That Theseus had taken him so ner, That of his chambre he made him squier, And gave him gold to mainteine his degre; And eke men brought him out of his contre Fro yere to yere ful prively his rent; But honestly and sleighly he it spent, That no man wondred how that he it hadde. And thre yere in this wise his lif he ladde, And bare him so in pees and eke in werre, Ther n'as no man that Theseus hath derre. And in this blisse let I now Arcite, And speke I wol of Palamon a lite. In derkenesse and horrible and strong prison This seven yere hath sitten Palamon, Forpined, what for love and for distresse. Who feleth double sorwe and hevinesse But Palamon? that love distraineth so, That wood out of his wit he goth for wo, And eke therto he is a prisonere Perpetuell, not only for a yere. Who coude rime in English proprely His martirdom? forsoth it am not I; Therfore I passe as lightly as I may. It fel that in the seventh yere, in May, The thridde night, (as olde bokes sayn, That all this storie tellen more plain,) Were it by aventure or destinee, (As when a thing is shapen, it shal be) That sone after the midnight Palamon, By helping of a frend, brake his prison, And fleeth the cite faste as he may go, For he had yeven drinke his gayler so, Of a clarre, made of a certain wine, With narcotikes and opie of Thebes fine, That all the night, though that men wold him shake, The gailer slept, he mighte not awake; And thus he fleeth as faste as ever he may. The night was short, and faste by the day, That nedes cost he moste himselven hide, And to a grove faste ther beside, With dredful foot then stalketh Palamon, For shortly this was his opinion, That in that grove he wold him hide all day, And in the night than wold he take his way To Thebes ward, his frendes for to preie On Theseus to helpen him werreie: And shortly, eyther he wold lese his lif, Or winnen Emelie unto his wif. This is the effect, and his entente plein. Now wol I turnen to Arcite agein, That litel wist how neighe was his care, Till that Fortune had brought him in the snare. The besy larke, the messager of day, Salewith in hire song the morwe gray, And firy Phebus riseth up so bright, That all the orient laugheth of the sight; And with his stremes drieth in the greves The silver dropes hanging in the leves. And Arcite, that is in the court real With Theseus the squier principal, Is risen, and loketh on the mery day; And for to don his observance to May, Remembring on the point of his desire, He on his courser, sterting as the fire, Is ridden to the feldes him to pley, Out of the court, were it a mile or twey, And to the grove, of which that I you told, By aventure, his way he gan to hold,