and who after his death still triumphed in his song. Chaucer has more of
this deep, internal, sustained sentiment, than any other writer, except
Boccaccio. In depth of simple pathos, and intensity of conception, never
swerving from his subject, I think no other writer comes near him, not
even the Greek tragedians. I wish to be allowed to give one or two
instances of what I mean. I will take the following from the Knight's
Tale. The distress of Arcite, in consequence of his banishment from his
love, is thus described:

"Whan that Arcite to Thebes comen was,
Ful oft a day he swelt and said Alas,
For sene his lady shall he never mo.
And shortly to concluden all his wo,
So mochel sorwe hadde never creature,
That is or shall be, while the world may dure.
His slepe, his mete, his drinke is him byraft.
That lene he wex, and drie as is a shaft.
His eyen holwe, and grisly to behold,
His hewe salwe, and pale as ashen cold,
And solitary he was, and ever alone,
And wailing all the night, making his mone.
And if he herde song or instrument,
Than wold he wepe, he mighte not be stent.
So feble were his spirites, and so low,
And changed so, that no man coude know
His speche ne his vois, though men it herd."

This picture of the sinking of the heart, of the wasting away of the
body and mind, of the gradual failure of all the faculties under the