Thus Theseus smiled on all with equal grace,
  And each was set according to his place;
  With ease were reconciled the differing parts,
  For envy never dwells in noble hearts. 
  At length they took their leave, the time expired,
  Well pleased, and to their several homes retired.

    Mean while the health of Arcite still impairs;
  From bad proceeds to worse, and mocks the leech’s cares 750
  Swoln is his breast; his inward pains increase,
  All means are used, and all without success. 
  The clotted blood lies heavy on his heart,
  Corrupts, and there remains, in spite of art: 
  Nor breathing veins, nor cupping will prevail;
  All outward remedies and inward fail: 
  The mould of nature’s fabric is destroy’d,
  Her vessels discomposed, her virtue void;
  The bellows of his lungs begin to swell: 
  All out of frame is every secret cell, 760
  Nor can the good receive, nor bad expel. 
  Those breathing organs thus within oppress’d,
  With venom soon distend the sinews of his breast. 
  Nought profits him to save abandon’d life,
  Nor vomit’s upward aid, nor downward laxative. 
  The midmost region batter’d and destroy’d,
  When nature cannot work, the effect of art is void. 
  For physic can but mend our crazy state,
  Patch an old building, not a new create. 
  Arcite is doom’d to die in all his pride, 770
  Must leave his youth, and yield his beauteous bride,
  Gain’d hardly, against right, and unenjoy’d. 
  When ’twas declared all hope of life was past,
  Conscience (that of all physic works the last)
  Caused him to send for Emily in haste. 
  With her, at his desire, came Palamon;
  Then on his pillow raised, he thus begun: 

    No language can express the smallest part
  Of what I feel, and suffer in my heart
  For you, whom best I love and value most; 780
  But to your service I bequeath my ghost;
  Which from this mortal body when untied,
  Unseen, unheard, shall hover at your side;
  Nor fright you waking, nor your sleep offend,
  But wait officious, and your steps attend: 
  How I have loved, excuse my faltering tongue,
  My spirit’s feeble, and my pains are strong: 
  This I may say, I only grieve to die,
  Because I lose my charming Emily: 
  To die, when Heaven had put you in my power, 790
  Fate could not choose a more malicious hour! 
  What greater curse could envious Fortune give,
  Than just to die, when I began to live? 
  Vain men! how vanishing a bliss we crave,
  Now warm in love, now withering in the grave! 
  Never, oh never more to see the sun! 
  Still dark, in a damp vault, and still alone! 
  This fate is common; but I lose my breath;
  Near bliss, and yet not bless’d