SCENE I. A forest near Athens

Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallowing as people a-Maying. Enter Arcite alone.

ARCITE. The Duke has lost Hippolyta; each took A several land. This is a solemn rite They owe bloomed May, and the Athenians pay it To th’ heart of ceremony. O Queen Emilia, Fresher than May, sweeter Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all Th’ enameled knacks o’ th’ mead or garden—yea, We challenge too the bank of any nymph That makes the stream seem flowers; thou, O jewel O’ th’ wood, o’ th’ world, hast likewise blessed a pace With thy sole presence. In thy rumination That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between And chop on some cold thought! Thrice blessed chance To drop on such a mistress, expectation Most guiltless on ’t. Tell me, O Lady Fortune, Next after Emily my sovereign, how far I may be proud. She takes strong note of me, Hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn, The prim’st of all the year, presents me with A brace of horses; two such steeds might well Be by a pair of kings backed, in a field That their crowns’ titles tried. Alas, alas, Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner, thou So little dream’st upon my fortune that Thou think’st thyself the happier thing, to be So near Emilia; me thou deem’st at Thebes, And therein wretched, although free. But if Thou knew’st my mistress breathed on me, and that I eared her language, lived in her eye, O coz, What passion would enclose thee!

Enter Palamon as out of a bush, with his shackles; he bends his fist at Arcite .

PALAMON. Traitor kinsman, Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs Of prisonment were off me, and this hand But owner of a sword. By all oaths in one, I and the justice of my love would make thee A confessed traitor! O thou most perfidious That ever gently looked, the void’st of honour That e’er bore gentle token, falsest cousin That ever blood made kin! Call’st thou her thine? I’ll prove it in my shackles, with these hands, Void of appointment, that thou liest, and art A very thief in love, a chaffy lord, Nor worth the name of villain. Had I a sword, And these house-clogs away—

ARCITE. Dear cousin Palamon—

PALAMON. Cozener Arcite, give me language such As thou hast showed me feat.

ARCITE. Not finding in The circuit of my breast any gross stuff To form me like your blazon holds me to This gentleness of answer. ’Tis your passion That thus mistakes, the which, to you being enemy, Cannot to me be kind. Honour and honesty I cherish and depend on, howsoe’er You skip them in me, and with them, fair coz, I’ll maintain my proceedings. Pray be pleased To show in generous terms your griefs, since that Your question’s with your equal, who professes To clear his own way with the mind and sword Of a true gentleman.

PALAMON. That thou durst, Arcite!

ARCITE. My coz, my coz, you have been well advertised How much I dare; you’ve seen me use my sword Against th’ advice of fear. Sure, of another You would not hear me doubted, but your silence Should break out, though i’ th’ sanctuary.

PALAMON. Sir, I have seen you move in such a place, which well Might justify your manhood; you were called A good knight and a bold. But the whole week’s not fair If any day it rain. Their valiant temper Men lose when they incline to treachery; And then they fight like compelled bears, would fly Were they not tied.

ARCITE. Kinsman, you might as well Speak this and act it in your glass as to His ear which now disdains you.

PALAMON. Come up to me; Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword Though it be rusty, and the charity Of one meal lend me. Come before me then, A good sword in thy hand, and do but say That Emily is thine, I will forgive The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life, If then thou carry ’t; and brave souls in shades That have died manly, which will seek of me Some news from earth, they shall get none but this: That thou art brave and noble.

ARCITE. Be content. Again betake you to your hawthorn house. With counsel of the night, I will be here With wholesome viands. These impediments Will I file off; you shall have garments and Perfumes to kill the smell o’ th’ prison. After, When you shall stretch yourself and say but “Arcite, I am in plight,” there shall be at your choice Both sword and armour.

PALAMON. Oh you heavens, dares any So noble bear a guilty business? None But only Arcite, therefore none but Arcite In this kind is so bold.

ARCITE. Sweet Palamon.

