Knight's Tale - Richard Brodie's Modern English translation

Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde `Allas,'
For seen his lady shal he nevere mo;
And shortly to concluden al his wo,
So muche sorwe hadde nevere creature,
That is, or shal whil that the world may dure.
His slep, his mete, his drynke is hym biraft,
That lene he wex and drye as is a shaft.
Hise eyen holwe and grisly to biholde,
His hewe falow and pale as asshen colde;
And solitarie he was and evere allone
And waillynge al the nyght, makynge his mone.
And if he herde song or instrument,
Thanne wolde he wepe, he myghte nat be stent.
So feble eek were hise spiritz, and so lowe,
And chaunged so, that no man koude knowe
His speche nor his voys, though men it herde.
And in his geere for al the world he ferde
Nat oonly lik the loveris maladye
Of Hereos, but rather lyk manye
Engendred of humour malencolik
Biforen in his celle fantastik,
And shortly turned was al up so doun
Bothe habit and eek disposicioun
Of hym, this woful lovere daun Arcite.

What sholde I al day of his wo endite?
Whan he endured hadde a yeer or two
This crueel torment, and this peyne and wo,
At Thebes in his contree, as I seyde,
Upon a nyght in sleep as he hym leyde,
Hym thoughte how that the wynged god Mercurie
Biforn hym stood, and bad hym to be murie.
His slepy yerde in hond he bar uprighte,
An hat he werede upon hise heris brighte.
Arrayed was this god, as he took keep,
As he was whan that Argus took his sleep;
And seyde hym thus, "To Atthenes shaltou wende,
Ther is thee shapen of thy wo an ende."
And with that word Arcite wook and sterte.
"Now trewely, how soore that me smerte,"
Quod he, "to Atthenes right now wol I fare,
Ne for the drede of deeth shal I nat spare
To se my lady that I love and serve,
In hire presence I recche nat to sterve."

And with that word he caughte a greet mirour,
And saugh that chaunged was al his colour,
And saugh his visage al in another kynde.
And right anon it ran hym in his mynde,
That sith his face was so disfigured
Of maladye, the which he hadde endured,
He myghte wel, if that he bar hym lowe,
Lyve in Atthenes, everemoore unknowe,
And seen his lady wel ny day by day.
And right anon he chaunged his array,
And cladde hym as a povre laborer,
And al allone, save oonly a squier
That knew his privetee and al his cas,
Which was disgised povrely, as he was,
To Atthenes is he goon, the nexte way.
And to the court he wente, upon a day,
And at the gate he profreth his servyse,
To drugge and drawe, what so men wol devyse.
And shortly of this matere for to seyn,
He fil in office with a chamberleyn,
The which that dwellynge was with Emelye,
For he was wys and koude soone espye
Of every servant which that serveth here.
Wel koude he hewen wode, and water bere,
For he was yong and myghty for the nones,
And therto he was strong and big of bones
To doon that any wight kan hym devyse.
A yeer or two he was in this servyse
Page of the chambre of Emelye the brighte;
And Philostrate he seyde that he highte.
But half so wel biloved a man as he
Ne was ther nevere in court, of his degree;
He was so gentil of condicioun
That thurghout al the court was his renoun.
They seyden, that it were a charitee,
That Theseus wolde enhauncen his degree,
And putten hym in worshipful servyse
Ther as he myghte his vertu exercise.
And thus withinne a while his name is spronge
Bothe of hise dedes and his goode tonge,
That Theseus hath taken hym so neer,
That of his chambre he made hym a squier,
And gaf hym gold to mayntene his degree.
And eek men broghte hym out of his contree
From yeer to yeer, ful pryvely, his rente.
But honestly and slyly he it spente,
That no man wondred how that he it hadde.
And thre yeer in this wise his lif he ladde,
And bar hym so in pees, and eek in werre,
Ther was no man that Theseus hath derre.
And in this blisse lete I now Arcite,
And speke I wole of Palamon a lite.

In derknesse and horrible and strong prisoun
Thise seven yeer hath seten Palamoun,
Forpyned, what for wo and for distresse.
Who feeleth double soor and hevynesse
But Palamon, that love destreyneth so,
That wood out of his wit he goth for wo?
And eek therto he is a prisoner,
Perpetuelly, noght oonly for a yer.

Who koude ryme in Englyssh proprely
His martirdom? For sothe it am nat I,
Therfore I passe as lightly as I may.

It fel that in the seventhe yer, in May,
The thridde nyght, (as olde bookes seyn,
That al this storie tellen moore pleyn)
Were it by aventure or destynee -
As, whan a thyng is shapen, it shal be -
That soone after the mydnyght Palamoun
By helpyng of a freend, brak his prisoun
And fleeth the citee faste as he may go;
For he hade yeve his gayler drynke so
Of a clarree maad of a certeyn wyn,
With nercotikes and opie of Thebes fyn,
That al that nyght, thogh that men wolde him shake,
The gayler sleep, he myghte nat awake.
And thus he fleeth as faste as evere he may;
The nyght was short and faste by the day,
That nedes-cost he moot hymselven hyde;
And til a grove, faste ther bisyde,
With dredeful foot thanne stalketh Palamoun.
For shortly, this was his opinioun,
That in that grove he wolde hym hyde al day,
And in the nyght thanne wolde he take his way
To Thebes-ward, his freendes for to preye
On Theseus to helpe hym to werreye;
And shortly, outher he wolde lese his lif,
Or wynnen Emelye unto his wyf;
This is th'effect and his entente pleyn.

