That lord hath litel of discretion, That in swiche cas can no division, But weigheth pride and humblesse after on. And shortly, when his ire is thus agon, He gan to loken up with eyen light, And spake these same wordes all on hight: The god of Love, a _benedicite_! How mighty, and how gret a lord is he! Again his might ther gainen non obstacles, He may be cleped a god for his miracles: For he can maken at his owen gise Of everich herte, as that him list devise. Lo! here this Arcite, and this Palamon, That quitely weren out of my prison, And might have lived in Thebes really, And weten I am hir mortal enemy, And that hir deth lith in my might also, And yet hath love maugre hir eyen two, Ybrought hem hither bothe for to die. Now loketh, is not this an heigh folie? Who may ben a fool, but if he love? Behold, for Goddes sake, that sitteth above, Se how they blede! be they not wel araied? Thus hath hir lord, the god of Love, hem paied Hir wages and hir fees for hir service, And yet they wenen for to be ful wise That serven Love, for ought that may befalle. And yet is this the beste game of alle, That she, for whom they have this jolite, Con hem therfore as mochel thank as me. She wot no more of alle this hote fare, By God, than wot a cuckow or an hare. But alle mote ben assaied hote or cold; A man mot ben a fool, other yonge or old; I wot it by myself ful yore agon; For in my time a servant was I on: And therefore sith I know of loves peine, And wote how sore it can a man destreine; As he that oft hath been caught in his las, I you foryeve all holly this trespas, At request of the quene, that kneleth here, And eke of Emelie, my suster dere, And ye shul both anon unto me swere That never mo ye shul my contree dere, Ne maken werre upon me night ne day, But ben my frendes in alle that ye may. I you foryeve this trespas every del. And they him sware his axing fayr and wel; And him of lordship and of mercie praid, And he hem granted grace, and thus he said: To speke of real linage and richesse, Though that she were a quene or a princesse, Eche of you bothe is worthy, douteles, To wedden whan time is, but natheles I speke as for my suster Emelie, For whom ye have this strif and jalousie, Ye wot yourself, she may not wedden two At ones, though ye fighten evermo; But on of you, al be him loth or lefe, He mot gon pipen in an ivy lefe; This is to say, she may not have you bothe, Al be ye never so jalous, ne so wrothe: And forthy I you put in this degree, That eche of you shall have his destinee As him is shape, and herkneth in what wise; Lo here your ende, of that I shal devise. My will is this, for plat conclusion, Withouten any replication: