Act III, Scene VI — The same part of the forest as in scene III…

Act III, Scene VI — The same part of the forest as in scene III

Enter Palamon from the bush.

PALAMON. About this hour my cousin gave his faith To visit me again, and with him bring Two swords and two good armours. If he fail, He’s neither man nor soldier. When he left me, I did not think a week could have restored My lost strength to me, I was grown so low And crestfall’n with my wants. I thank thee, Arcite, Thou art yet a fair foe, and I feel myself, With this refreshing, able once again To outdure danger. To delay it longer Would make the world think, when it comes to hearing, That I lay fatting like a swine to fight And not a soldier. Therefore, this blest morning Shall be the last; and that sword he refuses, If it but hold, I kill him with. ’Tis justice. So, love and fortune for me!

Enter Arcite with armours and swords.

O, good morrow.

ARCITE. Good morrow, noble kinsman.

PALAMON. I have put you To too much pains, sir.

ARCITE. That too much, fair cousin, Is but a debt to honour, and my duty.

PALAMON. Would you were so in all, sir; I could wish ye As kind a kinsman as you force me find A beneficial foe, that my embraces Might thank ye, not my blows.

ARCITE. I shall think either, Well done, a noble recompence.

PALAMON. Then I shall quit you.

ARCITE. Defy me in these fair terms, and you show More than a mistress to me. No more anger, As you love anything that’s honourable! We were not bred to talk, man; when we are armed And both upon our guards, then let our fury, Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us; And then to whom the birthright of this beauty Truly pertains—without upbraidings, scorns, Despisings of our persons, and such poutings, Fitter for girls and schoolboys—will be seen, And quickly, yours or mine. Will ’t please you arm, sir? Or, if you feel yourself not fitting yet And furnished with your old strength, I’ll stay, cousin, And every day discourse you into health, As I am spared. Your person I am friends with, And I could wish I had not said I loved her, Though I had died; but, loving such a lady, And justifying my love, I must not fly from ’t.

PALAMON. Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy, That no man but thy cousin’s fit to kill thee. I am well and lusty; choose your arms.

ARCITE. Choose you, sir.

PALAMON. Wilt thou exceed in all, or dost thou do it To make me spare thee?

ARCITE. If you think so, cousin, You are deceived, for as I am a soldier, I will not spare you.

PALAMON. That’s well said.

ARCITE. You’ll find it.

PALAMON. Then, as I am an honest man and love With all the justice of affection, I’ll pay thee soundly.

[He chooses armour.]

This I’ll take.

ARCITE. That’s mine, then. I’ll arm you first.

PALAMON. Do.

[Arcite begins arming him.]

Pray thee, tell me, cousin, Where got’st thou this good armour?

ARCITE. ’Tis the Duke’s, And, to say true, I stole it. Do I pinch you?

PALAMON. No.

ARCITE. Is’t not too heavy?

PALAMON. I have worn a lighter, But I shall make it serve.

ARCITE. I’ll buckle ’t close.

PALAMON. By any means.

ARCITE. You care not for a grand guard?

PALAMON. No, no; we’ll use no horses: I perceive You would fain be at that fight.

ARCITE. I am indifferent.

PALAMON. Faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust the buckle Through far enough.

ARCITE. I warrant you.

PALAMON. My casque now.

ARCITE. Will you fight bare-armed?

PALAMON. We shall be the nimbler.

ARCITE. But use your gauntlets though. Those are o’ th’ least; Prithee take mine, good cousin.

PALAMON. Thank you, Arcite. How do I look? Am I fall’n much away?

ARCITE. Faith, very little; love has used you kindly.

PALAMON. I’ll warrant thee, I’ll strike home.

ARCITE. Do, and spare not. I’ll give you cause, sweet cousin.

PALAMON. Now to you, sir.

[He begins to arm Arcite.]

Methinks this armour’s very like that, Arcite, Thou wor’st that day the three kings fell, but lighter.

ARCITE. That was a very good one; and that day, I well remember, you outdid me, cousin; I never saw such valour. When you charged Upon the left wing of the enemy, I spurred hard to come up, and under me I had a right good horse.

PALAMON. You had indeed; A bright bay, I remember.

ARCITE. Yes, but all Was vainly laboured in me; you outwent me, Nor could my wishes reach you. Yet a little I did by imitation.

PALAMON. More by virtue; You are modest, cousin.

ARCITE. When I saw you charge first, Me thought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder Break from the troop.

PALAMON. But still before that flew The lightning of your valour. Stay a little; Is not this piece too strait?

ARCITE. No, no, ’tis well.

PALAMON. I would have nothing hurt thee but my sword. A bruise would be dishonour.

ARCITE. Now I am perfect.

PALAMON. Stand off, then.

ARCITE. Take my sword; I hold it better.

PALAMON. I thank ye, no; keep it; your life lies on it. Here’s one; if it but hold, I ask no more For all my hopes. My cause and honour guard me!

ARCITE. And me my love!

[They bow several ways, then advance and stand.]

Is there aught else to say?

PALAMON. This only, and no more. Thou art mine aunt’s son. And that blood we desire to shed is mutual, In me thine, and in thee mine. My sword Is in my hand, and if thou killest me, The gods and I forgive thee. If there be A place prepared for those that sleep in honour, I wish his weary soul that falls may win it. Fight bravely, cousin; give me thy noble hand.

ARCITE. Here, Palamon. This hand shall never more Come near thee with such friendship.

PALAMON. I commend thee.

ARCITE. If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward, For none but such dare die in these just trials. Once more farewell, my cousin.

PALAMON. Farewell, Arcite.

[They fight. Horns within. They stand.]

ARCITE. Lo, cousin, lo, our folly has undone us.

PALAMON. Why?

ARCITE. This is the Duke, a-hunting, as I told you. If we be found, we are wretched. O, retire, For honour’s sake and safety, presently Into your bush again. Sir, we shall find Too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin, If you be seen, you perish instantly For breaking prison and I, if you reveal me, For my contempt. Then all the world will scorn us, And say we had a noble difference, But base disposers of it.

PALAMON. No, no, cousin, I will no more be hidden, nor put off This great adventure to a second trial; I know your cunning and I know your cause. He that faints now, shame take him! Put thyself Upon thy present guard—

ARCITE. You are not mad?

PALAMON. Or I will make th’advantage of this hour Mine own, and what to come shall threaten me I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak cousin, I love Emilia, and in that I’ll bury Thee, and all crosses else.

ARCITE. Then, come what can come, Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well Die, as discourse, or sleep. Only this fears me, The law will have the honour of our ends. Have at thy life!

PALAMON. Look to thine own well, Arcite.

[They fight. Horns within. They stand.]

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous and train.

THESEUS. What ignorant and mad malicious traitors Are you, that ’gainst the tenor of my laws Are making battle, thus like knights appointed, Without my leave, and officers of arms? By Castor, both shall die.

PALAMON. Hold thy word, Theseus. We are certainly both traitors, both despisers Of thee and of thy goodness. I am Palamon, That cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison. Think well what that deserves. And this is Arcite. A bolder traitor never trod thy ground, A falser ne’er seemed friend. This is the man Was begged and banished; this is he contemns thee And what thou dar’st do; and in this disguise, Against thine own edict, follows thy sister, That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia, Whose servant—if there be a right in seeing And first bequeathing of the soul to—justly I am; and, which is more, dares think her his. This treachery, like a most trusty lover, I called him now to answer. If thou be’st As thou art spoken, great and virtuous, The true decider of all injuries, Say “Fight again,” and thou shalt see me, Theseus, Do such a justice thou thyself wilt envy. Then take my life; I’ll woo thee to ’t.

PIRITHOUS. O heaven, What more than man is this!

