That loveth so hoote Emelye the brighte,
That I wol dye present in hire sighte.
Therfore I aske deeth and my juwyse;
But slee my felawe in the same wyse,
For bothe han we deserved to be slayn.'
This worthy duk answerde anon agayn,
And seide,This is a schort conclusioun:
Youre owne mouthe, by youre confessioun,
Hath dampned you, and I wil it recorde.
It nedeth nought to pyne yow with the corde.
Ye schul be deed by mighty Mars the reede!'
The queen anon for verray wommanhede
Gan for to wepe, and so dede Emelye,
And alle the ladies in the compainye.
Gret pité was it, as it thoughte hem alle,
That evere such a chaunce schulde falle;
For gentil men thei were, of gret estate,
And nothing but for love was this debate.
And sawe here bloody woundes wyde and sore;
And alle cryden, bothe lasse and more,
'Have mercy, Lord, upon us wommen alle!'
And on here bare knees adoun they falle,
And wolde han kist his feet ther as he stood,
Til atte laste aslaked was his mood;
For pité renneth sone in gentil herte.
And though he first for ire quok and sterte,
He hath considerd shortly in a clause,
The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause:
And although that his ire here gylt accusede,
Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excusede;
And thus he thoughte wel that every man
Wol helpe himself in love if that he can,
And eek delyvere himself out of prisoun;
And eek his herte hadde compassioun
Of wommen, for they wepen evere in oon;
And in his gentil herte he thoughte anoon,
And softe unto himself he seyde: 'Fy
Upon a lord that wol han no mercy,
But ben a lyoun bothe in word and dede,
To hem that ben 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 such caas can no divisioun ;
But weyeth pride and humblesse after oon.'
And schortly, whan his ire is thus agon,
He gan to loken up with eyen lighte,
And spak these same wordes al on highte.
'The god of love, a! benedicite,
How mighty and how gret a lord is he!
Agayns his might ther gayneth non obstacles,
He may be cleped a god for his miracles;
For he can maken at his owne gyse
Of everych herte, as that him lust devyse.
Lo her this Arcite and this Palamoun,
That quytly weren out of my prisoun,
And mighte han lyved in Thebes ryally,
And witen I am here mortal enemy,
And that here deth lith in my might also,
And yet hath love, maugre here eyghen tuo,
I-brought hem hider bothe for to dye.
Now loketh, is nat that an heih folye?
Who may not ben a fool, if that he love?
Byhold for Goddes sake that sit above,
Se how they blede! be they nought wel arrayed?
Thus hath here lord, the god of love, y-payed
Here wages and here fees for here servise.
And yet they wenen for to ben ful wise
That serven love, for ought that may bifalle.
But this is yet the beste game of alle,
That sche, for whom they han this jolitee,
Can hem therfore as moche thank as me.
Sche woot no more of al this hoote fare,
By God, than wot a cockow or an hare.
But al moot ben assayed, hoot and cold;
A man moot ben a fool or yong or old;
I woot it by myself ful yore agon:
For in my tyme a servant was I on.
And therfore, syn I knowe of loves peyne,
And wot how sore it can a man distreyne,
As he that hath ben caught ofte in his laas,
I you foryeve al holly this trespaas,
At requeste of the queen that kneleth heere,
And eek of Emelye, my suster deere.
And ye schul bothe anon unto me swere,
That neveremo ye schul my corowne dere,
Ne make werre upon me night ne day,
But ben my freendes in al that ye may.
I yow foryeve this trespas every del.'
And they him swore his axyng fayre and wel,
And him of lordschipe and of mercy prayde,
And he hem graunteth grace, and thus he sayde:
'To speke of real lynage and richesse,
Though that sche were a queen or a pryncesse,
Ech of yow bothe is worthy douteles
To wedden when tyme is, but natheles
I speke as for my suster Emelye,
For whom ye han this stryf and jelousye,
Ye wite youreself sche may not wedde two
At oones, though ye fighten evere mo:
That oon of yow, al be him loth or leef,
He mot go pypen in an ivy leef;
This is to sayn, sche may nought now han bothe,
Al be ye nevere so jelous, ne so wrothe.
And for-thy I you putte in this degré,
That ech of you schal have his destyné,
As him is schape, and herkneth in what wyse;
Lo here youre ende of that I schal devyse.
My wil is this, for plat conclusioun,
Withouten eny repplicacioun,
If that you liketh, tak it for the beste,
That everych of you schal gon wher him leste
Frely withouten raunsoun or daunger;
And this day fyfty wykes, fer ne neer,
Everich of you schal brynge an hundred knightes,
Armed for lystes up at alle rightes,
Al redy to derrayne hire by bataylle.
And this byhote I you withouten faylle
Upon my trouthe, and as I am a knight,
That whether of yow bothe that hath might,
This is to seyn, that whether he or thou
May with his hundred, as I spak of now,
Slen his contrarye, or out of lystes dryve,
Thanne schal I yeven Emelye to wyve,
To whom that fortune yeveth so fair a grace.
The lystes schal I maken in this place,
And God so wisly on my sowle rewe,
As I schal evene juge ben and trewe.
Ye schul non other ende with me make,
That oon of yow ne schal be deed or take.
And if you thinketh this is wel i-sayd,
Sayeth youre avys, and holdeth yow apayd.
This is youre ende and youre conclusioun.'
Who loketh lightly now but Palamoun?
Who spryngeth up for joye but Arcite?
Who couthe telle, or who couthe it endite,
The joye that is maked in the place
Whan Theseus hath don so fair a grace?
But down on knees wente every maner wight,
And thanken him with al here herte and miht,
And namely the Thebans ofte sithe.
And thus with good hope and with herte blithe
They take here leve, and hom-ward gonne they ryde
To Thebes with his olde walles wyde.
I trowe men wolde deme it necligence,
If I foryete to telle the dispence
Of Theseus, that goth so busily
To maken up the lystes rially;
That such a noble theatre as it was,
I dar wel sayn that in this world ther nas.
The circuit a myle was aboute,
Walled of stoon, and dyched al withoute.
Round was the schap, in manere of compaas,
Ful of degrees, the heighte of sixty paas
That whan a man was set on o degré
He lette nought his felawe for to se.
Est-ward ther stood a gate of marbel whit,
West-ward right such another in the opposit.
And schortly to conclude, such a place
Was non in erthe as in so litel space;
For in the lond ther nas no crafty man,
That geometrye or arsmetrike can,
Ne portreyour, ne kervere of ymages,
That Theseus ne yaf hem mete and wages
The theatre for to maken and devyse.
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