And som man wolde out of his prison fayn,
That in his hous is of his meynee slayn.
Infinite harmes been in this matere;
We witen nat what thing we preyen here.
We faren as he that dronke is as a mous;
A dronke man wot wel he hath an hous,
But he noot which the righte wey is thider;
And to a dronke man the wey is slider.
And certes, in this world so faren we;
We seken faste after felicitee,
But we goon wrong ful often, trewely.
Thus may we seyen alle, and namely I,
That wende and hadde a greet opinioun,
That, if I mighte escapen from prisoun,
Than hadde I been in joye and perfit hele,
Ther now I am exyled fro my wele.
Sin that I may nat seen you, Emelye,
I nam but deed; ther nis no remedye.”

Up-on that other syde Palamon,
Whan that he wiste Arcite was agon,
Well has Fortune turned the dice,
That you have the sight of her face, and I her absence.
For possible is, since you have her presence,
And are a knight, worthy and able,
That by some chance, since Fortune is changeable,
You may your desire sometime attain.
But I, who am exiled and barren
Of all grace, and in so great despair
That there is neither earth, water, fire nor air,
Nor any creature that of them made is
That may help me or give me comfort in this,
Well ought I die in despair and distress.
Farewell my life, my joy, and my gladness!

Alas, why complain folk so often
About Divine Providence, or of Fortune,
That gives them full often in many a guise
Well better than they can themselves devise?
One man may desire to have riches,
That cause his murder or great sickness.
Another man would out of his prison gladly be,
Who in his own house is slain by his enemy.
Infinite harms be in this matter;
We know not what thing we pray for.
We act like someone as drunk as a mouse,
A drunk man knows well he has a house,
But he knows not the right way there;
And to a drunk man the road is all ice.
And certainly, in this world so fare we;
We seek always after happiness,
But we go wrong full often, truly.
Thus may we all say, and especially I
Who thought and had a great opinion
That if I might escape from prison,
Then I would have been in joy and perfect health,
Whereas now I am exiled from my felicity.
Since I may not see you, Emily,
I am but dead; there is no remedy.”

Upon that other side Palamon,
When he knew Arcita was gone,
Swich sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour
Resouneth of his youling and clamour.
The pure fettres on his shines grete
Weren of his bittre salte teres wete.
“Allas!” quod he, “Arcita, cosin myn,
Of al our stryf, God woot, the fruyt is thyn.
Thow walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
And of my wo thou yevest litel charge.
Thou mayst, sin thou hast wisdom and manhede,
Assemblen alle the folk of our kinrede,
And make a werre so sharp on this citee,
That by som aventure, or some tretee,
Thou mayst have hir to lady and to wyf,
For whom that I mot nedes lese my lyf.
For, as by wey of possibilitee,
Sith thou art at thy large, of prison free,
And art a lord, greet is thyn avauntage,
More than is myn, that sterve here in a cage.
For I mot wepe and wayle, whyl I live,
With al the wo that prison may me yive,
And eek with peyne that love me yiveth also,
That doubleth al my torment and my wo.”
Ther-with the fyr of jelousye up-sterte
With-inne his brest, and hente him by the herte
So woodly, that he lyk was to biholde
The box-tree, or the asshen dede and colde.
Tho seyde he; “O cruel goddess, that governe
This world with binding of your word eterne,
And wryten in the table of athamaunt
Your parlement, and your eterne graunt,
What is mankinde more un-to yow holde
Than is the sheep, that rouketh in the folde?
For slayn is man right as another beste,
And dwelleth eek in prison and areste,
And hath siknesse, and greet adversitee,
And ofte tymes giltelees, pardee!

What governaunce is in this prescience,
That giltelees tormenteth innocence?
And yet encreseth this al my penaunce,
Made such sorrow that the great tower
Resounded with his yowling and his clamor.
The very fetters on his swollen limbs
Were of his bitter salt tears wet.
“Alas!” said he, “Arcita, cousin mine,
Of all our strife, God knows, the fruit is yours.
You walk freely now in Thebes,
And to my woe you give little heed.
You may, since you have wisdom and manhood,
Assemble all the folk of our kindred,
And make a war so sharp on this city,
That by some chance, or some treaty,
You may have her as your lady and wife,
For whom that I must needs lose my life.
For, as by way of possibility,
Since you are at large, of prison free,
And are a lord, great is your advantage
More than mine, dying here in a cage.
For I must weep and wail, while I live,
With all the woe that prison may me give,
And with the pain that love me gives also,
That doubles all my torment and my woe.”
Therewith the fire of jealousy upstarted
Within his breast, and seized him by the heart
So tightly, that he was like to behold
Boxwood blossoms white or ashes dead and cold.
Then said he, “O cruel goddess, who governs
This world with binding of your word eternal,
And writes in the tablet of adamantine
Your decision and your eternal decree,
How is mankind more to you
Than the sheep that cowers in the fold?
For slain is man as any other beast,
And dwells also in prison and arrest,
And has sickness and great adversity.
And oftentimes guiltless, certainly!

What purpose is there in this prescience
That torments guiltless innocence?
And vet this increases all my penance,
That man is bounden to his observaunce,
For Goddes sake, to letten of his wille,
Ther as a beest may al his lust fulfille.