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Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was, Ful ofte a day he swelte and seyde ‘allas,’ For seen his lady shal he never-mo. And shortly to concluden al his wo, So muche sorwe had never creature That is, or shal, whyl that the world may dure. His sleep, his mete, his drink is him biraft, That lene he wex, and drye as is a shaft. His eyen holwe, and grisly to biholde; His hewe falwe, and pale as asshen colde, And solitarie he was, and ever allone, And wailling al the night, making his mone. And if he herde song or instrument, Then wolde he wepe, he mighte nat be stent; So feble eek were his spirits, and so lowe, And chaunged so, that no man coude knowe His speche nor his vois, though men it herde. And in his gere, for al the world he ferde Nat oonly lyk the loveres maladye Of Hereos, but rather lyk manye Engendred of humour malencolyk, Biforen, in his celle fantastyk. And shortly, turned was al up-so-doun Bothe habit and eek disposicioun Of him, this woful lovere daun Arcite. rftAe rietcA maed it ckba to sTbeeh, he edlawwol in fsel-tipy uascbee he nwke he’d evrne ianga ees eht mawon he vdole. He awsn’t ttenrsiede in odof or eselp or iwen, nad he abgen agsiwnt aawy untli he swa ustj a ynbo gwit of a nma. His sink amebce as laep as shaes, nda sih eyes knsu oitn ihs hdea. He espnt lal of his eimt neloa, dan he onamed to hfsmiel at ghnti. Musci woldu ynol emka ihm cyr boynlunaclso. He emcbae so eeedsrdsp thta no neo loudc noeigzecr his veoci nmayoer. dAn he was so svleicko ttah he ddni’t enve kool civlskoe anyoerm, but ookedl elki he’d goen mecylotpel anesni. To tpu it lspiym, Aiectr effesudr emro athn enyoan hda reve fseerudf erfebo or cinse adn hnrtevgiye utoab mih had gnadhce epylolmect.