Now wol I turne to Arcite ageyn,
That litel wiste how ny that was his care,
Til that Fortune had broght him in the snare.

The bisy larke, messager of day,
Salueth in hir song the morwe gray,
And firy Phebus riseth up so brighte
That al the orient laugheth of the light,
And with hise stremes dryeth in the greves
The silver dropes hangynge on the leves.
And Arcita, that is in the court roial
With Theseus, his squier principal,
Is risen, and looketh on the myrie day.
And for to doon his observaunce of May,
Remembrynge on the poynt of his desir
He on a courser startlynge as the fir
Is riden into the feeldes, hym to pleye,
Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye.
And to the grove of which that I yow tolde
By aventure his wey he gan to holde,
To maken hym a gerland of the greves,
Were it of wodebynde or hawethorn leves.
And loude he song ayeyn the sonne shene,
"May, with alle thy floures and thy grene,
Welcome be thou, faire fresshe May,
In hope that I som grene gete may."
And from his courser, with a lusty herte,
Into a grove ful hastily he sterte,
And in a path he rometh up and doun
Ther as by aventure this Palamoun
Was in a bussh, that no man myghte hym se;
For soore afered of his deeth was he.
No thyng ne knew he that it was Arcite,
God woot, he wolde have trowed it ful lite.
But sooth is seyd, go sithen many yeres,
That "feeld hath eyen and the wode hath eres."
It is ful fair a man to bere hym evene,
For al day meeteth men at unset stevene.
Ful litel woot Arcite of his felawe,
That was so ny to herknen al his sawe,
For in the bussh he sitteth now ful stille.

Whan that Arcite hadde romed al his fille
And songen al the roundel lustily,
Into a studie he fil al sodeynly,
As doon thise loveres in hir queynte geres,
Now in the croppe, now doun in the breres,
Now up, now doun as boket in a welle.
Right as the Friday, soothly for to telle,
Now it shyneth, now it reyneth faste,
Right so kan geery Venus overcaste
The hertes of hir folk; right as hir day
Is gereful, right so chaungeth she array.
Selde is the Friday al the wowke ylike.
Whan that Arcite had songe, he gan to sike,
And sette hym doun withouten any moore;
"Allas," quod he, "that day that I was bore!
How longe, Juno, thurgh thy crueltee
Woltow werreyen Thebes the Citee?
Allas, ybroght is to confusioun
The blood roial of Cadme and Amphioun, -
Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man
That Thebes bulte, or first the toun bigan,
And of the citee first was crouned kyng,
Of his lynage am I, and his ofspryng,
By verray ligne, as of the stok roial,
And now I am so caytyf and so thral
That he that is my mortal enemy
I serve hym as his squier povrely.
And yet dooth Juno me wel moore shame,
For I dar noght biknowe myn owene name,
But theras I was wont to highte Arcite,
Now highte I Philostrate, noght worth a myte.
Allas, thou felle Mars! allas, Juno!
Thus hath youre ire oure lynage al fordo,
Save oonly me, and wrecched Palamoun
That Theseus martireth in prisoun.
And over al this, to sleen me outrely,
Love hath his firy dart so brennyngly
Ystiked thurgh my trewe careful herte,
That shapen was my deeth erst than my sherte.
Ye sleen me with youre eyen, Emelye!
Ye been the cause wherfore that I dye.
Of al the remenant of myn oother care
Ne sette I nat the montance of a tare,
So that I koude doon aught to youre plesaunce."
And with that word he fil doun in a traunce
A longe tyme, and after he upsterte.

This Palamoun, that thoughte that thurgh his herte
He felte a coold swerd sodeynliche glyde,
For ire he quook, no lenger wolde he byde.
And whan that he had herd Arcites tale,
As he were wood, with face deed and pale,
He stirte hym up out of the buskes thikke,
And seide, "Arcite, false traytour wikke!
Now artow hent that lovest my lady so,
For whom that I have al this peyne and wo,
And art my blood, and to my conseil sworn,
As I ful ofte ofte have seyd thee heerbiforn,
And hast byjaped heere duc Theseus,
And falsly chaunged hast thy name thus.
I wol be deed, or elles thou shalt dye;
Thou shalt nat love my lady Emelye,
But I wol love hire oonly, and namo,
For I am Palamon, thy mortal foo!
And though that I no wepene have in this place,
But out of prison am astert by grace,
I drede noght that outher thow shalt dye,
Or thow ne shalt nat loven Emelye.
Chees which thou wolt, for thou shalt nat asterte!"

