How great a sorrow suff’reth now Arcite! The death he feeleth through his heartë smite; He weepeth, waileth, crieth piteously; To slay himself he waiteth privily. He said; “Alas the day that I was born! Now is my prison worsë than beforn: Now is me shape 364 eternally to dwell Not in purgatory, but right in hell. Alas! that ever I knew Perithous. For ellës had I dwelt with Theseus Y-fettered in his prison evermo’. Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe. Only the sight of her, whom that I serve, Though that I never may her grace deserve, Would have sufficed right enough for me. O dearë cousin Palamon,” quoth he, “Thine is the vict’ry of this áventúre, Full blissfully in prison to endure: In prison? nay certes, in paradise. Well hath fortúne y-turned thee the dice, That hast the sight of her, and I th’ absénce. For possible is, since thou hast her presénce,