Act I, Scene I — Athens. Before a temple
Enter Hymen with a torch burning; a Boy, in a white robe before singing, and strewing flowers. After Hymen, a Nymph encompassed in her tresses, bearing a wheaten garland; then Theseus between two other Nymphs with wheaten chaplets on their heads. Then Hippolyta, the bride, led by Pirithous, and another holding a garland over her head, her tresses likewise hanging. After her, Emilia, holding up her train. Then Artesius and Attendants.
[Music.]
The Song
_Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true;_
_Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry springtime’s harbinger, With harebells dim, Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on deathbeds blowing, Lark’s-heels trim;_
[Strews flowers.]
_All dear Nature’s children sweet Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet, Blessing their sense. Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Is absent hence._
_The crow, the sland’rous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chatt’ring ’pie, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly._
Enter three Queens in black, with veils stained, with imperial crowns. The first Queen falls down at the foot of Theseus; the second falls down at the foot of Hippolyta; the third before Emilia.
FIRST QUEEN. For pity’s sake and true gentility’s, Hear and respect me.
SECOND QUEEN. For your mother’s sake, And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones, Hear and respect me.
THIRD QUEEN. Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath marked The honour of your bed, and for the sake Of clear virginity, be advocate For us and our distresses. This good deed Shall raze you out o’ th’ book of trespasses All you are set down there.
THESEUS. Sad lady, rise.
HIPPOLYTA. Stand up.
EMILIA. No knees to me. What woman I may stead that is distressed, Does bind me to her.
THESEUS. What’s your request? Deliver you for all.
FIRST QUEEN. We are three queens whose sovereigns fell before The wrath of cruel Creon, who endure The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes. He will not suffer us to burn their bones, To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye Of holy Phœbus, but infects the winds With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, Duke! Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feared sword That does good turns to th’ world; give us the bones Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them; And of thy boundless goodness take some note That for our crowned heads we have no roof Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s, And vault to everything.
THESEUS. Pray you, kneel not. I was transported with your speech and suffered Your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em. King Capaneus was your lord. The day That he should marry you, at such a season As now it is with me, I met your groom By Mars’s altar. You were that time fair! Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses, Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath Was then nor threshed nor blasted. Fortune at you Dimpled her cheek with smiles. Hercules, our kinsman, Then weaker than your eyes, laid by his club; He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide And swore his sinews thawed. O grief and time, Fearful consumers, you will all devour!
FIRST QUEEN. O, I hope some god, Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood, Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth Our undertaker.
THESEUS. O, no knees, none, widow! Unto the helmeted Bellona use them, And pray for me, your soldier. Troubled I am.
[Turns away.]
SECOND QUEEN. Honoured Hippolyta, Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain The scythe-tusked boar; that with thy arm, as strong As it is white, wast near to make the male To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord, Born to uphold creation in that honour First nature styled it in, shrunk thee into The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing Thy force and thy affection; soldieress That equally canst poise sternness with pity, Whom now I know hast much more power on him Than ever he had on thee, who ow’st his strength And his love too, who is a servant for The tenor of thy speech, dear glass of ladies, Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch, Under the shadow of his sword may cool us; Require him he advance it o’er our heads; Speak ’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman As any of us three; weep ere you fail. Lend us a knee; But touch the ground for us no longer time Than a dove’s motion when the head’s plucked off. Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-sized field lay swollen, Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, What you would do.
HIPPOLYTA. Poor lady, say no more. I had as lief trace this good action with you As that whereto I am going, and never yet Went I so willing way. My lord is taken Heart-deep with your distress. Let him consider; I’ll speak anon.
THIRD QUEEN. O, my petition was Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form, Is pressed with deeper matter.
EMILIA. Pray, stand up; Your grief is written in your cheek.
THIRD QUEEN. O, woe! You cannot read it there. There through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream, You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack! He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth Must know the center too; he that will fish For my least minnow, let him lead his line To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me! Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits, Makes me a fool.
EMILIA. Pray you say nothing, pray you. Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in ’t, Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you T’ instruct me ’gainst a capital grief, indeed Such heart-pierced demonstration. But, alas, Being a natural sister of our sex, Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me That it shall make a counter-reflect ’gainst My brother’s heart and warm it to some pity, Though it were made of stone. Pray have good comfort.
THESEUS. Forward to th’ temple! Leave not out a jot O’ th’ sacred ceremony.
FIRST QUEEN. O, this celebration Will longer last and be more costly than Your suppliants’ war! Remember that your fame Knolls in the ear o’ th’ world; what you do quickly Is not done rashly; your first thought is more Than others’ laboured meditance, your premeditating More than their actions. But, O Jove, your actions, Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish, Subdue before they touch. Think, dear Duke, think What beds our slain kings have!
SECOND QUEEN. What griefs our beds, That our dear lords have none!
THIRD QUEEN. None fit for th’ dead. Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance, Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves Been death’s most horrid agents, human grace Affords them dust and shadow.
FIRST QUEEN. But our lords Lie blist’ring ’fore the visitating sun, And were good kings when living.
THESEUS. It is true, and I will give you comfort To give your dead lords graves; The which to do must make some work with Creon.
FIRST QUEEN. And that work presents itself to th’ doing. Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone tomorrow. Then, bootless toil must recompense itself With its own sweat. Now he’s secure, Not dreams we stand before your puissance, Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes To make petition clear.
SECOND QUEEN. Now you may take him, drunk with his victory.
THIRD QUEEN. And his army full of bread and sloth.
THESEUS. Artesius, that best knowest How to draw out fit to this enterprise The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business: forth and levy Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch This grand act of our life, this daring deed Of fate in wedlock.
FIRST QUEEN. Dowagers, take hands. Let us be widows to our woes; delay Commends us to a famishing hope.
ALL THE QUEENS. Farewell!
SECOND QUEEN. We come unseasonably; but when could grief Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fitt’st time For best solicitation?
THESEUS. Why, good ladies, This is a service, whereto I am going, Greater than any war; it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope.
FIRST QUEEN. The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected when her arms, Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall By warranting moonlight corselet thee. O, when Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care For what thou feel’st not, what thou feel’st being able To make Mars spurn his drum? O, if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in ’t will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shalt remember nothing more than what That banquet bids thee to.
HIPPOLYTA. Though much unlike You should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor, yet I think, Did I not, by th’ abstaining of my joy, Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit That craves a present med’cine, I should pluck All ladies’ scandal on me. Therefore, sir,
[She kneels.]
As I shall here make trial of my prayers, Either presuming them to have some force, Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb, Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang Your shield afore your heart, about that neck Which is my fee, and which I freely lend To do these poor queens service.
ALL QUEENS. [To Emilia.] O, help now! Our cause cries for your knee.
EMILIA. [To Theseus, kneeling.] If you grant not My sister her petition in that force, With that celerity and nature, which She makes it in, from henceforth I’ll not dare To ask you anything, nor be so hardy Ever to take a husband.
THESEUS. Pray stand up. I am entreating of myself to do
[They rise.]
That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous, Lead on the bride; get you and pray the gods For success and return; omit not anything In the pretended celebration.—Queens, Follow your soldier. [To Artesius.] As before, hence you, And at the banks of Aulis meet us with The forces you can raise, where we shall find The moiety of a number for a business More bigger looked.
[Exit Artesius.]
[To Hippolyta.] Since that our theme is haste, I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip; Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward, For I will see you gone.
[The wedding procession moves towards the temple.]
Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous, Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on ’t.
PIRITHOUS. Sir, I’ll follow you at heels. The feast’s solemnity Shall want till your return.
