but right in hell. Alas! that ever I knew Perithous. For ellës had I dwelt with Theseus Y-fettered in his prison evermo’. Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe. Only the sight of her, whom that I serve, Though that I never may her grace deserve, Would have sufficed right enough for me. O dearë cousin Palamon,” quoth he, “Thine is the vict’ry of this áventúre, Full blissfully in prison to endure: In prison? nay certes, in paradise. Well hath fortúne y-turned thee the dice, That hast the sight of her, and I th’ absénce. For possible is, since thou hast her presénce, And art a knight, a worthy and an able, That by some cas, since fortune is changeáble, Thou may’st to thy desire sometime attain. But I that am exiled, and barrén Of allë grace, and in so great despair, That there n’is earthë, water, fire, nor air, Nor creature, that of them maked is, That may me helpë nor comfort in this, Well ought I sterve in wanhope and distress. Farewell my life, my lust, and my gladnéss. Alas, why plainen men so in commúne Of purveyance of God, or of Fortúne, That giveth them full oft in many a guise Well better than they can themselves devise? Some man desireth for to have richess, That cause is of his murder or great sickness. And some man would out of his prison fain, That in his house is of his meinie slain. Infinite harmës be in this mattére. We wot never what thing we pray for here. We fare as he that drunk is as a mouse. A drunken man wot well he hath an house, But he wot not which is the right way thither, And to a drunken man the way is slither. And certes in this world so farë we. We seekë fast after felicity, But we go wrong full often truëly. Thus we may sayen all, and namely I, That ween’d, and had a great opinión, That if I might escapë from prisón Then had I been in joy and perfect heal, Where now I am exiled from my weal. Since that I may not see you, Emily, I am but dead; there is no remedy.”
Upon that other sidë, Palamon, When that he wist Arcita was agone, Much sorrow maketh, that the greatë tower Resounded of his yelling and clamoúr. The purë fetters on his shinnës great Were of his bitter saltë tearës wet.