Now will I tell you of Arcite again, Who little guess’d how nigh him was his care Until his fortune brought him in the snare. The busy lark, the messenger of day, Saluteth in her song the morning grey; And fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright, That all the orient laugheth for the light; And in the woods he drieth with his rays The silvery drops that hang along the sprays. Arcite--unknown, yet ever waxing higher In Theseus’ royal court, now chiefest squire-- Is risen, and looketh on the merry day: And, fain to offer homage unto May, He, mindful of the point of his desire, Upon his courser leapeth, swift as fire, And rideth to keep joyous holiday Out in the fields, a mile or two away. And, as it chanced, he made towards the grove, All thick with leaves, whereof I spake above, Eager to weave a garland with a spray Of woodbine, or the blossoms of the may. And loud against the sunshine sweet he sings, “O May, with all thy flowers and thy green things, Right welcome be thou, fairest, freshest May! Yield me of all thy tender green to-day!” Then from his courser merrily he sprang, And plunged into the thicket as he sang; Till in a path he chanced to make his way Nigh to where Palamon in secret lay. Sore frighted for his life was Palamon: But Arcite pass’d, unknowing and unknown; And neither guess’d his brother was hard by; But Arcite knew not any man was nigh. So was it said of old, how faithfully, ‘The woods have ears, the empty field can see.’ A man should be prudent, even when he fancies himself safest: for oftentimes come unlooked-for meetings. And little enough thought Arcite that his sworn brother from the tower was at hand, sitting as still as a mouse while he sang. Whan that Arcite hadde romed al his fill, And songen al the roundel lustily, Into a studie he fel sodeynly, reverie As don thes loveres in here queynte geeres, curious fashions Now in the croppe,[87] now doun in the breres, briars Now up, now doun, as boket in a welle. Now when Arcite long time had roam’d his fill, And sung all through the rondel lustily, He fell into dejection suddenly, As lovers in their strange way often do, Now in the clouds and now in abject wo, Now up, now down, as bucket in a well. He sat down and began to make a kind of song of lamentation. “Alas,” he cried, “the day that I was born! How long, O Juno, wilt thou oppress Thebes? All her royal blood is brought to confusion. I myself am of royal lineage, and yet now I am so wretched and brought so low, that I have become slave and squire to my mortal foe. Even my own proud name of Arcite I dare not bear, but pass by the worthless one of Philostrate! Ah, Mars and Juno, save me, and wretched Palamon, martyred by Theseus in prison! For all my pains are for my love’s sake, and Emelye, whom I will serve all my days.”