THE CANTERBURY TALES by GEOFFREY CHAUCER.
     
     This edition edited and digitized by Ted & 
     Florence Daniel, NEW WAVE PUBLISHERS, 
     2103 N. LIBERTY ST., PORTLAND, OR 97217.

     Posted in July 1993.

     This file is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN.


     THE CANTERBURY TALES
     by GEOFFREY CHAUCER
     
     GROUP A
     
     PROLOGUE
     
     Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury.
     
     Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
     The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
     And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
     Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
     Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
     
     Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
     The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
     Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
     And smale foweles maken melodye,
     That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
     
     So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
     Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
     And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
     To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
     And specially, from every shires ende
     
     Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende,
     The hooly blisful martir for the seke
     That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
        Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
     In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
     
     Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
     To Caunterbury, with ful devout corage,
     At nyght were come into that hostelrye
     Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
     Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle
     
     In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
     That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
     The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
     And wel we weren esed atte beste;
     And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
     
     So hadde I spoken with hem everychon
     That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
     And made forward erly for to ryse
     To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.
        But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,
     
     Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
     Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
     To telle yow al the condicioun
     Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
     And whiche they weren, and of what degree,
     
     And eek in what array that they were inne;
     And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.
        A knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,
     That fro the tyme that he first bigan
     To riden out, he loved chivalrie,
     
     Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie.
     Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,
     
     And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre,
     As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse,
     And evere honoured for his worthynesse.
     
        At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne;
     Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne
     Aboven alle nacions in Pruce;
     In Lettow hadde he reysed, and in Ruce,
     No cristen man so ofte of his degree.
     
     In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be
     Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye;
     At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,
     Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See
     At many a noble arive hadde he be.
     
     At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,
     And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene
     In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo.
     This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also
     Somtyme with the lord of Palatye
     
     Agayn another hethen in Turkye,
     And everemoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.
     And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
     And of his port as meeke as is a mayde;
     He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde
     
     In al his lyf unto no maner wight;
     He was a verray parfit gentil knyght.
        But for to tellen yow of his array,
     His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay.
     Of fustian he wered a gypoun,
     
     Al bismotered with his habergeoun;
     For he was late ycome from his viage,
     And wente for to doon his pilgrymage.
        With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squier,
     A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,
     
     With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse.
     Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
     Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,
     And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe.
     And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie
     
     In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie,
     And born hym weel, as of so litel space,
     In hope to stonden in his lady grace.
     Embrouded was he, as it were a meede,
     Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede;
     
     Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day,
     He was as fressh as is the monthe of May.
     Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde.
     Wel koude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde,
     He koude songes make, and wel endite,
     
     Juste, and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write.
     So hoote he lovede, that by nyghtertale
     He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale.
     Curteis he was, lowely, and servysable,
     And carf biforn his fader at the table.
     
        A Yeman hadde he, and servantz namo
     At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo;
     And he was clad in cote and hood of grene,
     A sheef of pecok arwes bright and kene
     Under his belt he bar ful thriftily-
     
     Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly,
     Hise arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe-
     And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe.
     A not -heed hadde he, with a broun visage,
     Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage.
     
     Upon his arm he baar a gay bracer,
     And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,
     And on that oother syde a gay daggere,
     Harneised wel, and sharpe as point of spere.
     A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheene,
     
     An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene.
     A Forster was he, soothly, as I gesse.
        Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
     That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy.
     Hir gretteste ooth was but by Seinte Loy,
     
     And she was cleped Madame Eglentyne.
     Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne,
     Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
     And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly
     After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe,
     
     For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe.
     At mete wel ytaught was she withalle;
     She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,
     Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe.
     Wel koude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe
     
     That no drope ne fille upon hir brist.
     In curteisie was set ful muche hir list;
     Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene,
     That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene
     Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.
     
     Ful semely after hir mete she raughte;
     And sikerly, she was of greet desport,
     And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port,
     And peyned hir to countrefete cheere
     Of court, and been estatlich of manere,
     
     And to ben holden digne of reverence.
     But for to speken of hir conscience,
     She was so charitable and so pitous,
     She wolde wepe, if that she saugh a mous
     Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
     
     Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde
     
     With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed.
     But soore weep she if oon of hem were deed,
     Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte;
     And al was conscience, and tendre herte.
     
     Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was,
     Hire nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas,
     Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed;
     But sikerly, she hadde a fair forheed,
     It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe,
     
     For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
     Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war;
     Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar
     A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
     An theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,
     
     On which ther was first write a crowned `A,'
     And after,`Amor vincit omnia.'
     Another Nonne with hir hadde she,
     That was hire Chapeleyne, and preestes thre.
        A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie,
     
     An outridere, that lovede venerie,
     A manly man, to been an abbot able.
     Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable;
     And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere
     Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere,
     
     And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle,
     Ther as this lord was keper of the celle.
     The reule of Seint Maure, or of Seint Beneit,
     Bycause that it was old and somdel streit-
     This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
     
     And heeld after the newe world the space.
     He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen,
     That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men,
     Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees,
     Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees-
     
     This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre-
     But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre!
     And I seyde his opinioun was good,
     What sholde he studie, and make hymselven wood,
     Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure,
     
     Or swynken with his handes and laboure
     As Austyn bit?  How shal the world be served?
     Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved;
     Therfore he was a prikasour aright,
     Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight;
     
     Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare
     Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.
     I seigh his sleves ypurfiled at the hond
     With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;
     And for to festne his hood under his chyn
     
     He hadde of gold ywroght a curious pyn;
     A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.
     His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,
     And eek his face, as it hadde been enoynt.
     He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt,
     
     Hise eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed,
     That stemed as a forneys of a leed;
     His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat;
     Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat!
     He was nat pale as a forpyned goost,
     
     A fat swan loved he best of any roost.
     His palfrey was as broun as is a berye,
        A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye,
     A lymytour, a ful solempne man,
     In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan
     
     So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage.
     He hadde maad ful many a mariage
     Of yonge wommen at his owene cost.
     Unto his ordre he was a noble post,
     And wel biloved and famulier was he
     
     With frankeleyns overal in his contree
     And eek with worthy wommen of the toun,
     For he hadde power of confessioun,
     As seyde hymself, moore than a curat,
     For of his ordre he was licenciat.
     
     Ful swetely herde he confessioun,
     And plesaunt was his a absolucioun,
     He was an esy man to yeve penaunce
     Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce;
     For unto a povre ordre for to yive
     
     Is signe that a man is wel yshryve;
     For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt,
     He wiste that a man was repentaunt.
     For many a man so harde is of his herte,
     He may nat wepe, al thogh hym soore smerte;
     
     Therfore, in stede of wepynge and preyeres,
     Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres.
     His typet was ay farsed ful of knyves
     And pynnes, for to yeven yonge wyves.
     And certeinly he hadde a murye note,
     
     Wel koude he synge, and pleyen on a rote,
     Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris.
     His nekke whit was as the flour delys;
     Therto he strong was as a champioun,
     He knew the tavernes wel in every toun
     
     And everich hostiler and tappestere
     Bet than a lazar or a beggestere.
     For unto swich a worthy man as he
     Acorded nat, as by his facultee,
     To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce;
     
     It is nat honeste, it may nat avaunce,
     For to deelen with no swich poraille,
     But al with riche and selleres of vitaille;
     And overal, ther as profit sholde arise,
     Curteis he was, and lowely of servyse.
     
     Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous;
     He was the beste beggere in his hous,
     (And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt
     Noon of his brethren cam ther in his haunt;)
     For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,
     So plesaunt was his `In principio'
     Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente;
     
     His purchas was wel bettre than his rente.
     And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe;
     In love-dayes ther koude he muchel helpe;
     For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer,
     With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler,
     
     But he was lyk a maister or a pope;
     Of double worstede was his semycope,
     That rounded as a belle out of the presse.
     Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse
     To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge,
     

     And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe,
     Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght
     As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght.
     This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd.
        A Marchant was ther, with a forkek berd,
     
     In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat,
     Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat,
     His bootes clasped faire and fetisly.
     Hise resons he spak ful solempnely,
     Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng.
     
     He wolde the see were kept for any thyng
     Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle.
     Wel koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle.
     This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;
     Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette,
     
     So estatly was he of his governaunce,
     With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce.
     Forsothe, he was a worthy man with-alle,
     But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle.
        A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also,
     
     That unto logyk hadde longe ygo.
     As leene was his hors as is a rake,
     And he nas nat right fat, I undertake,
     But looked holwe and therto sobrely.
     Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy,
     
     For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice,
     Ne was so worldly for to have office,
     For hym was levere have at his beddes heed
     Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed,
     Of Aristotle and his plilosophie,
     
     Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie.
     But al be that he was a philosophre,
     Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;
     But al that he myghte of his freendes hente,
     On bookes and his lernynge he it spente,
     
     And bisily gan for the soules preye
     Of hem that yaf hym wherwith to scoleye.
     Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede,
     Noght o word spak he moore than was neede,
     And that was seyd in forme and reverence,
     
     And short and quyk, and ful of hy sentence.
     Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche,
     And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
        A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys,
     That often hadde been at the parvys,
     
     Ther was also, ful riche of excellence.
     Discreet he was, and of greet reverence,-
     He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise.
     Justice he was ful often in assise,
     By patente, and by pleyn commissioun.
     
     For his science, and for his heigh renoun,
     Of fees and robes hadde he many oon.
     So greet a purchasour was nowher noon,
     Al was fee symple to hym in effect,
     His purchasyng myghte nat been infect.
     

     Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,
     And yet he semed bisier than he was;
     In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle,
     That from the tyme of Kyng William were falle.
     Therto he koude endite, and make a thyng,
     
     Ther koude no wight pynche at his writyng.
     And every statut koude he pleyn by rote.
     He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote
     Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale;-
     Of his array telle I no lenger tale.
     
