,
     And therto he was strong and big of bones
     To doon that any wight kan hym devyse.
     
     A yeer or two he was in this servyse
     Page of the chambre of Emelye the brighte;
     And Philostrate he seyde that he highte.
     But half so wel biloved a man as he
     Ne was ther nevere in court, of his degree;
     
     He was so gentil of condicioun
     That thurghout al the court was his renoun.
     They seyden, that it were a charitee,
     That Theseus wolde enhaunsen his degree,
     And putten hym in worshipful servyse
     
     Ther as he myghte his vertu exercise.
     And thus withinne a while his name is spronge
     Bothe of hise dedes and his goode tonge,
     That Theseus hath taken hym so neer
     That of his chambre he made hym a Squier,
     
     And gaf hym gold to mayntene his degree.
     And eek men broghte hym out of his contree
     From yeer to yeer, ful pryvely, his rente.
     But honestly and slyly he it spente,
     That no man wondred how that he it hadde.
     
     And thre yeer in this wise his lif he ladde,
     
     And bar hym so in pees, and eek ibn werre,
     Ther was no man that Theseus hath derre.
     And in this blisse lete I now Arcite,
     And speke I wole of Palamon a lite.
     
        In derknesse and horrible and strong prisoun
     Thise seven yeer hath seten Palamoun,
     Forpyned, what for wo and for distresse.
     Who feeleth double soor and hevynesse
     But Palamon, that love destreyneth so,
     
     That wood out of his wit he goth for wo?
     And eek therto he is a prisoner,
     Perpetuelly, noght oonly for a yer.
     Who koude ryme in Englyssh proprely
     His martirdom?  Forsothe it am nat I,
     
     Therfore I passe as lightly as I may.
     It fel that in the seventhe yer, in May,
     The thridde nyght, as olde bookes seyn,
     That al this storie tellen moore pleyn,
     Were it by aventure or destynee-
     
     As, whan a thyng is shapen, it shal be-
     That soone after the mydnyght, Palamoun
     By helpyng of a freend, brak his prisoun
     And fleeth the citee faste as he may go;
     For he hade yeve his gayler drynke so
     
     Of a clarree maad of a certeyn wyn,
     With nercotikes and opie of Thebes fyn,
     That al that nyght, thogh that men wolde him shake,
     The gayler sleep, he myghte nat awake.
     And thus he fleeth as faste as evere he may;
     
     The nyght was short and faste by the day,
     That nedes-cost he moot hymselven hyde;
     And til a grove, faste ther bisyde,
     With dredeful foot thanne stalketh Palamoun.
     For shortly this was his opinioun,
     
     That in that grove he wolde hym hyde al day,
     And in the nyght thanne wolde he take his way
     To Thebesward, his freendes for to preye
     On Theseus to helpe hym to werreye;
     And shortly, outher he wolde lese his lif,
     
     Or wynnen Emelye unto his wyf;
     This is theffect and his entente pleyn.
     Now wol I turne to Arcite ageyn,
     That litel wiste how ny that was his care
     Til that Fortune had broght him in the snare.
     
        The bisy larke, messager of day,
     Salueth in hir song the morwe gray,
     And firy Phebus riseth up so brighte
     That al the orient laugheth of the lighte,
     And with hise stremes dryeth in the greves
     
     The silver dropes hangynge on the leves;
     And Arcita, that is in the court roial
     With Theseus, his squier principal,
     Is risen, and looketh on the myrie day.
     And for to doon his observaunce ot May,
     
     Remembrynge on the poynt of his desir
     He on a courser startlynge as the fir
     Is riden into the feeldes, hym to pleye,
     Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye.
     And to the grove of which that I yow tolde
     
     By aventure his wey he gan to holde,
     To maken hym a gerland of the greves,
     Were it of wodebynde or hawethorn-leves.
     And loude he song ayeyn the sonne shene,
     "May, with alle thy floures and thy grene,
     
     Welcome be thou, faire fresshe May,
     In hope that I som grene gete may."
     And from his courser, with a lusty herte,
     Into a grove ful hastily he sterte,
     And in a path he rometh up and doun
     
     Ther as by aventure this Palamoun
     Was in a bussh, that no man myghte hym se;
     For soore afered of his deeth was he.
     No thyng ne knew he that it was Arcite,
     God woot, he wolde have trowed it ful lite!
     