THESEUS. Cousin, I charge you, Budge not from Athens. We shall be returning Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all.
[Exeunt all but Theseus and the Queens.]
FIRST QUEEN. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o’ th’ world.
SECOND QUEEN. And earn’st a deity equal with Mars.
THIRD QUEEN. If not above him, for Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend To godlike honours; they themselves, some say, Groan under such a mast’ry.
THESEUS. As we are men, Thus should we do; being sensually subdued, We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies. Now turn we towards your comforts.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene II — Thebes. The Court of the Palace
Enter Palamon and Arcite.
ARCITE. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in The crimes of nature, let us leave the city Thebes, and the temptings in ’t, before we further Sully our gloss of youth And here to keep in abstinence we shame As in incontinence; for not to swim I’ th’ aid o’ th’ current, were almost to sink, At least to frustrate striving; and to follow The common stream, ’twould bring us to an eddy Where we should turn or drown; if labour through, Our gain but life and weakness.
PALAMON. Your advice Is cried up with example. What strange ruins, Since first we went to school, may we perceive Walking in Thebes! Scars and bare weeds The gain o’ th’ martialist, who did propound To his bold ends honour and golden ingots, Which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted By peace for whom he fought! Who then shall offer To Mars’s so-scorned altar? I do bleed When such I meet, and wish great Juno would Resume her ancient fit of jealousy To get the soldier work, that peace might purge For her repletion, and retain anew Her charitable heart, now hard and harsher Than strife or war could be.
ARCITE. Are you not out? Meet you no ruin but the soldier in The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin As if you met decays of many kinds. Perceive you none that do arouse your pity But th’ unconsidered soldier?
PALAMON. Yes, I pity Decays where’er I find them, but such most That, sweating in an honourable toil, Are paid with ice to cool ’em.
ARCITE. ’Tis not this I did begin to speak of. This is virtue Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes, How dangerous, if we will keep our honours, It is for our residing, where every evil Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s A certain evil; where not to be e’en jump As they are here were to be strangers, and, Such things to be, mere monsters.
PALAMON. ’Tis in our power— Unless we fear that apes can tutor ’s—to Be masters of our manners. What need I Affect another’s gait, which is not catching Where there is faith? Or to be fond upon Another’s way of speech, when by mine own I may be reasonably conceived, saved too, Speaking it truly? Why am I bound By any generous bond to follow him Follows his tailor, haply so long until The followed make pursuit? Or let me know Why mine own barber is unblessed, with him My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissored just To such a favourite’s glass? What canon is there That does command my rapier from my hip To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tiptoe Before the street be foul? Either I am The fore-horse in the team, or I am none That draw i’ th’ sequent trace. These poor slight sores Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom Almost to th’ heart’s—
ARCITE. Our uncle Creon.
PALAMON. He. A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes Makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured Beyond its power there’s nothing; almost puts Faith in a fever, and deifies alone Voluble chance; who only attributes The faculties of other instruments To his own nerves and act; commands men service, And what they win in ’t, boot and glory; one That fears not to do harm; good, dares not. Let The blood of mine that’s sib to him be sucked From me with leeches; let them break and fall Off me with that corruption.
ARCITE. Clear-spirited cousin, Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share Of his loud infamy; for our milk Will relish of the pasture, and we must Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen In blood unless in quality.
PALAMON. Nothing truer. I think the echoes of his shames have deafed The ears of heavenly justice. Widows’ cries Descend again into their throats and have not Due audience of the gods.
Enter Valerius.
Valerius!
VALERIUS. The King calls for you; yet be leaden-footed Till his great rage be off him. Phœbus, when He broke his whipstock and exclaimed against The horses of the sun, but whispered to The loudness of his fury.
PALAMON. Small winds shake him. But what’s the matter?
VALERIUS. Theseus, who where he threats appalls, hath sent Deadly defiance to him and pronounces Ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal The promise of his wrath.
ARCITE. Let him approach. But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not A jot of terror to us. Yet what man Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours— When that his action’s dregged with mind assured ’Tis bad he goes about?
PALAMON. Leave that unreasoned. Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon. Yet to be neutral to him were dishonour, Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must With him stand to the mercy of our fate, Who hath bounded our last minute.
ARCITE. So we must. [To Valerius.] Is ’t said this war’s afoot? Or, it shall be, On fail of some condition?
VALERIUS. ’Tis in motion; The intelligence of state came in the instant With the defier.
PALAMON. Let’s to the King; who, were he A quarter carrier of that honour which His enemy come in, the blood we venture Should be as for our health, which were not spent, Rather laid out for purchase. But alas, Our hands advanced before our hearts, what will The fall o’ th’ stroke do damage?
ARCITE. Let th’ event, That never-erring arbitrator, tell us When we know all ourselves; and let us follow The becking of our chance.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene III — Before the gates of Athens
Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta and Emilia.
PIRITHOUS. No further.
HIPPOLYTA. Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes To our great lord, of whose success I dare not Make any timorous question; yet I wish him Excess and overflow of power, an ’t might be, To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him! Store never hurts good governors.
PIRITHOUS. Though I know His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid, Those best affections that the heavens infuse In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned In your dear heart!
EMILIA. Thanks, sir. Remember me To our all-royal brother, for whose speed The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and Since in our terrene state petitions are not Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts Are in his army, in his tent.
HIPPOLYTA. In ’s bosom. We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep When our friends don their helms, or put to sea, Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women That have sod their infants in—and after eat them— The brine they wept at killing ’em. Then if You stay to see of us such spinsters, we Should hold you here for ever.
PIRITHOUS. Peace be to you As I pursue this war, which shall be then Beyond further requiring.
[Exit Pirithous.]
EMILIA. How his longing Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports, Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly His careless execution, where nor gain Made him regard, or loss consider, but Playing one business in his hand, another Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal To these so differing twins. Have you observed him Since our great lord departed?
HIPPOLYTA. With much labour, And I did love him for ’t. They two have cabined In many as dangerous as poor a corner, Peril and want contending; they have skiffed Torrents whose roaring tyranny and power I’ th’ least of these was dreadful; and they have Fought out together where Death’s self was lodged; Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love, Tied, weaved, entangled, with so true, so long, And with a finger of so deep a cunning, May be outworn, never undone. I think Theseus cannot be umpire to himself, Cleaving his conscience into twain and doing Each side like justice, which he loves best.
EMILIA. Doubtless There is a best, and reason has no manners To say it is not you. I was acquainted Once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow; You were at wars when she the grave enriched, Who made too proud the bed, took leave o’ th’ moon Which then looked pale at parting, when our count Was each eleven.
HIPPOLYTA. ’Twas Flavina.
EMILIA. Yes. You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love. Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned, More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs The one of th’ other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love; but I, And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent, Loved for we did, and like the elements That know not what nor why, yet do effect Rare issues by their operance, our souls Did so to one another. What she liked Was then of me approved, what not, condemned, No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck And put between my breasts, O, then but beginning To swell about the blossom—she would long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent cradle, where, phœnix-like, They died in perfume. On my head no toy But was her pattern; her affections—pretty, Though haply her careless wear—I followed For my most serious decking; had mine ear Stol’n some new air, or at adventure hummed one From musical coinage, why, it was a note Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather, dwell on, And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal, Which fury-innocent wots well, comes in Like old importment’s bastard—has this end, That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be More than in sex individual.
HIPPOLYTA. You’re out of breath; And this high-speeded pace is but to say That you shall never, like the maid Flavina, Love any that’s called man.
EMILIA. I am sure I shall not.