PALAMON. I do embrace you and your offer; for Your offer do ’t I only, sir; your person, Without hypocrisy I may not wish More than my sword’s edge on ’t.

[ Wind horns of cornets. ]

ARCITE. You hear the horns. Enter your musit, lest this match between ’s Be crossed ere met. Give me your hand; farewell. I’ll bring you every needful thing. I pray you, Take comfort and be strong.

PALAMON. Pray hold your promise, And do the deed with a bent brow. Most certain You love me not; be rough with me, and pour This oil out of your language. By this air, I could for each word give a cuff, my stomach Not reconciled by reason.

ARCITE. Plainly spoken. Yet pardon me hard language. When I spur My horse, I chide him not; content and anger In me have but one face.

[ Wind horns. ]

Hark, sir, they call The scattered to the banquet. You must guess I have an office there.

PALAMON. Sir, your attendance Cannot please heaven, and I know your office Unjustly is achieved.

ARCITE. ’Tis a good title. I am persuaded, this question, sick between ’s, By bleeding must be cured. I am a suitor That to your sword you will bequeath this plea, And talk of it no more.

PALAMON. But this one word: You are going now to gaze upon my mistress, For, note you, mine she is—

ARCITE. Nay, then—

PALAMON. Nay, pray you, You talk of feeding me to breed me strength. You are going now to look upon a sun That strengthens what it looks on; there You have a vantage o’er me. But enjoy ’t till I may enforce my remedy. Farewell.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE II. Another Part of the forest

Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone.

DAUGHTER. He has mistook the brake I meant, is gone After his fancy. ’Tis now well-nigh morning. No matter; would it were perpetual night, And darkness lord o’ th’ world. Hark, ’tis a wolf! In me hath grief slain fear, and but for one thing, I care for nothing, and that’s Palamon. I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so He had this file. What if I hallowed for him? I cannot hallow. If I whooped, what then? If he not answered, I should call a wolf, And do him but that service. I have heard Strange howls this livelong night; why may ’t not be They have made prey of him? He has no weapons; He cannot run; the jingling of his gyves Might call fell things to listen, who have in them A sense to know a man unarmed and can Smell where resistance is. I’ll set it down He’s torn to pieces; they howled many together, And then they fed on him. So much for that. Be bold to ring the bell. How stand I then? All’s chared when he is gone. No, no, I lie. My father’s to be hanged for his escape; Myself to beg, if I prized life so much As to deny my act; but that I would not, Should I try death by dozens. I am moped. Food took I none these two days; Sipped some water. I have not closed mine eyes Save when my lids scoured off their brine. Alas, Dissolve, my life! Let not my sense unsettle, Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself. O state of nature, fail together in me, Since thy best props are warped! So, which way now? The best way is the next way to a grave; Each errant step beside is torment. Lo, The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech owl Calls in the dawn. All offices are done Save what I fail in. But the point is this: An end, and that is all.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE III. The same part of the forest as in scene I.

Enter Arcite with meat, wine and files.

ARCITE. I should be near the place.—Ho! Cousin Palamon!

PALAMON. [ From the bush. ] Arcite?

ARCITE. The same. I have brought you food and files. Come forth and fear not; here’s no Theseus.

Enter Palamon .

PALAMON. Nor none so honest, Arcite.

ARCITE. That’s no matter. We’ll argue that hereafter. Come, take courage; You shall not die thus beastly. Here, sir, drink— I know you are faint—then I’ll talk further with you.

PALAMON. Arcite, thou mightst now poison me.

ARCITE. I might; But I must fear you first. Sit down and, good now, No more of these vain parleys; let us not, Having our ancient reputation with us, Make talk for fools and cowards. To your health.

[ Drinks. ]

PALAMON. Do.

ARCITE. Pray sit down, then, and let me entreat you, By all the honesty and honour in you, No mention of this woman; ’twill disturb us. We shall have time enough.

