The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

      For which his hors for fere gan to turne,

      And lepte aside, and foundred as he lepe;

      And er that Arcite may take any kepe,

      He pight him on the pomel of his hed,

      That in the place he lay as he were ded,

      His breste to-brosten with his sadel bow;

      As blake he lay as any cole or crow,

      So was the blood yronnen in his face.

      Anon he was yborne out of the place,

      With herte sore, to Theseus paleis:

      Tho was he corven out of his harneis,

      And in a bed ybrought ful fayre and blive,

      For he was yet in memorie and live,

      And alway crying after Emelie.

      Duk Theseus, with all his compagnie,

      Is comen hom to Athens, his citee,

      With alle blisse and gret solempnite.

      Al be it that this aventure was falle

      He n'olde not discomforten hem alle.

      Men sayden eke that Arcite shal not die,

      He shal ben heled of his maladie.

      And of another thing they were as fayn,

      That of hem alle was ther non yslain,

      Al were they sore yhurt, and namely on,

      That with a spere was thirled his brest bone.

      To other woundes, and to broken armes,

      Som hadden salves, and some hadden charmes;

      And fermacies of herbes, and eke save

      They dronken, for they wold hir lives have:

      For which this noble duk, as he wel can,

      Comforteth and honoureth every man,

      And made revel all the longe night

      Unto the strange lordes, as was right.

      Ne ther n'as holden no discomforting

      But as at justes, or a tourneying;

      For sothly ther n'as no discomfiture,

      For falling n'is not but an aventure:

      Ne to be lad by force unto a stake

      Unyolden, and with twenty knightes take,

      O person all alone, withouten mo,

      And haried forth by armes, foot, and too,

      And eke his stede driven forth with staves,

      With footmen, bothe yemen and eke knaves,

      It was aretted him no villanie;

      Ther may no man clepen it cowardie.

      For which anon Duk Theseus let crie,

      To stenten alle rancour and envie,

      The gree as wel of o side as of other,

      And eyther side ylike, as others brother;

      And yave hem giftes after hir degree,

      And helde a feste fully dayes three;

      And conveyed the kinges worthily

      Out of his toun a journee largely;

      And home went every man the righte way;

      Ther n'as no more but farewel, have good day.

      Of this bataille I wol no more endite,

      But speke of Palamon and of Arcite.

      Swelleth the brest of Arcite, and the sore

      Encreseth at his herte more and more.

      The clotered blood for any leche-craft

      Corrumpeth, and is in his bouke ylaft,

      That neyther vine-blood ne ventousing,

      Ne drinke of herbes, may ben his helping.

      The vertue expulsif, or animal,

      Forthilke vertue cleped natural,

      Ne may the venime voiden ne expell;

      The pipes of his longes gan to swell,

      And every lacerte in his brest adoun

      Is shent with venime and corruptioun.

      Him gaineth neyther for to get his lif

      Vomit upward ne dounward laxatif:

      All is to brosten thilke region;

      Nature hath now no domination:

      And certainly ther nature wol not werche.

      Farewel physike; go bere the man to cherche.

      This is all and som, that Arcite moste die;

      For which he sendeth after Emelie,

      And Palamon, that was his cosin dere;

      Than sayd he thus, as ye shuln after here:

      Nought may the woful spirit in myn herte

      Declare o point of all my sorwes smerte

      To you, my lady, that I love most;

      But I bequethe the service of my gost

      To you aboven every creature,

      Sin that my lif ne may no lenger dure.

      Alas! the wo, alas! the peines strong,

      That I for you have suffered, and so long;

      Alas! the deth; alas! mine Emelie;

      Alas! departing of our compagnie;

      Alas! min hertes quene; alas! my wif;

      Min hertes ladie! ender of my lif!

      What is this world? what axen men to have?

      Now with his love, now in his colde grave

      Alone withouten any compagnie.

      Farewel, my swete! farewel, min Emelie!

      And softe take me in your armes twey,

      For love of God, and herkeneth what I sey.

      I have here with my cosin Palamon

      Had strif and rancour many a day agon

      For love of you, and for my jalousie;

      And Jupiter so wis my soule gie,

      To speken of a servant properly,

      With alle circumstances trewely,

      That is to sayn, trouth, honour, and knighthede,

      Wisdom, humblesse, estat, and high kinrede,

      Freedom, and all that longeth to that art,

      So Jupiter have of my soule part,

      As in this world right now ne know I non

      So worthy to be loved as Palamon,

      That serveth you, and wol don all his lif;

      And if that ever ye shal ben a wif,

      Foryete not Palamon, the gentil man.

      And with that word his speche faille began;

      For from his feet up to his brest wos come

      The cold of deth, that had him overnome;

      And yet moreover in his armes two

      The vital strength is lost and all ago;

      Only the intellect, withouten more,

      That dwelled in his herte sike and sore,

      Gan faillen whan the herte felt deth;

      Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth:

      But on his ladie yet cast he his eye;

      His laste word was, Mercy, Emelie!

      His spirit changed hous, and wente ther

      As