HIPPOLYTA. Now, alack, weak sister, I must no more believe thee in this point— Though in ’t I know thou dost believe thyself— Than I will trust a sickly appetite, That loathes even as it longs. But sure, my sister, If I were ripe for your persuasion, you Have said enough to shake me from the arm Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes I will now in and kneel, with great assurance That we, more than his Pirithous, possess The high throne in his heart.
EMILIA. I am not Against your faith, yet I continue mine.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene IV — A field before Thebes
Cornets. A battle struck within; then a retreat. Flourish. Then enter, Theseus, as victor, with a Herald, other Lords, and Soldiers. The three Queens meet him and fall on their faces before him.
FIRST QUEEN. To thee no star be dark!
SECOND QUEEN. Both heaven and earth Friend thee for ever!
THIRD QUEEN. All the good that may Be wished upon thy head, I cry “Amen” to ’t!
THESEUS. Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens View us their mortal herd, behold who err And, in their time, chastise. Go and find out The bones of your dead lords and honour them With treble ceremony, rather than a gap Should be in their dear rites, we would supply ’t, But those we will depute which shall invest You in your dignities and even each thing Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu, And heaven’s good eyes look on you.
[Exeunt Queens.]
Enter a Herald and Soldiers bearing Palamon and Arcite on hearses.
What are those?
HERALD. Men of great quality, as may be judged By their appointment. Some of Thebes have told ’s They are sisters’ children, nephews to the King.
THESEUS. By th’ helm of Mars, I saw them in the war, Like to a pair of lions, smeared with prey, Make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note Constantly on them, for they were a mark Worth a god’s view. What prisoner was ’t that told me When I enquired their names?
HERALD. Wi’ leave, they’re called Arcite and Palamon.
THESEUS. ’Tis right; those, those. They are not dead?
HERALD. Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible They might have been recovered; yet they breathe And have the name of men.
THESEUS. Then like men use ’em. The very lees of such, millions of rates, Exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons Convent in their behoof; our richest balms, Rather than niggard, waste. Their lives concern us Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than have ’em Freed of this plight, and in their morning state, Sound and at liberty, I would ’em dead; But forty-thousandfold we had rather have ’em Prisoners to us than death. Bear ’em speedily From our kind air, to them unkind, and minister What man to man may do, for our sake, more, Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests, Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task, Desire of liberty, a fever, madness, Hath set a mark which nature could not reach to Without some imposition, sickness in will O’er-wrestling strength in reason. For our love And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best Their best skill tender. Lead into the city, Where, having bound things scattered, we will post To Athens ’fore our army.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene V — Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes
Music. Enter the Queens with the hearses of their knights, in a funeral solemnity, &c.
SONG.
_Urns and odours bring away; Vapours, sighs, darken the day; Our dole more deadly looks than dying; Balms and gums and heavy cheers, Sacred vials filled with tears, And clamours through the wild air flying._
_Come, all sad and solemn shows That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes; We convent naught else but woes. We convent naught else but woes._
THIRD QUEEN. This funeral path brings to your household’s grave. Joy seize on you again; peace sleep with him.
SECOND QUEEN. And this to yours.
FIRST QUEEN. Yours this way. Heavens lend A thousand differing ways to one sure end.
THIRD QUEEN. This world’s a city full of straying streets, And death’s the market-place where each one meets.
[Exeunt severally.]
Act II, Scene I — Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background
Enter Jailer and Wooer.
JAILER. I may depart with little while I live; something I may cast to you, not much. Alas, the prison I keep, though it be for great ones, yet they seldom come; before one salmon, you shall take a number of minnows. I am given out to be better lined than it can appear to me report is a true speaker. I would I were really that I am delivered to be. Marry, what I have, be it what it will, I will assure upon my daughter at the day of my death.
WOOER. Sir, I demand no more than your own offer, and I will estate your daughter in what I have promised.
JAILER. Well, we will talk more of this when the solemnity is past. But have you a full promise of her? When that shall be seen, I tender my consent.
Enter the Jailer’s Daughter, carrying rushes.
WOOER. I have sir. Here she comes.
JAILER. Your friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old business. But no more of that now; so soon as the court hurry is over, we will have an end of it. I’ th’ meantime, look tenderly to the two prisoners. I can tell you they are princes.
DAUGHTER. These strewings are for their chamber. ’Tis pity they are in prison, and ’twere pity they should be out. I do think they have patience to make any adversity ashamed. The prison itself is proud of ’em, and they have all the world in their chamber.
JAILER. They are famed to be a pair of absolute men.
DAUGHTER. By my troth, I think fame but stammers ’em; they stand a grise above the reach of report.
JAILER. I heard them reported in the battle to be the only doers.
DAUGHTER. Nay, most likely, for they are noble sufferers. I marvel how they would have looked had they been victors, that with such a constant nobility enforce a freedom out of bondage, making misery their mirth and affliction a toy to jest at.
JAILER. Do they so?
DAUGHTER. It seems to me they have no more sense of their captivity than I of ruling Athens. They eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet sometime a divided sigh, martyred as ’twere i’ th’ deliverance, will break from one of them—when the other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke that I could wish myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least a sigher to be comforted.
WOOER. I never saw ’em.
JAILER. The Duke himself came privately in the night, and so did they.
Enter Palamon and Arcite, above.
What the reason of it is, I know not. Look, yonder they are; that’s Arcite looks out.
DAUGHTER. No, sir, no, that’s Palamon. Arcite is the lower of the twain; you may perceive a part of him.
JAILER. Go to, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object. Out of their sight.
DAUGHTER. It is a holiday to look on them. Lord, the difference of men!
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene II — The prison
Enter Palamon and Arcite in prison.
PALAMON. How do you, noble cousin?
ARCITE. How do you, sir?
PALAMON. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery And bear the chance of war; yet we are prisoners I fear for ever, cousin.
ARCITE. I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come.
PALAMON. O, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? Where is our noble country? Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more Must we behold those comforts, never see The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, Hung with the painted favours of their ladies, Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst ’em, And as an east wind leave ’em all behind us, Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Outstripped the people’s praises, won the garlands, Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. O, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now— Better the red-eyed god of war ne’er wore— Ravished our sides, like age must run to rust And deck the temples of those gods that hate us; These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning To blast whole armies more.
ARCITE. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us. Here we are, And here the graces of our youths must wither Like a too-timely spring; here age must find us And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried. The sweet embraces of a loving wife, Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks; no issue know us, No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach ’em Boldly to gaze against bright arms and say “Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!” The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world. We shall know nothing here but one another, Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it; Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.
PALAMON. ’Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds That shook the aged forest with their echoes No more now must we hallow, no more shake Our pointed javelins whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses, The food and nourishment of noble minds, In us two here shall perish; we shall die, Which is the curse of honour, lastly, Children of grief and ignorance.
ARCITE. Yet, cousin, Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience, And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison!
PALAMON. Certainly ’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twined together; ’tis most true, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let ’em suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together, Will never sink; they must not, say they could. A willing man dies sleeping and all’s done.
ARCITE. Shall we make worthy uses of this place That all men hate so much?
PALAMON. How, gentle cousin?
ARCITE. Let’s think this prison holy sanctuary, To keep us from corruption of worse men. We are young and yet desire the ways of honour; That liberty and common conversation, The poison of pure spirits, might like women, Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be but our imaginations May make it ours? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another; We are one another’s wife, ever begetting New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance; We are, in one another, families; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us; here with a little patience We shall live long and loving. No surfeits seek us; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business; Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men Crave our acquaintance. I might sicken, cousin, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, Or prayers to the gods. A thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us.