THESEUS. I have sworn.

ARCITE. We seek not Thy breath of mercy, Theseus. ’Tis to me A thing as soon to die as thee to say it, And no more moved. Where this man calls me traitor, Let me say thus much: if in love be treason, In service of so excellent a beauty, As I love most, and in that faith will perish, As I have brought my life here to confirm it, As I have served her truest, worthiest, As I dare kill this cousin that denies it, So let me be most traitor, and you please me. For scorning thy edict, Duke, ask that lady Why she is fair, and why her eyes command me Stay here to love her; and if she say “traitor,” I am a villain fit to lie unburied.

PALAMON. Thou shalt have pity of us both, O Theseus, If unto neither thou show mercy. Stop, As thou art just, thy noble ear against us; As thou art valiant, for thy cousin’s soul, Whose twelve strong labours crown his memory, Let’s die together at one instant, Duke; Only a little let him fall before me, That I may tell my soul he shall not have her.

THESEUS. I grant your wish, for, to say true, your cousin Has ten times more offended, for I gave him More mercy than you found, sir, your offences Being no more than his. None here speak for ’em, For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever.

HIPPOLYTA. Alas the pity! Now or never, sister, Speak, not to be denied. That face of yours Will bear the curses else of after ages For these lost cousins.

EMILIA. In my face, dear sister, I find no anger to ’em, nor no ruin; The misadventure of their own eyes kill ’em. Yet that I will be woman and have pity, My knees shall grow to’ th’ ground but I’ll get mercy.

[She kneels.]

Help me, dear sister; in a deed so virtuous The powers of all women will be with us. Most royal brother—

HIPPOLYTA. [Kneels.] Sir, by our tie of marriage—

EMILIA. By your own spotless honour—

HIPPOLYTA. By that faith, That fair hand, and that honest heart you gave me—

EMILIA. By that you would have pity in another, By your own virtues infinite—

HIPPOLYTA. By valour, By all the chaste nights I have ever pleased you—

THESEUS. These are strange conjurings.

PIRITHOUS. Nay, then, I’ll in too.

[Kneels.]

By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers, By all you love most: wars and this sweet lady—

EMILIA. By that you would have trembled to deny A blushing maid—

HIPPOLYTA. By your own eyes, by strength, In which you swore I went beyond all women, Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus—

PIRITHOUS. To crown all this, by your most noble soul, Which cannot want due mercy, I beg first.

HIPPOLYTA. Next, hear my prayers.

EMILIA. Last, let me entreat, sir.

PIRITHOUS. For mercy.

HIPPOLYTA. Mercy.

EMILIA. Mercy on these princes.

THESEUS. Ye make my faith reel. Say I felt Compassion to’em both, how would you place it?

[Emilia, Hippolyta and Pirithous rise.]

EMILIA. Upon their lives. But with their banishments.

THESEUS. You are a right woman, sister: you have pity, But want the understanding where to use it. If you desire their lives, invent a way Safer than banishment. Can these two live, And have the agony of love about ’em, And not kill one another? Every day They’d fight about you, hourly bring your honour In public question with their swords. Be wise, then, And here forget ’em; it concerns your credit And my oath equally. I have said they die. Better they fall by th’ law than one another. Bow not my honour.

EMILIA. O, my noble brother, That oath was rashly made, and in your anger; Your reason will not hold it; if such vows Stand for express will, all the world must perish. Besides, I have another oath ’gainst yours, Of more authority, I am sure more love, Not made in passion neither, but good heed.

THESEUS. What is it, sister?

PIRITHOUS. Urge it home, brave lady.

EMILIA. That you would ne’er deny me anything Fit for my modest suit and your free granting. I tie you to your word now; if ye fail in ’t, Think how you maim your honour— For now I am set a-begging, sir, I am deaf To all but your compassion—how their lives Might breed the ruin of my name. Opinion! Shall anything that loves me perish for me? That were a cruel wisdom. Do men prune The straight young boughs that blush with thousand blossoms Because they may be rotten? O, Duke Theseus, The goodly mothers that have groaned for these, And all the longing maids that ever loved, If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty, And in their funeral songs for these two cousins Despise my cruelty, and cry woe worth me, Till I am nothing but the scorn of women. For heaven’s sake, save their lives, and banish ’em.

THESEUS. On what conditions?

EMILIA. Swear ’em never more To make me their contention, or to know me, To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be, Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers To one another.

PALAMON. I’ll be cut a-pieces Before I take this oath! Forget I love her? O, all ye gods, despise me then! Thy banishment I not mislike, so we may fairly carry Our swords and cause along; else never trifle, But take our lives, Duke. I must love, and will And for that love must and dare kill this cousin On any piece the earth has.

THESEUS. Will you, Arcite, Take these conditions?

PALAMON. He’s a villain, then.

PIRITHOUS. These are men!

ARCITE. No, never, Duke. ’Tis worse to me than begging To take my life so basely. Though I think I never shall enjoy her, yet I’ll preserve The honour of affection, and die for her, Make death a devil.

THESEUS. What may be done? For now I feel compassion.

PIRITHOUS. Let it not fall again, sir.

THESEUS. Say, Emilia, If one of them were dead, as one must, are you Content to take th’ other to your husband? They cannot both enjoy you. They are princes As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble As ever fame yet spoke of. Look upon ’em, And, if you can love, end this difference; I give consent.—Are you content too, princes?

BOTH. With all our souls.

THESEUS. He that she refuses Must die, then.

BOTH. Any death thou canst invent, Duke.

PALAMON. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour, And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes.

ARCITE. If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me, And soldiers sing my epitaph.

THESEUS. Make choice, then.

EMILIA. I cannot, sir, they are both too excellent; For me, a hair shall never fall of these men.

HIPPOLYTA. What will become of ’em?

THESEUS. Thus I ordain it And, by mine honour, once again, it stands, Or both shall die. You shall both to your country, And each within this month, accompanied With three fair knights, appear again in this place, In which I’ll plant a pyramid; and whether, Before us that are here, can force his cousin By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar, He shall enjoy her; th’ other lose his head, And all his friends; nor shall he grudge to fall, Nor think he dies with interest in this lady. Will this content ye?

PALAMON. Yes. Here, cousin Arcite, I am friends again, till that hour.

[He offers his hand.]

ARCITE. I embrace ye.

THESEUS. Are you content, sister?

EMILIA. Yes, I must, sir, Else both miscarry.

THESEUS. Come, shake hands again, then; And take heed, as you are gentlemen, this quarrel Sleep till the hour prefixed, and hold your course.

PALAMON. We dare not fail thee, Theseus.

[They shake hands.]

THESEUS. Come, I’ll give ye Now usage like to princes, and to friends. When ye return, who wins, I’ll settle here; Who loses, yet I’ll weep upon his bier.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene I — Athens. A room in the prison

Enter Jailer and his Friend.

JAILER. Hear you no more? Was nothing said of me Concerning the escape of Palamon? Good sir, remember.

FIRST FRIEND. Nothing that I heard, For I came home before the business Was fully ended. Yet I might perceive, Ere I departed, a great likelihood Of both their pardons; for Hippolyta And fair-eyed Emily, upon their knees, Begged with such handsome pity that the Duke Methought stood staggering whether he should follow His rash oath or the sweet compassion Of those two ladies. And, to second them, That truly noble prince, Pirithous, Half his own heart, set in too, that I hope All shall be well. Neither heard I one question Of your name or his ’scape.

JAILER. Pray heaven it hold so.

Enter Second Friend.

SECOND FRIEND. Be of good comfort, man; I bring you news, Good news.

JAILER. They are welcome.

