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Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me, |
| To maken vertu of necessitee, |
2185 | And take it weel, that we may nat eschue; |
| And namely, that to us alle is due. |
| And who so gruccheth ought, he dooth folye, |
| And rebel is to hym that al may gye. |
| And certeinly, a man hath moost honour |
2190 | To dyen in his excellence and flour, |
| Whan he is siker of his goode name, |
| Thanne hath he doon his freend ne hym no shame. |
| And gladder oghte his freend been of his deeth, |
| Whan with honour up yolden in his breeth, |
2195 | Than whan his name apalled is for age; |
| For al forgeten is his vassellage. |
| Thanne is it best as for a worthy fame, |
| To dyen whan that he is best of name. |
| The contrarie of al this is wilfulnesse: |
2200 | Why grucchen we, why have we hevynesse, |
| That goode Arcite, of chivalrie flour, |
| Departed is with duetee and honour |
| Out of this foule prisoun of this lyf? |
| Why grucchen heere his cosyn and his wyf |
2205 | Of his welfare, that loved hem so weel? |
| Kan he hem thank? Nay, God woot never a deel, |
| That bothe his soule and eek hemself offende, |
| And yet they mowe hir lustes nat amende. |
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Then is it wisdom, as it seems to me, |
| To make a virtue of necessity, |
2185 | And calmly take what we may not eschew, |
| And specially that which to all is due. |
| Whoso would complain at aught, he does folly, |
| And thus rebels against his potency. |
| And certainly a man has most honour |
2190 | In dying in his excellence and flower, |
| When he is certain of his high good name; |
| For then he gives to friend, and self, no shame. |
| And gladder ought a friend be of his death |
| When, in much honour, he yields up his breath, |
2195 | Than when his name's grown feeble with old age; |
| For all forgotten, then, is his courage. |
| Hence it is best for all of noble name |
| To die when at the summit of their fame. |
| The contrary of this is wilfulness. |
2200 | Why do we grumble? Why have heaviness |
| That good Arcita, chivalry's fair flower, |
| Is gone, with honour, in his best-lived hour. |
| Out of the filthy prison of this life? |
| Why grumble here his cousin and his wife |
2205 | About his welfare, who loved them so well? |
| Can he thank them? Nay, God knows not nor tell |
| How they his soul and their own selves offend, |
| Though yet they may not their desires amend. |
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