PALAMON. You have made me— I thank you, cousin Arcite—almost wanton With my captivity. What a misery It is to live abroad and everywhere! ’Tis like a beast, methinks. I find the court here, I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures That woo the wills of men to vanity I see through now, and am sufficient To tell the world ’tis but a gaudy shadow That old Time as he passes by takes with him. What had we been, old in the court of Creon, Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us, We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept, And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses. Shall I say more?
ARCITE. I would hear you still.
PALAMON. Ye shall. Is there record of any two that loved Better than we do, Arcite?
ARCITE. Sure, there cannot.
PALAMON. I do not think it possible our friendship Should ever leave us.
ARCITE. Till our deaths it cannot;
Enter Emilia and her Woman, below.
And after death our spirits shall be led To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir.
EMILIA. This garden has a world of pleasures in’t. What flower is this?
WOMAN. ’Tis called narcissus, madam.
EMILIA. That was a fair boy, certain, but a fool, To love himself. Were there not maids enough?
ARCITE. Pray, forward.
PALAMON. Yes.
EMILIA. Or were they all hard-hearted?
WOMAN. They could not be to one so fair.
EMILIA. Thou wouldst not.
WOMAN. I think I should not, madam.
EMILIA. That’s a good wench. But take heed to your kindness, though.
WOMAN. Why, madam?
EMILIA. Men are mad things.
ARCITE. Will ye go forward, cousin?
EMILIA. Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench?
WOMAN. Yes.
EMILIA. I’ll have a gown full of ’em, and of these. This is a pretty colour; will ’t not do Rarely upon a skirt, wench?
WOMAN. Dainty, madam.
ARCITE. Cousin, cousin! How do you, sir? Why, Palamon!
PALAMON. Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.
ARCITE. Why, what’s the matter, man?
PALAMON. Behold, and wonder! By heaven, she is a goddess.
ARCITE. Ha!
PALAMON. Do reverence. She is a goddess, Arcite.
EMILIA. Of all flowers, Methinks a rose is best.
WOMAN. Why, gentle madam?
EMILIA. It is the very emblem of a maid. For when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blows and paints the sun With her chaste blushes! When the north comes near her, Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, She locks her beauties in her bud again, And leaves him to base briers.
WOMAN. Yet, good madam, Sometimes her modesty will blow so far She falls for ’t. A maid, If she have any honour, would be loath To take example by her.
EMILIA. Thou art wanton.
ARCITE. She is wondrous fair.
PALAMON. She is all the beauty extant.
EMILIA. The sun grows high; let’s walk in. Keep these flowers. We’ll see how near art can come near their colours. I am wondrous merry-hearted. I could laugh now.
WOMAN. I could lie down, I am sure.
EMILIA. And take one with you?
WOMAN. That’s as we bargain, madam.
EMILIA. Well, agree then.
[Exeunt Emilia and Woman.]
PALAMON. What think you of this beauty?
ARCITE. ’Tis a rare one.
PALAMON. Is’t but a rare one?
ARCITE. Yes, a matchless beauty.
PALAMON. Might not a man well lose himself, and love her?
ARCITE. I cannot tell what you have done; I have, Beshrew mine eyes for’t! Now I feel my shackles.
PALAMON. You love her, then?
ARCITE. Who would not?
PALAMON. And desire her?
ARCITE. Before my liberty.
PALAMON. I saw her first.
ARCITE. That’s nothing.
PALAMON. But it shall be.
ARCITE. I saw her too.
PALAMON. Yes, but you must not love her.
ARCITE. I will not, as you do, to worship her As she is heavenly and a blessed goddess. I love her as a woman, to enjoy her. So both may love.
PALAMON. You shall not love at all.
ARCITE. Not love at all! Who shall deny me?
PALAMON. I, that first saw her; I that took possession First with mine eye of all those beauties in her Revealed to mankind. If thou lovest her, Or entertain’st a hope to blast my wishes, Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow False as thy title to her. Friendship, blood, And all the ties between us, I disclaim If thou once think upon her.
ARCITE. Yes, I love her; And, if the lives of all my name lay on it, I must do so; I love her with my soul. If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon. I say again, I love, and in loving her maintain I am as worthy and as free a lover And have as just a title to her beauty, As any Palamon, or any living That is a man’s son.
PALAMON. Have I called thee friend?
ARCITE. Yes, and have found me so. Why are you moved thus? Let me deal coldly with you: am not I Part of your blood, part of your soul? You have told me That I was Palamon and you were Arcite.
PALAMON. Yes.
ARCITE. Am not I liable to those affections, Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall suffer?
PALAMON. Ye may be.
ARCITE. Why then would you deal so cunningly, So strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman, To love alone? Speak truly; do you think me Unworthy of her sight?
PALAMON. No; but unjust, If thou pursue that sight.
ARCITE. Because another First sees the enemy, shall I stand still And let mine honour down, and never charge?
PALAMON. Yes, if he be but one.
ARCITE. But say that one Had rather combat me?
PALAMON. Let that one say so, And use thy freedom. Else, if thou pursuest her, Be as that cursed man that hates his country, A branded villain.
ARCITE. You are mad.
PALAMON. I must be, Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me; And in this madness, if I hazard thee And take thy life, I deal but truely.
ARCITE. Fie, sir! You play the child extremely. I will love her; I must, I ought to do so, and I dare, And all this justly.
PALAMON. O, that now, that now, Thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune, To be one hour at liberty, and grasp Our good swords in our hands! I would quickly teach thee What ’twere to filch affection from another! Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse. Put but thy head out of this window more And, as I have a soul, I’ll nail thy life to ’t.
ARCITE. Thou dar’st not, fool, thou canst not, thou art feeble. Put my head out? I’ll throw my body out And leap the garden, when I see her next And pitch between her arms, to anger thee.
Enter Jailer.
PALAMON. No more; the keeper’s coming. I shall live To knock thy brains out with my shackles.
ARCITE. Do!
JAILER. By your leave, gentlemen.
PALAMON. Now, honest keeper?
JAILER. Lord Arcite, you must presently to th’ Duke; The cause I know not yet.
ARCITE. I am ready, keeper.
JAILER. Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you Of your fair cousin’s company.
[Exeunt Arcite and Jailer.]
PALAMON. And me too, Even when you please, of life.—Why is he sent for? It may be he shall marry her; he’s goodly, And like enough the Duke hath taken notice Both of his blood and body. But his falsehood! Why should a friend be treacherous? If that Get him a wife so noble and so fair, Let honest men ne’er love again. Once more I would but see this fair one. Blessed garden And fruit and flowers more blessed that still blossom As her bright eyes shine on ye! Would I were, For all the fortune of my life hereafter, Yon little tree, yon blooming apricock! How I would spread and fling my wanton arms In at her window! I would bring her fruit Fit for the gods to feed on; youth and pleasure Still as she tasted should be doubled on her; And, if she be not heavenly, I would make her So near the gods in nature, they should fear her.
Enter Jailer.
And then I am sure she would love me. How now, keeper? Where’s Arcite?
JAILER. Banished. Prince Pirithous Obtained his liberty, but never more Upon his oath and life must he set foot Upon this kingdom.
PALAMON. He’s a blessed man. He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms The bold young men that, when he bids ’em charge, Fall on like fire. Arcite shall have a fortune, If he dare make himself a worthy lover, Yet in the field to strike a battle for her; And, if he lose her then, he’s a cold coward. How bravely may he bear himself to win her If he be noble Arcite, thousand ways! Were I at liberty, I would do things Of such a virtuous greatness that this lady, This blushing virgin, should take manhood to her And seek to ravish me.