SECOND FRIEND. Palamon has cleared you, And got your pardon, and discovered how And by whose means he escaped, which was your daughter’s, Whose pardon is procured too; and the prisoner, Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness, Has given a sum of money to her marriage, A large one, I’ll assure you.

JAILER. You are a good man And ever bring good news.

FIRST FRIEND. How was it ended?

SECOND FRIEND. Why, as it should be; they that never begged But they prevailed had their suits fairly granted; The prisoners have their lives.

FIRST FRIEND. I knew ’twould be so.

SECOND FRIEND. But there be new conditions, which you’ll hear of At better time.

JAILER. I hope they are good.

SECOND FRIEND. They are honourable; How good they’ll prove, I know not.

FIRST FRIEND. ’Twill be known.

Enter Wooer.

WOOER. Alas, sir, where’s your daughter?

JAILER. Why do you ask?

WOOER. O, sir, when did you see her?

SECOND FRIEND. How he looks?

JAILER. This morning.

WOOER. Was she well? Was she in health, sir? When did she sleep?

FIRST FRIEND. These are strange questions.

JAILER. I do not think she was very well, for now You make me mind her, but this very day I asked her questions, and she answered me So far from what she was, so childishly, So sillily, as if she were a fool, An innocent, and I was very angry. But what of her, sir?

WOOER. Nothing but my pity. But you must know it, and as good by me As by another that less loves her.

JAILER. Well, sir?

FIRST FRIEND. Not right?

SECOND FRIEND. Not well?

WOOER. No, sir, not well: ’Tis too true, she is mad.

FIRST FRIEND. It cannot be.

WOOER. Believe, you’ll find it so.

JAILER. I half suspected What you have told me. The gods comfort her! Either this was her love to Palamon, Or fear of my miscarrying on his ’scape, Or both.

WOOER. ’Tis likely.

JAILER. But why all this haste, sir?

WOOER. I’ll tell you quickly. As I late was angling In the great lake that lies behind the palace, From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges, As patiently I was attending sport, I heard a voice, a shrill one; and, attentive, I gave my ear, when I might well perceive ’Twas one that sung, and by the smallness of it A boy or woman. I then left my angle To his own skill, came near, but yet perceived not Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds Had so encompassed it. I laid me down And listened to the words she sung, for then, Through a small glade cut by the fishermen, I saw it was your daughter.

JAILER. Pray, go on, sir.

WOOER. She sung much, but no sense; only I heard her Repeat this often: “Palamon is gone, Is gone to th’ wood to gather mulberries; I’ll find him out tomorrow.”

FIRST FRIEND. Pretty soul!

WOOER. “His shackles will betray him; he’ll be taken, And what shall I do then? I’ll bring a bevy, A hundred black-eyed maids that love as I do, With chaplets on their heads of daffadillies, With cherry lips and cheeks of damask roses, And all we’ll dance an antic ’fore the Duke, And beg his pardon.” Then she talked of you, sir; That you must lose your head tomorrow morning, And she must gather flowers to bury you, And see the house made handsome. Then she sung Nothing but “Willow, willow, willow,” and between Ever was “Palamon, fair Palamon,” And “Palamon was a tall young man.” The place Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless tresses, A wreath of bulrush rounded; about her stuck Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours, That methought she appeared like the fair nymph That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris Newly dropped down from heaven. Rings she made Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke The prettiest posies: “Thus our true love’s tied,” “This you may loose, not me,” and many a one; And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed, And with the same breath smiled and kissed her hand.

SECOND FRIEND. Alas, what pity it is!

WOOER. I made in to her. She saw me, and straight sought the flood. I saved her And set her safe to land, when presently She slipped away, and to the city made With such a cry and swiftness that, believe me, She left me far behind her. Three or four I saw from far off cross her—one of ’em I knew to be your brother—where she stayed And fell, scarce to be got away. I left them with her And hither came to tell you.

Enter Jailer’s Brother, Jailer’s Daughter and others.

Here they are.

DAUGHTER. [Sings.]

May you never more enjoy the light, &c.

Is not this a fine song?

BROTHER. O, a very fine one.

DAUGHTER. I can sing twenty more.

BROTHER. I think you can.

DAUGHTER. Yes, truly can I. I can sing “The Broom” and “Bonny Robin.” Are not you a tailor?

BROTHER. Yes.

DAUGHTER. Where’s my wedding gown?

BROTHER. I’ll bring it tomorrow.

DAUGHTER. Do, very rarely, I must be abroad else To call the maids and pay the minstrels, For I must lose my maidenhead by cocklight. ’Twill never thrive else. [Sings.] O fair, O sweet, &c.

BROTHER. [To Jailer.] You must e’en take it patiently.

JAILER. ’Tis true.

DAUGHTER. Good ev’n, good men; pray, did you ever hear Of one young Palamon?

JAILER. Yes, wench, we know him.

DAUGHTER. Is’t not a fine young gentleman?

JAILER. ’Tis, love.

BROTHER. By no means cross her; she is then distempered Far worse than now she shows.

FIRST FRIEND. Yes, he’s a fine man.

DAUGHTER. O, is he so? You have a sister?

FIRST FRIEND. Yes.

DAUGHTER. But she shall never have him, tell her so, For a trick that I know; you’d best look to her, For if she see him once, she’s gone, she’s done, And undone in an hour. All the young maids Of our town are in love with him, but I laugh at ’em And let ’em all alone. Is ’t not a wise course?

FIRST FRIEND. Yes.

DAUGHTER. There is at least two hundred now with child by him— There must be four; yet I keep close for all this, Close as a cockle; and all these must be boys He has the trick on ’t; and at ten years old They must be all gelt for musicians And sing the wars of Theseus.

SECOND FRIEND. This is strange.

DAUGHTER. As ever you heard, but say nothing.

FIRST FRIEND. No.

DAUGHTER. They come from all parts of the dukedom to him. I’ll warrant ye, he had not so few last night As twenty to dispatch. He’ll tickle ’t up In two hours, if his hand be in.

JAILER. She’s lost Past all cure.

BROTHER. Heaven forbid, man!

DAUGHTER. Come hither, you are a wise man.

FIRST FRIEND. [Aside.] Does she know him?

SECOND FRIEND. [Aside.] No, would she did.

DAUGHTER. You are master of a ship?

JAILER. Yes.

DAUGHTER. Where’s your compass?

JAILER. Here.

DAUGHTER. Set it to th’ north. And now direct your course to th’ wood, where Palamon Lies longing for me. For the tackling, Let me alone. Come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly.

ALL. Owgh, owgh, owgh! ’Tis up, the wind’s fair! Top the bowline; out with the mainsail; Where’s your whistle, master?

BROTHER. Let’s get her in.

JAILER. Up to the top, boy.

BROTHER. Where’s the pilot?

FIRST FRIEND. Here.

DAUGHTER. What kenn’st thou?

SECOND FRIEND. A fair wood.

DAUGHTER. Bear for it, master. Tack about! [Sings.] When Cinthia with her borrowed light, &c.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene II — A Room in the Palace

Enter Emilia alone, with two pictures.

EMILIA. Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must open And bleed to death for my sake else. I’ll choose, And end their strife. Two such young handsome men Shall never fall for me; their weeping mothers, Following the dead cold ashes of their sons, Shall never curse my cruelty.

[Looks at one of the pictures.]

Good heaven, What a sweet face has Arcite! If wise Nature, With all her best endowments, all those beauties She sows into the births of noble bodies, Were here a mortal woman, and had in her The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless She would run mad for this man. What an eye, Of what a fiery sparkle and quick sweetness, Has this young prince! Here Love himself sits smiling; Just such another wanton Ganymede Set Jove afire with, and enforced the god Snatch up the goodly boy and set him by him, A shining constellation. What a brow, Of what a spacious majesty, he carries, Arched like the great-eyed Juno’s, but far sweeter, Smoother than Pelops’ shoulder! Fame and Honour, Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings and sing To all the under-world the loves and fights Of gods and such men near ’em.

