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How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite! The deeth he feleth thurgh his herte smyte; 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. Allas! 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! Wel hath fortune y-turned thee the dys, That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence. 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! How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite! The deeth he feleth thurgh his herte smyte; 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. Allas! 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! Wel hath fortune y-turned thee the dys, That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence. 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!

Original Text

Modern Text

How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite! The deeth he feleth thurgh his herte smyte; 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. Allas! 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! Wel hath fortune y-turned thee the dys, That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence. 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! How greet a sorwe suffreth now Arcite! The deeth he feleth thurgh his herte smyte; 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. Allas! 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! Wel hath fortune y-turned thee the dys, That hast the sighte of hir, and I thabsence. 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!
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