Thin is the victorie of this aventure; Ful blisful in prison maiest thou endure: In prison! certes nay, but in paradise. Wel hath Fortune yturned thee the dise, That hast the sight of hire, and I the absence. For possible is, sin thou hast hire presence, And art a knight, a worthy and an able, That by some cas, sin Fortune is changeable, Thou maiest to thy desir somtime atteine: But I that am exiled, and barreine Of alle grace, and in so gret despaire, That ther n'is erthe, water, fire, ne aire, Ne creature, that of hem maked is, That may me hele or don comfort in this, Wel ought I sterve in wanhope and distresse. Farewel my lif, my lust, and my gladnesse. Alas! why plainen men so in commune Of purveiance of God, or of Fortune, That yeveth hem ful oft in many a gise, Wel better than they can hemself devise; Som man desireth for to have richesse, That cause is of his murdre or gret siknesse; And som man wold out of his prison fayne, That in his house is of his meinie slain. Infinite harmes ben in this matere, We wote not what thing that we praien here. We saren as he that dronke is as a mous: A dronken man wot wel he hath an hous, But he ne wot which the right way thider, And to a dronken man the way is slider. And certes in this world so faren we; We seken fast after felicite, But we go wrong ful often trewely. Thus we may sayen alle, and namely I, That wende, and had a gret opinion, That if I might escapen fro prison, Than I had ben in joye and parfite hele, Ther now I am exiled fro my wele. Sin that I may not seen you, Emelie, I n'am but ded; there n'is no remedie. Upon that other side Palamon, Whan that he wist Arcita was agon, Swiche sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour Resouned of his yelling and clamour. The pure fetters on his shinnes grete Were of his bitter salte teres wete. Alas! quod he, Arcita, cosin min, Of all our strif, God wot, the frute is thin. Thou walkest now in Thebes at thy large, And of my wo, thou yevest litel charge. Thou maist, sith thou hast wisdom and manhede, Assemblen all the folk of our kinrede, And make werre so sharpe in this contree, That by som aventure, or som tretee, Thou maist have hire to lady and to wif, For whom that I must nedes lese my lif. For, as by way of possibilitee, Sith thou art at thy large of prison free, And art a lord, gret is thine avantage, More than is min, that sterve her in a cage; For I may wepe and waile, while that I live, With all the wo that prison may me yeve, And eke with peine that love me yeveth also, That doubleth all my tourment and my wo. Therwith the fire of jalousie up sterte Within his brest, and hent him by the herte So woodly, that he like was to behold The boxe-tree, or the ashen, ded and cold.