[Looks at the other picture.]

Palamon Is but his foil; to him a mere dull shadow; He’s swart and meagre, of an eye as heavy As if he had lost his mother; a still temper, No stirring in him, no alacrity; Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile. Yet these that we count errors may become him; Narcissus was a sad boy but a heavenly. O, who can find the bent of woman’s fancy? I am a fool; my reason is lost in me; I have no choice, and I have lied so lewdly That women ought to beat me. On my knees I ask thy pardon, Palamon, thou art alone And only beautiful, and these the eyes, These the bright lamps of beauty, that command And threaten love, and what young maid dare cross ’em? What a bold gravity, and yet inviting, Has this brown manly face! O Love, this only From this hour is complexion. Lie there, Arcite.

[She puts aside his picture.]

Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gypsy, And this the noble body. I am sotted, Utterly lost. My virgin’s faith has fled me. For if my brother but even now had asked me Whether I loved, I had run mad for Arcite; Now, if my sister, more for Palamon. Stand both together. Now, come ask me, brother. Alas, I know not! Ask me now, sweet sister. I may go look! What a mere child is Fancy, That, having two fair gauds of equal sweetness, Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both.

Enter a Gentleman.

EMILIA. How now, sir?

GENTLEMAN. From the noble Duke your brother, Madam, I bring you news. The knights are come.

EMILIA. To end the quarrel?

GENTLEMAN. Yes.

EMILIA. Would I might end first! What sins have I committed, chaste Diana, That my unspotted youth must now be soiled With blood of princes, and my chastity Be made the altar where the lives of lovers— Two greater and two better never yet Made mothers joy—must be the sacrifice To my unhappy beauty?

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous and Attendants.

THESEUS. Bring ’em in Quickly, by any means; I long to see ’em. Your two contending lovers are returned, And with them their fair knights. Now, my fair sister, You must love one of them.

EMILIA. I had rather both, So neither for my sake should fall untimely.

THESEUS. Who saw ’em?

PIRITHOUS. I a while.

GENTLEMAN. And I.

Enter Messenger.

THESEUS. From whence come you, sir?

MESSENGER. From the knights.

THESEUS. Pray, speak, You that have seen them, what they are.

MESSENGER. I will, sir, And truly what I think. Six braver spirits Than these they have brought, if we judge by the outside, I never saw nor read of. He that stands In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming Should be a stout man, by his face a prince, His very looks so say him; his complexion Nearer a brown than black, stern and yet noble, Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers; The circles of his eyes show fire within him, And as a heated lion so he looks. His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining Like ravens’ wings; his shoulders broad and strong; Armed long and round; and on his thigh a sword Hung by a curious baldric, when he frowns To seal his will with. Better, o’ my conscience, Was never soldier’s friend.

THESEUS. Thou hast well described him.

PIRITHOUS. Yet a great deal short, Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon.

THESEUS. Pray, speak him, friend.

PIRITHOUS. I guess he is a prince too, And, if it may be, greater; for his show Has all the ornament of honour in ’t: He’s somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of, But of a face far sweeter; his complexion Is, as a ripe grape, ruddy. He has felt Without doubt what he fights for, and so apter To make this cause his own. In ’s face appears All the fair hopes of what he undertakes And when he’s angry, then a settled valour, Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body And guides his arm to brave things. Fear he cannot; He shows no such soft temper. His head’s yellow, Hard-haired and curled, thick-twined like ivy tods, Not to undo with thunder. In his face The livery of the warlike maid appears, Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blessed him; And in his rolling eyes sits Victory, As if she ever meant to crown his valour. His nose stands high, a character of honour; His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies.

EMILIA. Must these men die too?

PIRITHOUS. When he speaks, his tongue Sounds like a trumpet. All his lineaments Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean. He wears a well-steeled axe, the staff of gold; His age some five-and-twenty.

MESSENGER. There’s another, A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming As great as any; fairer promises In such a body yet I never looked on.

PIRITHOUS. O, he that’s freckle-faced?

MESSENGER. The same, my lord; Are they not sweet ones?

PIRITHOUS. Yes, they are well.

MESSENGER. Methinks, Being so few and well disposed, they show Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-haired, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an auburn; tough and nimble-set, Which shows an active soul. His arms are brawny, Lined with strong sinews. To the shoulder-piece Gently they swell, like women new-conceived, Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted still, But when he stirs, a tiger. He’s grey-eyed, Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em, He’s swift to make ’em his. He does no wrongs, Nor takes none. He’s round-faced, and when he smiles He shows a lover; when he frowns, a soldier. About his head he wears the winner’s oak, And in it stuck the favour of his lady. His age some six-and-thirty. In his hand He bears a charging-staff embossed with silver.

THESEUS. Are they all thus?

PIRITHOUS. They are all the sons of honour.

THESEUS. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see’em. Lady, you shall see men fight now.

HIPPOLYTA. I wish it, But not the cause, my lord. They would show Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms. ’Tis pity love should be so tyrannous.— O, my soft-hearted sister, what think you? Weep not till they weep blood. Wench, it must be.

THESEUS. You have steeled ’em with your beauty. Honoured friend, To you I give the field; pray order it Fitting the persons that must use it.

PIRITHOUS. Yes, sir.

THESEUS. Come, I’ll go visit ’em. I cannot stay, Their fame has fired me so; till they appear. Good friend, be royal.

PIRITHOUS. There shall want no bravery.

[Exeunt all but Emilia.]

EMILIA. Poor wench, go weep, for whosoever wins, Loses a noble cousin for thy sins.

[Exit.]

Act IV, Scene III — A room in the prison

Enter Jailer, Wooer and Doctor.

DOCTOR. Her distraction is more at some time of the moon, than at other some, is it not?

JAILER. She is continually in a harmless distemper, sleeps little, altogether without appetite, save often drinking, dreaming of another world, and a better; and what broken piece of matter soe’er she’s about, the name Palamon lards it, that she farces every business withal, fits it to every question.

Enter Jailer’s Daughter.

Look where she comes; you shall perceive her behaviour.

DAUGHTER. I have forgot it quite. The burden on ’t was “Down-a, down-a,” and penned by no worse man than Geraldo, Emilia’s schoolmaster. He’s as fantastical, too, as ever he may go upon’s legs, for in the next world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be out of love with Æneas.

DOCTOR. What stuff’s here? Poor soul!

JAILER. Even thus all day long.

DAUGHTER. Now for this charm that I told you of: you must bring a piece of silver on the tip of your tongue, or no ferry. Then if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits are, there’s a sight now! We maids that have our livers perished, cracked to pieces with love, we shall come there, and do nothing all day long but pick flowers with Proserpine. Then will I make Palamon a nosegay; then let him mark me—then.

DOCTOR. How prettily she’s amiss! Note her a little further.

DAUGHTER. Faith, I’ll tell you, sometime we go to barley-break, we of the blessed. Alas, ’tis a sore life they have i’ th’ other place—such burning, frying, boiling, hissing, howling, chattering, cursing—O, they have shrewd measure; take heed! If one be mad, or hang or drown themselves, thither they go; Jupiter bless us! And there shall we be put in a cauldron of lead and usurers’ grease, amongst a whole million of cutpurses, and there boil like a gammon of bacon that will never be enough.

DOCTOR. How her brain coins!

DAUGHTER. Lords and courtiers that have got maids with child, they are in this place. They shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to the heart, and there th’ offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes. In troth, a very grievous punishment, as one would think, for such a trifle. Believe me, one would marry a leprous witch to be rid on ’t, I’ll assure you.

DOCTOR. How she continues this fancy! ’Tis not an engraffed madness, but a most thick, and profound melancholy.

DAUGHTER. To hear there a proud lady and a proud city wife howl together! I were a beast an I’d call it good sport. One cries “O this smoke!” th’ other, “This fire!”; one cries, “O, that ever I did it behind the arras!” and then howls; th’ other curses a suing fellow and her garden house.

[Sings.] I will be true, my stars, my fate, &c.

[Exit Jailer’s Daughter.]

JAILER. What think you of her, sir?

DOCTOR. I think she has a perturbed mind, which I cannot minister to.

JAILER. Alas, what then?

DOCTOR. Understand you she ever affected any man ere she beheld Palamon?

JAILER. I was once, sir, in great hope she had fixed her liking on this gentleman, my friend.

WOOER. I did think so too, and would account I had a great penn’orth on’t, to give half my state, that both she and I at this present stood unfeignedly on the same terms.

DOCTOR. That intemperate surfeit of her eye hath distempered the other senses. They may return and settle again to execute their preordained faculties, but they are now in a most extravagant vagary. This you must do: confine her to a place where the light may rather seem to steal in than be permitted. Take upon you, young sir, her friend, the name of Palamon; say you come to eat with her, and to commune of love. This will catch her attention, for this her mind beats upon; other objects that are inserted ’tween her mind and eye become the pranks and friskins of her madness. Sing to her such green songs of love as she says Palamon hath sung in prison. Come to her stuck in as sweet flowers as the season is mistress of, and thereto make an addition of some other compounded odours which are grateful to the sense. All this shall become Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is sweet and every good thing. Desire to eat with her, carve her, drink to her, and still among intermingle your petition of grace and acceptance into her favour. Learn what maids have been her companions and play-feres, and let them repair to her with Palamon in their mouths, and appear with tokens, as if they suggested for him. It is a falsehood she is in, which is with falsehoods to be combated. This may bring her to eat, to sleep, and reduce what’s now out of square in her into their former law and regiment. I have seen it approved, how many times I know not, but to make the number more I have great hope in this. I will, between the passages of this project, come in with my appliance. Let us put it in execution and hasten the success, which, doubt not, will bring forth comfort.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene I — Athens. Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana

Flourish. Enter Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta and Attendants.

THESEUS. Now let ’em enter and before the gods Tender their holy prayers. Let the temples Burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars In hallowed clouds commend their swelling incense To those above us. Let no due be wanting. They have a noble work in hand, will honour The very powers that love ’em.

PIRITHOUS. Sir, they enter.

Enter Palamon and Arcite and their Knights.

THESEUS. You valiant and strong-hearted enemies, You royal german foes, that this day come To blow that nearness out that flames between ye, Lay by your anger for an hour and, dove-like, Before the holy altars of your helpers, The all-feared gods, bow down your stubborn bodies. Your ire is more than mortal; so your help be; And, as the gods regard ye, fight with justice. I’ll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye I part my wishes.

PIRITHOUS. Honour crown the worthiest.

[Exeunt Theseus and his Train.]

PALAMON. The glass is running now that cannot finish Till one of us expire. Think you but thus, That were there aught in me which strove to show Mine enemy in this business, were ’t one eye Against another, arm oppressed by arm, I would destroy th’ offender, coz, I would Though parcel of myself. Then from this gather How I should tender you.

ARCITE. I am in labour To push your name, your ancient love, our kindred Out of my memory, and i’ th’ selfsame place To seat something I would confound. So hoist we The sails that must these vessels port even where The heavenly limiter pleases.

PALAMON. You speak well. Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin. This I shall never do again.

ARCITE. One farewell.

PALAMON. Why, let it be so. Farewell, coz.

ARCITE. Farewell, sir.

[Exeunt Palamon and his Knights.]

Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices, True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you Expels the seeds of fear and th’ apprehension Which still is father of it, go with me Before the god of our profession. There Require of him the hearts of lions and The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too, Yea, the speed also—to go on, I mean; Else wish we to be snails. You know my prize Must be dragged out of blood; force and great feat Must put my garland on, where she sticks, The queen of flowers. Our intercession, then, Must be to him that makes the camp a cistern Brimmed with the blood of men. Give me your aid, And bend your spirits towards him.

[They advance to the altar of Mars, fall on their faces before it, and then kneel.]

Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turned Green Neptune into purple; whose approach Comets prewarn, whose havoc in vast field Unearthed skulls proclaim; whose breath blows down The teeming Ceres’ foison, who dost pluck With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds The masoned turrets, that both mak’st and break’st The stony girths of cities; me thy pupil, Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day With military skill, that to thy laud I may advance my streamer, and by thee Be styled the lord o’ th’ day. Give me, great Mars, Some token of thy pleasure.

[Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar.]

O, great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o’er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that heal’st with blood The earth when it is sick, and cur’st the world O’ th’ pleurisy of people; I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design march boldly.—Let us go.

[Exeunt.]

Enter Palamon and his Knights, with the former observance.

PALAMON. Our stars must glister with new fire, or be Today extinct. Our argument is love, Which, if the goddess of it grant, she gives Victory too. Then blend your spirits with mine, You whose free nobleness do make my cause Your personal hazard. To the goddess Venus Commend we our proceeding, and implore Her power unto our party.

[Here they kneel as formerly.]

Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage And weep unto a girl; that hast the might Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars’s drum And turn th’ alarm to whispers; that canst make A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him Before Apollo; that mayst force the king To be his subject’s vassal, and induce Stale gravity to dance. The polled bachelor, Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires, Have skipped thy flame, at seventy thou canst catch, And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat, Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power Hast thou not power upon? To Phœbus thou Add’st flames hotter than his; the heavenly fires Did scorch his mortal son, thine him. The huntress, All moist and cold, some say, began to throw Her bow away and sigh. Take to thy grace Me, thy vowed soldier, who do bear thy yoke As ’twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier Than lead itself, stings more than nettles. I have never been foul-mouthed against thy law, Ne’er revealed secret, for I knew none—would not, Had I kenned all that were. I never practised Upon man’s wife, nor would the libels read Of liberal wits. I never at great feasts Sought to betray a beauty, but have blushed At simpering sirs that did. I have been harsh To large confessors, and have hotly asked them If they had mothers—I had one, a woman, And women ’twere they wronged. I knew a man Of eighty winters, this I told them, who A lass of fourteen brided; ’twas thy power To put life into dust. The aged cramp Had screwed his square foot round; The gout had knit his fingers into knots, Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life In him seemed torture. This anatomy Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I Believed it was his, for she swore it was, And who would not believe her? Brief, I am To those that prate and have done, no companion; To those that boast and have not, a defier; To those that would and cannot, a rejoicer. Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices The foulest way, nor names concealments in The boldest language. Such a one I am, And vow that lover never yet made sigh Truer than I. O, then, most soft sweet goddess, Give me the victory of this question, which Is true love’s merit, and bless me with a sign Of thy great pleasure.

[Here music is heard; doves are seen to flutter. They fall again upon their faces, then on their knees.]

O thou that from eleven to ninety reign’st In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks For this fair token, which being laid unto Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance My body to this business.—Let us rise And bow before the goddess.

[They rise and bow.]

Time comes on.

[Exeunt.]

Still music of recorders. Enter Emilia in white, her hair about her shoulders, wearing a wheaten wreath. One in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers. One before her carrying a silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odours, which being set upon the altar of Diana, her maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it; then they curtsy and kneel.