        A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye;
     Whit was his berd as is a dayesye.
     Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.
     Wel loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn,
     To lyven in delit was evere his wone;
     
     For he was Epicurus owene sone,
     That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit
     Was verraily felicitee parfit,
     An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;
     Seint Julian was he in his contree.
     
     His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon,
     A bettre envyned man was nowher noon.
     Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous,
     Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous,
     It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke,
     
     Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke.
     After the sondry sesons of the yeer
     So chaunged he his mete and his soper.
     Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe,
     And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe.
     
     Wo was his cook, but if his sauce were
     Poynaunt, and sharp, and redy al his geere.
     His table dormant in his halle alway
     Stood redy covered al the longe day.
     At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire;
     
     Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire.
     An anlaas and a gipser al of silk
     Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk.
     A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour,
     Was nowher swich a worthy vavasour.
     
        An Haberdasshere and a Carpenter,
     A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer-
     And they were clothed alle in o lyveree
     Of a solempne and a greet fraternitee.
     Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was,
     
     Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras,
     But al with silver wroght ful clene and weel,
     Hir girdles and hir pouches everydeel.
     Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys
     To sitten in a yeldehalle on a deys.
     
     Everich for the wisdom that he kan
     Was shaply for to been an alderman;
     For catel hadde they ynogh, and rente,
     And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente-
     And eles, certeyn, were they to blame!
     

     It is ful fair to been ycleped `ma Dame,'
     And goon to vigilies al bifore,
     And have a mantel roialliche ybore.
        A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones,
     To boille the chiknes with the marybones,
     
     And poudre-marchant tart, and galyngale.
     Wel koude he knowe a draughte of London ale;
     He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,
     Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.
     But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,
     
     That on his shyne a mormal hadde he!
     For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.
        A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste;
     For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe.
     He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe,
     
     In a gowne of faldyng to the knee.
     A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he
     Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun.
     The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun,
     And certeinly he was a good felawe.
     
     Ful many a draughte of wyn had he ydrawe
     Fro Burdeuxward, whil that the chapman sleep.
     Of nyce conscience took he no keep;
     If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond,
     By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.
     
     But of his craft, to rekene wel his tydes,
     His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides,
     His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage,
     Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
     Hardy he was, and wys to undertake,
     
     With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake;
     He knew alle the havenes as they were
     From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere,
     And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne.
     His barge yeleped was the Maudelayne.
     
        With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik;
     In al this world ne was ther noon hym lik,
     To speke of phisik and of surgerye;
     For he was grounded in astronomye.
     He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel
     
     In houres, by his magyk natureel.
     Wel koude he fortunen the ascendent
     Of hisc ymages for his pacient.
     He knew the cause of everich maladye,
     Were it of hoot or coold, or moyste, or drye,
     
     And where they engendred, and of what humour.
     He was a verray parfit praktisour;
     The cause yknowe, and of his harm the roote,
     Anon he yaf the sike man his boote.
     Ful redy hadde he hise apothecaries
     
     To sende him drogges and his letuaries,
     For ech of hem made oother for to wynne,
     Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne.
     Wel knew he the olde Esculapius,
     And Deyscorides and eek Rufus,
     

     Olde Ypocras, Haly, and Galyen,
     Serapioun, Razis, and Avycen,
     Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn,
     Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn.
     Of his diete mesurable was he,
     
     For it was of no superfluitee,
     But of greet norissyng, and digestible.
     His studie was but litel on the Bible.
     In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al,
     Lyned with taffata and with sendal-
     
     And yet he was but esy of dispence;
     He kepte that he wan in pestilence.
     For gold in phisik is a cordial,
     Therfore he lovede gold in special.
        A good wif was ther, of biside Bathe,
     
     He was to synful man nat despitous,
     Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,
     But in his techyng discreet and benygne;
     To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse,
     By good ensample, this was his bisynesse.
     
     But it were any persone obstinat,
     What so he were, of heigh or lough estat,
     Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys.
     A bettre preest, I trowe, that nowher noon ys.
     He waited after no pompe and reverence,
     
     Ne maked him a spiced conscience,
     But Cristes loore, and Hise apostles twelve
     He taughte, but first he folwed it hym-selve.
        With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother,
     That hadde ylad of dong ful many a fother.
     
     A trewe swybnker and a good was he,
     Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee.
     God loved he best with al his hoole herte
     At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte,
     And thanne his neighebore right as hym-selve;
     
     He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve,
     For Cristes sake, for every povre wight
     Withouten hire, if it lay in his myght.
     Hise tithes payed he ful faire and wel,
     Bothe of his propre swynk and his catel.
     
