That she ne hath foot on which she may sustene ;

But forth languisshing ever in this estate, Of which Arcite hath nother routhe ne tene;

His herte was elles-where, newe and grene, 180

That on hir wo ne deyneth him not to thinke,

Him rekketh never wher she flete or sinke.

His newe lady holdeth him so narowe Up by the brydel, at the staves ende, That every word, he dradde hit as an arowe; 185 Hir daunger made him bothe bowe and bende,

And as hir liste, made him turne or wende;

For she ne graunted him in hir livinge No grace, why that he hath lust to singe; But drof him forth, unnethe liste hir knowe

190

Nay, certes! ferther wol I never +founde
Non other help, my sores for to sounde.
My destinee hath shapen it ful yore:
I wil non other medecyne ne lore;
I wil ben ay ther I was ones bounde, 245
That I have seid, be seid for ever-more!
4.

Alas! wher is become your gentilesse! Your wordes fulle of plesaunce and humblesse ?

Your observaunces in so low manere, And your awayting and your besinesse 250 Upon me, that ye calden your maistresse, Your sovereyn lady in this worlde here? Alas! and is ther nother word ne chere Ye vouchesauf upon myn hevinesse? Alas! your love, I bye hit al to dere. 255

5.

Now certes, swete, thogh that ye
Thus causeles the cause be

Of my dedly adversitee,

Your manly reson oghte it to respyte
To slee your frend, and namely me, 260
That never yet in no degree
Offended yow, as wisly he,

That al wot, out of wo my soule quyte!
But for I shewed yow, Arcite,

Al that men wolde to me wryte, 265 And was so besy, yow to delyteMy honour save-meke, kinde, and free, Therfor ye putte on me the wyte, And of me recche not a myte, Thogh that the swerd of sorow byte 270 My woful herte through your crueltee. 6.

My swete foo, why do ye so, for shame? And thenke ye that furthered be your name,

305 Your chere floureth, but hit wol not sede; Ful longe agoon I oghte have take hede.

4. For thogh I hadde yow to-morow ageyn, I might as wel holde Averill fro reyn,

As holde yow, to make yow stedfast. 310 Almighty god, of trouthe sovereyn,

Wher is the trouthe of man? who hath hit sleyn?

Who that hem loveth shal hem fynde

as fast

As in a tempest is a roten mast. Is that a tame best that is ay feyn To renne away, when he is leest agast?

5.

Now mercy, swete, if I misseye, Have I seyd oght amis, I preye? I not; my wit is al aweye.

315

325

I fare as doth the song of Chaunte-pleure.
For now I pleyne, and now I pleye, 321
I am so mased that I deye,
Arcite hath born awey the keye
Of al my worlde, and my good aventure!
For in this worlde nis creature
Wakinge, in more discomfiture
Then I, ne more sorow endure;
And if I slepe a furlong wey or tweye,
Than thinketh me, that your figure
Before me stant, clad in asure,
To profren eft a newe assure
For to be trewe, and mercy me to preye.

The longe night

drye, And on the day And of al this recche.

Ne never mo And to your I crye.

6.

330

this wonder sight I

for this afray I dye, 334

right noght, y-wis, ye

myn yën two be drye, routhe and to your trouthe