THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN
Mr. John Fletcher, Gent., and
Mr. William Shakspeare, Gent.
Contents
ACT I
PROLOGUE
Scene I. Athens. Before a temple
Scene II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace
Scene III. Before the gates of Athens
Scene IV. A field before Thebes.
Scene V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes
ACT II
Scene I. Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background
Scene II. The prison
Scene III. The country near Athens
Scene IV. Athens. A room in the prison
Scene V. An open place in Athens
Scene VI. Athens. Before the prison
ACT III
Scene I. A forest near Athens
Scene II. Another part of the forest
Scene III. The same part of the forest as in scene I.
Scene IV. Another part of the forest
Scene V. Another part of the forest
Scene VI. The same part of the forest as in scene III.
ACT IV
Scene I. Athens. A room in the prison
Scene II. A Room in the Palace
Scene III. A room in the prison
ACT V
Scene I. Athens. Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana
Scene II. Athens. A Room in the Prison
Scene III. A part of the Forest near Athens, and near the Place appointed for the Combat
Scene IV. The same; a Block prepared
EPILOGUE
Dramatis Personæ
PROLOGUE
ARCITE, the two noble kinsmen, cousins,
PALAMON, nephews of Creon, King of Thebes
THESEUS, Duke of Athens
HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, later Duchess of Athens
EMILIA, Sister of Hippolyta
PIRITHOUS, friend to Theseus
Three QUEENS, widows of the kings killed in laying siege to Thebes
The JAILER of Theseus’s prison
His DAUGHTER, in love with Palamon
His BROTHER,
The WOOER of the Jailer’s daughter
Two FRIENDS of the Jailer,
A DOCTOR
ARTESIUS, an Athenian soldier
VALERIUS, a Theban
WOMAN, attending on Emilia
An Athenian GENTLEMAN
Six KNIGHTS, three accompanying Arcite, three Palamon
Six COUNTRYMEN, one dressed as a Bavian or baboon
Gerald, a SCHOOLMASTER
NEL, a countrywoman
A TABORER
A singing BOY
A HERALD
A MESSENGER
A SERVANT
EPILOGUE
Hymen (god of weddings), lords, soldiers, four countrywomen (Fritz,
Maudlin, Luce, and Barbary), nymphs, attendants, maids, executioner,
guard
SCENE: Athens and the Neighbourhood, except in part of the first Act,
where it is Thebes and the Neighbourhood
PROLOGUE
Flourish. Enter Prologue.
PROLOGUE.
New plays and maidenheads are near akin:
Much followed both, for both much money gi’en,
If they stand sound and well. And a good play,
Whose modest scenes blush on his marriage day
And shake to lose his honour, is like her
That after holy tie and first night’s stir
Yet still is Modesty, and still retains
More of the maid, to sight, than husband’s pains.
We pray our play may be so, for I am sure
It has a noble breeder and a pure,
A learned, and a poet never went
More famous yet ’twixt Po and silver Trent.
Chaucer, of all admired, the story gives;
There, constant to eternity, it lives.
If we let fall the nobleness of this,
And the first sound this child hear be a hiss,
How will it shake the bones of that good man
And make him cry from underground, “O, fan
From me the witless chaff of such a writer
That blasts my bays and my famed works makes lighter
Than Robin Hood!” This is the fear we bring;
For, to say truth, it were an endless thing
And too ambitious, to aspire to him,
Weak as we are, and, almost breathless, swim
In this deep water. Do but you hold out
Your helping hands, and we shall tack about
And something do to save us. You shall hear
Scenes, though below his art, may yet appear
Worth two hours’ travel. To his bones sweet sleep;
Content to you. If this play do not keep
A little dull time from us, we perceive
Our losses fall so thick, we must needs leave.
[_Flourish. Exit._]
ACT I
SCENE I. Athens. Before a temple
Enter Hymen with a torch burning; a Boy, in a white robe before
singing, and strewing flowers. After Hymen, a Nymph encompassed in her
tresses, bearing a wheaten garland; then Theseus between two other
Nymphs with wheaten chaplets on their heads. Then Hippolyta, the bride,
led by Pirithous, and another holding a garland over her head, her
tresses likewise hanging. After her, Emilia, holding up her train. Then
Artesius and Attendants.
[_Music._]
The Song
_Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;_
_Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
With harebells dim,
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on deathbeds blowing,
Lark’s-heels trim;_
[_Strews flowers._]
_All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
Blessing their sense.
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Is absent hence._
_The crow, the sland’rous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chatt’ring ’pie,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly._
Enter three Queens in black, with veils stained, with imperial crowns.
The first Queen falls down at the foot of Theseus; the second falls
down at the foot of Hippolyta; the third before Emilia.
FIRST QUEEN.
For pity’s sake and true gentility’s,
Hear and respect me.
SECOND QUEEN.
For your mother’s sake,
And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones,
Hear and respect me.
THIRD QUEEN.
Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath marked
The honour of your bed, and for the sake
Of clear virginity, be advocate
For us and our distresses. This good deed
Shall raze you out o’ th’ book of trespasses
All you are set down there.
