hath your ire our lineage all fordo’. Save only me, and wretched Palamon, That Theseus martýreth in prisón. And over all this, to slay me utterly, Love hath his fiery dart so brenningly Y-sticked through my truë careful heart, That shapen was my death erst than my shert. Ye slay me with your eyen, Emily; Ye be the causë wherefore that I die. Of all the remnant of mine other care Ne set I not the mountance of a tare, So that I could do aught to your pleasance.”
And with that word he fell down in a trance A longë time; and afterward upstart This Palamon, that thought thorough his heart He felt a cold sword suddenly to glide: For ire he quoke, no longer would he hide. And when that he had heard Arcite’s tale, As he were wood, with facë dead and pale, He start him up out of the bushes thick, And said: “False Arcita, false traitor wick’, Now art thou hent, that lov’st my lady so, For whom that I have all this pain and woe, And art my blood, and to my counsel sworn, As I full oft have told thee herebeforn, And hast bejaped here Duke Theseus, And falsely changed hast thy namë thus; I will be dead, or ellës thou shalt die. Thou shalt not love my lady Emily, But I will love her only and no mo’; For I am Palamon thy mortal foe. And though I have no weapon in this place, But out of prison am