Wher that ther kneled in the highe wey A compagnie of ladies, twey and twey, Eche after other, clad in clothes blake; But swiche a crie and swiche a wo they make, That in this world n'is creature living That ever heard swiche another waimenting; And of this crie ne wolde never stenten, Till they the reines of his bridel henten. What folk be ye that at min home coming Perturben so my feste with crying? Quod Theseus; have ye so grete envie Of min honour, that thus complaine and crie? Or who hath you misboden, or offended? Do telle me, if that it may be amended, And why ye be thus clothed all in blake? The oldest lady of hem all than spake, Whan she had swouned with a dedly chere, That it was reuthe for to seen and here. She sayde, Lord, to whom Fortune hath yeven Victorie, and as a conqueror to liven, Nought greveth us your glorie and your honour, But we beseke you of mercie and socour: Have mercie on our wo and our distresse: Some drope of pitee thrugh thy gentillesse Upon us wretched wimmen let now fall; For certes, lord, there n'is non of us alle That she n'hath ben a duchesse or a quene; Now be we caitives, as it is wel sene: Thanked be Fortune, and hire false whele, That non estat ensureth to be wele. And certes, lord, to abiden your presence, Here in this temple of the goddesse Clemence, We han ben waiting all this fourtenight: Now help us, lord, sin it lieth in thy might. I wretched wight, that wepe and waile thus, Was whilom wif to King Capaneus, That starfe at Thebes, cursed be that day, And alle we that ben in this aray, And maken all this lamentation, We losten all our husbondes at that toun, While that the siege therabouten lay: And yet now the old Creon, wala wa! That lord is now of Thebes the citee, Fulfilled of ire and of iniquittee, He for despit, and for his tyrannie, To don the ded bodies a vilanie, Of alle our lordes, which that ben yslawe, Hath alle the bodies on an hepe ydrawe, And will not suffren hem by non assent Neyther to ben yberied, ne ybrent, But maketh houndes ete hem in despite. And with that word, withouten more respite, They fallen groff, and crien pitously, Have on us wretched wimmen som mercy, And let our sorwe sinken in thin herte. This gentil duk doun from his courser sterte, With herte piteous, whan he herd hem speke. Him thoughte that his herte wold all to-breke When he saw hem so pitous and so mate That whilom weren of so gret estate, And in his armes, he hem all up hente, And hem comforted in ful good entente, And swore his oth, as he was trewe knight, He wolde don so ferforthly his might Upon the tyrant Creon hem to wreke, That all the peple of Grece shulde speke How Creon was of Theseus yserved;