And in this wise, these lords all and some, Ben on the Sonday to the citee come Abouten prime, and in the toun alight. This Theseus, this duk, this worthy knight, Whan he had brought hem into his citee, And inned hem, everich at his degree, He festeth hem, and doth so gret labour To easen hem, and don hem all honour, That yet men wenen that no mannes wit Of non estat ne coud amenden it. The minstralcie, the service at the feste The grete yeftes to the most and leste, The riche array of Theseus paleis, Ne who sate first, ne last, upon the deis, What ladies fayrest ben, or best dauncing, Or which of hem can carole best or sing, Ne who most felingly speketh of love, What haukes sitten on perche above, What houndes liggen on the floor adoun, Of all this now I make no mentioun. But of the effect, that thinketh me the beste, Now cometh the point, and herkeneth if you lest. The Sonday nighte, or day began to spring, Whan Palamon the larke herde sing, Although it n'ere not day by houres two, Yet sang the larke, and Palamon right tho With holy herte, and with an high corage, He rose, to wenden on his pilgrimage Unto the blissful Citherea benigne, I mene Venus, honourable and digne. And in hire houre he walketh forth a pas Unto the listes, ther hire temple was, And doun he kneleth, and with humble chere And herte sore he sayde, as ye shul here: Fayrest of fayre! O lady min Venus, Daughter of Jove, and spouse to Vulcanus, Thou glader of the mount of Citheron! For thilke love thou haddest to Adon, Have pitee on my bitter teres smerte, And take myn humble prair at thin herte. Alas! I ne have no langage to tell The effecte, ne the torment of min hell; Min herte may min harmes not bewrey; I am so confuse that I cannot say: But mercy, lady bright! that knowest wele My thought, and seest what harmes that I fele: Consider all this, and rue upon my sore, As wisly as I shal for evermore Emforth my might thy trewe servant be, And holden werre alway with chastite; That make I min avow, so ye me helpe, I kepe nought of armes for to yelpe, Ne axe I nat to-morwe to have victorie, Ne renoun in this cas, ne vaine glorie Of pris of armes, blowen up and doun, But I wold have fully possessioun Of Emelie, and die in her servise: Finde thou the manere how, and in what wise. I rekke not but it may better be To have victory of hem, or they of me, So that I have my lady in min armes; For though so be that Mars is god of armes, Your vertue is so grete in heven above, That, if you liste, I shal wel have my love. Thy temple wol I worship evermo, And on thin auter, wher I ride or go I wol don sacrifice, and fires bete. And if ye wol not so, my lady swete! Than pray I you to-morwe with a spere,