     In a tabard he rood, upon a mere.
        Ther was also a Reve and a Millere,
     A Somnour and a Pardoner also,
     A Maunciple, and myself, ther were namo.
     The Millere was a stout carl for the nones,
     
     Ful byg he was of brawn and eek of bones-
     That proved wel, for overal ther he cam
     At wrastlyng he wolde have alwey the ram.
     He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre,
     Ther was no dore that he nolde heve of harre,
     
     Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed.
     His berd as any sowe or fox was reed,
     And therto brood, as though it were a spade.
     Upon the cop right of his nose he hade
     A werte, and thereon stood a toft of heres
     

     Reed as the brustles of a sowes eres;
     Hise nosethirles blake were and wyde.
     A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde.
     His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys,
     He was a janglere and a goliardeys,
     
     And that was moost of synne and harlotries.
     Wel koude he stelen corn, and tollen thries,
     And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee.
     A whit cote and a blew hood wered he.
     A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne,
     
     And therwithal he broghte us out of towne.
        A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple,
     Of which achatours myghte take exemple
     For to be wise in byynge of vitaille;
     For wheither that he payde or took by taille,
     
     Algate he wayted so in his achaat
     That he was ay biforn, and in good staat.
     Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace,
     That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace
     The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?
     
     Of maistres hadde he mo than thries ten,
     That weren of lawe expert and curious,
     Of whiche ther weren a duszeyne in that hous
     Worthy to been stywardes of rente and lond
     Of any lord that is in Engelond,
     
     To maken hym lyve by his propre good,
     In honour dettelees, but if he were wood;
     Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire,
     And able for to helpen al a shire
     In any caas that myghte falle or happe-
     
     And yet this manciple sette hir aller cappe!
        The Reve was a sclendre colerik man;
     His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan,
     His heer was by his erys ful round yshorn,
     His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn.
     
     Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene,
     Ylyk a staf, ther was no calf ysene.
     Wel koude he kepe a gerner and a bynne,
     Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynne.
     Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn,
     
     The yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn.
     His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye,
     His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye,
     Was hooly in this reves governyng
     And by his covenant yaf the rekenyng,
     
     Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of age;
     Ther koude no man brynge hym in arrerage.
     Ther nas baillif, ne hierde, nor oother hyne,
     That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne,
     They were adrad of hym as of the deeth.
     
     His wonyng was ful faire upon an heeth,
     With grene trees shadwed was his place.
     He koude bettre than his lord purchace.
     Ful riche he was astored pryvely;
     His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly
     

     To yeve and lene hym of his owene good,
     And have a thank, and yet a cote and hook.
     In youthe he hadde lerned a good myster,
     He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter.
     This reve sat upon a ful good stot,
     
     That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot.
     A long surcote of pers upon he hade,
     And by his syde he baar a rusty blade.
     Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle,
     Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.
     
     Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute,
     And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route.
        A Somonour was ther with us in that place,
     That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynnes face,
     For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe.
     
     As hoot he was, and lecherous, as a sparwe,
     With scalled browes blake, and piled berd,
     Of his visage children were aferd.
     Ther nas quyk-silver, lytarge, ne brymstoon,
     Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,
     
     Ne oynement, that wolde clense and byte,
     That hym myghte helpen of his wheldes white,
     Nor of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes.
     Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,
     And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood;
     
     Thanne wolde he speke and crie as he were wood.
     And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,
     Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.
     A fewe termes hadde he, two or thre,
     That he had lerned out of som decree-
     
     No wonder is, he herde it al the day,
     And eek ye knowen wel how that a jay
     Kan clepen `watte' as wel as kan the Pope.
     But who so koude in oother thyng hym grope,
     Thanne hadde he spent al his plilosophie;
     
     Ay `questio quid juris' wolde he crie.
     He was a gentil harlot and a kynde,
     A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde;
     He wolde suffre, for a quart of wyn,
     A good felawe to have his concubyn
     
     A twelf-monthe, and excuse hym atte fulle-
     Ful prively a fynch eek koude he pulle.
     And if he foond owher a good felawe,
     He wolde techen him to have noon awe,
     In swich caas, of the erchedekeness curs,
     
     But if a mannes soule were in his purs;
     For in his purs he sholde ypunysshed be,
     `Purs is the erchedekenes helle,' seyde he.
     But wel I woot he lyed right in dede;
     Of cursyng oghte ech gilty man him drede-
     
     For curs wol slee, right as assoillyng savith-
     And also war him of a Significavit.
     In daunger hadde he at his owene gise
     The yonge girles of the diocise,
     And knew hir conseil, and was al hir reed.
     

     A gerland hadde he set upon his heed
     As greet as it were for an ale-stake;
     A bokeleer hadde he maad him of a cake.
        With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner
     Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer,
     
     That streight was comen fro the court of Rome.
     Ful loude he soong `com hider, love, to me.'
     This Somonour bar to hym a stif burdoun,
     Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun.
     This Pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,
     
     But smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flex;
     By ounces henge hise lokkes that he hadde,
     And therwith he hise shuldres overspradde;
     But thynne it lay by colpons oon and oon.
     But hood, for jolitee, wered he noon,
     
     For it was trussed up in his walet.
     Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jet,
     Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare.
     Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare.
     A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe.
     