     But sooth is seyd, gon sithen many yeres,
     That feeld hath eyen and the wode hath eres.
     It is ful fair a man to bere hym evene,
     For al day meeteth men at unset stevene.
     Ful litel woot Arcite of his felawe,
     
     That was so ny to herknen al his sawe,
     For in the bussh he sitteth now ful stille.
        Whan that Arcite hadde romed al his fille
     And songen al the roundel lustily,
     Into a studie he fil al sodeynly,
     
     As doon thise loveres in hir queynte geres,
     Now in the croppe, now doun in the breres,
     Now up, now doun as boket in a welle.
     Right as the Friday, soothly for to telle,
     Now it shyneth, now it reyneth faste,
     
     Right so kan geery Venus overcaste
     The hertes of hir folk; right as hir day
     Is gereful, right so chaungeth she array.
     Selde is the Friday al the wowke ylike.
     Whan that Arcite had songe, he gan to sike,
     
     And sette hym doun withouten any moore;
     "Allas," quod he, "that day that I was bore!
     How longe, Juno, thurgh thy crueltee
     Woltow werreyen Thebes the Citee?
     Allas, ybroght is to confusioun
     
     The blood roial of Cadme and Amphioun!
     Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man
     That Thebes bulte, or first the toun bigan,
     And of the citee first was crouned kyng,
     Of his lynage am I, and his ofspryng,
     
     By verray ligne, as of the stok roial,
     And now I am so caytyf and so thral
     That he that is my mortal enemy
     I serve hym as his squier povrely.
     And yet dooth Juno me wel moore shame,
     
     For I dar noght biknowe myn owene name,
     But theras I was wont to highte Arcite,
     Now highte I Philostrate, noght worth a myte.
     Allas, thou felle Mars! allas, Juno!
     Thus hath youre ire oure kynrede al fordo,
     
     Save oonly me, and wrecched Palamoun
     That Theseus martireth in prisoun.
     And over al this, to sleen me outrely,
     Love hath his firy dart so brennyngly
     Ystiked thurgh my trewe careful herte,
     
     That shapen was my deeth erst than my sherte.
     Ye sleen me with youre eyen, Emelye,
     Ye been the cause wherfore that I dye.
     Of al the remenant of myn oother care
     Ne sette I nat the montance of a tare,
     
     So that I koude doon aught to youre plesaunce."
     And with that word he fil doun in a traunce
     A longe tyme, and after he upsterte.
        This Palamoun, that thoughte that thurgh his herte
     He felte a coold swerd sodeynliche glyde,
     
     For ire he quook, no lenger wolde he byde.
     And whan that he had herd Arcites tale,
     As he were wood, with face deed and pale,
     He stirte hym up out of the buskes thikke,
     And seide, "Arcite, false traytour wikke!
     
     Now artow hent that lovest my lady so,
     For whom that I have al this peyne and wo,
     And art my blood, and to my conseil sworn,
     As I ful ofte have seyd thee heer-biforn,
     And hast byjaped heere duc Theseus,
     
     And falsly chaunged hast thy name thus.
     I wol be deed, or elles thou shalt dye;
     Thou shalt nat love my lady Emelye,
     But I wol love hire oonly, and namo,
     For I am Palamon, thy mortal foo!
     
     And though that I no wepene have in this place,
     But out of prison am astert by grace,
     I drede noght that outher thow shalt dye,
     Or thow ne shalt nat loven Emelye.
     Chees which thou wolt, for thou shalt nat asterte!"
     