EMILIA. O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen, Abandoner of revels, mute contemplative, Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure As wind-fanned snow, who to thy female knights Allow’st no more blood than will make a blush, Which is their order’s robe, I here, thy priest, Am humbled ’fore thine altar. O, vouchsafe With that thy rare green eye, which never yet Beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin; And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear, Which ne’er heard scurrile term, into whose port Ne’er entered wanton sound, to my petition, Seasoned with holy fear. This is my last Of vestal office. I am bride-habited But maiden-hearted. A husband I have ’pointed, But do not know him. Out of two I should Choose one, and pray for his success, but I Am guiltless of election. Of mine eyes, Were I to lose one, they are equal precious; I could doom neither; that which perished should Go to ’t unsentenced. Therefore, most modest queen, He of the two pretenders that best loves me And has the truest title in ’t, let him Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant The file and quality I hold I may Continue in thy band.

[Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose tree, having one rose upon it.]

See what our general of ebbs and flows Out from the bowels of her holy altar With sacred act advances: but one rose! If well inspired, this battle shall confound Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flower, Must grow alone, unplucked.

[Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree.]

The flower is fall’n, the tree descends. O mistress, Thou here dischargest me. I shall be gathered; I think so, but I know not thine own will. Unclasp thy mystery!—I hope she’s pleased; Her signs were gracious.

[They curtsy and exeunt.]

Act V, Scene II — Athens. A Room in the Prison

Enter Doctor, Jailer and Wooer in the habit of Palamon.

DOCTOR. Has this advice I told you, done any good upon her?

WOOER. O, very much. The maids that kept her company Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon; Within this half-hour she came smiling to me, And asked me what I would eat, and when I would kiss her. I told her “Presently,” and kissed her twice.

DOCTOR. ’Twas well done. Twenty times had been far better, For there the cure lies mainly.

WOOER. Then she told me She would watch with me tonight, for well she knew What hour my fit would take me.

DOCTOR. Let her do so, And when your fit comes, fit her home, and presently.

WOOER. She would have me sing.

DOCTOR. You did so?

WOOER. No.

DOCTOR. ’Twas very ill done, then; You should observe her every way.

WOOER. Alas, I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way.

DOCTOR. That’s all one, if ye make a noise. If she entreat again, do anything. Lie with her, if she ask you.

JAILER. Hoa, there, doctor!

DOCTOR. Yes, in the way of cure.

JAILER. But first, by your leave, I’ th’ way of honesty.

DOCTOR. That’s but a niceness, Ne’er cast your child away for honesty. Cure her first this way; then if she will be honest, She has the path before her.

JAILER. Thank ye, Doctor.

DOCTOR. Pray, bring her in, And let’s see how she is.

JAILER. I will, and tell her Her Palamon stays for her. But, Doctor, Methinks you are i’ th’ wrong still.

[Exit Jailer.]

DOCTOR. Go, go; You fathers are fine fools. Her honesty? An we should give her physic till we find that!

WOOER. Why, do you think she is not honest, sir?

DOCTOR. How old is she?

WOOER. She’s eighteen.

DOCTOR. She may be, But that’s all one; ’tis nothing to our purpose. Whate’er her father says, if you perceive Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of, Videlicet, the way of flesh—you have me?

WOOER. Yes, very well, sir.

DOCTOR. Please her appetite, And do it home; it cures her, ipso facto, The melancholy humour that infects her.

WOOER. I am of your mind, Doctor.

Enter Jailer, Jailer’s Daughter and Maid.

DOCTOR. You’ll find it so. She comes, pray, humour her.

JAILER. Come, your love Palamon stays for you, child, And has done this long hour, to visit you.

DAUGHTER. I thank him for his gentle patience; He’s a kind gentleman, and I am much bound to him. Did you ne’er see the horse he gave me?

JAILER. Yes.

DAUGHTER. How do you like him?

JAILER. He’s a very fair one.

DAUGHTER. You never saw him dance?

JAILER. No.

DAUGHTER. I have often. He dances very finely, very comely, And for a jig, come cut and long tail to him, He turns ye like a top.

JAILER. That’s fine, indeed.

DAUGHTER. He’ll dance the morris twenty mile an hour, And that will founder the best hobby-horse If I have any skill in all the parish, And gallops to the tune of “Light o’ love.” What think you of this horse?

JAILER. Having these virtues, I think he might be brought to play at tennis.

DAUGHTER. Alas, that’s nothing.

JAILER. Can he write and read too?

DAUGHTER. A very fair hand, and casts himself th’ accounts Of all his hay and provender. That hostler Must rise betime that cozens him. You know The chestnut mare the Duke has?

JAILER. Very well.

DAUGHTER. She is horribly in love with him, poor beast; But he is like his master, coy and scornful.

JAILER. What dowry has she?

DAUGHTER. Some two hundred bottles, And twenty strike of oates; but he’ll ne’er have her. He lisps in’s neighing, able to entice A miller’s mare. He’ll be the death of her.

DOCTOR. What stuff she utters!

JAILER. Make curtsy; here your love comes.

Enter Wooer and Doctor come forward.

WOOER. Pretty soul, How do ye? That’s a fine maid; there’s a curtsy!

DAUGHTER. Yours to command i’ th’ way of honesty. How far is’t now to’ th’ end o’ th’ world, my masters?

DOCTOR. Why, a day’s journey, wench.

DAUGHTER. Will you go with me?

WOOER. What shall we do there, wench?

DAUGHTER. Why, play at stool-ball; What is there else to do?

WOOER. I am content, If we shall keep our wedding there.

DAUGHTER. ’Tis true, For there, I will assure you, we shall find Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture To marry us, for here they are nice and foolish. Besides, my father must be hanged tomorrow, And that would be a blot i’ th’ business. Are not you Palamon?

WOOER. Do not you know me?

DAUGHTER. Yes, but you care not for me. I have nothing But this poor petticoat, and two coarse smocks.

WOOER. That’s all one; I will have you.

DAUGHTER. Will you surely?

WOOER. [Taking her hand.] Yes, by this fair hand, will I.

DAUGHTER. We’ll to bed, then.

WOOER. E’en when you will.

[Kisses her.]

DAUGHTER. [Rubs off the kiss.] O sir, you would fain be nibbling.

WOOER. Why do you rub my kiss off?

DAUGHTER. ’Tis a sweet one, And will perfume me finely against the wedding. Is not this your cousin Arcite?

[She indicates the Doctor.]

DOCTOR. Yes, sweetheart, And I am glad my cousin Palamon Has made so fair a choice.

DAUGHTER. Do you think he’ll have me?

DOCTOR. Yes, without doubt.

DAUGHTER. Do you think so too?

JAILER. Yes.

DAUGHTER. We shall have many children. [To Doctor.] Lord, how you’re grown! My Palamon, I hope, will grow too, finely, Now he’s at liberty. Alas, poor chicken, He was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging, But I’ll kiss him up again.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. What do you here? You’ll lose the noblest sight That e’er was seen.

JAILER. Are they i’ th’ field?

MESSENGER. They are. You bear a charge there too.

JAILER. I’ll away straight. I must e’en leave you here.

DOCTOR. Nay, we’ll go with you; I will not lose the sight.

JAILER. How did you like her?

DOCTOR. I’ll warrant you, within these three or four days I’ll make her right again. You must not from her, But still preserve her in this way.

WOOER. I will.

DOCTOR. Let’s get her in.

WOOER. Come, sweet, we’ll go to dinner; And then we’ll play at cards.

DAUGHTER. And shall we kiss too?

WOOER. A hundred times.

DAUGHTER. And twenty.

WOOER. Ay, and twenty.

DAUGHTER. And then we’ll sleep together.

DOCTOR. Take her offer.

WOOER. Yes, marry, will we.

DAUGHTER. But you shall not hurt me.

WOOER. I will not, sweet.