This Arcite, with ful despitous herte,
Whan he hym knew, and hadde his tale herd,
As fiers as leoun pulled out his swerd,
And seyde thus: "By God that sit above,
Nere it that thou art sik and wood for love,
And eek that thow no wepne hast in this place,
Thou sholdest nevere out of this grove pace,
That thou ne sholdest dyen of myn hond.
For I defye the seurete and the bond
Which that thou seist that I have maad to thee.
What, verray fool, thynk wel that love is free,
And I wol love hir, maugree al thy myght!
But for as muche thou art a worthy knyght,
And wilnest to darreyne hire by bataille,
Have heer my trouthe; tomorwe I wol nat faille
Withoute wityng of any oother wight
That heere I wol be founden as a knyght,
And bryngen harneys right ynough for thee,
And ches the beste, and leef the worste for me.
And mete and drynke this nyght wol I brynge
Ynough for thee, and clothes for thy beddynge;
And if so be that thou my lady wynne,
And sle me in this wode ther I am inne,
Thow mayst wel have thy lady as for me."

This Palamon answerde, "I graunte it thee."
And thus they been departed til amorwe,
Whan ech of hem had leyd his feith to borwe.

O Cupide, out of alle charitee!
O regne, that wolt no felawe have with thee!
Ful sooth is seyd that love ne lordshipe
Wol noght, hir thankes, have no felaweshipe.
Wel fynden that Arcite and Palamoun.
Arcite is riden anon unto the toun,
And on the morwe, er it were dayes light,
Ful prively two harneys hath he dight,
Bothe suffisaunt and mete to darreyne
The bataille in the feeld bitwix hem tweyne.
And on his hors, allone as he was born,
He carieth al this harneys hym biforn,
And in the grove, at tyme and place yset,
This Arcite and this Palamon ben met.
To chaungen gan the colour in hir face
Right as the hunters in the regne of Trace,
That stondeth at the gappe with a spere,
Whan hunted is the leoun and the bere,
And hereth hym come russhyng in the greves,
And breketh bothe bowes and the leves,
And thynketh, "Heere cometh my mortal enemy,
Withoute faille he moot be deed or I,
For outher I moot sleen hym at the gappe,
Or he moot sleen me, if that me myshappe"-
So ferden they in chaungyng of hir hewe,
As fer as everich of hem oother knewe.

Ther nas no good day ne no saluyng,
But streight, withouten word or rehersyng,
Everich of hem heelp for to armen oother,
As freendly as he were his owene brother.
And after that with sharpe speres stronge
They foynen ech at oother wonder longe.
Thou myghtest wene that this Palamoun
In his fightyng were a wood leon,
And as a crueel tigre was Arcite.
As wilde bores gonne they to smyte,
That frothen white as foom for ire wood.
Up to the ancle foghte they in hir blood.
And in this wise I lete hem fightyng dwelle,
And forth I wole of Theseus yow telle.

The destinee, ministre general,
That executeth in the world overal
The purveiaunce that God hath seyn biforn,
So strong it is, that though the world had sworn
The contrarie of a thyng, by ye or nay,
Yet somtyme it shal fallen on a day
That falleth nat eft withinne a thousand yeere.
For certeinly, oure appetites heere,
Be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love,
Al is this reuled by the sighte above.

This mene I now by myghty Theseus,
That for to hunten is so desirus
And namely at the grete hert in May,
That in his bed ther daweth hym no day
That he nys clad, and redy for to ryde
With hunte and horn, and houndes hym bisyde
For in his huntyng hath he swich delit
That it is al his joye and appetit
To been hymself the grete hertes bane-
For after Mars he serveth now Dyane.

Cleer was the day, as I have toold er this,
And Theseus, with alle joye and blis,
With his Ypolita, the faire quene,
And Emelye, clothed al in grene,
On huntyng be they riden roially,
And to the grove, that stood ful faste by,
In which ther was an hert, as men hym tolde,
Duc Theseus the streighte wey hath holde,
And to the launde he rideth hym ful right,
For thider was the hert wont have his flight,
And over a brook, and so forth in his weye.
This duc wol han a cours at hym, or tweye,
With houndes swiche as that hym list comaunde.

And whan this duc was come unto the launde,
Under the sonne he looketh, and anon
He was war of Arcite and Palamon,
That foughten breme, as it were bores two;
The brighte swerdes wenten to and fro
So hidously, that with the leeste strook
It semed as it wolde felle an ook;
But what they were, nothyng he ne woot.
This duc his courser with his spores smoot,
And at a stert he was bitwix hem two,
And pulled out a swerd, and cride, "Hoo!
Namoore, up peyne of lesynge of youre heed!
By myghty Mars, he shal anon be deed
That smyteth any strook, that I may seen.
But telleth me what myster men ye been,
That been so hardy for to fighten heere
Withouten juge or oother officere,
As it were in a lystes roially?"

This Palamon answerde hastily,
And seyde, "Sire, what nedeth wordes mo?
We have the deeth disserved, bothe two.
Two woful wrecches been we, two caytyves,
That been encombred of oure owene lyves,
And as thou art a fightful lord and juge,
Ne yeve us neither mercy ne refuge,
But sle me first for seinte charitee!
But sle my felawe eek as wel as me-
Or sle hym first, for, though thow knowest it lite,
This is thy mortal foo, this is Arcite,
That fro thy lond is banysshed on his heed,
For which he hath deserved to be deed.
For this is he, that cam unto thy gate,
And seyde that he highte Philostrate.
Thus hath he japed thee ful many a yer,
And thou hast maked hym thy chief Squier,
And this is he that loveth Emelye.
For sith the day is come that I shal dye,
I make pleynly my confessioun
That I am thilke woful Palamoun,
That hath thy prisoun broken wikkedly.
I am thy mortal foo, and it am I
That loveth so hoote Emelye the brighte,
That I wol dye present in hir sighte;
Wherfore I axe deeth and my juwise-
But sle my felawe in the same wise
For bothe han we deserved to be slayn."

