Conclusion

Then ende I thus, sith I may do no more. I yeve hit up for now and evermore, For I shal never eft putten in balaunce My sekernes, ne lerne of love the lore. But as the swan, I have herd seyd ful yore, Ayeins his deth shal singen his penaunce, So singe I here my destinee or chaunce, How that Arcite Anelida so sore Hath thirled with the poynt of remembraunce.

When that Anelida, this woful quene, Hath of her hand ywriten in this wise, With face ded, betwixe pale and grene, She fel a-swowe; and sith she gan to rise, And unto Mars avoweth sacrifise Withinne the temple, with a sorowful chere, That shapen was as ye shal after here.