“You shall,” said he, “be sooner false than I;
But you are false, I tell you straight;
For as flesh and blood I loved her before you.
What would you say? You don’t yet know
Whether she’s a woman or a goddess!
Yours is affection spiritual,
And mine is love, as to a creature,
For which I tolde thee myn aventure
As to my cosin, and my brother sworn.
I pose, that thou lovedest hir biforn;
Wostow nat wel the olde clerkes sawe,
That ‘who shal yeve a lover any lawe?’
Love is a gretter lawe, by my pan,
Than may be yeve to any erthly man.
And therefore positif lawe and swich decree
Is broke al-day for love, in ech degree.
A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed.
He may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed,
Al be she mayde, or widwe, or elles wyf.
And eek it is nat lykly, al thy lyf,
To stonden in hir grace; namore shal I;
For wel thou woost thy-selven, verraily,
That thou and I be dampned to prisoun
Perpetuelly; us gayneth no raunsoun.
We stryve as dide the houndes for the boon,
They foughte al day, and yet hir part was noon;
Ther cam a kyte, whyl that they were wrothe,
And bar awey the boon bitwixe hem bothe.
And therfore, at the kinges court, my brother,
Ech man for him-self, ther is non other.
Love if thee list; for I love and ay shal;
And soothly, leve brother, this is al.
Here in this prisoun mote we endure,
And everich of us take his aventure.”
Greet was the stryf and long bitwixe hem tweye,
If that I hadde leyser for to seye;
But to th’ effect. It happed on a day,
(To telle it yow as shortly as I may)
A worthy duk that highte Perotheus,
That felawe was un-to duk Theseus
Sin thilke day that they were children lyte,
Was come to Athenes, his felawe to visyte,
And for to pleye, as he was wont to do,
For in this world he loved no man so:
And he loved him as tenderly ageyn.
So wel they loved, as olde bokes seyn,
For which I told you my adventure
As to my cousin and my brother sworn.
But let us say that you loved her first:
Don’t you know the old scholar’s saw:
‘Who shall give a lover any law?’
Love is a greater law, in my mind,
Than may be given to any earthly man.
And therefore man’s law and such decrees
Are broken for love every day by everybody.
A man must love, though his head says no.
He may not escape it, even if it means dying,
Whether she’s a maid, a widow or else a wife.
And you’re not likely for all your life
To stand in her grace; no more shall I;
For well you know yourself, verily,
That you and I be condemned to prison
Perpetually; we shall have no ransom.
We strive as did the hounds for the bone:
They fought all day, and yet their part was none;
There came a bird, while they were fighting so,
And bore away the bone from them both.
And therefore, at the king’s court, my brother,
Each man for himself: there is no other.
Love if you will, for I love and always shall;
And truly, dear brother, this is all.
Here in this prison must we endure,
And each of us take what to him comes.“
Great was the strife and long between the two,
And would that I had time to describe—
But to the outcome. It happened on a day,
To make it short as I can,
A worthy duke named Perotheus,5
Who was a friend to duke Theseus
Since the days when they were children little,
Was come to Athens his friend to visit,
And to play as he was wont to do;
For in this world he loved no man so,
And Theseus loved him as tenderly in turn.
So well they loved, as old books say,
That whan that oon was deed, sothly to telle,
His felawe wente and soghte him doun in helle;
But of that story list me nat to wryte.
Duk Perotheus loved wel Arcite,
And hadde him knowe at Thebes yeer by yere;
And fynally, at requeste and preyere
Of Perotheus, with-oute any raunsoun,
Duk Theseus him leet out of prisoun,
Freely to goon, wher that him liste over-al,
In swich a gyse, as I you tellen shal.
This was the forward, pleynly for t‘endyte,
Bitwixen Theseus and him Arcite:
That if so were, that Arcite were y-founde
Ever in his lyf, by day or night or stounde
In any contree of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was acorded thus,
That with a swerd he sholde lese his heed;
Ther nas non other remedye ne reed,
But taketh his leve, and homward he him spedde;
Let him be war, his nekke lyth to wedde!
How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite!
The deeth he feleth thurgh his herte symte;
He wepeth, wayleth, cryeth pitously;
To sleen him-self he wayteth prively.
He seyde, “Allas that day that I was born!
Now is my prison worse than biforn;
Now is me shape eternally to dwelle
Noght in purgatorie, but in helle.
Alias! that ever knew I Perotheus
For elles hadde I dwelled with Theseus
Y-fetered in his prisoun ever-mo.
Than hadde I been in blisse, and nat in wo.
Only the sighte of hir, whom that I serve,
Though that I never hir grace may deserve,
Wolde han suffised right y-nough for me.