This worthy duc answered anon agayn,
And seyde, "This is a short conclusioun,
Youre owene mouth, by your confessioun,
Hath dampned yow, and I wol it recorde.
It nedeth noght to pyne yow with the corde,
Ye shal be deed, by myghty Mars the rede!"

The queene anon, for verray wommanhede,
Gan for to wepe, and so dide Emelye,
And alle the ladyes in the compaignye.
Greet pitee was it, as it thoughte hem alle,
That evere swich a chaunce sholde falle.
For gentil men they were of greet estaat,
And no thyng but for love was this debaat,
And saugh hir blody woundes wyde and soore,
And alle crieden, both lasse and moore,
"Have mercy, lord, upon us wommen alle!"
And on hir bare knees adoun they falle,
And wolde have kist his feet ther as he stood;
Til at the laste aslaked was his mood,
For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
And though he first for ire quook and sterte,
He hath considered shortly in a clause
The trespas of hem bothe, and eek the cause,
And although that his ire hir gilt accused,
Yet in his resoun he hem bothe excused.
As thus: he thoghte wel, that every man
Wol helpe hymself in love, if that he kan,
And eek delivere hym-self out of prisoun;
And eek his herte hadde compassioun
Of wommen, for they wepen evere in oon.
And in his gentil herte he thoughte anon,
And softe unto hymself he seyde, "Fy
Upon a lord that wol have no mercy,
But been a leon, bothe in word and dede,
To hem that been in repentaunce and drede,
As wel as to a proud despitous man,
That wol maynteyne that he first bigan.
That lord hath litel of discrecioun
That in swich cas kan no divisioun,
But weyeth pride and humblesse after oon."
And shortly, whan his ire is thus agoon,
He gan to looken up with eyen lighte,
And spak thise same wordes al on highte:

"The God of love, a benedicite!
How myghty and how greet a lord is he!
Ayeyns his myght ther gayneth none obstacles,
He may be cleped a god for his myracles,
For he kan maken at his owene gyse
Of everich herte as that hym list divyse.
Lo heere, this Arcite and this Palamoun
That quitly weren out of my prisoun,
And myghte han lyved in Thebes roially,
And witen I am hir mortal enemy,
And that hir deth lith in my myght also;
And yet hath love, maugree hir eyen two,
Ybroght hem hyder bothe for to dye.
Now looketh, is nat that an heigh folye?
Who may been a fole, but if he love?
Bihoold, for Goddes sake that sit above,
Se how they blede! Be they noght wel arrayed?
Thus hath hir lord, the God of Love, ypayed
Hir wages and hir fees for hir servyse!
And yet they wenen for to been ful wyse,
That serven love, for aught that may bifalle!
But this is yet the beste game of alle,
That she, for whom they han this jolitee,
Kan hem therfore as muche thank, as me!
She woot namoore of al this hoote fare,
By God, than woot a cokkow or an hare!
But all moot ben assayed, hoot and coold;
A man moot ben a fool, or yong or oold;
I woot it by myself ful yore agon,
For in my tyme a servant was I oon.
And therfore, syn I knowe of loves peyne,
And woot how soore it kan a man distreyne,
As he that hath ben caught ofte in his laas,
I yow foryeve al hoolly this trespaas,
At requeste of the queene that kneleth heere,
And eek of Emelye, my suster deere.
And ye shul bothe anon unto me swere,
That nevere mo ye shal my contree dere,
Ne make werre upon me, nyght ne day,
But been my freendes in al that ye may,
I yow foryeve this trespas, every deel."
And they hym sworen his axyng, faire and weel,
And hym of lordship and of mercy preyde,
And he hem graunteth grace, and thus he seyde:

"To speke of roial lynage and richesse,
Though that she were a queene or a princesse,
Ech of you bothe is worthy doutelees
To wedden whan tyme is, but nathelees
I speke as for my suster Emelye,
For whom ye have this strif and jalousye:
Ye woot yourself, she may nat wedden two
Atones, though ye fighten everemo.
That oon of you, al be hym looth or lief,
He moot go pipen in an yvy leef-
This is to seyn, she may nat now han bothe,
Al be ye never so jalouse, ne so wrothe.
And forthy, I yow putte in this degree;
That ech of yow shal have his destynee
As hym is shape, and herkneth in what wyse;
Lo, heere your ende of that I shal devyse.

My wyl is this, for plat conclusioun,
Withouten any repplicacioun, -
If that you liketh, take it for the beste,
That everich of you shal goon where hym leste,
Frely, withouten raunson, or daunger,
And this day fifty wykes fer ne ner,
Everich of you shal brynge an hundred knyghtes
Armed for lystes up at alle rightes,
Al redy to darreyne hire by bataille.
And this bihote I yow withouten faille,
Upon my trouthe, and as I am a knyght,
That wheither of yow bothe that hath myght,
This is to seyn, that wheither he, or thow
May with his hundred, as I spak of now,
Sleen his contrarie, or out of lystes dryve,
Thanne shal I yeve Emelya to wyve
To whom that Fortune yeveth so fair a grace.
Tho lystes shal I maken in this place,
And God so wisly on my soule rewe,
As I shal evene juge been, and trewe.
Ye shul noon oother ende with me maken,
That oon of yow ne shal be deed or taken.
And if yow thynketh this is weel ysayd,
Seyeth youre avys and holdeth you apayd;
This is youre ende and youre conclusioun."