DAUGHTER. If you do, love, I’ll cry.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene III — A part of the Forest near Athens, and near the Place appointed for the Combat

Flourish. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous and some Attendants.

EMILIA. I’ll no step further.

PIRITHOUS. Will you lose this sight?

EMILIA. I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly Than this decision. Every blow that falls Threats a brave life; each stroke laments The place whereon it falls, and sounds more like A bell than blade. I will stay here. It is enough my hearing shall be punished With what shall happen, ’gainst the which there is No deafing, but to hear; not taint mine eye With dread sights it may shun.

PIRITHOUS. Sir, my good lord, Your sister will no further.

THESEUS. O, she must. She shall see deeds of honour in their kind, Which sometime show well, penciled. Nature now Shall make and act the story, the belief Both sealed with eye and ear. You must be present; You are the victor’s meed, the price and garland To crown the question’s title.

EMILIA. Pardon me; If I were there, I’d wink.

THESEUS. You must be there; This trial is as ’twere i’ th’ night, and you The only star to shine.

EMILIA. I am extinct. There is but envy in that light which shows The one the other. Darkness, which ever was The dam of horror, who does stand accursed Of many mortal millions, may even now, By casting her black mantle over both, That neither could find other, get herself Some part of a good name, and many a murder Set off whereto she’s guilty.

HIPPOLYTA. You must go.

EMILIA. In faith, I will not.

THESEUS. Why, the knights must kindle Their valour at your eye. Know, of this war You are the treasure, and must needs be by To give the service pay.

EMILIA. Sir, pardon me; The title of a kingdom may be tried Out of itself.

THESEUS. Well, well, then, at your pleasure. Those that remain with you could wish their office To any of their enemies.

HIPPOLYTA. Farewell, sister. I am like to know your husband ’fore yourself By some small start of time. He whom the gods Do of the two know best, I pray them he Be made your lot.

[Exeunt all but Emilia.]

EMILIA. Arcite is gently visaged, yet his eye Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon In a soft sheath; mercy and manly courage Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon Has a most menacing aspect; his brow Is graved, and seems to bury what it frowns on; Yet sometimes ’tis not so, but alters to The quality of his thoughts. Long time his eye Will dwell upon his object. Melancholy Becomes him nobly; so does Arcite’s mirth; But Palamon’s sadness is a kind of mirth, So mingled as if mirth did make him sad And sadness merry. Those darker humours that Stick misbecomingly on others, on them Live in fair dwelling.

[Cornets. Trumpets sound as to a charge.]

Hark how yon spurs to spirit do incite The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to The spoiling of his figure. O, what pity Enough for such a chance? If I were by, I might do hurt, for they would glance their eyes Towards my seat, and in that motion might Omit a ward or forfeit an offence Which craved that very time. It is much better I am not there.

[Cornets. A great cry and noise within crying “À Palamon!”]

Oh better never born Than minister to such harm.

Enter Servant.

What is the chance?

SERVANT. The cry’s “À Palamon.”

EMILIA. Then he has won. ’Twas ever likely. He looked all grace and success, and he is Doubtless the prim’st of men. I prithee run And tell me how it goes.

[Shout and cornets, crying “À Palamon!”]

SERVANT. Still “Palamon.”

EMILIA. Run and enquire.

[Exit Servant.]

Poor servant, thou hast lost. Upon my right side still I wore thy picture, Palamon’s on the left. Why so, I know not. I had no end in ’t else; chance would have it so. On the sinister side the heart lies; Palamon Had the best-boding chance.

[Another cry and shout within, and cornets.]

This burst of clamour Is sure th’ end o’ th’ combat.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. They said that Palamon had Arcite’s body Within an inch o’ th’ pyramid, that the cry Was general “À Palamon.” But anon, Th’ assistants made a brave redemption, and The two bold titlers at this instant are Hand to hand at it.

EMILIA. Were they metamorphosed Both into one—O, why? There were no woman Worth so composed a man! Their single share, Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives The prejudice of disparity, value’s shortness, To any lady breathing.

[Cornets. Cry within, “Arcite, Arcite.”]

More exulting? “Palamon” still?

SERVANT. Nay, now the sound is “Arcite.”

EMILIA. I prithee, lay attention to the cry; Set both thine ears to th’ business.

[Cornets. A great shout and cry “Arcite, victory!”]

SERVANT. The cry is “Arcite”, and “Victory!” Hark, “Arcite, victory!” The combat’s consummation is proclaimed By the wind instruments.

EMILIA. Half-sights saw That Arcite was no babe. God’s lid, his richness And costliness of spirit looked through him; it could No more be hid in him than fire in flax, Than humble banks can go to law with waters That drift-winds force to raging. I did think Good Palamon would miscarry, yet I knew not Why I did think so. Our reasons are not prophets When oft our fancies are. They are coming off. Alas, poor Palamon!

Cornets. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous, Arcite as victor, and Attendants.

THESEUS. Lo, where our sister is in expectation, Yet quaking and unsettled.—Fairest Emily, The gods by their divine arbitrament Have given you this knight; he is a good one As ever struck at head. Give me your hands. Receive you her, you him; be plighted with A love that grows as you decay.

ARCITE. Emily, To buy you, I have lost what’s dearest to me, Save what is bought; and yet I purchase cheaply, As I do rate your value.

THESEUS. O loved sister, He speaks now of as brave a knight as e’er Did spur a noble steed. Surely the gods Would have him die a bachelor, lest his race Should show i’ th’ world too godlike. His behaviour So charmed me that methought Alcides was To him a sow of lead. If I could praise Each part of him to th’ all I have spoke, your Arcite Did not lose by ’t, for he that was thus good Encountered yet his better. I have heard Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o’ th’ night With their contentious throats, now one the higher, Anon the other, then again the first, And by-and-by out-breasted, that the sense Could not be judge between ’em. So it fared Good space between these kinsmen, till heavens did Make hardly one the winner.—Wear the garland With joy that you have won.—For the subdued, Give them our present justice, since I know Their lives but pinch ’em. Let it here be done. The scene’s not for our seeing. Go we hence Right joyful, with some sorrow.—Arm your prize; I know you will not lose her.—Hippolyta, I see one eye of yours conceives a tear, The which it will deliver.

[Flourish.]

EMILIA. Is this winning? O all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy? But that your wills have said it must be so, And charge me live to comfort this unfriended, This miserable prince, that cuts away A life more worthy from him than all women, I should and would die too.

HIPPOLYTA. Infinite pity That four such eyes should be so fixed on one That two must needs be blind for ’t.

THESEUS. So it is.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene IV — The same; a Block prepared

Enter Palamon and his Knights pinioned; Jailer, Executioner and Guard.

PALAMON. There’s many a man alive that hath outlived The love o’ th’ people; yea, i’ th’ selfsame state Stands many a father with his child. Some comfort We have by so considering. We expire, And not without men’s pity; to live still, Have their good wishes; we prevent The loathsome misery of age, beguile The gout and rheum that in lag hours attend For gray approachers; we come towards the gods Young and unwappered, not halting under crimes Many and stale. That sure shall please the gods Sooner than such, to give us nectar with ’em, For we are more clear spirits. My dear kinsmen, Whose lives for this poor comfort are laid down, You have sold ’em too too cheap.

FIRST KNIGHT. What ending could be Of more content? O’er us the victors have Fortune, whose title is as momentary, As to us death is certain. A grain of honour They not o’erweigh us.

SECOND KNIGHT. Let us bid farewell; And with our patience anger tottering Fortune, Who at her certain’st reels.

THIRD KNIGHT. Come; who begins?

PALAMON. E’en he that led you to this banquet shall Taste to you all.—Ah ha, my friend, my friend, Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once; You’ll see ’t done now for ever. Pray, how does she? I heard she was not well; her kind of ill Gave me some sorrow.

