In darkness horrible, and strong prisón, This seven year hath sitten Palamon, Forpined, what for love, and for distress. Who feeleth double sorrow and heaviness But Palamon? that love distraineth so, That wood out of his wits he went for woe, And eke thereto he is a prisonére Perpetual, not only for a year. Who couldë rhyme in English properly His martyrdom? forsooth, it is not I; Therefore I pass as lightly as I may. It fell that in the seventh year, in May The thirdë night (as oldë bookës sayn, That all this story tellen morë plain), Were it by áventure or destiny (As, when a thing is shapen it shall be), That, soon after the midnight, Palamon By helping of a friend brake his prisón, And fled the city fast as he might go, For he had given drink his gaoler so Of a clary, made of a certain wine, With narcotise and opie of Thebes fine, That all the night, though that men would him shake, The gaoler slept, he mightë not awake: And thus he fled as fast as ever he may. The night was short, and fastë by the day That needës cast he must himself to hide. And to a grovë fastë there beside With dreadful foot then stalked Palamon. For shortly this was his opinión, That in the grove he would him hide all day, And in the night then would he take his way To Thebes-ward, his friendës for to pray On Theseus to help him to warray. And shortly either he would lose his life, Or winnen Emily unto his wife. This is th’ effect, and his intention plain.
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 drieth in the greves 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 of his desire, He on his