     This Arcite, with ful despitous herte,
     Whan he hym knew, and hadde his tale herd,
     As fiers as leoun pulled out his swerd,
     And seyde thus:  "By God that sit above,
     Nere it that thou art sik and wood for love,
     
     And eek that thow no wepne hast in this place,
     Thou sholdest nevere out of this grove pace,
     That thou ne sholdest dyen of myn hond.
     For I defye the seurete and the bond
     Which that thou seist that I have maad to thee.
     
     What, verray fool, thynk wel that love is free!
     And I wol love hir, maugree al thy myght!
     But for as muche thou art a worthy knyght,
     And wilnest to darreyne hire by bataille,
     Have heer my trouthe; tomorwe I wol nat faille
     
     Withoute wityng of any oother wight
     That heere I wol be founden as a knyght,
     And bryngen harneys right ynough for thee,
     And chese the beste, and leve the worste for me.
     And mete and drynke this nyght wol I brynge
     
     Ynough for thee, and clothes for thy beddynge;
     And if so be that thou my lady wynne,
     And sle me in this wode ther I am inne,
     Thow mayst wel have thy lady as for me."
     This Palamon answerde, "I graunte it thee."
     
     And thus they been departed til amorwe,
     Whan ech of hem had leyd his feith to borwe.
        O Cupide, out of alle charitee!
     O regne, that wolt no felawe have with thee!
     Ful sooth is seyd that love ne lordshipe
     
     Wol noght, hir thankes, have no felaweshipe.
     Wel fynden that Arcite and Palamoun:
     Arcite is riden anon unto the toun,
     And on the morwe, er it were dayes light,
     Ful prively two harneys hath he dight,
     
     Bothe suffisaunt and mete to darreyne
     The bataille in the feeld bitwix hem tweyne.
     And on his hors, allone as he was born,
     He carieth al this harneys hym biforn,
     And in the grove, at tyme and place yset,
     
     This Arcite and this Palamon ben met.
     Tho chaungen gan the colour in hir face
     Right as the hunters in the regne of Trace,
     That stondeth at the gappe with a spere,
     Whan hunted is the leoun and the bere,
     
     And hereth hym come russhyng in the greves,
     And breketh bothe bowes and the leves,
     And thynketh, "Heere cometh my mortal enemy,
     Withoute faille he moot be deed or I,
     For outher I moot sleen hym at the gappe,
     
     Or he moot sleen me, if that me myshappe"-
     So ferden they in chaungyng of hir hewe,
     As fer as everich of hem oother knewe.
     Ther nas no good day ne no saluyng,
     But streight withouten word or rehersyng
     
     Everich of hem heelp for to armen oother,
     As freendly as he were his owene brother.
     And after that with sharpe speres stronge
     They foynen ech at oother wonder longe.
     Thou myghtest wene that this Palamoun
     
     In his fightyng were a wood leoun,
     And as a crueel tigre was Arcite.
     As wilde bores gonne they to smyte,
     That frothen white as foom for ire wood.
     Up to the ancle foghte they in hir blood;
     
     And in this wise I lete hem fightyng dwelle,
     And forth I wole of Theseus yow telle.
        The destinee, ministre general,
     That executeth in the world overal
     The purveiaunce that God hath seyn biforn,
     
     So strong it is, that though the world had sworn
     The contrarie of a thyng, by ye or nay,
     Yet somtyme it shal fallen on a day
     That falleth nat eft withinne a thousand yeere.
     For certeinly, oure appetites heere,
     
     Be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love,
     Al is this reuled by the sighte above.
     This mene I now by myghty Theseus,
     That for to hunten is so desirus
     And namely at the grete hert in May,
     
     That in his bed ther daweth hym no day
     That he nys clad, and redy for to ryde
     With hunte and horn, and houndes hym bisyde.
     For in his huntyng hath he swich delit
     That it is al his joye and appetit
     
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