www.heavensgatel2.fora.pl

[wywm299471]

And when a beast is dead, he feels no pain; But, after death, man yet must weep amain, Though in this world he had but care and woe: There is no doubt that it is even so. The answer leave I to divines to tell, But well I know this present world is hell. Alas! I see a serpent or a thief, That has brought many a true man unto grief, Going at large, and where he wills may turn, But I must lie in gaol, because Saturn, And Juno too, both envious and mad, Have spilled out wellnigh all the blood we had At Thebes, and desolated her wide walls. And Venus slays me with the bitter galls Of fear of Arcita, and jealousy." Now will I leave this Palamon, for he Is in his prison, where he still must dwell, And of Arcita will I forthwith tell. Summer being passed away and nights grown long, Increased now doubly all the anguish strong Both of the lover and the prisoner. I know not which one was the woefuller. For, to be brief about it, Palamon Is doomed to lie for ever in prison, In chains and fetters till he shall be dead; And exiled (on the forfeit of his head) The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 29Arcita must remain abroad, nor see, For evermore, the face of his lady. You lovers, now I ask you this question: Who has the worse, Arcita or Palamon? The one may see his lady day by day, But yet in prison must he dwell for aye. The other, where he wishes, he may go, But never see his lady more, ah no. Now answer as you wish, all you that can. For I will speak right on as I began. Explicit prima pars. Sequitur pars secunda. cheap polo shirts Now when Arcita unto Thebes was come, He lay and languished all day in his home, Since he his lady nevermore should see, But telling of his sorrow brief I'll be. Had never any man so much torture, No, nor shall have while this world may endure. Bereft he was of sleep and meat and drink, That lean he grew and dry as shaft, I think. His eyes were hollow and ghastly to behold, His face was sallow, all pale and ashencold, And solitary kept he and alone, Wailing the whole night long, making his moan. And if he heard a song or instrument, Then he would weep ungoverned and lament; So feeble were his spirits, and so low, And so changed was he, that no man could know Him by his words or voice, whoever heard. And in this change, for all the world he fared As if not troubled by malady of love, But by that humor dark and grim, whereof Springs melancholy madness in the brain, And fantasy unbridled holds its reign. And shortly, all was turned quite upsidedown, Both habits and the temper all had known Of him, this woeful lover, Dan Arcite. Why should I all day of his woe indite? When he'd endured all this a year or two, This cruel torment and this pain and woe, At Thebes, in his own country, as I said, Upon a night, while sleeping in his bed, He dreamed of how the winged God Mercury Before him stood and bade him happier be. His sleepbestowing wand he bore upright; A hat he wore upon his ringlets bright. Arrayed this god was (noted at a leap) As he'd been when to Argus he gave sleep. And thus he spoke: "To Athens shall you wend; For all your woe is destined there to end." And on that word Arcita woke and started. The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 30"Now truly, howsoever sore I'm smarted," Said he, "to Athens right now will I fare; Nor for the dread of death will I now spare To see my lady, whom I love and serve; I will not reck of death, with her, nor swerve." And with that word he caught a great mirror, And saw how changed was all his old colour, And saw his visage altered from its kind. And right away it ran into his mind That since his face was now disfigured so, By suffering endured (as well we know), He might, if he should bear him low in town, Live there in Athens evermore, unknown, Seeing his lady wellnigh every day. And right anon he altered his array, Like a poor labourer in mean attire, And all alone, save only for a squire, Who knew his secret heart and all his case, And who was dressed as poorly as he was, To Athens was he gone the nearest way. And to the court he went upon a day, And at the gate he proffered services To drudge and drag, as any one devises. And to be brief herein, and to be plain, He found employment with a chamberlain Was serving in the house of Emily; For he was sharp and very soon could see What every servant did who served her there. Right well could he hew wood and water bear, For he was young and mighty, let me own, And big of muscle, aye and big of bone, To do what any man asked, in a trice.

