The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

of you bothe is worthy, douteles,

      To wedden whan time is, but natheles

      I speke as for my suster Emelie,

      For whom ye have this strif and jalousie,

      Ye wot yourself, she may not wedden two

      At ones, though ye fighten evermo;

      But on of you, al be him loth or lefe,

      He mot gon pipen in an ivy lefe;

      This is to say, she may not have you bothe,

      Al be ye never so jalous, ne so wrothe:

      And forthy I you put in this degree,

      That eche of you shall have his destinee

      As him is shape, and herkneth in what wise;

      Lo here your ende, of that I shal devise.

      My will is this, for plat conclusion,

      Withouten any replication:

      If that you liketh, take it for the beste,

      That everich of you shal gon wher him lest,

      Freely, withouten raunson or dangere;

      And this day fifty wekes, ferre ne nere,

      Everich of you shal bring an hundred knightes,

      Armed for the listes up at all rightes,

      Alle redy to darrein hire by bataille.

      And this behete I you withouten faille,

      Upon my trouth, and as I am a knight,

      That whether of you bothe hath that might,

      This is to sayn, that whether he or thou

      May with his hundred, as I spake of now,

      Sle his contrary, or out of listes drive,

      Him shall I yeven Emelie to wive,

      To whom that fortune yeveth so fayr a grace.

      The listes shal I maken in this place;

      And God so wisly on my soule rewe,

      As I shal even juge ben, and trewe.

      Ye shal non other ende with me maken,

      That on of you ne shall be ded or taken;

      And if you thinketh this is wel ysaid,

      Saith your avis, and holdeth you apaid.

      This is your ende, and your conclusion.

      Who loketh lightly now but Palamon?

      Who springeth up for joye but Arcite?

      Who coud it tell, or who coud it endite,

      The joye that is maked in the place,

      Whan Theseus hath don so fayre a grace?

      But doun on knees went every manere wight,

      And thanked him with all hir hertes might,

      And namely these Thebanes often sith.

      And thus with good hope and with herte blith

      They taken hir leve, and homeward gan they ride

      To Thebes with his olde walles wide.

      I trowe men wolde deme it negligence

      If I foryete to tellen the dispence

      Of Theseus, that goth so besily

      To maken up the listes really,

      That swiche a noble theatre as it was

      I dare wel sayn in alle this world ther n'as.

      The circuite a mile was aboute,

      Walled of stone, and diched all withoute;

      Round was the shape, in manere of a compas,

      Ful of degrees, the hight of sixty pas,

      That, whan a man was set on o degree,

      He letted not his felaw for to see.

      Estward ther stood a gate of marbel white,

      Westward right swiche another in the opposite;

      And shortly to concluden, swiche a place

      Was never in erth, in so litel a space:

      For in the lond ther n'as no craftes man

      That geometrie or arsemetrike can,

      Ne portreiour, ne kerver of images,

      That Theseus ne yaf him mete and wages,

      The theatre for to maken and devise.

      And for to don his rite and sacrifice,

      He estward hath upon the gate above,

      In worship of Venus, goddesse of Love,

      Don make an auter, and an oratorie;

      And westward, in the minde and in memorie

      Of Mars, he maked hath right swich another,

      That coste largely of gold a fother:

      And northward, in a touret on the wall,

      Of alabastre white, and red corall,

      An oratorie, riche for to see,

      In worship of Diane of chastitee,

      Hath Theseus don wrought in noble wise.

      But yet had I foryetten to devise

      The noble kerving, and the portreitures,

      The shape, the contenance, of the figures

      That weren in these oratories three.

      First, in the temple of Venus, maist thou see,

      Wrought on the wall, ful pitous to beholde,

      The broken slepes, and the sikes cold,

      The sacred teres, and the waimentinges,

      The firy strokes of the desiringes,

      That Loves servantes in this lif enduren,

      The othes that hir covenants assuren.

      Plesance and Hope, Desire, Foolhardinesse,

      Beaute and Youth, Baudrie and Richesse,

      Charmes and Force, Lesinges and Flaterie,

      Dispence, Besinesse, and Jalousie,

      That wered of yelwe goldes a gerlond,

      And hadde a cuckow sitting on hire hond;

      Festes, instruments, and caroles, and dances,

      Lust and array, and all the circumstances

      Of Love, which that I reken, and reken shall,

      By ordre weren peinted on the wall,

      And mo than I can make of mention:

      For sothly all the mount of Citheron,

      Ther Venus hath hire principal dwelling,

      Was shewed on the wall in purtreying,

      With all the gardin, and the lustinesse:

      Nought was foryetten the porter Idlenesse,

      Ne Narcissus the fayrr, of yore agone,

      Ne yet the folie of King Salomon,

      Ne yet the grete strengthe of Hercules.

      The enchantment of Medea and Circes,

      Ne of Turnus the hardy fiers corage,

      The riche Cresus, caitif in servage.

      Thus may ye seen, that wisdom ne richesse,

      Beaute ne sleighte, strengthe ne hardinesse,

      Ne may with Venus holden champartie;

      For as hire liste, the world may she gie.

      Lo, all these folk so caught were in hire las,

      Til they for wo ful often said, Alas!

      Sufficeth here ensamples on or two,

      And