Than said he: O cruel goddes, that governe This world with binding of your word eterne, And writen in the table of athamant, Your parlement, and your eterne grant, What is mankind more unto yhold Than is the shepe, that rouketh in the fold? For slain is man, right as another beest, And dwelleth eke in prison, and arrest, And hath siknesse, and gret adversite, And often times gilteles parde. What governance is in this prescience, That gilteless turmenteth innocence? And yet encreseth this all my penance, That man is bounden to his observance, For Goddes sake to leten of his will, Ther as a beest may all his lust fulfill: And when a beest is ded, he hath no peine; But man, after his deth, mote wepe and pleine, Though in this world he have care and wo, Withouten doute it maye stonden so. The answer of this lete I to divines, But wel I wote, that in this world gret pine is. Alas! I see a serpent or a thefe, That many a trewe man hath do meschefe, Gon at his large, and wher him lust may turn. But I moste ben in prison thurgh Saturn, And eke thurgh Juno, jalous and eke wood, That hath wel neye destruied all the blood Of Thebes, with his waste walles wide; And Venus sleeth me on that other side, For jalousie, and fere of him, Arcite. Now wol I stent of Palamon a lite, And leten him in his prison still dwelle, And of Arcita forth I wol you telle. The sommer passeth, and the nightes long, Encresen double wise the peines strong Both of the lover and of the prisoner; I n'ot which hath the wofuller mistere: For, shortly for to say, this Palamon Perpetuelly is damned to prison, In chaines and in fetters to ben ded; And Arcite is exiled on his hed For evermore, as out of that contree, Ne never more he shal his lady see. You lovers, axe I now this question, Who hath the werse, Arcite, or Palamon? That on may se his lady day by day, But in prison moste he dwellen alway: That other wher him lust may ride or go, But sen his lady shal he never mo. Now demeth as you liste, ye that can, For I wil tell you forth, as I began. When that Arcite to Thebes comen was, Ful oft a day he swelt, and said, Alas! For sen his lady shal he neuer mo. And, shortly, to concluden all his wo, So mochel sorwe hadde never creature That is or shal be while the world may dure. His slepe, his mete, his drinke, is him byraft, That lene he wex, and drie as is a shaft. His eyen holwe, and grisly to behold, His hewe salowe, and pale as ashen cold; And solitary he was, and ever alone, And wailing all the night, making mone; And if he herde song or instrument, Than would he wepe, he mighte not be stent: So feble were his spirites, and so low, And changed so, that no man coude know