[wywm299471]

A year or two he was in this service, Page of the chamber of Emily the bright; He said "Philostrates" would name him right. But half so well beloved a man as he Was never in that court, of his degree; His gentle nature was so clearly shown, That throughout all the court spread his renown. They said it were but kindly courtesy If Theseus should heighten his degree And put him in more honourable service Wherein he might his virtue exercise. And thus, anon, his name was so upsprung, Both for his deeds and sayings of his tongue, That Theseus had brought him nigh and nigher And of the chamber he had made him squire, And given him gold to maintain dignity. Besides, men brought him, from his own country, From year to year, clandestinely, his rent; But honestly and slyly it was spent, The Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 31And no man wondered how he came by it. And three years thus he lived, with much profit, And bore him so in peace and so in war There was no man that Theseus loved more. And in such bliss I leave Arcita now, And upon Palamon some words bestow. In darksome, horrible, and strong prison These seven years has now sat Palamon, Wasted by woe and by his long distress. Who has a twofold evil heaviness But Palamon? whom love yet tortures so That half out of his wits he is for woe; And joined thereto he is a prisoner, Perpetually, not only for a year. And who could rhyme in English, properly, His martyrdom? Forsooth, it is not I; And therefore I pass lightly on my way. It fell out in the seventh year, in May, On the third night (as say the books of old Which have this story much more fully told), Were it by chance or were it destiny (Since, when a thing is destined, it must be), That, shortly after midnight, Palamon, By helping of a friend, broke from prison, And fled the city, fast as he might go; For he had given his guard a drink that so Was mixed of spice and honey and certain wine And Theban opiate and anodyne, That all that night, although a man might shake This gaoler, he slept on, nor could awake.

[wywm299471]

And thus he flees as fast as ever he may. The night was short and it was nearly day, Wherefore he needs must find a place to hide; And to a grove that grew hard by, with stride Of furtive foot, went fearful Palamon. In brief, he'd formed his plan, as he went on, That in the grove he would lie fast all day, And when night came, then would he take his way Toward Thebes, and there find friends, and of them pray Their help on Theseus in war's array; And briefly either he would lose his life, Or else win Emily to be his wife; This is the gist of his intention plain. Now I'll return to Arcita again, Who little knew how near to him was care Till Fortune caught him in her tangling snare. The busy lark, the herald of the day, Salutes now in her song the morning grey; 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 Canterbury Tales The Canterbury Tales 32The silver droplets hanging on the leaves. And so Arcita, in the court royal 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, 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 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." 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, 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." It's well for one to bear himself with poise; For every day unlookedfor 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. Arcita, having roamed and roved his fill, And having sung his rondel, lustily, Into a study fell he, suddenly, As do these lovers in their strange desires, Now in the trees, now down among the briers, Now up, now down, like bucket in a well. Even as on a Friday, truth to tell, The sun shines now, and now the rain comes fast, Even so can fickle Venus overcast The spirits of her people; as her day, Is changeful, so she changes her array.

[bertram123]

It must treat things, and books, and sovereign genius, as itself also a sovereign. If Aeschylus be that man he is taken for, he has not yet done his office, when he has educated the learned of Europe for a thousand years. He is now to approve himself a master of delight to me also. If he cannot do that, all his fame shall avail him nothing with me. I were a fool not to sacrifice a thousand Aeschyluses to my intellectual integrity. Especially take the same ground in regard to abstract truth, the science of the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, [link widoczny dla zalogowanych]
[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]
[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]
[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]
[link widoczny dla zalogowanych] the Hume, Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind, is only a more or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness, which you have also your way of seeing, perhaps of denominating. Say, then, instead of too timidly poring into his obscure sense, that he has not succeeded in rendering back to you your consciousness. He has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite, but a simple, natural, common state, which the writer restores to you. But let us end these didactics. I will not, though the subject might provoke it, speak to the open question between Truth and Love. I shall not presume to interfere in the old politics of the skies; "The cherubim know most; the seraphim love most." The gods shall settle their own quarrels. But I cannot recite, even thus rudely, laws of the intellect, without remembering that lofty and sequestered class of men who have been its prophets and oracles, the highpriesthood of the pure reason, the _Trismegisti_, the expounders of the principles of thought from age to age. When, at long intervals, we turn over their abstruse pages, wonderful seems the calm and grand air of these few, these great spiritual lords, who have walked in the world, these of the old religion, dwelling in a worship which makes the sanctities of Christianity look _parvenues_ and popular; for "persuasion is in soul, but necessity is in intellect." This band of grandees, Hermes, Heraclitus, Empedocles, Plato, Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius, and the rest, have somewhat so vast in their logic, so primary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to all the ordinary distinctions of rhetoric and literature, and to be at once poetry, and music, and dancing, and astronomy, and mathematics. I am present at the sowing of the seed of the world. With a geometry of sunbeams, the soul lays the foundations of nature. The truth and grandeur of their thought is proved by its scope and applicability, for it commands the entire schedule and inventory of things for its illustration.