PALAMON. Well, sir, I’ll pledge you.

[ Drinks. ]

ARCITE. Drink a good hearty draught; it breeds good blood, man. Do not you feel it thaw you?

PALAMON. Stay, I’ll tell you After a draught or two more.

ARCITE. Spare it not; the Duke has more, coz. Eat now.

PALAMON. Yes.

[ Eats. ]

ARCITE. I am glad you have so good a stomach.

PALAMON. I am gladder I have so good meat to ’t.

ARCITE. Is’t not mad lodging, Here in the wild woods, cousin?

PALAMON. Yes, for them That have wild consciences.

ARCITE. How tastes your victuals? Your hunger needs no sauce, I see.

PALAMON. Not much. But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin. What is this?

ARCITE. Venison.

PALAMON. ’Tis a lusty meat. Give me more wine. Here, Arcite, to the wenches We have known in our days! The Lord Steward’s daughter, Do you remember her?

ARCITE. After you, coz.

PALAMON. She loved a black-haired man.

ARCITE. She did so; well, sir?

PALAMON. And I have heard some call him Arcite, and—

ARCITE. Out with’t, faith.

PALAMON. She met him in an arbour. What did she there, coz? Play o’ th’ virginals?

ARCITE. Something she did, sir.

PALAMON. Made her groan a month for ’t, Or two, or three, or ten.

ARCITE. The Marshal’s sister Had her share too, as I remember, cousin, Else there be tales abroad. You’ll pledge her?

PALAMON. Yes.

ARCITE. A pretty brown wench ’tis. There was a time When young men went a-hunting, and a wood, And a broad beech; and thereby hangs a tale. Heigh ho!

PALAMON. For Emily, upon my life! Fool, Away with this strained mirth! I say again That sigh was breathed for Emily. Base cousin, Dar’st thou break first?

ARCITE. You are wide.

PALAMON. By heaven and earth, There’s nothing in thee honest.

ARCITE. Then I’ll leave you. You are a beast now.

PALAMON. As thou mak’st me, traitor.

ARCITE. There’s all things needful: files and shirts and perfumes. I’ll come again some two hours hence, and bring That that shall quiet all.

PALAMON. A sword and armour?

ARCITE. Fear me not. You are now too foul. Farewell. Get off your trinkets; you shall want naught.

PALAMON. Sirrah—

ARCITE. I’ll hear no more.

[ Exit. ]

PALAMON. If he keep touch, he dies for ’t.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE IV. Another part of the forest

Enter Jailer’s Daughter .

DAUGHTER. I am very cold, and all the stars are out too, The little stars and all, that look like aglets. The sun has seen my folly. Palamon! Alas, no; he’s in heaven. Where am I now? Yonder’s the sea, and there’s a ship; how ’t tumbles! And there’s a rock lies watching under water; Now, now, it beats upon it; now, now, now, There’s a leak sprung, a sound one! How they cry! Run her before the wind, you’ll lose all else. Up with a course or two, and tack about, boys! Good night, good night; you’re gone. I am very hungry. Would I could find a fine frog; he would tell me News from all parts o’ th’ world; then would I make A carrack of a cockle shell, and sail By east and north-east to the king of pygmies, For he tells fortunes rarely. Now my father, Twenty to one, is trussed up in a trice Tomorrow morning. I’ll say never a word.

[ Sings. ]

For I’ll cut my green coat a foot above my knee, And I’ll clip my yellow locks an inch below mine eye. Hey nonny, nonny, nonny. He’s buy me a white cut, forth for to ride, And I’ll go seek him through the world that is so wide. Hey nonny, nonny, nonny. O, for a prick now, like a nightingale, To put my breast against. I shall sleep like a top else.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE V. Another part of the forest

Enter a Schoolmaster and five Countrymen , one dressed as a Bavian.

SCHOOLMASTER. Fie, fie, What tediosity and disinsanity Is here among ye! Have my rudiments Been laboured so long with ye, milked unto ye, And, by a figure, even the very plum-broth And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye, And do you still cry “Where?” and “How?” and “Wherefore?” You most coarse-frieze capacities, ye jean judgements, Have I said “Thus let be” and “There let be” And “Then let be” and no man understand me? Proh Deum, medius fidius , ye are all dunces! For why? Here stand I; here the Duke comes; there are you, Close in the thicket; the Duke appears; I meet him And unto him I utter learned things And many figures; he hears, and nods, and hums, And then cries “Rare!” and I go forward. At length I fling my cap up—mark there! Then do you As once did Meleager and the boar, Break comely out before him; like true lovers, Cast yourselves in a body decently, And sweetly, by a figure, trace and turn, boys.

FIRST COUNTRYMAN. And sweetly we will do it, Master Gerald.

SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Draw up the company. Where’s the taborer?

THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Why, Timothy!

TABORER. Here, my mad boys, have at ye.

SCHOOLMASTER. But I say, where’s their women?

Enter five Countrywomen .

FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Here’s Friz and Maudlin.

SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And little Luce with the white legs, and bouncing Barbary.

FIRST COUNTRYMAN. And freckled Nel, that never failed her master.

SCHOOLMASTER. Where be your ribbons, maids? Swim with your bodies, And carry it sweetly and deliverly, And now and then a favour and a frisk.

NEL. Let us alone, sir.

SCHOOLMASTER. Where’s the rest o’ th’ music?

THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Dispersed, as you commanded.

SCHOOLMASTER. Couple, then, And see what’s wanting. Where’s the Bavian? My friend, carry your tail without offence Or scandal to the ladies; and be sure You tumble with audacity and manhood; And when you bark, do it with judgement.

BAVIAN. Yes, sir.

SCHOOLMASTER. Quo usque tandem? Here is a woman wanting.

FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. We may go whistle; all the fat’s i’ th’ fire.

SCHOOLMASTER. We have, as learned authors utter, washed a tile. we have been fatuus and laboured vainly.

SECOND COUNTRYMAN. This is that scornful piece, that scurvy hilding, That gave her promise faithfully, she would be here, Cicely, the sempster’s daughter. The next gloves that I give her shall be dogskin! Nay an she fail me once—You can tell, Arcas, She swore by wine and bread, she would not break.

SCHOOLMASTER. An eel and woman, A learned poet says, unless by th’ tail And with thy teeth thou hold, will either fail. In manners this was false position.

FIRST COUNTRYMAN. A fire ill take her; does she flinch now?

THIRD COUNTRYMAN. What Shall we determine, sir?

SCHOOLMASTER. Nothing. Our business is become a nullity, Yea, and a woeful and a piteous nullity.

FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Now, when the credit of our town lay on it, Now to be frampul, now to piss o’ th’ nettle! Go thy ways; I’ll remember thee. I’ll fit thee.

Enter Jailer’s Daughter .

DAUGHTER. [ Sings .] The George Alow came from the south, From the coast of Barbary-a. And there he met with brave gallants of war, By one, by two, by three-a.

Well hailed, well hailed, you jolly gallants, And whither now are you bound-a? O let me have your company Till I come to the sound-a.

There was three fools fell out about an howlet: The one said it was an owl, The other he said nay, The third he said it was a hawk, And her bells were cut away.

THIRD COUNTRYMAN. There’s a dainty mad woman, Master, Comes i’ th’ nick, as mad as a March hare. If we can get her dance, we are made again; I warrant her, she’ll do the rarest gambols.

FIRST COUNTRYMAN. A madwoman? We are made, boys.

SCHOOLMASTER. And are you mad, good woman?

DAUGHTER. I would be sorry else. Give me your hand.

SCHOOLMASTER. Why?

