To maken him a gerlond of the greves, Were it of woodbind or of hauthorn leves, And loud he song agen the sonne shene. O Maye, with all thy floures and thy grene, Right welcome be thou, faire fresshe May, I hope that I some grene here getten may. And from his courser, with a lusty herte, Into the grove ful hastily he sterte, And in a path he romed up and doun. Ther, as by aventure this Palamon Was in a bush, that no man might him se, For sore afered of his deth was he: Nothing ne knew he that it was Arcite, God wot he wold have trowed it ful lite. But soth is said, gon sithen are many yeres, That feld hath eyen, and wood hath eres, It is ful faire a man to bere him even, For al day meten men at unset steven. Ful litel wote Arcite of his felaw, That was so neigh to herken of his saw; For in the bush he sitteth now ful still. Whan that Arcite had romed all his fill, And songen all the roundel lustily, Into a studie he fell sodenly, As don these lovers in hir queinte geres, Now in the crop, and now down in the breres; Now up, now doun, as boket in a well. Right as the Friday, sothly for to tell, Now shineth it, and now it raineth fast; Right so can gery Venus overcast The hertes of hire folk, right as hire day Is gerfull, right so changeth she aray; Selde is the Friday all the weke ylike. Whan Arcite hadde ysonge, he gan to sike, And set him doun withouten any more: Alas! quod he, the day that I was bore! How longe, Juno, thurgh thy crueltee, Wilt thou werreien Thebes the citee? Alas! ybrought is to confusion The blood real of Cadme and Amphion: Of Cadmus, which that was the firste man That Thebes built, or firste the toun began. And of the citee firste was crouned king. Of his linage am I, and his ofspring By veray line, as of the stok real: And now I am so caitif and so thral, That he that is my mortal enemy I serve him as his squier pourely. And yet doth Juno me wel more shame; For I dare not beknowe min owen name, But ther, as I was wont to highte Arcite, Now highte I Philostrat not worth a mite: Alas! thou fell Mars; alas! thou Juno, Thus hath your ire our linage all fordo, Save only me, and wretched Palamon, That Theseus martireth in prison; And over all this, to slen me utterly, Love hath his firy dart so brenningly Ysticked thurgh my trewe careful hert, That shapen was my deth erst than my shert. Ye slen me with your eyen, Emelie; Ye ben the cause wherfore that I die. Of all the remenant of min other care Ne set I not the mountance of a tare, So that I coud don ought to your plesance. And with that word he fell doun in a trance A longe time, and afterward up sterte. This Palamon that thought thurghout his herte He felt a colde swerd sodenly glide,