JAILER. My lord for you I have this charge to—
PALAMON. To discharge my life?
JAILER. No, but from this place to remove your lordship; The windows are too open.
PALAMON. Devils take ’em, That are so envious to me! Prithee, kill me.
JAILER. And hang for’t afterward!
PALAMON. By this good light, Had I a sword I would kill thee.
JAILER. Why, my Lord?
PALAMON. Thou bringst such pelting, scurvy news continually, Thou art not worthy life. I will not go.
JAILER. Indeed, you must, my lord.
PALAMON. May I see the garden?
JAILER. No.
PALAMON. Then I am resolved, I will not go.
JAILER. I must constrain you then; and, for you are dangerous, I’ll clap more irons on you.
PALAMON. Do, good keeper. I’ll shake ’em so, ye shall not sleep; I’ll make you a new morris. Must I go?
JAILER. There is no remedy.
PALAMON. Farewell, kind window. May rude wind never hurt thee!—O, my lady, If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was, Dream how I suffer.—Come, now bury me.
[Exeunt Palamon and Jailer.]
Act II, Scene III — The country near Athens
Enter Arcite.
ARCITE. Banished the kingdom? ’Tis a benefit, A mercy I must thank ’em for; but banished The free enjoying of that face I die for, O, ’twas a studied punishment, a death Beyond imagination, such a vengeance That, were I old and wicked, all my sins Could never pluck upon me. Palamon, Thou hast the start now; thou shalt stay and see Her bright eyes break each morning ’gainst thy window And let in life into thee; thou shalt feed Upon the sweetness of a noble beauty That nature ne’er exceeded nor ne’er shall. Good gods, what happiness has Palamon! Twenty to one, he’ll come to speak to her; And if she be as gentle as she’s fair, I know she’s his; he has a tongue will tame Tempests and make the wild rocks wanton. Come what can come, The worst is death; I will not leave the kingdom. I know mine own is but a heap of ruins, And no redress there. If I go, he has her. I am resolved another shape shall make me Or end my fortunes. Either way I am happy. I’ll see her and be near her, or no more.
Enter four Countrymen, and one with a garland before them.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. My masters, I’ll be there, that’s certain.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And I’ll be there.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. And I.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Why, then, have with you, boys. ’Tis but a chiding. Let the plough play today; I’ll tickle ’t out Of the jades’ tails tomorrow.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. I am sure To have my wife as jealous as a turkey, But that’s all one. I’ll go through; let her mumble.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Clap her aboard tomorrow night, and stow her, And all’s made up again.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Ay, do but put A fescue in her fist and you shall see her Take a new lesson out and be a good wench. Do we all hold against the Maying?
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Hold? What should ail us?
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Arcas will be there.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And Sennois. And Rycas; and three better lads ne’er danced Under green tree. And ye know what wenches, ha? But will the dainty domine, the schoolmaster, Keep touch, do you think? For he does all, ye know.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. He’ll eat a hornbook ere he fail. Go to; The matter’s too far driven between him And the tanner’s daughter to let slip now; And she must see the Duke, and she must dance too.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Shall we be lusty?
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. All the boys in Athens Blow wind i’ th’ breech on ’s. And here I’ll be, And there I’ll be, for our town, and here again, And there again. Ha, boys, hey for the weavers!
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. This must be done i’ th’ woods.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. O, pardon me.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. By any means; our thing of learning says so— Where he himself will edify the Duke Most parlously in our behalfs. He’s excellent i’ th’ woods; Bring him to th’ plains, his learning makes no cry.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. We’ll see the sports, then every man to ’s tackle; And, sweet companions, let’s rehearse, by any means, Before the ladies see us, and do sweetly, And God knows what may come on ’t.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Content; the sports once ended, we’ll perform. Away, boys, and hold.
ARCITE. By your leaves, honest friends: pray you, whither go you?
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Whither? Why, what a question’s that?
ARCITE. Yes, ’tis a question To me that know not.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. To the games, my friend.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Where were you bred, you know it not?
ARCITE. Not far, sir; Are there such games today?
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. Yes, marry, are there, And such as you never saw; the Duke himself Will be in person there.
ARCITE. What pastimes are they?
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Wrestling, and running.—’Tis a pretty fellow.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Thou wilt not go along?
ARCITE. Not yet, sir.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Well, sir, Take your own time. Come, boys.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. My mind misgives me, This fellow has a vengeance trick o’ th’ hip; Mark how his body’s made for ’t.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. I’ll be hanged, though, If he dare venture. Hang him, plum porridge! He wrestle? He roast eggs! Come, let’s be gone, lads.
[Exeunt Countrymen.]
ARCITE. This is an offered opportunity I durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled— The best men called it excellent—and run Swifter than wind upon a field of corn, Curling the wealthy ears, never flew. I’ll venture, And in some poor disguise be there. Who knows Whether my brows may not be girt with garlands, And happiness prefer me to a place Where I may ever dwell in sight of her?
[Exit Arcite.]
Act II, Scene IV — Athens. A room in the prison
Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone.
DAUGHTER. Why should I love this gentleman? ’Tis odds He never will affect me. I am base, My father the mean keeper of his prison, And he a prince. To marry him is hopeless; To be his whore is witless. Out upon ’t! What pushes are we wenches driven to When fifteen once has found us! First, I saw him; I, seeing, thought he was a goodly man; He has as much to please a woman in him, If he please to bestow it so, as ever These eyes yet looked on. Next, I pitied him, And so would any young wench, o’ my conscience, That ever dreamed, or vowed her maidenhead To a young handsome man. Then I loved him, Extremely loved him, infinitely loved him! And yet he had a cousin, fair as he too, But in my heart was Palamon, and there, Lord, what a coil he keeps! To hear him Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is! And yet his songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken Was never gentleman. When I come in To bring him water in a morning, first He bows his noble body, then salutes me thus: “Fair, gentle maid, good morrow. May thy goodness Get thee a happy husband.” Once he kissed me; I loved my lips the better ten days after. Would he would do so ev’ry day! He grieves much— And me as much to see his misery. What should I do to make him know I love him? For I would fain enjoy him. Say I ventured To set him free? What says the law then? Thus much for law or kindred! I will do it; And this night, or tomorrow, he shall love me.
[Exit.]
Act II, Scene V — An open place in Athens
A short flourish of cornets and shouts within. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous, Emilia; Arcite in disguise as a countryman, with a garland, Attendants, and others.
THESEUS. You have done worthily. I have not seen, Since Hercules, a man of tougher sinews. Whate’er you are, you run the best and wrestle, That these times can allow.
ARCITE. I am proud to please you.
THESEUS. What country bred you?
ARCITE. This; but far off, Prince.
THESEUS. Are you a gentleman?
ARCITE. My father said so; And to those gentle uses gave me life.
THESEUS. Are you his heir?
ARCITE. His youngest, sir.
THESEUS. Your father Sure is a happy sire then. What profess you?
ARCITE. A little of all noble qualities. I could have kept a hawk and well have hallowed To a deep cry of dogs. I dare not praise My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me Would say it was my best piece; last, and greatest, I would be thought a soldier.
THESEUS. You are perfect.
PIRITHOUS. Upon my soul, a proper man.
EMILIA. He is so.
PIRITHOUS. How do you like him, lady?
HIPPOLYTA. I admire him. I have not seen so young a man so noble, If he say true, of his sort.
EMILIA. Believe, His mother was a wondrous handsome woman; His face, methinks, goes that way.
