I saugh how that his houndes han him caught,
And freten him, for that they knewe him naught.
Fit peynted was a litel forthermoor,
How Atthalaunte huntede the wilde boor,
And Meleagre, and many another mo,
For which Dyane wroughte hem care and woo.
Ther saugh I many another wonder storye,
The whiche me list not drawe to memorye.
This goddesse on an hert ful hyhe seet,
With smale houndes al aboute hire feet,
And undernethe hire feet sche hadde a moone,
Wexyng it was, and schulde wane soone.
In gaude greene hire statue clothed was,
With bowe in honde, and arwes in a cas.
Hir eyghen caste sche ful lowe adoun,
Ther Pluto hath his derke regioun.
A womman travailyng was hire biforn,
But, for hire child so longe was unborn,
Ful pitously Lucyna gan sche calle,
And seyde, Help, for thou mayst best of alle.'
Whan it was don, hym likede wonder wel.
But stynte I wil of Theseus a lite,
And speke of Palamon and of Arcite.
The day approcheth of here retournynge,
That everych schulde an hundred knightes brynge,
The bataille to derreyne, as I you tolde;
And til Athenes, here covenant to holde,
Hath everych of hem brought an hundred knightes
Wel armed for the werre at alle rightes.
And sikerly ther trowede many a man
That nevere, siththen that the world bigan,
As for to speke of knighthod of here hond,
As fer as God hath maked see or lond,
Nas, of so fewe, so noble a compainye.
For every wight that lovede chyvalrye,
And wolde, his thankes, han a passant name,
Hath preyed that he mighte ben of that game;
And wel was him, that therto chosen was.
For if ther felle to morwe such a caas,
Ye knowen wel, that every lusty knight,
That loveth paramours, and hath his might,
Were it in Engelond, or elleswhere,
They wolde, here thankes, wilne to be there.
To fighte for a lady; benedicite!
It were a lusty sighte for to see.
And right so ferden they with Palamon.
With him ther wente knyghtes many oon;
Som wol ben armed in an habergoun,
In a brest-plat and in a light gypoun;
And somme woln have a peyre plates large;
And somme woln have a Pruce scheld, or a targe;
Somme woln been armed on here legges weel,
And have an ax, and somme a mace of steel.
Ther nys no newe gyse, that it nas old.
Armed were they, as I have you told,
Everich after his opinioun.
Ther maistow sen comyng with Palamoun Ligurge himself, the grete kyng of Trace;
Blak was his berd, and manly was his face.
The cercles of his eyen in his heed
They gloweden bytwixe yelwe and reed;
And lik a griffoun lokede he aboute,
His lymes greete, his brawnes harde and stronge,
With kempe heres on his browes stowte;
His schuldres broode, his armes rounde and longe.
And as the gyse was in his contré,
Ful heye upon a char of gold stood he,
With foure white boles in the trays.
Instede of cote-armure over his harnays,
With nayles yelwe, and brighte as eny gold,
He hadde a beres skyn, col-blak, for-old.
His longe heer was kembd byhynde his bak,
As eny ravenes fether it schon for-blak.
A wrethe of gold arm-gret, of huge wighte,
Upon his heed, set ful of stoones brighte,
Of fyne rubies and of dyamauntz.
Aboute his char ther wenten white alauntz,
Twenty and mo, as grete as eny steer,
To hunten at the lyoun or the deer,
And folwede him, with mosel faste i-bounde,
Colers of golde, and torettz fyled rounde.
An hundred lordes hadde he in his route
Armed ful wel, with hertes sterne and stoute.
With Arcita, in stories as men fynde,
The grete Emetreus, the kyng of Ynde,
Uppon a steede bay, trapped in steel,
Covered in cloth of gold dyapred wel,
Cam rydyng lyk the god of armes, Mars.
His coote-armure was of cloth of Tars,
Cowched with perles whyte and rounde and grete.
His sadel was of brend gold newe ybete;
A mantelet upon his schuldre hangynge
Bret-ful of rubies reede, as fir sparklynge.
His crispe heer lik rynges was i-ronne,
And that was yelwe, and gliterede as the sonne.
His nose was heigh, his eyen bright cytryn,
His lippes rounde, his colour was sangwyn,
A fewe fraknes in his face y-spreynd,
Betwixen yelwe and somdel blak y-meynd,
And as a lyoun he his lokyng caste.
Of fyve and twenty yeer his age I caste.
His berd was wel bygonne for to sprynge;
His voys was as a trumpe thunderynge.
Upon his heed he werede of laurer grene
A garlond fresch and lusty for to sene.
Upon his hond he bar for his deduyt
An egle tame, as eny lylie whyt.
An hundred lordes hadde he with him ther,
Al armed sauf here hedes in here ger,
Ful richely in alle maner thinges.
For trusteth wel, that dukes, erles, kynges,
Were gadred in this noble compainye,
For love, and for encrees of chivalrye.
Aboute this kyng ther ran on every part
Ful many a tame lyoun and lepart.
And in this wise thise lordes alle and some
Been on the Sonday to the cité come
Aboute prime, and in the toun alight.
This Theseus, this duk, this worthy knight,
Whan he hadde brought hem into his cité,
And ynned hem, everich at his degré
He festeth him, and doth so gret labour
To esen hem, and don hem al honour,
That yit men wene that no mannes wyt
Of non estat ne cowde amenden it.
The mynstralcye, the servyce at the feste,
The grete yiftes to the moste and leste,
The riche array of Theseus paleys,
Ne who sat first ne last upon the deys,
What ladies fayrest ben or best daunsynge,
Or which of hem can daunce best and singe,
Ne who most felyngly speketh of love;
What haukes sitten on the perche above,
What houndes liggen on the floor adoun:
Of al this make I now no mencioun,
But of theffect; that thinketh me the beste;
Now comth the poynt, and herkneth if you leste.
The Sonday night, or day bigan to springe,
When Palamon the larke herde synge,
Although it nere nought day by houres tuo,
Fit sang the larke, and Palamon also.
With holy herte, and with an heih corage
He roos, to wenden on his pilgrymage
Unto the blisful Citherea benigne,
I mene Venus, honurable and digne.
And in hire hour he walketh forth a paas
Unto the lystes, ther hire temple was,
And doun he kneleth, and, with humble cheere
And herte sore, he seide as ye schul heere.
'Faireste of faire, o lady myn Venus,
Doughter of Jove, and spouse to Vulcanus,
Thou gladere of the mount of Citheroun,
For thilke love thou haddest to Adoun
Have pité of my bittre teeres smerte,
And tak myn humble prayere to thin herte.
Allas! I ne have no langage to telle
Theffectes ne the tormentz of myn helle;
Myn herte may myne harmes nat bewreye;
I am so confus, that I can not seye.
But mercy, lady brighte, that knowest wele
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