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[wywm299471]

Arcita rode into the town anon, And on the morrow, ere the dawn, he bore, Secretly, arms and armour out of store, Enough for each, and proper to maintain A battle in the field between the twain. So on his horse, alone as he was born, He carried out that harness as he'd sworn; And in the grove, at time and place they'd set, Arcita and this Palamon were met. Each of the two changed colour in the face. For as the hunter in the realm of Thrace Stands at the clearing with his ready spear, When hunted is the lion, or the bear, And through the forest hears him rushing fast, Breaking the boughs and leaves, and thinks aghast. "Here comes apace my mortal enemy! Now, without fail, he must be slain, or I; For either I must kill him ere he pass, Or he will make of me a dead carcass" So fared these men, in altering their hue, So far as each the strength of other knew. The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 35There was no "goodday" given, no saluting, But without word, rehearsal, or such thing, Each of them helping, so they armed each other As dutifully as he were his own brother; And afterward, with their sharp spears and strong, They thrust each at the other wondrous long. You might have fancied that this Palamon, In battle, was a furious, mad lion, And that Arcita was a tiger quite: Like very boars the two began to smite, Like boars that froth for anger in the wood. Up to the ankles fought they in their blood. And leaving them thus fighting fast and fell, Forthwith of Theseus I now will tell. Great destiny, ministergeneral, That executes in this world, and for all, The needs that God foresaw ere we were born, So strong it is that, though the world had sworn The contrary of a thing, by yea or nay, Yet sometime it shall fall upon a day,
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Though not again within a thousand years. For certainly our wishes and our fears, Whether of war or peace, or hate or love, All, all are ruled by that Foresight above. This show I now by mighty Theseus, Who to go hunting is so desirous, And specially of the hart of ten, in May, That, in his bed, there dawns for him no day That he's not clothed and soon prepared to ride With hound and horn and huntsman at his side. For in his hunting has he such delight, That it is all his joy and appetite To be himself the great hart's deadly bane: For after Mars, he serves Diana's reign. Clear was the day, as I have told ere this, When Theseus, compact of joy and bliss, With his Hippolyta, the lovely queen, And fair Emilia, clothed all in green, Ahunting they went riding royally. And to the grove of trees that grew hard by, In which there was a hart, as men had told, Duke Theseus the shortest way did hold. And to the glade he rode on, straight and right, For there the hart was wont to go in flight, And over a brook, and so forth on his way. This duke would have a course at him today, With such hounds as it pleased him to command. And when this duke was come upon that land, Under the slanting sun he looked, anon, And there saw Arcita and Palamon, Who furiously fought, as two boars do; The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 36The bright swords went in circles to and fro So terribly, that even their least stroke Seemed powerful enough to fell an oak; But who the two were, nothing did he note. This duke his courser with the sharp spurs smote, And in one bound he was between the two, And lugged his great sword out, and cried out: "Ho! No more, I say, on pain of losing head! By mighty Mars, that one shall soon be dead Who smites another stroke that I may see! But tell me now what manner of men ye be That are so hardy as to fight out here Without a judge or other officer, As if yourode in lists right royally?" This Palamon replied, then, hastily, Saying: "O Sire, what need for more ado? We have deserved our death at hands of you. Two woeful wretches are we, two captives That are encumbered by our own sad lives; And as you are a righteous lord and judge, Give us not either mercy or refuge, But slay me first, for sacred charity; But slay my fellow here, as well, with me. Or slay him first; for though you learn it late, This is your mortal foe, Arcita wait! That from the land was banished, on his head. And for the which he merits to be dead. For this is he who came unto your gate, Calling himself Philostrates nay, wait! Thus has he fooled you well this many a year, And you have made him your chief squire, I hear: And this is he that loves fair Emily. For since the day is come when I must die, I make confession plainly and say on, That I am that same woeful Palamon Who has your prison broken, viciously. I am your mortal foe, and it is I Who love so hotly Emily the bright That I'll die gladly here within her sigh! Therefore do I ask death as penalty, But slay my fellow with the same mercy, For both of us deserve but to be slain." This worthy duke presently spoke again, Saying: "This judgment needs but a short session: Your own mouth, aye, and by your own confession, Has doomed and damned you, as I shall record.

[bertram123]

The intellect must have the like perfection in its apprehension and in its works. For this reason, an index or mercury of intellectual proficiency is the perception of identity. We talk with accomplished persons who appear to be strangers in nature. The cloud, the tree, the turf, the bird are not theirs, have nothing of them: the world is only their lodging and table. But the poet, whose verses are to be spheral and complete, is one whom Nature cannot deceive, whatsoever face of strangeness she may put on. He feels a strict consanguinity, and detects more likeness than variety in all her changes. We are stung by the desire for new thought; but when we receive a new thought, it is only the old thought with a new face, and though we make it our own, we instantly crave another; we are not really enriched. For the truth was in us before it was reflected to us from natural objects; and the profound genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into every product of his wit. But if the constructive powers are rare, and it is given to few men to be poets, yet every man is a receiver of this descending holy ghost, and may well study the laws of its influx. Exactly parallel is the whole rule of intellectual duty to the rule of moral duty. A selfdenial, no less austere than the saint's, is demanded of the scholar. He must worship truth, and forego all things for that, and choose defeat and pain, so that his treasure in thought is thereby augmented. God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose.