BOOK II.

  While Arcite lives in bliss, the story turns
  Where hopeless Palamon in prison mourns. 
  For six long years immured, the captive knight
  Had dragg’d his chains, and scarcely seen the light: 
  Lost liberty and love at once he bore: 
  His prison pain’d him much, his passion more: 
  Nor dares he hope his fetters to remove,
  Nor ever wishes to be free from love.

    But when the sixth revolving year was run,
  And May within the Twins received the sun, 10
  Were it by chance, or forceful destiny,
  Which forms in causes first whate’er shall be,
  Assisted by a friend, one moonless night,
  This Palamon from prison took his flight: 
  A pleasant beverage he prepared before
  Of wine and honey, mix’d with added store
  Of opium; to his keeper this he brought,
  Who swallow’d unaware the sleepy draught,
  And snored secure till morn, his senses bound
  In slumber, and in long oblivion drown’d. 20
  Short was the night, and careful Palamon
  Sought the next covert e’er the rising sun. 
  A thick-spread forest near the city lay,
  To this with lengthen’d strides he took his way,
  (For far he could not fly, and fear’d the day). 
  Safe from pursuit, he meant to shun the light,
  Till the brown shadows of the friendly night
  To Thebes might favour his intended flight. 
  When to his country come, his next design
  Was all the Theban race in arms to join, 30
  And war on Theseus, till he lost his life,
  Or won the beauteous Emily to wife.

    Thus while his thoughts the lingering day beguile,
  To gentle Arcite let us turn our style;
  Who little dreamt how nigh he was to care,
  Till treacherous fortune caught him in the snare. 
  The morning lark, the messenger of day,
  Saluted in her song the morning gray;
  And soon the sun arose with beams so bright,
  That all the horizon laugh’d to see the joyous sight:  40
  He with his tepid rays the rose renews,
  And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews;
  When Arcite left his bed, resolved to pay
  Observance to the month of merry May: 
  Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode,
  That scarcely prints the turf on which he trode: 
  At ease he seem’d, and, prancing o’er the plains,
  Turn’d only to the grove his horse’s reins,
  The grove I named before; and, lighted there,
  A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair; 50
  Then turn’d his face against the rising day,
  And raised his voice to welcome in the May.