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. ]