     His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe
     Bret-ful of pardoun come from Rome al hoot.
     A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot,
     No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have,
     As smothe it was as it were late shave,
     
     I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare.
     But of his craft, fro Berwyk into Ware,
     Ne was ther swich another Pardoner;
     For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer,
     Which that he seyde was Oure Lady veyl;
     
     He seyde, he hadde a gobet of the seyl
     That Seinte Peter hadde, whan that he wente
     Upon the see, til Jesu Crist hym hente.
     He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones,
     And in a glas he hadde pigges bones;
     
     But with thise relikes whan that he fond
     A povre persoun dwellyng up-on-lond,
     Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye
     Than that the person gat in monthes tweye,
     And thus with feyned flaterye and japes
     
     He made the persoun and the peple his apes.
     But trewely to tellen atte laste,
     He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste;
     Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a storie,
     But alderbest he song an offertorie,
     
     For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe
     He moste preche, and wel affile his tonge;
     To wynne silver, as he ful wel koude,
     Therfore he song the murierly and loude.
        Now have I toold you shortly in a clause
     
     Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause
     Why that assembled was this compaignye
     In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye,
     That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.
     But now is tyme to yow for to telle
     

     How that we baren us that ilke nyght
     Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght,
     And after wol I telle of our viage,
     And all the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage.
     But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye,
     
     That ye narette it nat my vileynye,
     Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere
     To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere,
     Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely.
     For this ye knowen also wel as I,
     
     Who-so shal telle a tale after a man,
     He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan
     Everich a word, if it be in his charge,
     Al speke he never so rudeliche or large;
     Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,
     
     Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe.
     He may nat spare, al thogh he were his brother,
     He moot as wel seye o word as another.
     Crist spak hym-self ful brode in Hooly Writ,
     And, wel ye woot, no vileynye is it.
     
     Eek Plato seith, who so kan hym rede,
     The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede.
     Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,
     Al have I nat set folk in hir degree
     Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde-
     
     My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.
     Greet chiere made oure hoost us everichon,
     And to the soper sette he us'anon.
     He served us with vitaille at the beste;
     Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us lestel
     
     A semely man oure Hooste was withalle
     For to been a marchal in an halle.
     A large man he was, with eyen stepe,
     A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe;
     Boold of his speche, and wys, and well ytaught,
     
     And of manhod hym lakkede right naught.
     Eek therto he was right a myrie man;
     And after soper pleyen he bigan,
     And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges,
     Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges,
     
     And seyde thus: "Now lordynges, trewely,
     Ye been to me right welcome hertely,
     For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,
     I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye
     Atones in this herberwe, as is now.
     
     Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how-
     And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght
     To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght.
     Ye goon to Caunterbury, God yow speede-
     The blisful martir quite yow youre meede-
     
     And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,
     Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye,
     For trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon
     To ride by the weye doumb as stoon,
     And therfore wol I maken yow disport,
     

     As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort;
     And if yow liketh alle by oon assent
     For to stonden at my juggement,
     And for to werken as I shal yow seye,
     To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye,
     
     Now, by my fader soule that is deed,
     But ye be myrie I wol yeve yow myn heed!
     Hoold up youre hond, withouten moore speche."
     Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche-
     Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys-
     
     And graunted hym, withouten moore avys,
     And bad him seye his voirdit, as hym leste.
     "Lordynges," quod he, "now herkneth for the beste,
     But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn.
     This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,
     
     That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye,
     In this viage shal telle tales tweye,
     To Caunterburyward I mene it so,
     And homward he shal tellen othere two,
     Of aventures that whilom han bifalle.
     
     And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle-
     That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas
     Tales of best sentence and moost solaas-
     Shal have a soper at oure aller cost,
     Heere in this place, sittynge by this post,
     
     Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.
     And for to make yow the moore mury
     I wol my-selven goodly with yow ryde
     Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde.
     And who so wole my juggement withseye
     
     Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.
     And if ye vouchesauf that it be so,
     Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo,
     And I wol erly shape me therfore."
     This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore
     
     With ful gald herte, and preyden hym also
     That he wolde vouchesauf for to do so,
     And that he wolde been oure governour,
     And of our tales juge and reportour,
     And sette a soper at a certeyn pris,
     
     And we wol reuled been at his devys
     In heigh and lough; and thus by oon assent
     We been acorded to his juggement;
     And therupon the wyn was fet anon,
     We dronken, and to reste wente echon
     
     Withouten any lenger taryynge.
        Amorwe, whan that day bigan to sprynge,
     Up roos oure Hoost, and was oure aller cok,
     And gadrede us to gidre, alle in a flok,
     And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas,
     
     Unto the wateryng of Seint Thomas. 
     And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste,
     And seyde, "Lordynges, herkneth if yow leste,
     Ye woot youre foreward, and I it yow recorde;
     If even-song and morwe-song accorde,
     

     Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale.
     As evere mote I drynke wyn or ale,
     Whoso be rebel to my juggement
     Shal paye for al that by the wey is spent.
     Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne,
     
     He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne.
     Sire knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my lord,
     Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord,
     Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady Prioresse,
     And ye, Sir Clerk, lat be your shamefastnesse,
     
     Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every man."
     Anon to drawen every wight bigan,
     And shortly for to tellen as it was,
     Were it by aventure, or sort, or cas,
     The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knyght,
     
     Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght.
     And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun,
     By foreward and by composicioun,-
     As ye han herd, what nedeth wordes mo?
     And whan this goode man saugh that it was so,
     
     As he that wys was and obedient
     To kepe his foreward by his free assent,
     He seyde, "Syn I shal bigynne the game,
     What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name!
     Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye."
     
        And with that word we ryden forth oure weye,
     And he bigan with right a myrie cheere
     His tale anon, and seyde in this manere.
     Part 2
     
     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
     
     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.
     
     The fomy steedes on the golden brydel
     Gnawynge, and faste the armurers also
     With fyle and hamer prikynge to and fro;
     Yemen on foote and communes many oon,
     With shorte staves thikke as they may goon,
     
     Pypes, trompes, nakerers, clariounes,
     That in the bataille blowen blody sounes;
     The paleys ful of peples up and doun,
     Heere thre, ther ten, holdynge hir questioun,
     Dyvynynge of thise Thebane knyghtes two.
     
     Somme seyden thus, somme seyde it shal be so,
     Somme helden with hym with the blake berd,
     Somme with the balled, somme with the thikke-herd,
     Somme seyde he looked grymme, and he wolde fighte,
     He hath a sparth of twenty pound of wighte,
     
     Thus was the halle ful of divynynge
     Longe after that the sonne gan to sprynge.
        The grete Theseus, that of his sleep awaked
     With mynstralcie and noyse that was maked,
     Heeld yet the chambre of his paleys riche,
     
     Til that the Thebane knyghtes, bothe yliche
     Honured, were into the paleys fet.
     Due Theseus was at a wyndow set,
     Arrayed, right as he were a god in trone.
     The peple preesseth thiderward ful soone,
     
     Hym for to seen and doon heigh reverence.
     And eek to herkne his heste and his sentence.
     An heraud on a scaffold made an "Oo!"
     Til al the noyse of peple was ydo,
     And whan he saugh the peple of noyse al stille,
     
     Tho shewed he the myghty dukes wille.
     "The lord hath of his heigh discrecioun
     Considered, that it were destruccioun
     To gentil blood, to fighten in the gyse
     Of mortal bataille, now in this emprise;
     
     Wherfore, to shapen that they shal nat dye,
     He wolde his firste purpos modifye.
     No man therfore, up peyne of los of lyf,
     No maner shot, ne polax, ne short knyf
     Into the lystes sende, ne thider brynge.
     
     Ne short swerd for to stoke, with poynt bitynge,
     No man ne drawe, ne bere by his syde;
     Ne no man shal unto his felawe ryde
     But o cours, with a sharpe ygrounde spere.
     Foyne if hym list on foote, hym-self to were;
     
     And he that is at meschief shal be take,
     And noght slayn, but be broght unto the stake
     That shal ben ordeyned on either syde,
     But thider he shal by force, and there abyde.
     And if so be the chevetayn be take
     
     On outher syde, or elles sleen his make,
     No lenger shal the turneiynge laste.
     God spede you, gooth forth, and ley on faste!
     With long swerd and with maces fight youre fille;
     Gooth now youre wey, this is the lordes wille."
     
        The voys of peple touchede the hevene,
     So loude cride they with murie stevene,
     "God save swich a lord, that is so good
     He wilneth no destruccion of blood."
     Up goon the trompes and the melodye,
     
     And to the lystes rit the compaignye,
     By ordinance, thurgh-out the citee large
     Hanged with clooth of gold, and nat with sarge.
     Ful lik a lord this noble duc gan ryde,
     Thise two Thebanes upon either syde,
     
     And after rood the queene and Emelye,
     And after that another compaignye,
     Of oon and oother, after hir degre;
     And thus they passen thurgh-out the citee
     And to the lystes come they by tyme.
     
     It nas nat of the day yet fully pryme
     Whan set was Theseus ful riche and hye,
     Ypolita the queene, and Emelye,
     And othere ladys in degrees aboute.
     Unto the seettes preesseth al the route,
     
     And westward thurgh the gates under Marte,
     Arcite, and eek the hondred of his parte,
     With baner reed is entred right anon.
     And in that selve moment Palamon
     Is under Venus estward in the place,
     
     With baner whyt, and hardy chiere and face.
     In al the world to seken up and doun
     So evene withouten variacioun
     Ther nere swiche compaignyes tweye!
     For ther was noon so wys, that koude seye
     
     That any hadde of oother avauntage,
     Of worthynesse ne of estaat ne age,
     So evene were they chosen, for to gesse.
     And in two renges faire they hem dresse,
     Whan that hir names rad were everichon,
     
     That in hir nombre gyle were ther noon.
     Tho were the gates shet and cried was loude,
     "Do now youre devoir, yonge knyghtes proude!"
     The heraudes lefte hir prikyng up and doun;
     Now ryngen trompes loude and clarioun.
     
