But when the sixth revolving year was run, And May within the Twins received the sun, 10 Were it by chance, or forceful destiny, Which forms in causes first whate'er shall be, Assisted by a friend, one moonless night, This Palamon from prison took his flight: A pleasant beverage he prepared before Of wine and honey, mix'd with added store Of opium; to his keeper this he brought, Who swallow'd unaware the sleepy draught, And snored secure till morn, his senses bound In slumber, and in long oblivion drown'd. 20 Short was the night, and careful Palamon Sought the next covert e'er the rising sun. A thick-spread forest near the city lay, To this with lengthen'd strides he took his way, (For far he could not fly, and fear'd the day). Safe from pursuit, he meant to shun the light, Till the brown shadows of the friendly night To Thebes might favour his intended flight. When to his country come, his next design Was all the Theban race in arms to join, 30 And war on Theseus, till he lost his life, Or won the beauteous Emily to wife. Thus while his thoughts the lingering day beguile, To gentle Arcite let us turn our style; Who little dreamt how nigh he was to care, Till treacherous fortune caught him in the snare. The morning lark, the messenger of day, Saluted in her song the morning gray; And soon the sun arose with beams so bright, That all the horizon laugh'd to see the joyous sight: 40 He with his tepid rays the rose renews, And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews; When Arcite left his bed, resolved to pay Observance to the month of merry May: Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode, That scarcely prints the turf on which he trode: At ease he seem'd, and, prancing o'er the plains, Turn'd only to the grove his horse's reins, The grove I named before; and, lighted there, A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair; 50 Then turn'd his face against the rising day, And raised his voice to welcome in the May. For thee, sweet month! the groves green liveries wear, If not the first, the fairest of the year: For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers: When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight, Nor goats with venom'd teeth thy tendrils bite, 60 As thou shalt guide my wandering feet to find The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to bind.