Dusked his eyen two, and fail’d his breath. But on his lady yet he cast his eye; His lastë word was; “Mercy, Emily!” His spirit changed house, and wentë there, As I came never I cannot tell where. Therefore I stent, I am no diviníster; Of soulës find I nought in this regíster. Ne me list not th’ opinions to tell Of them, though that they writen where they dwell; Arcite is cold, there Mars his soulë gie. Now will I speakë forth of Emily.
Shriek’d Emily, and howled Palamon, And Theseus his sister took anon Swooning, and bare her from the corpse away. What helpeth it to tarry forth the day, To tellë how she wept both eve and morrow? For in such cases women have such sorrow, When that their husbands be from them y-go, That for the morë part they sorrow so, Or ellës fall into such malady, That at the lastë certainly they die. Infinite be the sorrows and the tears Of oldë folk, and folk of tender years, In all the town, for death of this Theban: For him there weepeth bothë child and man. So great a weeping was there none certáin, When Hector was y-brought, all fresh y-slain, To Troy: alas! the pity that was there, Scratching of cheeks, and rending eke of hair. “Why wouldest thou be dead?” these women cry, “And haddest gold enough, and Emily.”