Who looketh lightly now but Palamoun?
Who spryngeth up for joye but Arcite?
Who kouthe tellen, or who kouthe endite
The joye that is maked in the place,
Whan Theseus hath doon so fair a grace?
But doun on knees wente every maner wight,
And thonken hym with al hir herte and myght,
And namely the Thebans, often sithe.
And thus with good hope and with herte blithe
They taken hir leve, and homward gonne they ride
To Thebes with hise olde walles wyde.

When Arcite went to Thebes, oft times he’d faint;
Throughout the day; “Alas!” was his complaint,
For of his lady’s sight he was bereft.
So briefly, of his story here’s what’s left:
Such grief has never any creature faced
Who ever has upon this earth been placed.
Of sleep and nourishment so much he’s taxed.
Just like a stick, dried out and thin, he waxed,
With sunken eyes, a sorry sight to see;
With sickly yellow hue, all pale was he.
He kept unto himself, and all alone
Throughout the night he’d weep, and wail, and moan;
And if he heard an instrument or song,
That would his bitter weeping just prolong.
So feeble were his spirits, and his guise
So changed that none could know nor recognize
His voice nor speech, though they should hear him talk.
His conduct did his true self strangely mock.
It wasn’t only that he lovesick was,
But rather, to be blunt, it was because
His mind was by delirium enslaved;
He like a raving lunatic behaved!
Before long everything was upside down;
Upon his face he wore a constant frown
Affecting both his body and his brain.

I could, the whole day long his woe explain.
For two whole years he’d been in constant pain;
In torment all night long awake he’d lain,
Which both his spirits and his health did drain.
One night as he lay musing on these things
He dreamt that Mercury, the god with wings,
Appeared before him, saying “Be consoled.”
That wand to make one sleep his hand did hold,
And with a winged hat on his hair of gold.
This god was dressed as in the story told
Of Argus, whom he put to sleep one day;
He said, “To Athens you shall wend your way;
There shall be emptied all your bitter cup.”
And with that Arcite suddenly woke up.
“Now howsoever sorely it may smart,”
Said he, “to Athens right now off I’ll start,
Nor shall I hesitate for fear I’ll die;
To go and see my lady I will try.
Of death I’m not afraid, if she is nigh.”

And with that word a mirror he did grab,
And saw his color changed, all pale and drab.
He noticed, all his features altered were,
And suddenly it did to him occur
That since the great ordeal through which he’d gone
Had left his face disfigured, pale, and wan,
With unassuming aspect he might well
Be able to, unknown, in Athens dwell,
And see his lady almost every day.
So he did change his outfit right away,
And dressed up as a low-class working man,
And with a single person in his van,
A friend who of his situation knew,
And who as a poor worker dressed up too,
To Athens went he, by the shortest route,
And one day there unto the court went out,
For menial employment there to look,
Some miscellaneous odd jobs to book,
Like handyman, or gardener, or cook.
He with a chamberlain an offer took,
The same who handled things for Emily,
For he was smart, and able well to see,
Of every servant, whom they served and where.
Well built he was, with energy to spare,
For he was young and was quite strong enough
For chopping wood, and lifting heavy stuff.
Whatever was required, that he could do.
So he continued there a year or two,
To work in the employ of Emily,
Where known as Philostrate by her was he.
No one was half so highly valued there,
For none could to his caliber compare;
He was so even-tempered and well-bred
That through the court his reputation spread.
If Theseus could see the way he served
He’d give him the promotion he deserved,
All said, and raise him to an honored place
Where he could better use his skills and grace.
Up from obscurity his fame unsung
Did soar, both of his deeds and his good tongue;
Thus Theseus decided he would hire
This Philostrate, that he might be his squire,
And gave him cash so that he could attire
Himself in clothes his new job would require.
His rent from Thebes men secretly did send,
Which he most surreptitiously did spend;
So, as to how he got it, none did give
A thought; Three years in this wise did he live.
Of all his servants, both in peace and war,
He is to Theseus the best by far.
Now in this happy state, Arcite we leave,
And speak of how poor Palamon doth grieve.

Within an awful cell where light is veiled
These seven years has Palamon been jailed.
By woe, distress, and suffering he’s drained,
And with his sadness, feeling doubly pained.
Will Palamon, who is from love half blind
Go clean out of his wits, and lose his mind?
He is a prisoner of love, I fear,
Forever, not for just a single year.

Who could, in English rhyme, do justice to
His martyrdom? It’s something I can’t do.
And so let’s move right on, if that’s OK.

