No nearer Athens would he walk nor ride,
Nor take his ease even half a day,
But onward on his way that night he lay,
And sent anon Hyppolyta the queen
And Emily, her young sister fair,
Unto the town of Athens to dwell;
And forth he rode, there is no more to tell.

The red statue of Mars, with spear and shield,
So shines in his white banner large
That all the fields glitter up and down;
And by his banner borne is his pennant
Of gold full rich, and embroidered in it
The Minotaur,3 that he slew in Crete.
Thus rode this duke, thus rode this conqueror
And in his host rode knighthood’s flower,
Till that he came to Thebes, and alighted
In a field, where he thought to fight.
But to make a long story short
With Creon, who was Thebes’ king,
He fought, and slew him manly, boldly as a knight
In open battle, and put the rest to flight;
And by assault he won the city after,
And tore down wall and beam and rafter;
And to the ladies he restored again
The bones of their husbands who were slain,
To do obsequies, as then was the custom.
But it would take too long to relate
The great clamor and the lamentation
That the ladies made at the burning
Of the bodies, and the great honor
That Theseus, the noble conqueror,
Did to the ladies, when they from him went;
But to make it short is my intent.
When that this worthy duke, this Theseus,
Had Creon slain and won Thebes thus,
Still in that field he took all night his rest,
And dide with al the contree as him leste.

To ransake in the tas of bodyes dede,
Hem for to strepe of harneys and of wede,
The pilours diden bisinesse and cure,
After the bataille and disconfiture.
And so bifel, that in the tas they founde,
Thurgh-girt with many a grevous blody wounde,
Two yonge knightes ligging by and by,
Bothe in oon armes, wroght ful richely,
Of whiche two, Arcita hight that oon,
And that other knight hight Palamon.
Nat fully quike, ne fully dede they were,
But by hir cote-armures, and by hir gere,
The heraudes knewe hem best in special,
As they that weren of the blood royal
Of Thebes, and of sustren two y-born.
Out of the tas the pilours han hem torn,
And han hem caried softe un-to the tente
Of Theseus, and he ful sone hem sente
To Athenës, to dwellen in prisoun
Perpetuelly, he nolde no raunsoun.
And whan this worthy duk hath thus y-don,
He took his host, and hoom he rood anon
With laurer crowned as a conquerour;
And there he liveth, in joye and in honour,
Terme of his lyf; what nedeth wordes mo?
And in a tour, in angwish and in wo,
Dwellen this Palamoun and eek Arcite,
For evermore, ther may no gold hem quyte.

This passeth yeer by yeer, and day by day,
Til it fil ones, in a morwe of May,
That Emelye, that fairer was to sene
Than is the lile upon his stalke grene,
And fressher than the May with floures newe
For with the rose colour stroof hir hewe,
I noot which was the fairer of hem two—
Er it were day, as was hir wone to do,
She was arisen, and al redy dight;
For May wol have no slogardye a-night.
And did with all the country as he wished.

To go through the mound of bodies dead,
Them to strip of armor and clothes,
The pillagers worked fast and well
After the battle and defeat.
And so befell, that in that mound they found,
Pierced through with many a grievous bloody wound,
Two young knights lying side by side,
Both with the same coat of arms, wrought full richly,
Of which two, one was named Arcita,
And the other knight was called Palamon.
Not fully alive nor fully dead they were,
But by their emblems and their gear,
The heralds knew especially well
That they were of the blood royal
Of Thebes, and of two sisters born.
Out of the mound the pillagers tore them
And carried them gently into the tent
Of Theseus, and he full soon them sent
To Athens, to dwell in prison
Perpetually: taking no ransom.
And when this worthy duke had thus done,
He took his men, and home he rode anon
With laurel crowned as a conqueror;
And there he lived in joy and honor
The rest of his life; who need say more?
And in a tower, in anguish and in woe,
Dwelt Palamon and Arcita
For evermore, held without ransom.