JAILER. Sir, she’s well restored, And to be married shortly.

PALAMON. By my short life, I am most glad on’t. ’Tis the latest thing I shall be glad of; prithee, tell her so. Commend me to her, and, to piece her portion, Tender her this.

[Gives him his purse.]

FIRST KNIGHT. Nay let’s be offerers all.

SECOND KNIGHT. Is it a maid?

PALAMON. Verily, I think so. A right good creature, more to me deserving Then I can ’quite or speak of.

ALL KNIGHTS. Commend us to her.

[They give their purses.]

JAILER. The gods requite you all, and make her thankful.

PALAMON. Adieu; and let my life be now as short As my leave-taking.

[Lays his head on the block.]

FIRST KNIGHT. Lead, courageous cousin.

SECOND AND THIRD KNIGHT. We’ll follow cheerfully.

[A great noise within crying “Run!” “Save!” “Hold!”]

Enter in haste a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Hold, hold! O hold, hold, hold!

Enter Pirithous in haste.

PIRITHOUS. Hold, ho! It is a cursed haste you made If you have done so quickly!—Noble Palamon, The gods will show their glory in a life That thou art yet to lead.

PALAMON. Can that be, When Venus, I have said, is false? How do things fare?

PIRITHOUS. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear That are most dearly sweet and bitter.

PALAMON. What Hath waked us from our dream?

PIRITHOUS. List, then. Your cousin, Mounted upon a steed that Emily Did first bestow on him, a black one, owing Not a hair-worth of white, which some will say Weakens his price, and many will not buy His goodness with this note, which superstition Here finds allowance—on this horse is Arcite Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins Did rather tell than trample; for the horse Would make his length a mile, if ’t pleased his rider To put pride in him. As he thus went counting The flinty pavement, dancing, as ’twere, to th’ music His own hooves made—for, as they say, from iron Came music’s origin—what envious flint, Cold as old Saturn, and like him possessed With fire malevolent, darted a spark, Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made, I comment not; the hot horse, hot as fire, Took toy at this and fell to what disorder His power could give his will; bounds, comes on end, Forgets school-doing, being therein trained And of kind manage. Pig-like he whines At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather Than any jot obeys; seeks all foul means Of boist’rous and rough jad’ry to disseat His lord that kept it bravely. When naught served, When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor diff’ring plunges Disroot his rider whence he grew, but that He kept him ’tween his legs, on his hind hoofs On end he stands That Arcite’s legs, being higher than his head, Seemed with strange art to hang. His victor’s wreath Even then fell off his head and presently Backward the jade comes o’er, and his full poise Becomes the rider’s load. Yet is he living, But such a vessel ’tis that floats but for The surge that next approaches. He much desires To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arcite in a chair.

PALAMON. O miserable end of our alliance! The gods are mighty. Arcite, if thy heart, Thy worthy, manly heart, be yet unbroken, Give me thy last words. I am Palamon, One that yet loves thee dying.

ARCITE. Take Emilia And with her all the world’s joy. Reach thy hand; Farewell. I have told my last hour. I was false, Yet never treacherous. Forgive me, cousin. One kiss from fair Emilia.

[Emilia kisses Arcite.]

’Tis done. Take her. I die.

PALAMON. Thy brave soul seek Elysium!

[Arcite dies.]

EMILIA. I’ll close thine eyes, Prince; blessed souls be with thee! Thou art a right good man, and, while I live, This day I give to tears.

PALAMON. And I to honour.

THESEUS. In this place first you fought; e’en very here I sundered you. Acknowledge to the gods Our thanks that you are living. His part is played, and, though it were too short, He did it well; your day is lengthened, and The blissful dew of heaven does arrose you. The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar, And given you your love. Our master Mars, Hath vouched his oracle, and to Arcite gave The grace of the contention. So the deities Have showed due justice.—Bear this hence.

PALAMON. O cousin, That we should things desire, which do cost us The loss of our desire! That naught could buy Dear love, but loss of dear love!

[Arcite’s body is carried out.]

THESEUS. Never Fortune Did play a subtler game. The conquered triumphs; The victor has the loss; yet in the passage The gods have been most equal. Palamon, Your kinsman hath confessed the right o’ th’ lady Did lie in you, for you first saw her and Even then proclaimed your fancy. He restored her As your stol’n jewel and desired your spirit To send him hence forgiven. The gods my justice Take from my hand and they themselves become The executioners. Lead your lady off And call your lovers from the stage of death, Whom I adopt my friends. A day or two Let us look sadly, and give grace unto The funeral of Arcite, in whose end The visages of bridegrooms we’ll put on And smile with Palamon; for whom an hour, But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad As for him sorry. O you heavenly charmers, What things you make of us! For what we lack We laugh, for what we have are sorry, still Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful For that which is, and with you leave dispute That are above our question. Let’s go off And bear us like the time.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

Epilogue

Enter Epilogue.

EPILOGUE I would now ask ye how you like the play, But, as it is with schoolboys, cannot say. I am cruel fearful! Pray yet, stay a while, And let me look upon ye. No man smile? Then it goes hard, I see. He that has Loved a young handsome wench, then, show his face— ’Tis strange if none be here—and, if he will, Against his conscience let him hiss, and kill Our market. ’Tis in vain, I see, to stay ye. Have at the worst can come, then! Now what say ye? And yet mistake me not: I am not bold; We have no such cause. If the tale we have told For ’tis no other—any way content ye— For to that honest purpose it was meant ye— We have our end; and you shall have ere long, I dare say, many a better, to prolong Your old loves to us. We, and all our might, Rest at your service. Gentlemen, good night.

[Flourish. Exit.]

FINIS

THE WINTER’S TALE

Dramatis Personæ

LEONTES, King of Sicilia MAMILLIUS, his son CAMILLO, Sicilian Lord ANTIGONUS, Sicilian Lord CLEOMENES, Sicilian Lord DION, Sicilian Lord POLIXENES, King of Bohemia FLORIZEL, his son ARCHIDAMUS, a Bohemian Lord An Old Shepherd, reputed father of Perdita CLOWN, his son AUTOLYCUS, a rogue A Mariner A Gaoler Servant to the Old Shepherd Other Sicilian Lords Sicilian Gentlemen Officers of a Court of Judicature

HERMIONE, Queen to Leontes PERDITA, daughter to Leontes and Hermione PAULINA, wife to Antigonus EMILIA, a lady attending on the Queen MOPSA, shepherdess DORCAS, shepherdess Other Ladies, attending on the Queen

Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Satyrs for a Dance; Shepherds, Shepherdesses, Guards, &c.

TIME, as Chorus

Scene: Sometimes in Sicilia; sometimes in Bohemia.

Act I, Scene I — Sicilia. An Antechamber in Leontes’ Palace

Enter Camillo and Archidamus.

ARCHIDAMUS. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.

CAMILLO. I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.

ARCHIDAMUS. Wherein our entertainment shall shame us; we will be justified in our loves. For indeed,—

CAMILLO. Beseech you—

ARCHIDAMUS. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge. We cannot with such magnificence—in so rare—I know not what to say. We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us.

CAMILLO. You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely.

ARCHIDAMUS. Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.

CAMILLO. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods, and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters, though not personal, have been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies, that they have seemed to be together, though absent; shook hands, as over a vast; and embraced as it were from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves!

ARCHIDAMUS. I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young Prince Mamillius. It is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note.

CAMILLO. I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child; one that indeed physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh. They that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man.

ARCHIDAMUS. Would they else be content to die?

CAMILLO. Yes, if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live.

ARCHIDAMUS. If the king had no son, they would desire to live on crutches till he had one.

[Exeunt.]