It happened in the seventh year, in May,
That on the third night (as the old books say,
Which more attention unto detail pay),
Whether it was by chance or destiny –
As something happens, if its meant to be –
Soon after midnight from captivity,
With friends to help him, Palamon breaks free,
And in a hurry out of town he skipped.
For in a glass of wine the jailer sipped,
A pretty strong narcotic he had slipped,
Which with fine opium from Thebes was laced,
So that the whole night long way out he spaced,
And he would not come to, though he were maced!
So he makes tracks, and very soon he’s gone,
For it was late, and getting close to dawn.
And so, while looking for a place to hide,
He spots a little stand of trees beside
The road, and ventures cautiously inside.
For, briefly, this is what he did decide:
That in this grove all day his time he’d bide,
Then on to Thebes he’d go, there to implore
His faithful friends to form a fighting corps,
So that on Theseus he might wage war.
And shortly either he would lose his life
Or Emily he’d win to be his wife –
That was his plan and purpose, anyway.

Now I shall turn to Arcite, if I may.
He of his woes to come was unaware;
Him Fortune had positioned in her snare.

The busy lark, that messenger of day,
Salutes with melodies the morning gray,
And fiery Phoebus rises up so bright,
That all the orient laughs to see the light,
And dries the silver drops up, with his beam,
That hanging on the leaves in groves do gleam.
Arcite, who by the throne of Theseus
Is squire, as we did earlier discuss,
Wakes up and looks upon the merry day.
And he, to pay his homage unto May,
And on his heart’s desire to meditate,
Leaps on his horse and with a jaunty gait,
Rides out into the fields to have some fun,
Two miles from court, or maybe only one.
Into the grove of which I spoke before,
He ventured, by some chance, there to explore
And gather up a garland; from the limbs
Of many kinds of trees the leaves he trims.
And loudly sang he in the sunshine bright,
In hopes that he might gain some gay delight:
“O May, with all thy greenery and flowers,
I welcome thee, fair child of April’s showers.”
Down from his horse, with lusty heart, he leaps,
And in the grove a verdant harvest reaps,
As in its paths he wanders all around.
By chance this Palamon lay on the ground,
Behind a bush so no one him could spot,
For he was terrified of being caught.
That it was Arcite he had not a clue;
He wouldn’t have believed it could be true.
But truly it’s been said for many years,
That fields have eyes, and that the woods have ears.
A man is well-advised serene to stay,
For unexpectedly men meet each day.
Arcite knew nothing of his cousin here,
Who all he said could hear, he was so near.
For he sat still now in the underbrush.

When Arcite finished, in the forest lush,
His roaming, and had sung a lusty song,
He suddenly put on a face quite long;
As lovers unpredictably will do,
First he exults, and then doth fret and stew;
Up, down, up, like a bucket in a well,
Like sometimes Friday’s nasty, sometimes swell;
One time it shines, one time through rain we wade,
Just so can Venus rain or your parade,
And make a lover’s heart turn sad and blue,
Just like a dismal, cloudy day can do;
“Thank God it’s Friday”, we can’t always say!
When Arcite sung his cheerful roundelay,
He sighed, sat down, and was no more so gay.
“I rue,” said he, “the day that I was born!
How long, through Fortune’s cruelty, must I mourn,
And at Thebes’ fallen glory be forlorn?
Alas, the royal blood of Amphion
Is brought to ruin, and the glory gone
Of Cadmus, who the city first did found,
And built up all it’s glory from the ground,
And who was as the king of Thebes first crowned.
I am descended of his lineage proud,
Of royal stock by birth am I endowed,
And now I am so wretched and unfree
That he who is my mortal enemy
I have to serve as squire on bended knee.
And yet does Juno cause me much more shame,
I can’t acknowledge even my own name,
For whereas I was called Arcite one time,
Now I’m called Philostrate, not worth a dime.
Alas, have you unfeeling gods enjoyed
Observing our once proud line be destroyed?
Now there’s just me, and wretched Palamon
Confined in prison; all the rest are gone.
On top of this, love had to do its part,
By shooting at me with a fiery dart
That pierced clear through my true and careworn heart;
My fate was sealed before my life did start.
Dear Emily, you slay me with your gaze!
You are the cause Fate shortens all my days.
But be assured, compared to this travail,
All of my other cares and troubles pale.
To give you joy, I’d love to have the chance.”
And with those words he fell down in a trance
For a long time, then jumps up with a start.

Then Palamon felt, through his pounding heart,
As though a cold sword suddenly did glide.
With ire he quaked; no longer would he hide.
So when he had considered Arcite’s tale.
He, like a madman, face all dead and pale,
Jumped out, as from a hidden forest grave
And said: “Arcite, thou false and sneaky knave,
Now you shall pay, who loves my lady so,
For whom I’ve suffered all this pain and woe.
Yes, you, who should have been my loyal pal,
And as a brother, boosted my morale.
Look how you’ve tricked duke Theseus – for shame!
You’ve even gone and falsely changed your name.
Now it’s come down to this: it’s you or me.
Thou shalt not love my lady Emily.
Shall I her love? Yes! Shall you love her? No!
For I am Palamon, thy mortal foe.
And though I have no saber, sword, or lance,
Since out of jail I am escaped by chance,
Doubt not that I’ll make certain you are dead
If you think you my Emily will wed.
So name your poison – you’ll not get away.”

