That by som cas, syn fortune is chaungeable,
Thou maist to thy desir somtyme atteyne.
But I that am exiled, and bareyne
Of alle grace, and in so gret despeir,
That ther nys erthe, water, fyr, ne eyr,
Ne creature, that of hem maked is,
That may me helpe or doon confort in this.
Wel oughte I sterve in wanhope and distresse;
Farwel my lyf, my lust, and my gladnesse.
Allas, why pleynen folk so in commune
Of purveiaunce of God, or of fortune,
That yeveth hem ful ofte in many a gyse
Wel bettre than thei can hemself devyse?
Som man desireth for to han richesse,
That cause is of his morthre or gret seeknesse.
And som man wolde out of his prisoun fayn,
That in his hous is of his meyné slayn.
Infinite harmes ben in this mateere;
We witen nat what thing we prayen heere.
We faren as he that dronke is as a mous.
A dronke man wot wel he hath an hous,
But he not which the righte wey is thider,
And to a dronke man the wey is slider,
And certes in this world so faren we;
We seeken faste after felicité,
But we gon wrong ful ofte trewely.
Thus may we seyen alle, and namelyche I,
That wende and hadde a gret opinioun,
That yif I mighte skape fro prisoun,
Than hadde I ben in joye and perfyt hele,
Ther now I am exiled fro my wele.
Syn that I may not sen yow, Emelye,
I nam but deed; ther nys no remedye.'
Uppon that other syde Palamon,
Whan that he wiste Arcite was agoon,
Such sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour
Resowneth of his yollyng and clamour.
The pure fettres on his schynes grete
Weren of his bittre salte teres wete.
Of al oure strif, God woot, the fruyt is thin.
Thow walkest now in Thebes at thi large,
And of my woo thou yevest litel charge.
Thou maist, syn thou hast wysdom and manhede,
Assemblen al the folk of oure kynrede,
And make a werre so scharpe on this cité,
That by som aventure, or som treté,
Thou mayst have hire to lady and to wyf,
For whom that I mot needes leese my lyf.
For as by wey of possibilité,
Syth thou art at thi large of prisoun free,
And art a lord, gret is thin avauntage,
More than is myn, that sterve here in a kage.
For I moot weepe and weyle, whil I lyve,
With al the woo that prisoun may me jyve,
And eek with peyne that love me yeveth also,
That doubleth al my torment and my wo.'
Therwith the fyr of jelousye upsterte
Withinne his breste, and hente him by the herte
So wodly, that he lik was to byholde
The box-tree, or the asschen deede and colde.
Tho seyde he; 'O cruel goddes, that governe
This world with byndyng of youre word eterne,
And writen in the table of athamaunte
Youre parlement, and youre eterne graunte,
What is mankynde more unto yow holde
Than is the scheep, that rouketh in the folde?
For slayn is man right as another beest,
And dwelleth eek in prisoun and arreest,
And hath seknesse, and greet adversité,
And ofte tymes gilteles, pardé.
What governaunce is in this prescience,
That gilteles tormenteth innocence ?
And yet encresceth 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 deth moot wepe and pleyne,
Though in this world he have care and woo:
Withouten doute it may stonde so.
The answere of this I lete to divinis,
But wel I woot, that in this world gret pyne is.
Allas! I se a serpent or a theef,
That many a trewe man hath doon mescheef,
Gon at his large, and wher him lust may turne.
But I moot ben in prisoun thurgh Saturne,
And eek thurgh Juno, jalous and eek wood,
That hath destruyed wel neyh al the blood
Of Thebes, with his waste walles wyde.
And Venus sleeth me on that other syde
For jelousye, and fere of him Arcyte.'
Now wol I stynte of Palamon a lite,
And lete him in his prisoun stille dwelle,
And of Arcita forth I wol you telle.
The somer passeth, and the nightes longe
Encrescen double wise the peynes stronge
Bothe of the lovere and the prisoner.
I noot which hath the wofullere myster.
For schortly for to seyn, this Palamoun
Perpetuelly is dampned to prisoun,
In cheynes and in fettres to be deed;
And Arcite is exiled upon his heed
For evere mo as out of that contré,
Ne nevere mo he schal his lady see.
Yow loveres axe I now this questioun,
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun ?
That on may se his lady day by day,
But in prisoun he moste dwelle alway.
That other wher him lust may ryde or go,
But seen his lady schal he nevere mo.
Now deemeth as you luste, ye that can,
For I wol telle forth as I bigan.
Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde alas,
For seen his lady schal he nevere mo.
And schortly to concluden al his wo,
So moche sorwe hadde nevere creature,
That is or schal whil that the world may dure.
His sleep, his mete, his drynk is him byraft,
That lene he wex, and drye as is a schaft.
His eyen holwe, and grisly to biholde;
His hewe falwe, and pale as asschen colde,
And solitarye he was, and evere allone,
And waillyng al the night, making his moone.
And if he herde song or instrument,
Then wolde he wepe, he mighte nought be stent;
So feble eek were his spiritz, and so lowe.
And chaunged so, that no man couthe knowe
His speche nother his vois, though men it herde.
And in his geere, for al the world he ferde
Nought oonly lyke the loveres maladye
Of Hereos, but rather lik manye
Engendred of humour malencolyk,
Byforen in his selle fantastyk.
And schortly turned was al up-so-doun
Bothe habyt and eek disposicioun
Of him, this woful lovere daun Arcite.
What schulde I alday of his wo endite?
Whan he endured hadde a yeer or tuo
This cruel torment, and this peyne and woo,
At Thebes, in his contré, as I seyde,
Upon a night in sleep as he him leyde,
Him thoughte how that the wenged god Mercurie
Byforn him stood, and bad him to be murye.
His slepy yerde in hond he bar uprighte;
An hat he werede upon his heres brighte.
Arrayed was this god (as he took keepe)
As he was whan that Argus took his sleepe;
And seyde him thus: To Athenes schalt thou wende;
Ther is the schapen of thy wo an ende.'
And with that word Arcite wook and sterte.
'Now trewely how sore that me smerte.'
Quod he, 'to Athenes right now wol I fare;
Ne for the drede of deth schal I not spare
To see my lady, that I love and serve;
In hire presence I recche nat to sterve.'
And with that word he caughte a gret myrour,
And saugh that chaunged was al his colour,
And saugh his visage al in another kynde.
And right anoon it ran him in his mynde.
That sith his face was so disfigured
Of maladie the which he hadde endured,
He mighte wel, if that he bar him lowe,
Lyve in Athenes evere more unknowe,
|