HIPPOLYTA. But his body And fiery mind illustrate a brave father.
PIRITHOUS. Mark how his virtue, like a hidden sun, Breaks through his baser garments.
HIPPOLYTA. He’s well got, sure.
THESEUS. What made you seek this place, sir?
ARCITE. Noble Theseus, To purchase name and do my ablest service To such a well-found wonder as thy worth; For only in thy court, of all the world, Dwells fair-eyed Honour.
PIRITHOUS. All his words are worthy.
THESEUS. Sir, we are much indebted to your travel, Nor shall you lose your wish.—Pirithous, Dispose of this fair gentleman.
PIRITHOUS. Thanks, Theseus. Whate’er you are, you’re mine, and I shall give you To a most noble service: to this lady, This bright young virgin; pray, observe her goodness. You have honoured her fair birthday with your virtues, And, as your due, you’re hers; kiss her fair hand, sir.
ARCITE. Sir, you’re a noble giver.—Dearest beauty, Thus let me seal my vowed faith.
[He kisses her hand.]
When your servant, Your most unworthy creature, but offends you, Command him die, he shall.
EMILIA. That were too cruel. If you deserve well, sir, I shall soon see ’t. You’re mine, and somewhat better than your rank I’ll use you.
PIRITHOUS. I’ll see you furnished, and because you say You are a horseman, I must needs entreat you This afternoon to ride, but ’tis a rough one.
ARCITE. I like him better, Prince; I shall not then Freeze in my saddle.
THESEUS. Sweet, you must be ready,— And you, Emilia,—and you, friend,—and all, Tomorrow by the sun, to do observance To flowery May, in Dian’s wood.—Wait well, sir, Upon your mistress.—Emily, I hope He shall not go afoot.
EMILIA. That were a shame, sir, While I have horses.—Take your choice, and what You want at any time, let me but know it. If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you You’ll find a loving mistress.
ARCITE. If I do not, Let me find that my father ever hated, Disgrace and blows.
THESEUS. Go lead the way; you have won it. It shall be so; you shall receive all dues Fit for the honour you have won; ’twere wrong else. Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a servant, That, if I were a woman, would be master. But you are wise.
EMILIA. I hope too wise for that, sir.
[Flourish. Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene VI — Athens. Before the prison
Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone.
DAUGHTER. Let all the dukes and all the devils roar, He is at liberty! I have ventured for him And out I have brought him; to a little wood A mile hence I have sent him, where a cedar Higher than all the rest spreads like a plane Fast by a brook, and there he shall keep close Till I provide him files and food, for yet His iron bracelets are not off. O Love, What a stout-hearted child thou art! My father Durst better have endured cold iron than done it. I love him beyond love and beyond reason, Or wit, or safety. I have made him know it; I care not, I am desperate. If the law Find me and then condemn me for ’t, some wenches, Some honest-hearted maids, will sing my dirge And tell to memory my death was noble, Dying almost a martyr. That way he takes, I purpose is my way too. Sure he cannot Be so unmanly as to leave me here. If he do, maids will not so easily Trust men again. And yet he has not thanked me For what I have done; no, not so much as kissed me, And that, methinks, is not so well; nor scarcely Could I persuade him to become a free man, He made such scruples of the wrong he did To me and to my father. Yet I hope, When he considers more, this love of mine Will take more root within him. Let him do What he will with me, so he use me kindly; For use me so he shall, or I’ll proclaim him, And to his face, no man. I’ll presently Provide him necessaries and pack my clothes up, And where there is a path of ground I’ll venture, So he be with me. By him, like a shadow I’ll ever dwell. Within this hour the hubbub Will be all o’er the prison. I am then Kissing the man they look for. Farewell, father! Get many more such prisoners and such daughters, And shortly you may keep yourself. Now to him.
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene I — A forest near Athens
Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallowing as people a-Maying. Enter Arcite alone.
ARCITE. The Duke has lost Hippolyta; each took A several land. This is a solemn rite They owe bloomed May, and the Athenians pay it To th’ heart of ceremony. O Queen Emilia, Fresher than May, sweeter Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all Th’ enameled knacks o’ th’ mead or garden—yea, We challenge too the bank of any nymph That makes the stream seem flowers; thou, O jewel O’ th’ wood, o’ th’ world, hast likewise blessed a pace With thy sole presence. In thy rumination That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between And chop on some cold thought! Thrice blessed chance To drop on such a mistress, expectation Most guiltless on ’t. Tell me, O Lady Fortune, Next after Emily my sovereign, how far I may be proud. She takes strong note of me, Hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn, The prim’st of all the year, presents me with A brace of horses; two such steeds might well Be by a pair of kings backed, in a field That their crowns’ titles tried. Alas, alas, Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner, thou So little dream’st upon my fortune that Thou think’st thyself the happier thing, to be So near Emilia; me thou deem’st at Thebes, And therein wretched, although free. But if Thou knew’st my mistress breathed on me, and that I eared her language, lived in her eye, O coz, What passion would enclose thee!
Enter Palamon as out of a bush, with his shackles; he bends his fist at Arcite.
PALAMON. Traitor kinsman, Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs Of prisonment were off me, and this hand But owner of a sword. By all oaths in one, I and the justice of my love would make thee A confessed traitor! O thou most perfidious That ever gently looked, the void’st of honour That e’er bore gentle token, falsest cousin That ever blood made kin! Call’st thou her thine? I’ll prove it in my shackles, with these hands, Void of appointment, that thou liest, and art A very thief in love, a chaffy lord, Nor worth the name of villain. Had I a sword, And these house-clogs away—
ARCITE. Dear cousin Palamon—
PALAMON. Cozener Arcite, give me language such As thou hast showed me feat.
ARCITE. Not finding in The circuit of my breast any gross stuff To form me like your blazon holds me to This gentleness of answer. ’Tis your passion That thus mistakes, the which, to you being enemy, Cannot to me be kind. Honour and honesty I cherish and depend on, howsoe’er You skip them in me, and with them, fair coz, I’ll maintain my proceedings. Pray be pleased To show in generous terms your griefs, since that Your question’s with your equal, who professes To clear his own way with the mind and sword Of a true gentleman.
PALAMON. That thou durst, Arcite!
ARCITE. My coz, my coz, you have been well advertised How much I dare; you’ve seen me use my sword Against th’ advice of fear. Sure, of another You would not hear me doubted, but your silence Should break out, though i’ th’ sanctuary.
PALAMON. Sir, I have seen you move in such a place, which well Might justify your manhood; you were called A good knight and a bold. But the whole week’s not fair If any day it rain. Their valiant temper Men lose when they incline to treachery; And then they fight like compelled bears, would fly Were they not tied.
ARCITE. Kinsman, you might as well Speak this and act it in your glass as to His ear which now disdains you.
PALAMON. Come up to me; Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword Though it be rusty, and the charity Of one meal lend me. Come before me then, A good sword in thy hand, and do but say That Emily is thine, I will forgive The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life, If then thou carry ’t; and brave souls in shades That have died manly, which will seek of me Some news from earth, they shall get none but this: That thou art brave and noble.
ARCITE. Be content. Again betake you to your hawthorn house. With counsel of the night, I will be here With wholesome viands. These impediments Will I file off; you shall have garments and Perfumes to kill the smell o’ th’ prison. After, When you shall stretch yourself and say but “Arcite, I am in plight,” there shall be at your choice Both sword and armour.
PALAMON. Oh you heavens, dares any So noble bear a guilty business? None But only Arcite, therefore none but Arcite In this kind is so bold.
