When that Arcite to Thebes comen was, Full oft a day he swelt, 393 and said, “Alas!” For see this lady he shall never mo’. And shortly to concluden all his woe, So much sorrow had never creatúre That is or shall be while the world may dure. His sleep, his meat, his drink is him byraft, 394 That lean he wex, 395 and dry as any shaft. 396 His eyen hollow, grisly to behold, His hue fallow, 397 and pale as ashes cold, And solitary he was, ever alone, And wailing all the night, making his moan. And if he heardë song or instrument, Then would he weepen, he might not be stent. 398 So feeble were his spirits, and so low,