He was ware of Arcite and Palamon, That foughtë breme, 486 as it were bullës two. The brightë swordës wentë to and fro So hideously, that with the leastë stroke It seemed that it wouldë fell an oak, But what they werë, nothing yet he wote. This Duke his courser with his spurrës smote, And at a start 487 he was betwixt them two, And pulled out a sword and cried, “Ho! No more, on pain of losing of your head. By mighty Mars, he shall anon be dead That smiteth any stroke, that I may see! But tell to me what mister 488 men ye be, That be so hardy for to fightë here Withoutë judge or other officer, As though it were in listës 489 royally.”