     Ther is namoore to seyn, but west and est
     In goon the speres ful sadly in arrest,
     In gooth the sharpe spore into the syde.
     Ther seen men who kan juste, and who kan ryde,
     Ther shyveren shaftes upon sheeldes thikke;
     
     He feeleth thurgh the herte-spoon the prikke.
     Up spryngen speres twenty foot on highte;
     Out gooth the swerdes as the silver brighte.
     The helmes they tohewen and toshrede,
     Out brest the blood, with stierne stremes rede,
     
     With myghty maces the bones they tobreste.
     He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gan threste;
     Ther stomblen steedes stronge, and doun gooth al;
     He rolleth under foot as dooth a bal,
     He foyneth on his feet with his tronchoun,
     
     And he hym hurtleth with his hors adoun.
     He thurgh the body is hurt and sithen ytake,
     Maugree his heed, and broght unto the stake,
     As forward was, right there he moste abyde;
     Another lad is on that oother syde.
     
     And som tyme dooth hem Theseus to reste,
     Hem to refresshe, and drynken if hem leste.
     Ful ofte a day han thise Thebanes two
     Togydre ymet, and wroght his felawe wo.
     Unhorsed hath ech oother of hem tweye,
     
     
     Ther nas no tygre in the vlae of Galgopheye
     Whan that hir whelp is stole, whan it is lite,
     So crueel on the hunte, as is Arcite
     For jelous herte upon this Palamoun;
     Ne in Belmarye ther nys so fel leoun
     
     That hunted is, or for his hunger wood,
     Ne of his praye desireth so the blood,
     As Palamoun to sleen his foo Arcite.
     The jelous strokes on hir helmes byte,
     Out renneth blood on bothe hir sydes rede.
     
        Som tyme an ende ther is of every dede;
     For er the sonne unto the reste wente,
     The stronge kyng Emetreus gan hente
     This Palamon, as he faught with Arcite,
     And made his swerd depe in his flessh to byte.
     
     And by the force of twenty is he take
     Unyolden, and ydrawe unto the stake.
     And in the rescous of this Palamoun
     The stronge kyng Lygurge is born adoun,
     And kyng Emetreus, for al his strengthe,
     
     Is born out of his sadel a swerdes lengthe,
     So hitte him Palamoun er he were take;
     But al for noght, he was broght to the stake.
     His hardy herte myghte hym helpe naught,
     He moste abyde, whan that he was caught,
     
     By force, and eek by composicioun.
     Who sorweth now but woful Palamoun,
     That moot namoore goon agayn to fighte?
     And whan that Theseus hadde seyn this sighte
     Unto the folk that foghten thus echon
     
     He cryde, "Hoo! namoore, for it is doon.
     I wol be trewe juge, and no partie;
     Arcite of Thebes shal have Emelie,
     That by his fortune hath hir faire ywonne!"
     Anon ther is a noyse of peple bigonne
     
     For joye of this so loude and heighe withalle
     It semed that the lystes sholde falle.
        What kan now faire Venus doon above?
     What seith she now, what dooth this queene of Love,
     But wepeth so, for wantynge of hir wille,
     
     Til that hir teeres in the lystes fille.
     She seyde, "I am ashamed, doutelees."
     Saturnus seyde, "Doghter, hoold thy pees,
     Mars hath his wille, his knyght hath al his boone,
     And, by myn heed, thow shalt been esed soone."
     
        The trompes with the loude mynstralcie,
     The heraudes that ful loude yolle and crie,
     Been in hir wele for joye of Daun Arcite.
     But herkneth me, and stynteth now a lite,
     Which a myracle ther bifel anon.
     
     This fierse Arcite hath of his helm ydon,
     And on a courser for to shewe his face
     He priketh endelong the large place,
     Lokynge upward upon this Emelye,
     And she agayn hym caste a freendlich eye,
     
     (For wommen, as to speken in commune,
     They folwen al the favour of Fortune)
     And she was al his chiere, as in his herte.
     Out of the ground a furie infernal sterte,
     From Pluto sent, at requeste of Saturne,
     
     For which his hors for fere gan to turne,
     And leep aside and foundred as he leep.
     And er that Arcite may taken keep,
     He pighte hym on the pomel of his heed,
     That in the place he lay as he were deed,
     
     His brest tobrosten with his sadel-bowe.
     As blak he lay as any cole or crowe,
     So was the blood yronnen in his face.
     Anon he was yborn out of the place,
     With herte soor, to Theseus paleys.
     
