The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

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      Let him beware, his nekke lieth to wedde.

      How great a sorwe suffereth now Arcite?

      The deth he feleth thurgh his herte smite:

      He wepeth, waileth, crieth pitously,

      To sleen himself he waiteth prively.

      He said, Alas the day that I was borne!

      Now is my prison werse than beforne;

      Now is me shape eternally to dwelle

      Not only in purgatorie, but in helle.

      Alas! that ever I knew Perithous,

      For elles had I dwelt with Theseus,

      Yfetered in his prison evermo,

      Than had I ben in blisse, and not in wo:

      Only the sight of hire, whom that I serve,

      Though that I never hire grace may deserve,

      Wold have sufficed right ynough for me.

      O dere cosin Palamon, quod he,

      Thin is the victorie of this aventure;

      Ful blisful in prison maiest thou endure:

      In prison! certes nay, but in paradise.

      Wel hath Fortune yturned thee the dise,

      That hast the sight of hire, and I the absence.

      For possible is, sin thou hast hire presence,

      And art a knight, a worthy and an able,

      That by some cas, sin Fortune is changeable,

      Thou maiest to thy desir somtime atteine:

      But I that am exiled, and barreine

      Of alle grace, and in so gret despaire,

      That ther n'is erthe, water, fire, ne aire,

      Ne creature, that of hem maked is,

      That may me hele or don comfort in this,

      Wel ought I sterve in wanhope and distresse.

      Farewel my lif, my lust, and my gladnesse.

      Alas! why plainen men so in commune

      Of purveiance of God, or of Fortune,

      That yeveth hem ful oft in many a gise,

      Wel better than they can hemself devise;

      Som man desireth for to have richesse,

      That cause is of his murdre or gret siknesse;

      And som man wold out of his prison fayne,

      That in his house is of his meinie slain.

      Infinite harmes ben in this matere,

      We wote not what thing that we praien here.

      We saren as he that dronke is as a mous:

      A dronken man wot wel he hath an hous,

      But he ne wot which the right way thider,

      And to a dronken man the way is slider.

      And certes in this world so faren we;

      We seken fast after felicite,

      But we go wrong ful often trewely.

      Thus we may sayen alle, and namely I,

      That wende, and had a gret opinion,

      That if I might escapen fro prison,

      Than I had ben in joye and parfite hele,

      Ther now I am exiled fro my wele.

      Sin that I may not seen you, Emelie,

      I n'am but ded; there n'is no remedie.

      Upon that other side Palamon,

      Whan that he wist Arcita was agon,

      Swiche sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour

      Resouned of his yelling and clamour.

      The pure fetters on his shinnes grete

      Were of his bitter salte teres wete.

      Alas! quod he, Arcita, cosin min,

      Of all our strif, God wot, the frute is thin.

      Thou walkest now in Thebes at thy large,

      And of my wo, thou yevest litel charge.

      Thou maist, sith thou hast wisdom and manhede,

      Assemblen all the folk of our kinrede,

      And make werre so sharpe in this contree,

      That by som aventure, or som tretee,

      Thou maist have hire to lady and to wif,

      For whom that I must nedes lese my lif.

      For, as by way of possibilitee,

      Sith thou art at thy large of prison free,

      And art a lord, gret is thine avantage,

      More than is min, that sterve her in a cage;

      For I may wepe and waile, while that I live,

      With all the wo that prison may me yeve,

      And eke with peine that love me yeveth also,

      That doubleth all my tourment and my wo.

      Therwith the fire of jalousie up sterte

      Within his brest, and hent him by the herte

      So woodly, that he like was to behold

      The boxe-tree, or the ashen, ded and cold.

      Than said he: O cruel goddes, that governe

      This world with binding of your word eterne,

      And writen in the table of athamant,

      Your parlement, and your eterne grant,

      What is mankind more unto yhold

      Than is the shepe, that rouketh in the fold?

      For slain is man, right as another beest,

      And dwelleth eke in prison, and arrest,

      And hath siknesse, and gret adversite,

      And often times gilteles parde.

      What governance is in this prescience,

      That gilteless turmenteth innocence?

      And yet encreseth this all my penance,

      That man is bounden to his observance,

      For Goddes sake to leten of his will,

      Ther as a beest may all his lust fulfill:

      And when a beest is ded, he hath no peine;

      But man, after his deth, mote wepe and pleine,

      Though in this world he have care and wo,

      Withouten doute it maye stonden so.

      The answer of this lete I to divines,

      But wel I wote, that in this world gret pine is.

      Alas! I see a serpent or a thefe,

      That many a trewe man hath do meschefe,

      Gon at his large, and wher him lust may turn.

      But I moste ben in prison thurgh Saturn,

      And eke thurgh Juno, jalous and eke wood,

      That hath wel neye destruied all the blood

      Of Thebes, with his waste walles wide;

      And Venus sleeth me on that other side,

      For jalousie, and fere of him, Arcite.

      Now wol I stent of Palamon a lite,

      And leten him in his prison still dwelle,

      And of Arcita forth I wol you telle.

      The sommer passeth, and the nightes long,

      Encresen double wise the peines strong

      Both of the lover and of the prisoner;

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