“Alas!” quoth he, “Arcita, cousin mine, Of all our strife, God wot, the fruit is thine. Thou walkest now in Thebes at thy large, And of my woe thou givest little charge. 374 Thou mayst, since thou hast wisdom and manhead, 375 Assemble all the folk of our kindréd, And make a war so sharp on this countrý, That by some áventure, or some treatý, Thou mayst have her to lady and to wife, For whom that I must needës lose my life. For as by way of possibility, Since thou art at thy large, of prison free, And art a lord, great is thine ávantage, More than is mine, that sterve 376 here in a cage. For I must weep and wail, while that I live, With all the woe that prison may me give, And eke with pain that love me gives also, That doubles all my torment and my woe.”