The Knight’s Tale

rebel is to him that all may gie. And certainly a man hath most honoúr To dien in his excellence and flower, When he is sicker of his goodë name. Then hath he done his friend, nor him, no shame And gladder ought his friend be of his death, When with honoúr is yielded up his breath, Than when his name appalled is for age; For all forgotten is his vassalage. Then is it best, as for a worthy fame, To dien when a man is best of name. The contrary of all this is wilfulness. Why grudgë we, why have we heaviness, That good Arcite, of chivalry the flower, Departed is, with duty and honoúr, Out of this foulë prison of this life? Why grudgë here his cousin and his wife Of his welfare, that loved him so well? Can he them thank?⁠—nay, God wot, never a deal⁠— That both his soul and eke themselves offend, And yet they may their lustës not amend. What may I cónclude of this longë série, But after sorrow I rede us to be merry, And thankë Jupiter for all his grace? And ere that we departë from this place, I redë that we make of sorrows two One perfect joyë lasting evermo’: And look now where most sorrow is herein, There will I first amenden and begin. “Sister,” quoth he, “this is my full