For ire he quoke, no lenger wolde he hide: And whan that he had herd Arcites tale, As he were wood, with face ded and pale, He sterte him up out of the bushes thikke, And sayde, False Arcite, false traitour wicke, Now art thou hent, that lovest my lady so; For whom that I have all this peine and wo, And art my blood, and to my conseil sworn, As I ful oft have told thee herebeforn: And hast bejaped here Duk Theseus, And falsely changed hast thy name thus; I wol be ded, or elles thou shalt die: Thou shalt not love my lady Emelie, But I wol love hire only and no mo, For I am Palamon, thy mortal fo. And though that I no wepen have in this place, But out of prison am astert by grace, I drede nought that eyther thou shalt die, Or thou ne shalt nat loven Emelie: Chese which thou wilt, for thou shalt not asterte. This Arcite tho, with ful dispitous herte, Whan he him knew, and had his tale herd, As fers as a leon, pulled out a swerd, And sayde thus; By God, that sitteth above, N'ere it that thou art sicke, and wood for love, And eke that thou no wepen hast in this place, Thou shuldest never out this grove pace, That thou ne shuldest dien of min hond; For I defie the suretee and the bond Which that thou saist that I have made to thee. What! veray fool, thinke wel that love is free And I wol love her maugre all thy might: But for thou art a worthy gentil knight, And wilnest to darraine hire by bataille, Have here my trouth, to morwe I will not faille, Withouten weting of any other wight, That here I wol be founden as a knight, And bringen harneis right ynough for thee, And chese the beste, and leve the werste for me: And mete and drinke this night wol I bring Ynough for thee, and cloathes for thy bedding; And if so be that thou my lady win, And sle me in this wode ther I am in, Thou maist well have thy lady as for me. This Palamon answered, I grant it thee. And thus they ben departed till a morwe, When eche of hem hath laid his faith to borwe. O Cupide, out of alle charitee! O regne, that wolt no felaw have with thee! Ful soth is sayde, that love ne lordship Wol nat, his thankes, have no felawship. Wel finden that Arcite and Palamon. Arcite is ridden anone unto the toun, And on the morwe or it were day light, Ful prively two harneis hath he dight, Both suffisant and mete to darreine The bataille in the field betwix hem tweine; And on his hors, alone as he was borne, He carieth all this harneis him beforne; And the grove, at time and place ysette, That Arcite and this Palamon ben mette. Tho changen gan the colour in hir face, Right as the hunter in the regne of Trace, That stondeth at a gappe, with a spere, Whan hunted is the lion or the bere, And hereth him come rushing in the greves,