When Arcite heard all that he had to say,
Disdaining every word his heart deplored,
With bold ferocity he pulled his sword,
And said thus: “By that God who sits above,
If you weren’t raving mad and sick for love,
And had no weapons with which to survive,
You’d never get out of this grove alive,
But rather by my hand you’d surely die.
That pledge and obligation I defy,
Which you are claiming that I made to thee.
Thou fool! Do you not know that love is free?
Her I shall love in spite of your rebuke!
But since someday you’d be a worthy duke,
The right to her by combat we’ll decide.
You mark my word, tomorrow here I’ll ride,
To any others unbeknownst, and fight
With thee, in the tradition of a knight,
By bringing extra arms, enough for thee;
You choose the best, and leave the worst for me.
Tonight some food and drink I’ll also bring,
And for a night’s rest every needed thing.
And if it turns out that you slay me here
Within these woods, then you my lady dear
Can have to love, as far as I’m concerned.

This answer Palamon to him returned:
“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Arcite departs
Until the next day, when their contest starts.

O Cupid, selfish, solitary one!
You will accept how many partners? None!
For neither love nor lordship will, it’s true,
With partnership have anything to do.
With Palamon and Arcite, that’s the case.
So Arcite rides to town with rapid pace,
And secretly, ere Sol down on earth stares,
An extra suit of armor he prepares,
Both adequate and proper, which will do
The battle to decide between these two.
And after he this load of armor throws
Upon his horse, off quietly he goes,
And at the time and place set, in the grove
They met, where they in mortal combat strove.
Their faces changed, in color not the same,
Like Thracian hunters chasing after game,
Who hunting boars or lions, spears in hand,
Awaiting at the pass their prey, do stand,
And hear it as toward them it doth rush,
Breaking the boughs within the underbrush,
And think, “Here comes my mortal enemy!
Now he or I shall leave mortality,
For either I must kill him at the pass,
Or certainly he’ll take my life, alas.”
So turns the color of their face and eyes,
When they each other see and recognize.

There was no greeting, and no angry spat,
But straightway, without any idle chat,
Each kindly helped the other dress to fight,
More like a brother, than some other knight.
Then after that, with swords drawn, sharp and strong,
They fought each other heatedly and long.
As he was fighting, Palamon did seem
Like some fierce lion, wild in the extreme,
And Arcite like a savage tiger feared;
As wild boars going at it they appeared,
With froth from crazed ire covering their lips.
Up to their ankles, from their wounds, blood drips.
I’ll leave you hanging here, if you don’t mind,
For more to tell of Theseus I’m inclined.

That destiny that seems all things to shape,
From which none can, upon this world, escape,
The providence divine that God ordains,
So strong is that, though all the world complains,
And mightily against His will campaigns,
Yet something one sees once in a blue moon
Will happen to us, one fine afternoon.
Regardless of what we might want to see,
Of love or hate, however fervently,
What Fortune has in store – that’s what will be.

To mighty Theseus all this relates:
That venison might be served on his plates,
He so desires to hunt the great May deer
That no day dawns for him that in his gear
He does not saddle up, prepared to ride,
With huntsman, horn, and hounds close at his side.
For he takes such great pleasure in the chase
That he can hardly wait his prey to face,
And slay, himself, the great hart if he can.
For now, right after Mars, he serves Diane.

As I have said before, the day was fine,
And Theseus’ face with joy and bliss did shine,
As he, Hippolyta his lovely queen,
And Emily, all clothed in verdant green,
Out hunting with the royal party ride
Unto the nearby grove, for there inside
There roamed about a dear, as claimed by some;
At first the duke straight toward the glade did come,
Then sharply he did veer off to the right,
For that was where this deer oft took his flight.
Across a brook, then round again, he flew;
This duke will have a round at him, or two,
With all his hounds to pick up on the scent.

But when in to the glade this hunter went,
He looked towards the sun and was, anon,
Aware of Arcite and of Palamon,
Who like two wild boars savagely did fight.
They parried, with their shining sabers bright,
So mightily it seemed the weakest stroke
Would be enough to fell a mighty oak.
He smites his horse’s side with spur clad shoe,
And suddenly he was between the two,
But their identities, he did not know.
Then he pulls out his sword and cries out: “Whoa!
No more, unless you want to lose your head;
By mighty Mars, he shall at once be dead
Who dares to thrust his sabre once again.
But I would like to know what sort of men
Ye are, who fight to settle here a grudge
Without some officer to be your judge,
As in a duel conducted properly.

To this did Palamon reply, as he
Did say “Sir what more words here need be said?
We both, for our offenses, should be dead.
For miserable wretches both we are,
That on each other in these woods wage war.
And since you are a righteous judge and lord,
To us no mercy, no refuge afford.
But slay me first, if you would be so kind,
And let this guy’s death be not far behind;
Or slay him first, for him whom I do fight,
This is thy mortal foe, this is Arcite,
Exiled on pain of cutting off his head,
For which unto the block he should be led.
Yes, this is he who came unto your gate
And, claiming that his name was Philostrate,
Has made a jackass of you all this time,
As up to be your chief squire he did climb;
And he’d like Emily to be his wife.
Well, since this is the last day of my life,
I plainly do admit, before I die,
That that most woeful Palamon am I,
Who from thy prison wickedly broke out.
I am thy mortal foe; and there’s no doubt
That I love Emily the fair, so fine,
I welcome death if she cannot be mine.
Wherefore I pray you, sentence me to death;
And let Arcite here, too, take his last breath.
For both of us have earned this penalty.”

