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. ]

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. ]

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. ]

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. ]