|
The bisy larke, messager of day, |
| Salueth in hir song the morwe gray, |
| 635 | And firy Phebus riseth up so brighte |
| That al the orient laugheth of the light, |
| And with hise stremes dryeth in the greves |
| The silver dropes hangynge on the leves. |
| And Arcita, that is in the court roial |
| 640 | With Theseus, his squier principal, |
| Is risen, and looketh on the myrie day. |
| And for to doon his observaunce of May, |
| Remembrynge on the poynt of his desir |
| He on a courser startlynge as the fir |
| 645 | Is riden into the feeldes, hym to pleye, |
| Out of the court, were it a myle or tweye. |
| And to the grove of which that I yow tolde |
| By aventure his wey he gan to holde, |
| To maken hym a gerland of the greves, |
| 650 | Were it of wodebynde or hawethorn leves. |
| And loude he song ayeyn the sonne shene, |
| "May, with alle thy floures and thy grene, |
| Welcome be thou, faire fresshe May, |
| In hope that I som grene gete may." |
| 655 | And from his courser, with a lusty herte, |
| Into a grove ful hastily he sterte, |
| And in a path he rometh up and doun |
| Ther as by aventure this Palamoun |
| Was in a bussh, that no man myghte hym se; |
| 660 | For soore afered of his deeth was he. |
| No thyng ne knew he that it was Arcite, |
| God woot, he wolde have trowed it ful lite. |
| But sooth is seyd, go sithen many yeres, |
| That "feeld hath eyen and the wode hath eres." |
| 665 | It is ful fair a man to bere hym evene, |
| For al day meeteth men at unset stevene. |
| Ful litel woot Arcite of his felawe, |
| That was so ny to herknen al his sawe, |
| For in the bussh he sitteth now ful stille. |
|
| The busy lark, the herald of the day, |
| Salutes now in her song the morning grey; |
| 635 | And fiery Phoebus rises up so bright |
| That all the east is laughing with the light, |
| And with his streamers dries, among the greves, |
| The silver droplets hanging on the leaves. |
| And so Arcita, in the court royal |
| 640 | With Theseus and his squire principal, |
| Is risen, and looks on the merry day. |
| And now, to do his reverence to May, |
| Calling to mind the point of his desire, |
| He on a courser, leaping high like fire, |
| 645 | Is ridden to the fields to muse and play, |
| Out of the court, a mile or two away; |
| And to the grove, whereof I lately told, |
| By accident his way began to hold, |
| To make him there the garland that one weaves |
| 650 | Of woodbine leaves and of green hawthorn leaves. |
| And loud he sang within the sunlit sheen: |
| "O May, with all thy flowers and all thy green, |
| Welcome be thou, thou fair and freshening May: |
| I hope to pluck some garland green today." |
| 655 | And from his courser, with a lusty heart, |
| Into the grove right hastily did start, |
| And on a path he wandered up and down, |
| Near which, and as it chanced, this Palamon |
| Lay in the thicket, where no man might see, |
| 660 | For sore afraid of finding death was be. |
| He knew not that Arcita was so near: |
| God knows he would have doubted eye and ear, |
| But it has been a truth these many years |
| That "Fields have eyes and every wood has ears." |
| 665 | It's well for one to bear himself with poise; |
| For every day unlooked-for chance annoys. |
| And little knew Arcita of his friend, |
| Who was so near and heard him to the end, |
| Where in the bush lie sat now, keeping still. |
|
