We stryve as dide the houndes for the boon,
They foughte al day, and yet hir part was noon;
Ther cam a kyte, whyl that they were wrothe,
And bar awey the boon bitwixe hem bothe.
And therfore, at the kinges court, my brother,
Ech man for him-self, ther is non other.
Love if thee list; for I love and ay shal;
And soothly, leve brother, this is al.
Here in this prisoun mote we endure,
And everich of us take his aventure.”

Greet was the stryf and long bitwixe hem tweye,
If that I hadde leyser for to seye;
But to th’ effect. It happed on a day,
(To telle it yow as shortly as I may)
A worthy duk that highte Perotheus,
That felawe was un-to duk Theseus
Sin thilke day that they were children lyte,
Was come to Athenes, his felawe to visyte,
And for to pleye, as he was wont to do,
For in this world he loved no man so:
And he loved him as tenderly ageyn.
So wel they loved, as olde bokes seyn,
For which I told you my adventure
As to my cousin and my brother sworn.
But let us say that you loved her first:
Don’t you know the old scholar’s saw:
‘Who shall give a lover any law?’
Love is a greater law, in my mind,
Than may be given to any earthly man.
And therefore man’s law and such decrees
Are broken for love every day by everybody.
A man must love, though his head says no.
He may not escape it, even if it means dying,
Whether she’s a maid, a widow or else a wife.
And you’re not likely for all your life
To stand in her grace; no more shall I;
For well you know yourself, verily,
That you and I be condemned to prison
Perpetually; we shall have no ransom.
We strive as did the hounds for the bone:
They fought all day, and yet their part was none;
There came a bird, while they were fighting so,
And bore away the bone from them both.
And therefore, at the king’s court, my brother,
Each man for himself: there is no other.
Love if you will, for I love and always shall;
And truly, dear brother, this is all.
Here in this prison must we endure,
And each of us take what to him comes.“

Great was the strife and long between the two,
And would that I had time to describe—
But to the outcome. It happened on a day,
To make it short as I can,
A worthy duke named Perotheus,5
Who was a friend to duke Theseus
Since the days when they were children little,
Was come to Athens his friend to visit,
And to play as he was wont to do;
For in this world he loved no man so,
And Theseus loved him as tenderly in turn.
So well they loved, as old books say,
That whan that oon was deed, sothly to telle,
His felawe wente and soghte him doun in helle;
But of that story list me nat to wryte.

Duk Perotheus loved wel Arcite,
And hadde him knowe at Thebes yeer by yere;
And fynally, at requeste and preyere
Of Perotheus, with-oute any raunsoun,
Duk Theseus him leet out of prisoun,
Freely to goon, wher that him liste over-al,
In swich a gyse, as I you tellen shal.

This was the forward, pleynly for t‘endyte,
Bitwixen Theseus and him Arcite:
That if so were, that Arcite were y-founde
Ever in his lyf, by day or night or stounde
In any contree of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was acorded thus,
That with a swerd he sholde lese his heed;
Ther nas non other remedye ne reed,
But taketh his leve, and homward he him spedde;
Let him be war, his nekke lyth to wedde!

How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite!
The deeth he feleth thurgh his herte symte;
He wepeth, wayleth, cryeth pitously;
To sleen him-self he wayteth prively.
He seyde, “Allas that day that I was born!
Now is my prison worse than biforn;
Now is me shape eternally to dwelle
Noght in purgatorie, but in helle.
Alias! that ever knew I Perotheus
For elles hadde I dwelled with Theseus
Y-fetered in his prisoun ever-mo.
Than hadde I been in blisse, and nat in wo.
Only the sighte of hir, whom that I serve,
Though that I never hir grace may deserve,
Wolde han suffised right y-nough for me.
O dere cosin Palamon,” quod he,
“Thyn is the victorie of this aventure,
Ful blisfully in prison maistow dure;
In prison? certes nay, but in paradys!
That when one was dead, truly to tell,
His friend went and sought him down in hell;
But of that story I don’t want to write.

Duke Perotheus loved Arcita well,
And had known him at Thebes for many years;
And finally, at request and prayer
Of Perotheus, without any ransom,
Duke Theseus let him out of prison
Free to go wherever he pleased,
In such a way as I shall you tell.

This was the agreement, to plainly write,
Between Theseus and Arcita:
That if it happened, that Arcita were found
Ever in his life, by day or night, for one moment
In any country of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was agreed thus,
That with a sword he should lose his head;
With no other choice or remedy
But to take his leave, and homeward he him speed;
Let him be warned, his neck lies as a pledge.

How great a sorrow suffered now Arcita!
The death he felt through his heart strike,
He wept, wailed, cried piteously;
To slay himself he intended secretly.
He said, “Alas that day that I was born!
Now is my prison worse than before!
Now is my destiny eternally to dwell
Not in purgatory but in hell.
Alas, that ever I knew Perotheus!
For otherwise had I dwelled with Theseus
Fettered in his prison evermore.
Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe.
Only the sight of her whom that I serve,
Though that I never her grace may deserve,
Would have sufficed right enough for me.
O dear cousin Palamon,” said he,
“Yours is the victory of this adventure
Full blissfully in prison must you endure.
In prison? surely not, but in paradise!
Wel hath fortune y-turned thee the dys,
That hast the sighte of hir, and I th‘absence.
For possible is, sin thou hast hir presence,
And art a knight, a worthy and an able,
That by som cas, sin fortune is chaungeable,
Thou mayst to thy desyr som-tyme atteyne.
But I, that am exyled, and bareyne
Of alle grace, and in so greet despeir,
That ther nis erthe, water, fyr, ne eir,
Ne creature, that of hem maked is,
That may me helpe or doon confort in this:
Wel oughte I sterve in wanhope and distresse;
Farwel my lyf, my lust, and my gladnesse!

Alias, why pleynen folk so in commune
Of purveyaunce of God, or of fortune,
That yeveth hem ful ofte in many a gyse
Wel bettre than they can hem-self devyse?
Som man desyreth for to han richesse,
That cause is of his mordre or greet siknesse.