And breking bothe the boughes and the leves, And thinketh, here cometh my mortal enemy, Withouten faile he must be ded or I: For eyther I mote slain him at the gappe, Or he mote slen me, if that me mishappe. So ferden they, in changing of hir hewe, As fer as eyther of hem other knewe. Ther n'as no good day, ne no saluing But streit withouten wordes rehersing Everich of hem halpe to armen other As frendly as he were his owen brother; And, after that, with sharpe speres strong They foineden eche at other wonder long. Thou mightest wenen, that this Palamon In his fighting were a wood leon, And as a cruel tigre was Arcite: As wild bores gan they togeder smite, That frothen white as fome for ire wood; Up to the ancle fought they in hir blood; And in this wise I let hem fighting dwelle, As forth I wol of Theseus you telle. The Destinee, ministre general, That executeth in the world over al The purveiance that God hath sen beforne, So strong it is, that though the world hath sworne The contrary of thing by ya or nay, Yet sometime it shall fallen on a day That falleth nat efte in a thousand yere: For certainly our appetites here, Be it of werre, or pees, or hate, or love, All is this ruled by the sight above. This mene I now by mighty Theseus, That for to hunten is so desirous, And namely at the gret hart in May, That in his bed ther daweth him no day, That he n'is clad, and redy for to ride With hunte and horne, and houndes him beside: For in his hunting hath he swiche delite, That it is all his joye and appetite, To ben himself the grete harts bane; For after Mars he serveth now Diane. Clere was the day, as I have told or this, And Theseus, with alle joye and blis, With his Ipolitia, the fayre quene, And Emelie, yclothed all in grene, On hunting ben thy ridden really, And to the grove, that stood ther faste by, In which ther was an hart, as men him told, Duk Theseus the streite way hath hold, And to the launde he rideth him ful right, Ther was the hart ywont to have his flight, And over a brooke, and so forth on his wey. This duk wol have a cours at him or twey, With houndes, swiche as him lust to commaunde. And when this duk was comen to the launde, Under the sonne he loked, and anon He was ware of Arcite and Palamon, That foughten breme, as it were bolles two; The brighte swerdes wenten to and fro So hidously, that with the leste stroke It semed that it wold felle an oke: But what they weren nothing he ne wote. This duk his courser with his sporres smote, And at a stert he was betwix hem two, And pulled out a swerde, and cried, Ho! No more, up peine of lesing of your hed; By mighty Mars, he shall anon be ded That smiteth any stroke that I may sen!