This went on year by year and day by day,
Till it so happened, one morning in May,
That Emily, who fairer was to see
Than is the lily upon its stalk of green,
And fresher than May with its flowers new—
For with the rose’s color strove her complexion’s hue,
I know not which was the fairer of the two—
Before daylight, as was her wont to do,
She was arisen and promptly dressed,
For May at night will have no laziness.
The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,
And maketh him out of his sleep to sterte,
And seith, “Arys, and do thyn observaunce.”
This maked Emelye have remembraunce
To doon honour to May, and for to ryse.
Y clothed was she fresh, for to devyse;
Hir yelow heer was broyded in a tresse,
Bihinde hir bak, a yerde long, I gesse.
And in the gardin, at the sonne up-riste,
She walketh up and doun, and as hir liste
She gadereth floures, party whyte and rede,
To make a sotil gerland for hir hede,
And as an aungel hevenly she song.

The grete tour, that was so thikke and strong,
Which of the castel was the chief dongeoun,
(Ther-as the knightes weren in prisoun,
Of whiche I tolde yow, and tellen shal)
Was evene joynant to the gardin-wal,
Ther as this Emelye hadde hir pleyinge.
Bright was the sonne, and cleer that morweninge,
And Palamon, this woful prisoner,
As was his wone, by leve of his gayler,
Was risen, and romed in a chambre on heigh,
In which he al the noble citee seigh,
And eek the gardin, ful of braunches grene,
Ther-as this fresshe Emelye the shene
Was in hir walk, and romed up and doun.
This sorweful prisoner, this Palamoun,
Goth in the chambre, roming to and fro,
And to him-self compleyning of his wo;
That he was born, ful ofte he seyde, “alas!”
And so bifel, by aventure or cas,
That thurgh a window, thikke of many a barre
Of yren greet, and square as any sparre,
He caste his eye upon Emelye,
And ther-with-al he bleynte, and cryde “a!”
As though he stongen were un-to the herte.
And with that cry Arcite anon up-sterte,
And seyde, “Cosin myn, what eyleth thee,
The season pricks every gentle heart,
And makes each out of sleep to start
And says, ”Arise, and do your observance.“
This made Emily have remembrance
To do honor to May, and to arise.
Clothed was she fresh, as I may tell:
Her yellow hair was braided in a tress
Behind her back, a yard long, I guess.
And in a garden, just at sunrise
She walked up and down, as she pleased
She gathered flowers, white and red,
To deftly weave a garland for her head
And as an angel heavenly she sang.

The great tower, that was so thick and strong,
Which of the castle was the chief dungeon
(There the knights were in prison,
Of whom I told you and shall tell)
Was just beside the garden wall
There where Emily had her garden walk.
Bright was the sun and clear that morning,
And Palamon, this woeful prisoner,
As was his wont, by leave of his jailer,
Was risen and roamed in a chamber on high,
In which he all the noble city saw,
And also the garden, full of branches green,
Where this fresh Emily the fair
Was in her walk, and roamed up and down.
This sorrowful prisoner, this Palamon,
Goes in the chamber roaming to and fro,
And to himself complaining of his woe.
That he was born, full oft he said, “Alas!”
And so it happened, by accident or chance
That through a window, thickset with many a bar
Of iron great and round as any spar,
He cast his eye upon Emily,
And therewith he flinched and cried “Ah!”
As though he were stung into the heart.
And with that cry Arcita anon upstarted
And said, “Cousin mine, what ails you,
That art so pale and deedly on to see?
Why crydestow? who hath thee doon offence?
For Goddes love, tak al in pacience
Our prisoun, for it may non other be;
Fortune hath yeven us this adversitee.
Som wikke aspect or disposicioun
Of Saturne, by sum constellacioun,
Hath yeven us this, al-though we hadde it sworn;
So stood the heven whan that we were born;
We moste endure it: this is the short and pleyn.”

This Palamon answerde, and seyde ageyn,
“Cosyn, for sothe, of this opinioun
Thou hast a veyn imaginacioun.
This prison caused me nat for to crye.
But I was hurt right now thurgh-out myn ye
In-to myn herte, that wol my bane be.
The fairnesse of that lady that I see
Yond in the gardin romen to and fro,
Is cause of al my crying and my wo.