THESEUS.
Sad lady, rise.
HIPPOLYTA.
Stand up.
EMILIA.
No knees to me.
What woman I may stead that is distressed,
Does bind me to her.
THESEUS.
What’s your request? Deliver you for all.
FIRST QUEEN.
We are three queens whose sovereigns fell before
The wrath of cruel Creon, who endure
The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites,
And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes.
He will not suffer us to burn their bones,
To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence
Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye
Of holy Phœbus, but infects the winds
With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, Duke!
Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feared sword
That does good turns to th’ world; give us the bones
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them;
And of thy boundless goodness take some note
That for our crowned heads we have no roof
Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s,
And vault to everything.
THESEUS.
Pray you, kneel not.
I was transported with your speech and suffered
Your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes
Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting
As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em.
King Capaneus was your lord. The day
That he should marry you, at such a season
As now it is with me, I met your groom
By Mars’s altar. You were that time fair!
Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses,
Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath
Was then nor threshed nor blasted. Fortune at you
Dimpled her cheek with smiles. Hercules, our kinsman,
Then weaker than your eyes, laid by his club;
He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide
And swore his sinews thawed. O grief and time,
Fearful consumers, you will all devour!
FIRST QUEEN.
O, I hope some god,
Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood,
Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth
Our undertaker.
THESEUS.
O, no knees, none, widow!
Unto the helmeted Bellona use them,
And pray for me, your soldier.
Troubled I am.
[_Turns away._]
SECOND QUEEN.
Honoured Hippolyta,
Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain
The scythe-tusked boar; that with thy arm, as strong
As it is white, wast near to make the male
To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord,
Born to uphold creation in that honour
First nature styled it in, shrunk thee into
The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing
Thy force and thy affection; soldieress
That equally canst poise sternness with pity,
Whom now I know hast much more power on him
Than ever he had on thee, who ow’st his strength
And his love too, who is a servant for
The tenor of thy speech, dear glass of ladies,
Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch,
Under the shadow of his sword may cool us;
Require him he advance it o’er our heads;
Speak ’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman
As any of us three; weep ere you fail.
Lend us a knee;
But touch the ground for us no longer time
Than a dove’s motion when the head’s plucked off.
Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-sized field lay swollen,
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,
What you would do.
HIPPOLYTA.
Poor lady, say no more.
I had as lief trace this good action with you
As that whereto I am going, and never yet
Went I so willing way. My lord is taken
Heart-deep with your distress. Let him consider;
I’ll speak anon.
THIRD QUEEN.
O, my petition was
Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied
Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form,
Is pressed with deeper matter.
EMILIA.
Pray, stand up;
Your grief is written in your cheek.
THIRD QUEEN.
O, woe!
You cannot read it there. There through my tears,
Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream,
You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack!
He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth
Must know the center too; he that will fish
For my least minnow, let him lead his line
To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me!
Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits,
Makes me a fool.
EMILIA.
Pray you say nothing, pray you.
Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in ’t,
Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were
The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you
T’ instruct me ’gainst a capital grief, indeed
Such heart-pierced demonstration. But, alas,
Being a natural sister of our sex,
Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me
That it shall make a counter-reflect ’gainst
My brother’s heart and warm it to some pity,
Though it were made of stone. Pray have good comfort.
THESEUS.
Forward to th’ temple! Leave not out a jot
O’ th’ sacred ceremony.
FIRST QUEEN.
O, this celebration
Will longer last and be more costly than
Your suppliants’ war! Remember that your fame
Knolls in the ear o’ th’ world; what you do quickly
Is not done rashly; your first thought is more
Than others’ laboured meditance, your premeditating
More than their actions. But, O Jove, your actions,
Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish,
Subdue before they touch. Think, dear Duke, think
What beds our slain kings have!
SECOND QUEEN.
What griefs our beds,
That our dear lords have none!
THIRD QUEEN.
None fit for th’ dead.
Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance,
Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves
Been death’s most horrid agents, human grace
Affords them dust and shadow.
FIRST QUEEN.
But our lords
Lie blist’ring ’fore the visitating sun,
And were good kings when living.
THESEUS.
It is true, and I will give you comfort
To give your dead lords graves;
The which to do must make some work with Creon.
FIRST QUEEN.
And that work presents itself to th’ doing.
Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone tomorrow.
Then, bootless toil must recompense itself
With its own sweat. Now he’s secure,
Not dreams we stand before your puissance,
Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes
To make petition clear.
SECOND QUEEN.
Now you may take him, drunk with his victory.
THIRD QUEEN.
And his army full of bread and sloth.
THESEUS.
Artesius, that best knowest
How to draw out fit to this enterprise
The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number
To carry such a business: forth and levy
Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch
This grand act of our life, this daring deed
Of fate in wedlock.
FIRST QUEEN.
Dowagers, take hands.
Let us be widows to our woes; delay
Commends us to a famishing hope.
ALL THE QUEENS.
Farewell!
SECOND QUEEN.
