This Theseus, this Duke, this worthy knight, When he had brought them into his citý, And inned them, ev’reach at his degree, He feasteth them, and doth so great laboúr To easen them, and do them all honoúr, That yet men weenë that no mannë’s wit Of none estatë could amenden it. The minstrelsy, the service at the feast, The greatë giftës to the most and least, The rich array of Theseus’ paláce, Nor who sate first or last upon the dais, What ladies fairest be, or best dancing, Or which of them can carol best or sing, Or who most feelingly speaketh of love; What hawkës sitten on the perch above, What houndës liggen on the floor adown, Of all this now make I no mentioun; But of th’ effect; that thinketh me the best; Now comes the point, and hearken if you lest.
The Sunday night, ere day began to spring, When Palamon the larkë heardë sing, Although it were not day by hourës two, Yet sang the lark, and Palamon right tho With holy heart, and with an high couráge, Arose, to wenden on his pilgrimage Unto the blissful Cithera benign, I meanë Venus, honourable and digne. And in her hour he walketh forth a pace Unto the listës, where her temple was, And down he kneeleth, and with humble cheer And heartë sore, he said as ye shall hear.
“Fairest of fair, O lady mine Venus, Daughter to Jove, and spouse of Vulcanus, Thou gladder of the mount of Citheron! For thilkë love thou