ARCITE. Sweet Palamon.
PALAMON. I do embrace you and your offer; for Your offer do ’t I only, sir; your person, Without hypocrisy I may not wish More than my sword’s edge on ’t.
[Wind horns of cornets.]
ARCITE. You hear the horns. Enter your musit, lest this match between ’s Be crossed ere met. Give me your hand; farewell. I’ll bring you every needful thing. I pray you, Take comfort and be strong.
PALAMON. Pray hold your promise, And do the deed with a bent brow. Most certain You love me not; be rough with me, and pour This oil out of your language. By this air, I could for each word give a cuff, my stomach Not reconciled by reason.
ARCITE. Plainly spoken. Yet pardon me hard language. When I spur My horse, I chide him not; content and anger In me have but one face.
[Wind horns.]
Hark, sir, they call The scattered to the banquet. You must guess I have an office there.
PALAMON. Sir, your attendance Cannot please heaven, and I know your office Unjustly is achieved.
ARCITE. ’Tis a good title. I am persuaded, this question, sick between ’s, By bleeding must be cured. I am a suitor That to your sword you will bequeath this plea, And talk of it no more.
PALAMON. But this one word: You are going now to gaze upon my mistress, For, note you, mine she is—
ARCITE. Nay, then—
PALAMON. Nay, pray you, You talk of feeding me to breed me strength. You are going now to look upon a sun That strengthens what it looks on; there You have a vantage o’er me. But enjoy ’t till I may enforce my remedy. Farewell.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene II — Another Part of the forest
Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone.
DAUGHTER. He has mistook the brake I meant, is gone After his fancy. ’Tis now well-nigh morning. No matter; would it were perpetual night, And darkness lord o’ th’ world. Hark, ’tis a wolf! In me hath grief slain fear, and but for one thing, I care for nothing, and that’s Palamon. I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so He had this file. What if I hallowed for him? I cannot hallow. If I whooped, what then? If he not answered, I should call a wolf, And do him but that service. I have heard Strange howls this livelong night; why may ’t not be They have made prey of him? He has no weapons; He cannot run; the jingling of his gyves Might call fell things to listen, who have in them A sense to know a man unarmed and can Smell where resistance is. I’ll set it down He’s torn to pieces; they howled many together, And then they fed on him. So much for that. Be bold to ring the bell. How stand I then? All’s chared when he is gone. No, no, I lie. My father’s to be hanged for his escape; Myself to beg, if I prized life so much As to deny my act; but that I would not, Should I try death by dozens. I am moped. Food took I none these two days; Sipped some water. I have not closed mine eyes Save when my lids scoured off their brine. Alas, Dissolve, my life! Let not my sense unsettle, Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself. O state of nature, fail together in me, Since thy best props are warped! So, which way now? The best way is the next way to a grave; Each errant step beside is torment. Lo, The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech owl Calls in the dawn. All offices are done Save what I fail in. But the point is this: An end, and that is all.
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene III — The same part of the forest as in scene I
Enter Arcite with meat, wine and files.
ARCITE. I should be near the place.—Ho! Cousin Palamon!
PALAMON. [From the bush.] Arcite?
ARCITE. The same. I have brought you food and files. Come forth and fear not; here’s no Theseus.
Enter Palamon.
PALAMON. Nor none so honest, Arcite.
ARCITE. That’s no matter. We’ll argue that hereafter. Come, take courage; You shall not die thus beastly. Here, sir, drink— I know you are faint—then I’ll talk further with you.
PALAMON. Arcite, thou mightst now poison me.
ARCITE. I might; But I must fear you first. Sit down and, good now, No more of these vain parleys; let us not, Having our ancient reputation with us, Make talk for fools and cowards. To your health.
[Drinks.]
PALAMON. Do.
ARCITE. Pray sit down, then, and let me entreat you, By all the honesty and honour in you, No mention of this woman; ’twill disturb us. We shall have time enough.
PALAMON. Well, sir, I’ll pledge you.
[Drinks.]
ARCITE. Drink a good hearty draught; it breeds good blood, man. Do not you feel it thaw you?
PALAMON. Stay, I’ll tell you After a draught or two more.
ARCITE. Spare it not; the Duke has more, coz. Eat now.
PALAMON. Yes.
[Eats.]
ARCITE. I am glad you have so good a stomach.
PALAMON. I am gladder I have so good meat to ’t.
ARCITE. Is’t not mad lodging, Here in the wild woods, cousin?
PALAMON. Yes, for them That have wild consciences.
ARCITE. How tastes your victuals? Your hunger needs no sauce, I see.
PALAMON. Not much. But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin. What is this?
ARCITE. Venison.
PALAMON. ’Tis a lusty meat. Give me more wine. Here, Arcite, to the wenches We have known in our days! The Lord Steward’s daughter, Do you remember her?
ARCITE. After you, coz.
PALAMON. She loved a black-haired man.
ARCITE. She did so; well, sir?
PALAMON. And I have heard some call him Arcite, and—
ARCITE. Out with’t, faith.
PALAMON. She met him in an arbour. What did she there, coz? Play o’ th’ virginals?
ARCITE. Something she did, sir.
PALAMON. Made her groan a month for ’t, Or two, or three, or ten.
ARCITE. The Marshal’s sister Had her share too, as I remember, cousin, Else there be tales abroad. You’ll pledge her?
PALAMON. Yes.
ARCITE. A pretty brown wench ’tis. There was a time When young men went a-hunting, and a wood, And a broad beech; and thereby hangs a tale. Heigh ho!
PALAMON. For Emily, upon my life! Fool, Away with this strained mirth! I say again That sigh was breathed for Emily. Base cousin, Dar’st thou break first?
ARCITE. You are wide.
PALAMON. By heaven and earth, There’s nothing in thee honest.
ARCITE. Then I’ll leave you. You are a beast now.
PALAMON. As thou mak’st me, traitor.
ARCITE. There’s all things needful: files and shirts and perfumes. I’ll come again some two hours hence, and bring That that shall quiet all.
PALAMON. A sword and armour?
ARCITE. Fear me not. You are now too foul. Farewell. Get off your trinkets; you shall want naught.
PALAMON. Sirrah—
ARCITE. I’ll hear no more.
[Exit.]
PALAMON. If he keep touch, he dies for ’t.
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene IV — Another part of the forest
Enter Jailer’s Daughter.
DAUGHTER. I am very cold, and all the stars are out too, The little stars and all, that look like aglets. The sun has seen my folly. Palamon! Alas, no; he’s in heaven. Where am I now? Yonder’s the sea, and there’s a ship; how ’t tumbles! And there’s a rock lies watching under water; Now, now, it beats upon it; now, now, now, There’s a leak sprung, a sound one! How they cry! Run her before the wind, you’ll lose all else. Up with a course or two, and tack about, boys! Good night, good night; you’re gone. I am very hungry. Would I could find a fine frog; he would tell me News from all parts o’ th’ world; then would I make A carrack of a cockle shell, and sail By east and north-east to the king of pygmies, For he tells fortunes rarely. Now my father, Twenty to one, is trussed up in a trice Tomorrow morning. I’ll say never a word.
[Sings.]
_For I’ll cut my green coat a foot above my knee, And I’ll clip my yellow locks an inch below mine eye. Hey nonny, nonny, nonny. He’s buy me a white cut, forth for to ride, And I’ll go seek him through the world that is so wide. Hey nonny, nonny, nonny._ O, for a prick now, like a nightingale, To put my breast against. I shall sleep like a top else.