O dere cosin Palamon,” quod he,
“Thyn is the victorie of this aventure,
Ful blisfully in prison maistow dure;
In prison? certes nay, but in paradys!
That when one was dead, truly to tell,
His friend went and sought him down in hell;
But of that story I don’t want to write.
Duke Perotheus loved Arcita well,
And had known him at Thebes for many years;
And finally, at request and prayer
Of Perotheus, without any ransom,
Duke Theseus let him out of prison
Free to go wherever he pleased,
In such a way as I shall you tell.
This was the agreement, to plainly write,
Between Theseus and Arcita:
That if it happened, that Arcita were found
Ever in his life, by day or night, for one moment
In any country of this Theseus,
And he were caught, it was agreed thus,
That with a sword he should lose his head;
With no other choice or remedy
But to take his leave, and homeward he him speed;
Let him be warned, his neck lies as a pledge.
How great a sorrow suffered now Arcita!
The death he felt through his heart strike,
He wept, wailed, cried piteously;
To slay himself he intended secretly.
He said, “Alas that day that I was born!
Now is my prison worse than before!
Now is my destiny eternally to dwell
Not in purgatory but in hell.
Alas, that ever I knew
Perotheus!
For otherwise had I dwelled with Theseus
Fettered in his prison evermore.
Then had I been in bliss, and not in woe.
Only the sight of her whom that I serve,
Though that I never her grace may deserve,
Would have sufficed right enough for me.
O dear cousin Palamon,” said he,
“Yours is the victory of this adventure
Full blissfully in prison must you endure.
In prison? surely not, but in paradise!
Wel hath fortune y-turned thee the dys,
That hast the sighte of hir, and I th‘absence.
For possible is, sin thou hast hir presence,
And art a knight, a worthy and an able,
That by som cas, sin fortune is chaungeable,
Thou mayst to thy desyr som-tyme atteyne.
But I, that am exyled, and bareyne
Of alle grace, and in so greet despeir,
That ther nis erthe, water, fyr, ne eir,
Ne creature, that of hem maked is,
That may me helpe or doon confort in this:
Wel oughte I sterve in wanhope and distresse;
Farwel my lyf, my lust, and my gladnesse!
Alias, why pleynen folk so in commune
Of purveyaunce of God, or of fortune,
That yeveth hem ful ofte in many a gyse
Wel bettre than they can hem-self devyse?
Som man desyreth for to han richesse,
That cause is of his mordre or greet siknesse.
And som man wolde out of his prison fayn,
That in his hous is of his meynee slayn.
Infinite harmes been in this matere;
We witen nat what thing we preyen here.
We faren as he that dronke is as a mous;
A dronke man wot wel he hath an hous,
But he noot which the righte wey is thider;
And to a dronke man the wey is slider.
And certes, in this world so faren we;
We seken faste after felicitee,
But we goon wrong ful often, trewely.
Thus may we seyen alle, and namely I,
That wende and hadde a greet opinioun,
That, if I mighte escapen from prisoun,
Than hadde I been in joye and perfit hele,
Ther now I am exyled fro my wele.
Sin that I may nat seen you, Emelye,
I nam but deed; ther nis no remedye.”
Up-on that other syde Palamon,
Whan that he wiste Arcite was agon,
Well has Fortune turned the dice,
That you have the sight of her face, and I her absence.
For possible is, since you have her presence,
And are a knight, worthy and able,
That by some chance, since Fortune is changeable,
You may your desire sometime attain.
But I, who am exiled and barren
Of all grace, and in so great despair
That there is neither earth, water, fire nor air,
Nor any creature that of them made is
That may help me or give me comfort in this,
Well ought I die in despair and distress.
Farewell my life, my joy, and my gladness!
Alas, why complain folk so often
About Divine Providence, or of Fortune,
That gives them full often in many a guise
Well better than they can themselves devise?
One man may desire to have riches,
That cause his murder or great sickness.
Another man would out of his prison gladly be,
Who in his own house is slain by his enemy.
Infinite harms be in this matter;
We know not what thing we pray for.
We act like someone as drunk as a mouse,
A drunk man knows well he has a house,
But he knows not the right way there;
And to a drunk man the road is all ice.
And certainly, in this world so fare we;
We seek always after happiness,
But we go wrong full often, truly.
Thus may we all say, and especially I
Who thought and had a great opinion
That if I might escape from prison,
Then I would have been in joy and perfect health,
Whereas now I am exiled from my felicity.
Since I may not see you, Emily,
I am but dead; there is no remedy.”
Upon that other side Palamon,
When he knew Arcita was gone,
Swich sorwe he maketh, that the grete tour
Resouneth of his youling and clamour.
The pure fettres on his shines grete
Weren of his bittre salte teres wete.
