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

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      For, shortly for to say, this Palamon

      Perpetuelly is damned to prison,

      In chaines and in fetters to ben ded;

      And Arcite is exiled on his hed

      For evermore, as out of that contree,

      Ne never more he shal his lady see.

      You lovers, axe I now this question,

      Who hath the werse, Arcite, or Palamon?

      That on may se his lady day by day,

      But in prison moste he dwellen alway:

      That other wher him lust may ride or go,

      But sen his lady shal he never mo.

      Now demeth as you liste, ye that can,

      For I wil tell you forth, as I began.

      When that Arcite to Thebes comen was,

      Ful oft a day he swelt, and said, Alas!

      For sen his lady shal he neuer mo.

      And, shortly, to concluden all his wo,

      So mochel sorwe hadde never creature

      That is or shal be while the world may dure.

      His slepe, his mete, his drinke, is him byraft,

      That lene he wex, and drie as is a shaft.

      His eyen holwe, and grisly to behold,

      His hewe salowe, and pale as ashen cold;

      And solitary he was, and ever alone,

      And wailing all the night, making mone;

      And if he herde song or instrument,

      Than would he wepe, he mighte not be stent:

      So feble were his spirites, and so low,

      And changed so, that no man coude know

      His speche ne his vois, though men it herd.

      And in his gere, for all the world he ferd,

      Nought only like the lovers maladie,

      Of Ereos, but rather ylike manie,

      Engendred of humours melancolike,

      Beforne his hed in his celle fantastike.

      And shortly turned was all up so doun

      Both habit and eke dispositioun

      Of him, this woful lover Dan Arcite.

      What shuld I all day of his wo endite?

      Whan he endured had a yere or two

      This cruel torment, and this peine and wo,

      At Thebes, in his contree, as I said,

      Upon a night in slepe as he him laid,

      Him thought how that the winged god Mercury

      Beforne him stood, and bad him be mery.

      His slepy yerde in hond he bare upright;

      An hat he wered upon his heres bright:

      Arraied was this god, (as he toke kepe,)

      As he was whan that Argus toke his slepe,

      And said him thus: To Athenes shall thou wende,

      Ther is thee shapen of thy wo an ende.

      And with that word Arcite awoke and stert.

      Now trewely how sore that ever me smert,

      Quod he, to Athenes right now wol I fare;

      Ne for no drede of deth shall I not spare

      To se my lady, that I love and serve;

      In hire presence I rekke not to sterve.

      And with that word he caught a gret mirrour,

      And saw that changed was all his colour,

      And saw his visage all in another kind;

      And right anon it ran him in his mind,

      That sith his face was so disfigured

      Of maladie, the which he had endured,

      He might wel, if that he bare him lowe,

      Live in Athenes evermore unknowe,

      And sen his lady wel nigh day by day.

      And right anon he changed his aray,

      And clad him as a poure labourer;

      And all alone (save only a squier,

      That knew his privitie and all his cas,

      Which was disguised pourely as he was,)

      To Athenes is he gone the nexte way.

      And to the court he went upon a day,

      And at the gate he proffered his service,

      To drugge and draw what so men wold devise.

      And shortly of this matere for to sayn,

      He fell in office with a chamberlain,

      The which that dwelling was with Emelie;

      For he was wise, and coude sone espie

      Of every servent which that served hire:

      Wel coud he hewen wood, and water bere,

      For he was yonge and mighty for the nones,

      And thereto he was strong and big of bones

      To done that any wight can him devise.

      A yere or two he was in this service,

      Page of the chambre of Emelie the bright,

      And Philostrate he sayde that he hight.

      But half so wel beloved man as he

      Ne was ther never in court of his degre.

      He was so gentil of conditioun,

      That thurghout all the court was his renoun.

      They sayden that it were a charite

      That Theseus wold enhaunse his degre,

      And putten him in a worshipful service,

      Ther as he might his vertues exercise.

      And thus, within a while, his name is spronge,

      Both of his dedes, and of his good tonge,

      That Theseus had taken him so ner,

      That of his chambre he made him squier,

      And gave him gold to mainteine his degre;

      And eke men brought him out of his contre

      Fro yere to yere ful prively his rent;

      But honestly and sleighly he it spent,

      That no man wondred how that he it hadde.

      And thre yere in this wise his lif he ladde,

      And bare him so in pees and eke in werre,

      Ther n'as no man that Theseus hath derre.

      And in this blisse let I now Arcite,

      And speke I wol of Palamon a lite.

      In derkenesse and horrible and strong prison

      This seven yere hath sitten Palamon,

      Forpined, what for love and for distresse.

      Who feleth double sorwe and hevinesse

      But Palamon? that love distraineth so,

      That wood out of his wit he goth for wo,

      And eke therto he is a prisonere

      Perpetuell, not only for a yere.

      Who coude rime in English proprely

      His martirdom? forsoth it am not I;

      Therfore I passe as lightly as I may.

      It fel that in the seventh yere, in May,

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