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene V — Another part of the forest
Enter a Schoolmaster and five Countrymen, one dressed as a Bavian.
SCHOOLMASTER. Fie, fie, What tediosity and disinsanity Is here among ye! Have my rudiments Been laboured so long with ye, milked unto ye, And, by a figure, even the very plum-broth And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye, And do you still cry “Where?” and “How?” and “Wherefore?” You most coarse-frieze capacities, ye jean judgements, Have I said “Thus let be” and “There let be” And “Then let be” and no man understand me? Proh Deum, medius fidius, ye are all dunces! For why? Here stand I; here the Duke comes; there are you, Close in the thicket; the Duke appears; I meet him And unto him I utter learned things And many figures; he hears, and nods, and hums, And then cries “Rare!” and I go forward. At length I fling my cap up—mark there! Then do you As once did Meleager and the boar, Break comely out before him; like true lovers, Cast yourselves in a body decently, And sweetly, by a figure, trace and turn, boys.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. And sweetly we will do it, Master Gerald.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Draw up the company. Where’s the taborer?
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Why, Timothy!
TABORER. Here, my mad boys, have at ye.
SCHOOLMASTER. But I say, where’s their women?
Enter five Countrywomen.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Here’s Friz and Maudlin.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And little Luce with the white legs, and bouncing Barbary.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. And freckled Nel, that never failed her master.
SCHOOLMASTER. Where be your ribbons, maids? Swim with your bodies, And carry it sweetly and deliverly, And now and then a favour and a frisk.
NEL. Let us alone, sir.
SCHOOLMASTER. Where’s the rest o’ th’ music?
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Dispersed, as you commanded.
SCHOOLMASTER. Couple, then, And see what’s wanting. Where’s the Bavian? My friend, carry your tail without offence Or scandal to the ladies; and be sure You tumble with audacity and manhood; And when you bark, do it with judgement.
BAVIAN. Yes, sir.
SCHOOLMASTER. Quo usque tandem? Here is a woman wanting.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. We may go whistle; all the fat’s i’ th’ fire.
SCHOOLMASTER. We have, as learned authors utter, washed a tile. we have been fatuus and laboured vainly.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. This is that scornful piece, that scurvy hilding, That gave her promise faithfully, she would be here, Cicely, the sempster’s daughter. The next gloves that I give her shall be dogskin! Nay an she fail me once—You can tell, Arcas, She swore by wine and bread, she would not break.
SCHOOLMASTER. An eel and woman, A learned poet says, unless by th’ tail And with thy teeth thou hold, will either fail. In manners this was false position.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. A fire ill take her; does she flinch now?
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. What Shall we determine, sir?
SCHOOLMASTER. Nothing. Our business is become a nullity, Yea, and a woeful and a piteous nullity.
FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Now, when the credit of our town lay on it, Now to be frampul, now to piss o’ th’ nettle! Go thy ways; I’ll remember thee. I’ll fit thee.
Enter Jailer’s Daughter.
DAUGHTER. [Sings.] _The George Alow came from the south, From the coast of Barbary-a. And there he met with brave gallants of war, By one, by two, by three-a._
_Well hailed, well hailed, you jolly gallants, And whither now are you bound-a? O let me have your company Till I come to the sound-a._
_There was three fools fell out about an howlet: The one said it was an owl, The other he said nay, The third he said it was a hawk, And her bells were cut away._
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. There’s a dainty mad woman, Master, Comes i’ th’ nick, as mad as a March hare. If we can get her dance, we are made again; I warrant her, she’ll do the rarest gambols.
FIRST COUNTRYMAN. A madwoman? We are made, boys.
SCHOOLMASTER. And are you mad, good woman?
DAUGHTER. I would be sorry else. Give me your hand.
SCHOOLMASTER. Why?
DAUGHTER. I can tell your fortune. You are a fool. Tell ten. I have posed him. Buzz! Friend, you must eat no white bread; if you do, Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we dance, ho? I know you, you’re a tinker; sirrah tinker, Stop no more holes but what you should.
SCHOOLMASTER. Dii boni! A tinker, damsel?
DAUGHTER. Or a conjurer. Raise me a devil now, and let him play Qui passa o’ th’ bells and bones.
SCHOOLMASTER. Go, take her, And fluently persuade her to a peace. Et opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis— Strike up, and lead her in.
SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Come, lass, let’s trip it.
DAUGHTER. I’ll lead.
THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Do, do!
SCHOOLMASTER. Persuasively, and cunningly. Away, boys; I hear the horns. Give me some meditation, And mark your cue.
[Exeunt all but Schoolmaster.]
Pallas inspire me.
Enter Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, and train.
THESEUS. This way the stag took.
SCHOOLMASTER. Stay, and edify!
THESEUS. What have we here?
PIRITHOUS. Some country sport, upon my life, sir.
THESEUS. Well, sir, go forward; we will “edify.” Ladies, sit down. We’ll stay it.
SCHOOLMASTER. Thou doughty Duke, all hail! All hail, sweet ladies!
THESEUS. This is a cold beginning.
SCHOOLMASTER. If you but favour, our country pastime made is. We are a few of those collected here That ruder tongues distinguish “villager.” And to say verity, and not to fable, We are a merry rout, or else a rabble, Or company, or by a figure, chorus, That ’fore thy dignity will dance a morris. And I that am the rectifier of all, By title pædagogus, that let fall The birch upon the breeches of the small ones, And humble with a ferula the tall ones, Do here present this machine, or this frame. And, dainty Duke, whose doughty dismal fame From Dis to Dædalus, from post to pillar, Is blown abroad, help me, thy poor well-willer, And with thy twinkling eyes look right and straight Upon this mighty Morr, of mickle weight. Is now comes in, which being glued together Makes Morris, and the cause that we came hither. The body of our sport, of no small study. I first appear, though rude and raw and muddy, To speak before thy noble grace this tenner, At whose great feet I offer up my penner. The next, the Lord of May and Lady bright, The Chambermaid and Servingman, by night That seek out silent hanging; then mine Host And his fat Spouse, that welcomes to their cost The galled traveller, and with a beck’ning Informs the tapster to inflame the reck’ning. Then the beest-eating Clown and next the Fool, The Bavian with long tail and eke long tool, Cum multis aliis that make a dance. Say “Ay,” and all shall presently advance.
THESEUS. Ay, ay, by any means, dear Domine.
PIRITHOUS. Produce.
SCHOOLMASTER. Intrate, filii! Come forth and foot it.
Music. Enter the Countrymen, Countrywomen and Jailer’s Daughter; they perform a morris dance.
Ladies, if we have been merry And have pleased ye with a derry, And a derry, and a down, Say the schoolmaster’s no clown. Duke, if we have pleased thee too And have done as good boys should do, Give us but a tree or twain For a Maypole, and again, Ere another year run out, We’ll make thee laugh, and all this rout.
THESEUS. Take twenty, Domine.—How does my sweetheart?
HIPPOLYTA. Never so pleased, sir.
EMILIA. ’Twas an excellent dance, And, for a preface, I never heard a better.
THESEUS. Schoolmaster, I thank you.—One see’em all rewarded.
PIRITHOUS. And here’s something to paint your pole withal.
[He gives money.]
THESEUS. Now to our sports again.
SCHOOLMASTER. May the stag thou hunt’st stand long, And thy dogs be swift and strong; May they kill him without lets, And the ladies eat his dowsets.
[Exeunt Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arcite and Train. Horns winded as they go out.]
Come, we are all made. Dii deæque omnes, You have danced rarely, wenches.
[Exeunt.]