“Allas!” quod he, “Arcita, cosin myn,
Of al our stryf, God woot, the fruyt is thyn.
Thow walkest now in Thebes at thy large,
And of my wo thou yevest litel charge.
Thou mayst, sin thou hast wisdom and manhede,
Assemblen alle the folk of our kinrede,
And make a werre so sharp on this citee,
That by som aventure, or some tretee,
Thou mayst have hir to lady and to wyf,
For whom that I mot nedes lese my lyf.
For, as by wey of possibilitee,
Sith thou art at thy large, of prison free,
And art a lord, greet is thyn avauntage,
More than is myn, that sterve here in a cage.
For I mot wepe and wayle, whyl I live,
With al the wo that prison may me yive,
And eek with peyne that love me yiveth also,
That doubleth al my torment and my wo.”
Ther-with the fyr of jelousye up-sterte
With-inne his brest, and hente him by the herte
So woodly, that he lyk was to biholde
The box-tree, or the asshen dede and colde.
Tho seyde he; “O cruel goddess, that governe
This world with binding of your word eterne,
And wryten in the table of athamaunt
Your parlement, and your eterne graunt,
What is mankinde more un-to yow holde
Than is the sheep, that rouketh in the folde?
For slayn is man right as another beste,
And dwelleth eek in prison and areste,
And hath siknesse, and greet adversitee,
And ofte tymes giltelees, pardee!
What governaunce is in this prescience,
That giltelees tormenteth innocence?
And yet encreseth this al my penaunce,
Made such sorrow that the great tower
Resounded with his yowling and his clamor.
The very fetters on his swollen limbs
Were of his bitter salt tears wet.
“Alas!” said he, “Arcita, cousin mine,
Of all our strife, God knows, the fruit is yours.
You walk freely now in Thebes,
And to my woe you give little heed.
You may, since you have wisdom and manhood,
Assemble all the folk of our kindred,
And make a war so sharp on this city,
That by some chance, or some treaty,
You may have her as your lady and wife,
For whom that I must needs lose my life.
For, as by way of possibility,
Since you are at large, of prison free,
And are a lord, great is your advantage
More than mine, dying here in a cage.
For I must weep and wail, while I live,
With all the woe that prison may me give,
And with the pain that love me gives also,
That doubles all my torment and my woe.”
Therewith the fire of jealousy upstarted
Within his breast, and seized him by the heart
So tightly, that he was like to behold
Boxwood blossoms white or ashes dead and cold.
Then said he, “O cruel goddess, who governs
This world with binding of your word eternal,
And writes in the tablet of adamantine
Your decision and your eternal decree,
How is mankind more to you
Than the sheep that cowers in the fold?
For slain is man as any other beast,
And dwells also in prison and arrest,
And has sickness and great adversity.
And oftentimes guiltless, certainly!
What purpose is there in this prescience
That torments guiltless innocence?
And vet this increases all my penance,
That man is bounden to his observaunce,
For Goddes sake, to letten of his wille,
Ther as a beest may al his lust fulfille.
And whan a beest is deed, he hath no peyne;
But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne,
Though in this world he have care and wo:
With-outen doute it may stonden so.
Th’ answere of this I lete to divynis,
But wel I woot, that in this world gret pyne is.
Allas! I see a serpent or a theef,
That many a trewe man hath doon mescheef,
Goon at his large, and wher him list may turne.
But I mot been in prison thurgh Saturne,
And eek thurgh Juno, jalous and eek wood,
That hath destroyed wel ny al the blood
Of Thebes, with his waste walles wyde.
And Venus sleeth me on that other syde
For jelousye, and fere of him Arcite.”
Now wol I stinte of Palamon a lyte,
And lete him in his prison stille dwelle,
And of Arcita forth I wol yow telle.
The somer passeth, and the nightes longe
Encresen double wyse the peynes stronge.
Bothe of the lovere and the prisoner.
I noot which hath the wofullere mester.
For shortly for to seyn, this Palamoun
Perpetuelly is dampned to prisoun,
In cheynes and in fettres to ben deed;
And Arcite is exyled upon his heed
For ever-mo as out of that contree,
Ne never-mo he shal his lady see.
Yow loveres axe I now this questioun,
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?
That oon may seen his lady day by day,
But in prison he moot dwelle alway.
That other wher him list may ryde or go,
But seen his lady shal he never-mo.
Now demeth as yow liste, ye that can,
For I wol telle forth as I bigan.
That man is bound to the obligation,
For God’s sake, to restrain his will,
While a beast may all his desire fulfill.
And when a beast is dead, he has no pain;
But man after his death must weep and complain,
Though in this world he have care and woe.
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 12