Dwellen this Palamon, and eke Arcite, For evermo, ther may no gold hem quite. Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day, Till it fell ones, in a morwe of May, That Emilie, that fayrer was to sene Than is the lilie upon the stalke grene, And fressher than the May with floures new, (For with the rose colour strof hire hewe, I n'ot which was the finer of hem two,) Er it was day, as she was wont to do, She was arisen, and all redy dight; For May wol have no slogardie a-night: The season priketh every gentil herte, And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte, And sayth, Arise, and do thin observance. This maketh Emelie han remembraunce To don honour to May, and for to rise; Yclothed was she fresshe for to devise; Hire yelwe here was broided in a tresse Behind hire back, a yerde long I gesse; And in the gardin at sonne uprist, She walketh up and doun wher as hire list; She gathereth floures, partie white and red, To make a sotel garland for hire hed; And as an angel hevenlich she song: The grete tour that was so thikke and strong, Which, of the castel, was the chef dongeon (Wher as these knightes weren in prison, Of which I tolde you, and tellen shal,) Was even joinant to the gardin wall, Ther as this Emelie had hire playing. Bright was the sonne, and clere that morwening, And Palamon, this woful prisoner, As was his wone, by leve of his gayler, Was risen, and romed in a chambre on high, In which he all the noble citee seigh, And eke the gardin ful of brandies grene, Ther as this fresshe Emelie the shene Was in hire walk, and romed up and doun. This sorweful prisoner, this Palamon, Goth in his chambre roming to and fro, And to himselfe complaining of his wo: That he was borne, ful oft he sayd, Alas! And so befel, by aventure, or cas, That thrugh a window thikke of many a barre Of yren gret, and square as any sparre, He cast his eyen upon Emilia, And therwithal he blent, and cried, A! As though he stongen were unto the herte. And with that crie Arcite anon up sterte, And saide, Cosin min, what eyleth thee, That art so pale and dedly for to see? Why cridest thou? who hath thee don offence? For Goddes love, take all in patience Our prison, for it may non other be, Fortune hath yeven us this adversite: Som wikke aspect or disposition Of Saturne, by som constellation, Hath yeven us this, although we had it sworn: So stood the heven, when that we were born; We moste endure; this is the short and plain. This Palamon answerde, and sayde again, Cosin, forsoth of this opinion Thou hast a vaine imagination; This prison caused me not to crie, But I was hurt right now thurghout min eye Into min herte, that wol my bane be. The fayrenesse of a lady that I se