DAUGHTER. I can tell your fortune. You are a fool. Tell ten. I have posed him. Buzz! Friend, you must eat no white bread; if you do, Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we dance, ho? I know you, you’re a tinker; sirrah tinker, Stop no more holes but what you should.

SCHOOLMASTER. Dii boni! A tinker, damsel?

DAUGHTER. Or a conjurer. Raise me a devil now, and let him play Qui passa o’ th’ bells and bones.

SCHOOLMASTER. Go, take her, And fluently persuade her to a peace. Et opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis— Strike up, and lead her in.

SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Come, lass, let’s trip it.

DAUGHTER. I’ll lead.

THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Do, do!

SCHOOLMASTER. Persuasively, and cunningly. Away, boys; I hear the horns. Give me some meditation, And mark your cue.

[ Exeunt all but Schoolmaster . ]

Pallas inspire me.

Enter Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, and train.

THESEUS. This way the stag took.

SCHOOLMASTER. Stay, and edify!

THESEUS. What have we here?

PIRITHOUS. Some country sport, upon my life, sir.

THESEUS. Well, sir, go forward; we will “edify.” Ladies, sit down. We’ll stay it.

SCHOOLMASTER. Thou doughty Duke, all hail! All hail, sweet ladies!

THESEUS. This is a cold beginning.

SCHOOLMASTER. If you but favour, our country pastime made is. We are a few of those collected here That ruder tongues distinguish “villager.” And to say verity, and not to fable, We are a merry rout, or else a rabble , Or company, or by a figure, chorus , That ’fore thy dignity will dance a morris. And I that am the rectifier of all, By title pædagogus , that let fall The birch upon the breeches of the small ones, And humble with a ferula the tall ones, Do here present this machine, or this frame. And, dainty Duke, whose doughty dismal fame From Dis to Dædalus, from post to pillar, Is blown abroad, help me, thy poor well-willer, And with thy twinkling eyes look right and straight Upon this mighty Morr , of mickle weight. Is now comes in, which being glued together Makes Morris , and the cause that we came hither. The body of our sport, of no small study. I first appear, though rude and raw and muddy, To speak before thy noble grace this tenner, At whose great feet I offer up my penner. The next, the Lord of May and Lady bright, The Chambermaid and Servingman, by night That seek out silent hanging; then mine Host And his fat Spouse, that welcomes to their cost The galled traveller, and with a beck’ning Informs the tapster to inflame the reck’ning. Then the beest-eating Clown and next the Fool, The Bavian with long tail and eke long tool, Cum multis aliis that make a dance. Say “Ay,” and all shall presently advance.

THESEUS. Ay, ay, by any means, dear Domine .

PIRITHOUS. Produce.

SCHOOLMASTER. Intrate, filii! Come forth and foot it.

Music. Enter the Countrymen, Countrywomen and Jailer’s Daughter; they perform a morris dance.

Ladies, if we have been merry And have pleased ye with a derry, And a derry, and a down, Say the schoolmaster’s no clown. Duke, if we have pleased thee too And have done as good boys should do, Give us but a tree or twain For a Maypole, and again, Ere another year run out, We’ll make thee laugh, and all this rout.

THESEUS. Take twenty, Domine .—How does my sweetheart?

HIPPOLYTA. Never so pleased, sir.

EMILIA. ’Twas an excellent dance, And, for a preface, I never heard a better.

THESEUS. Schoolmaster, I thank you.—One see’em all rewarded.

PIRITHOUS. And here’s something to paint your pole withal.

[ He gives money. ]

THESEUS. Now to our sports again.

SCHOOLMASTER. May the stag thou hunt’st stand long, And thy dogs be swift and strong; May they kill him without lets, And the ladies eat his dowsets.

[ Exeunt Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arcite and Train. Horns winded as they go out. ]

Come, we are all made. Dii deæque omnes , You have danced rarely, wenches.

[ Exeunt. ]

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. ]