The Knight’s Tale

courser, starting as the fire, Is ridden to the fieldës him to play, Out of the court, were it a mile or tway. And to the grove, of which I have you told, By áventure his way began to hold, To makë him a garland of the greves, Were it of woodbine, or of hawthorn leaves, And loud he sang against the sun so sheen. “O May, with all thy flowers and thy green, Right welcome be thou, fairë freshë May, I hope that I some green here getten may.” And from his courser, with a lusty heart, Into the grove full hastily he start, And in a path he roamed up and down, There as by áventure this Palamon Was in a bush, that no man might him see, For sore afeard of his death was he. Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite; God wot he would have trowed it full lite. But sooth is said, gone since full many years, The field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears. It is full fair a man to bear him even, For all day meeten men at unset steven. Full little wot Arcite of his felláw, That was so nigh to hearken of his saw, For in the bush he sitteth now full still. When that Arcite had roamed all his fill, And sungen all the roundel lustily, Into a study he fell suddenly, As do those lovers in their quaintë gears, Now in the crop, and now down in the breres, Now up, now down, as bucket in a well. Right as the Friday, soothly for to tell, Now shineth it, and now it raineth fast, Right so can geary Venus overcast The heartës of her folk, right as her day Is gearful, right so changeth she array. Seldom is Friday all the weekë like. When Arcite had y-sung, he gan to sike, And sat him down withouten any more: “Alas!” quoth he, “the day that I was bore! How longë, Juno, through thy cruelty Wilt thou warrayen Thebes the city? Alas! y-brought is to confusion The blood royál of Cadm’ and Amphion: Of Cadmus, which that was the firstë man, That Thebes built, or first the town began, And of the city first was crowned king. Of his lineáge am I, and his offspring By very line, as of the stock royál; And now I am so caitiff and so thrall, That he that is my mortal enemy, I serve him as his squiër poorëly. And yet doth Juno me well morë shame, For I dare not beknow mine owen name, But there as I was wont to hight Arcite, Now hight I Philostrate, not worth a mite. Alas! thou fell Mars, and alas! Juno, Thus