Now will I turn to Arcita again, That little wist how nighë was his care, Till that Fortúne had brought him in the snare. The busy lark, the messenger of day, Saluteth in her song the morning gray; And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright, That all the orient laugheth at the sight, And with his streamës 430 drieth in the greves 431 The silver droppës, hanging on the leaves; And Arcite, that is in the court royál With Theseus, his squier principal, Is ris’n, and looketh on the merry day. And for to do his óbservance to May, Remembering the point 432 of his desire, He on his courser, starting as the fire, Is ridden to the fieldës him to play, Out of the court, were it a mile or tway. And to the grove, of which I have you told, By áventure his way began to hold,