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. ]

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 . ]

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 . ]

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. ]

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. ]

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. ]