Now will I stent of Palamon a lite, And let him in his prison stillë dwell, And of Arcita forth I will you tell. The summer passeth, and the nightës long Increasë double-wise the painës strong Both of the lover and the prisonére. I n’ot which hath the wofuller mistére. For, shortly for to say, this Palamon Perpetually is damned to prisón, In chainës and in fetters to be dead; And Arcite is exiled on his head For evermore as out of that country, Nor never more he shall his lady see. You lovers ask I now this question, Who lieth the worse, Arcite or Palamon? The one may see his lady day by day, But in prison he dwellë must alway. The other where him list may ride or go, But see his lady shall he never mo’. Now deem all as you listë, ye that can, For I will tell you forth as I began.
When that Arcite to Thebes comen was, Full oft a day he swelt, 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, That lean he wex, and dry as any shaft. His eyen hollow, grisly to behold, His hue fallow, 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. So feeble were his spirits, and so low, And changed so, that no man couldë know His speech, neither his voice, though men it heard. And in his gear for all the world he far’d Not only like the lovers’ malady Of Eros, but rather y-like maníe, Engender’d of humoúrs meláncholic, Before his head in his cell fántastic. And shortly turned was all upside down, Both habit and eke dispositioún, Of him, this woful lover Dan Arcite. Why should I all day of his woe indite? When he endured had a year or two This cruel torment, and this pain and woe, At Thebes, in his country, as I said, Upon a night in sleep as he him laid, Him thought how that the winged god Mercúry Before him stood, and bade him to be merry. His sleepy yard in hand he bare upright; A hat he wore upon his hairës bright. Arrayed was this god (as he took keep) As he was when that Argus took his sleep; And said him thus: “To Athens shalt thou wend; There is thee