Let Palamon oppressed in bondage mourn, While to his exited rival we return. By this the sun, declining from his height, The day had shortened to prolong the night: The lengthened night gave length of misery, Both to the captive lover and the free: For Palamon in endless prison mourns, And Arcite forfeits life if he returns; The banished never hopes his love to see, Nor hopes the captive lord his liberty. 'Tis hard to say who suffers greater pains; One sees his love, but cannot break his chains; One free, and all his motions uncontrolled, Beholds whate'er he would but what he would behold. Judge as you please, for I will haste to tell What fortune to the banished knight befel. When Arcite was to Thebes returned again, The loss of her he loved renewed his pain; What could be worse than never more to see His life, his soul, his charming Emily? He raved with all the madness of despair, He roared, he beat his breast, he tore his hair. Dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears, For wanting nourishment, he wanted tears; His eyeballs in their hollow sockets sink, Bereft of sleep; he loathes his meat and drink; He withers at his heart, and looks as wan As the pale spectre of a murdered man: That pale turns yellow, and his face receives The faded hue of sapless boxen leaves; In solitary groves he makes his moan, Walks early out, and ever is alone; Nor, mixed in mirth, in youthful pleasure shares, But sighs when songs and instruments he hears. His spirits are so low, his voice is drowned, He hears as from afar, or in a swound, Like the deaf murmurs of a distant sound: Uncombed his locks, and squalid his attire, Unlike the trim of love and gay desire; But full of museful mopings, which presage The loss of reason and conclude in rage.