     Tho was he korven out of his harneys,
     And in a bed ybrought ful faire and blyve,
     For he was yet in memorie and alyve,
     And alwey criynge after Emelye.
     Duc Theseus, with al hes compaignye,
     
     Is comen hoom to Atthenes his citee,
     With alle blisse and greet solempnitee;
     Al be it that this aventure was falle,
     He nolde noght disconforten hem alle.
     Men seyde eek that Arcite shal nat dye,
     
     He shal been heeled of his maladye.
     And of another thyng they weren as fayn,
     That of hem alle was ther noon yslayn,
     Al were they soore yhurt, and namely oon,
     That with a spere was thirled his brest-boon.
     
     To othere woundes, and to broken armes,
     Somme hadden salves, and somme hadden charmes,
     Fermacies of herbes and eek save
     They dronken, for they wolde hir lymes have.
     For which this noble duc as he wel kan,
     
     Conforteth and honoureth every man,
     And made revel al the longe nyght
     Unto the straunge lordes, as was right.
     Ne ther was holden no disconfitynge
     But as a justes or a tourneiynge,
     
     For soothly ther was no disconfiture-
     For fallyng nys nat but an aventure-
     Ne to be lad by force unto the stake
     Unyolden, and with twenty knyghtes take,
     O persone allone, withouten mo,
     
     And haryed forth by arme, foot, and too,
     And eke his steede dryven forth with staves,
     With footmen, bothe yemen and eek knaves,
     It nas aretted hym no vileynye,
     Ther may no man clepen it cowardye.
     
     For which anon duc Theseus leet crye,
     To stynten alle rancour and envye,
     The gree, as wel of o syde as of oother,
     And eyther syde ylik as ootheres brother,
     And yaf hem yiftes after hir degree,
     
     And fully heeld a feeste dayes three,
     And convoyed the kynges worthily
     Out of his toun a journee, largely;
     And hoom wente every man, the righte way,
     Ther was namoore but `fare-wel, have good day.'
     
     Of this bataille I wol namoore endite,
     But speke of Palamoun and of Arcite.
        Swelleth the brest of Arcite, and the soore
     Encreesseth at his herte moore and moore.
     The clothered blood for any lechecraft
     
     Corrupteth, and is in his bouk ylaft,
     That neither veyne-blood, ne ventusynge,
     Ne drynke of herbes may ben his helpynge.
     The vertu expulsif, or animal,
     Fro thilke vertu cleped natural
     
     Ne may the venym voyden, ne expelle.
     The pipes of his longes gonne to swelle,
     And every lacerte in his brest adoun
     Is shent with venym and corrupcioun.
     Hym gayneth neither for to gete his lif
     
     Vomyt upward, ne dounward laxatif;
     Al is tobrosten thilke regioun,
     Nature hath now no dominacioun.
     And certeinly, ther Nature wol nat wirche,
     Fare-wel phisik, go ber the man to chirche!
     
     This al and som, that Arcita moot dye;
     For which he sendeth after Emelye
     And Palamon, that was his cosyn deere.
     Thanne seyde he thus, as ye shal after heere:
     "Naught may the woful spirit in myn herte
     
     Declare o point of alle my sorwes smerte
     To yow, my lady, that I love moost.
     But I biquethe the servyce of my goost
     To yow aboven every creature.
     Syn that my lyf may no lenger dure,
     
     Allas, the wo! allas, the peynes stronge
     That I for yow have suffred, and so longe!
     Allas, the deeth! allas, myn Emelye!
     Allas, departynge of our compaignye!
     Allas, myn hertes queene! allas, my wyf!
     
     Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf!
     What is this world? what asketh men to have?
     Now with his love, now in his colde grave,
     Allone, withouten any compaignye.
     Fare-wel, my swete foo, myn Emelye,
     
     And softe taak me in youre armes tweye,
     For love of God, and herkneth what I seye.
        "I have heer with my cosyn Palamon
     Had strif and rancour many a day agon,
     For love of yow, and for my jalousye.
     
     And Juppiter so wys my soule gye
     To speken of a servaunt proprely,
     With alle circumstances trewely,
     That is to seyn, trouthe, honour, and knyghthede,
     Wysdom, humblesse, estaat, and heigh kynrede,
     
     Fredom, and al that longeth to that art,
     So Juppiter have of my soule part
     As in this world right now ne knowe I non
     So worthy to ben loved, as Palamon
     That serveth yow, and wol doon al his lyf;
     
     And if that evere ye shul ben a wyf,
     Foryet nat Palamon, the gentil man."
     And with that word his speche faille gan,
     And from his herte up to his brest was come
     The coold of deeth, that hadde hym overcome.
     
     And yet moreover in hise armes two
     The vital strengthe is lost and al ago.
     Oonly the intellect, withouten moore,
     That dwelled in his herte syk and soore
     Gan faillen, when the