This worthy duke replied to him; said he,
“You've sure made this an easy choice for me;
Your own mouth has your condemnation sealed,
Which I pronounce – it cannot be repealed.
No need to string you up here by your head,
But by the mighty Mars, you shall be dead!”

The queen, since her soft heart with pity bled,
Began to cry, and so did Emily,
And all the ladies in the company.
For it was such a great shame, they all thought;
That such a horrid fate for them should not
Occur, for they were men of high estate,
And over naught but love was this debate.
And when they saw their wounds, all bloody, sore,
That set them crying all the more. They swore:
“Have mercy, lord, upon us ladies all!”
And at this, on their bare knees down they fall,
And where he stood they would have kissed his feet;
At length their tears did cool his anger’s heat,
For soon comes pity to a gentle heart.
Though he at first with anger shook, he’d start
Now to reflect more calmly on their case,
So he rethinks the punishment they face,
And though in ire, of guilt he them accused,
Yet now in reason he them both excused,
For thus he thought: that well might any man
Defend himself in loving, if he can,
And free himself from prison if confined.
Thoughts of compassion came into his mind;
As he did contemplate these women’s tears,
His gentle heart away from anger veers,
And softly to himself his utters, “Fie
Upon a lord who mercy would deny,
And be a lion, both in word and deed,
To those who of forgiveness were in need;
Who holds to proud opinions much too long,
And never can admit he might be wrong.
Sound judgment's sorely lacking in such lords;
The selfsame moral status he accords
To true humility, as to false pride.”
And shortly, when his ire did thus subside,
He looked up with a more good-natured face
And spoke these words of charity and grace:

“Here’s to the god of love, ah, bless my soul!
All the affairs of heart he doth control.
No obstacles can stand against his strength;
His magic overcomes them all, at length,
For he can mold the hearts of humankind
In whatsoever way that he’s inclined.
Just look how Palamon, and Arcite too,
Who from my dreadful prison freedom knew,
And might in Thebes have lived the good life, though
They knew that I’m, in Athens here, their foe,
And that their death lies in my power too,
Still love, despite whatever they could do,
Impels them to come hither, here to die.
Does that not reason’s dictates all defy?
And does not love make fools out of us all?
Just take a look, for God’s sake, how they brawl,
And bleed! Aren’t they a fine sight to behold!
Thus hath the god of love unto them doled
Their wages out, for services performed!
To wisdom is stupidity transformed
Within the minds of those who this god serve.
The joke is on them, who are thrown this curve:
That she for whom they knock their brains all out,
Whom they imagine is their slave devout,
Knows not of their obsessive love for her
And does, most likely, someone else prefer!
All men she samples, for their passion’s fire,
Their foolishness her yardstick of desire.
Of Cupid’s mischief I have learned myself,
For I once served that fickle little elf.
And therefore since of love’s pain I’m aware,
I know how men get caught up in her snare,
For I have been there, done that, many times,
And so I must absolve thee of love’s crimes,
For thus desires my queen, on bended knee,
And also my dear sister, Emily.
But you must promise me that you will both
Refrain from harming Athens, on your oath,
And that you never will make war on us,
But ever be the friends of Theseus.
You’re now forgiven of each wrongful deed.”
And so they swore that his request they’d heed,
And prayed he’d be their lord. For mercy’s sake
He grants them their desire, and thus he spake:

“Based on your royal lineage, in your land,
And on her royal status, you both stand,
I do not doubt, as worthy of her hand
In marriage when the time is proper; and
So for my sister Emily I speak,
For whom your jealous anger you do pique,
You know yourselves, that she can’t marry two,
So though you fight forever, one of you,
No matter whether it seems wrong or right,
Must be content to go and fly a kite.
She can’t have both of you, regardless of
How jealously you are each one in love.
And therefore I now have a plan in mind
To help you both that destiny to find
That is for each ordained; so listen up,
And learn how fate intends to fill your cup.

My will is cast in concrete; this is it –
And I’ll not any compromise admit –
Take it for good or bad, for what it’s worth:
That you may wander freely on this earth,
In perfect liberty, and ransom free,
And then, in fifty weeks from now, we’ll see
If each of you can bring a hundred knights,
Armed to the teeth to fight a hundred fights,
To see by battle who the girl will take.
And this sure promise unto you I make,
On my word as a knight you may depend,
That which of you prevails most at the end –
That is to say, that one who with his band,
Those hundred gathered from throughout the land,
Can his opponent make retire, or slay, --
To him I shall give Emily away.
And he whom Fortune smiles upon I’ll call
The champion, most honored of them all.
May God have pity on me if I should
Not judge as an impartial witness would.
Conclude but this one pact with me: you must
Agree that one of you will bite the dust.
If you can to this covenant commit,
Just say so, and then let’s get on with it.
By this means your dispute we shall decide.”

Who else but Palamon smiles, oh so wide?
Who else but Arcite jumps, with joyful face?
Who could on paper all the pleasure trace
That all the people felt here in this place,
When Theseus conferred so fair a grace?
But everyone went down on bended knee
And thanked the duke for his fair, sage decree,
Especially those who from Thebes did hail,
Who recently had languished in his jail.
With happy hearts they take their leave and ride
To Thebes, that city with the walls so wide.