Now hight I Philostrate, not worth a mite. Alas! thou fell Mars, and alas! Juno, Thus hath your ire our lineage all fordo’. 449 Save only me, and wretched Palamon, That Theseus martýreth in prisón. And over all this, to slay me utterly, Love hath his fiery dart so brenningly 450 Y-sticked through my truë careful heart, That shapen was my death erst than my shert. 451 Ye slay me with your eyen, Emily; Ye be the causë wherefore that I die. Of all the remnant of mine other care Ne set I not the mountance of a tare, 452 So that I could do aught to your pleasance.”