We come unseasonably; but when could grief
Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fitt’st time
For best solicitation?
THESEUS.
Why, good ladies,
This is a service, whereto I am going,
Greater than any war; it more imports me
Than all the actions that I have foregone,
Or futurely can cope.
FIRST QUEEN.
The more proclaiming
Our suit shall be neglected when her arms,
Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall
By warranting moonlight corselet thee. O, when
Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall
Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think
Of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care
For what thou feel’st not, what thou feel’st being able
To make Mars spurn his drum? O, if thou couch
But one night with her, every hour in ’t will
Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and
Thou shalt remember nothing more than what
That banquet bids thee to.
HIPPOLYTA.
Though much unlike
You should be so transported, as much sorry
I should be such a suitor, yet I think,
Did I not, by th’ abstaining of my joy,
Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit
That craves a present med’cine, I should pluck
All ladies’ scandal on me. Therefore, sir,
[_She kneels._]
As I shall here make trial of my prayers,
Either presuming them to have some force,
Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb,
Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang
Your shield afore your heart, about that neck
Which is my fee, and which I freely lend
To do these poor queens service.
ALL QUEENS.
[_To Emilia_.] O, help now!
Our cause cries for your knee.
EMILIA.
[_To Theseus, kneeling_.] If you grant not
My sister her petition in that force,
With that celerity and nature, which
She makes it in, from henceforth I’ll not dare
To ask you anything, nor be so hardy
Ever to take a husband.
THESEUS.
Pray stand up.
I am entreating of myself to do
[_They rise._]
That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous,
Lead on the bride; get you and pray the gods
For success and return; omit not anything
In the pretended celebration.—Queens,
Follow your soldier. [_To Artesius._] As before, hence you,
And at the banks of Aulis meet us with
The forces you can raise, where we shall find
The moiety of a number for a business
More bigger looked.
[_Exit Artesius._]
[_To Hippolyta._] Since that our theme is haste,
I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip;
Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward,
For I will see you gone.
[_The wedding procession moves towards the temple._]
Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous,
Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on ’t.
PIRITHOUS.
Sir,
I’ll follow you at heels. The feast’s solemnity
Shall want till your return.
THESEUS.
Cousin, I charge you,
Budge not from Athens. We shall be returning
Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you
Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all.
[_Exeunt all but Theseus and the Queens._]
FIRST QUEEN.
Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o’ th’ world.
SECOND QUEEN.
And earn’st a deity equal with Mars.
THIRD QUEEN.
If not above him, for
Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend
To godlike honours; they themselves, some say,
Groan under such a mast’ry.
THESEUS.
As we are men,
Thus should we do; being sensually subdued,
We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies.
Now turn we towards your comforts.
[_Flourish. Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace
Enter Palamon and Arcite.
ARCITE.
Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood
And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in
The crimes of nature, let us leave the city
Thebes, and the temptings in ’t, before we further
Sully our gloss of youth
And here to keep in abstinence we shame
As in incontinence; for not to swim
I’ th’ aid o’ th’ current, were almost to sink,
At least to frustrate striving; and to follow
The common stream, ’twould bring us to an eddy
Where we should turn or drown; if labour through,
Our gain but life and weakness.
PALAMON.
Your advice
Is cried up with example. What strange ruins,
Since first we went to school, may we perceive
Walking in Thebes! Scars and bare weeds
The gain o’ th’ martialist, who did propound
To his bold ends honour and golden ingots,
Which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted
By peace for whom he fought! Who then shall offer
To Mars’s so-scorned altar? I do bleed
When such I meet, and wish great Juno would
Resume her ancient fit of jealousy
To get the soldier work, that peace might purge
For her repletion, and retain anew
Her charitable heart, now hard and harsher
Than strife or war could be.
ARCITE.
Are you not out?
Meet you no ruin but the soldier in
The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin
As if you met decays of many kinds.
Perceive you none that do arouse your pity
But th’ unconsidered soldier?
PALAMON.
Yes, I pity
Decays where’er I find them, but such most
That, sweating in an honourable toil,
Are paid with ice to cool ’em.
ARCITE.
’Tis not this
I did begin to speak of. This is virtue
Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes,
How dangerous, if we will keep our honours,
It is for our residing, where every evil
Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s
A certain evil; where not to be e’en jump
As they are here were to be strangers, and,
Such things to be, mere monsters.
PALAMON.
’Tis in our power—
Unless we fear that apes can tutor ’s—to
Be masters of our manners. What need I
Affect another’s gait, which is not catching
Where there is faith? Or to be fond upon
Another’s way of speech, when by mine own
I may be reasonably conceived, saved too,
Speaking it truly? Why am I bound
By any generous bond to follow him
Follows his tailor, haply so long until
The followed make pursuit? Or let me know
Why mine own barber is unblessed, with him
My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissored just
To such a favourite’s glass? What canon is there
That does command my rapier from my hip
To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tiptoe
Before the street be foul? Either I am
The fore-horse in the team, or I am none
That draw i’ th’ sequent trace. These poor slight sores
Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom
Almost to th’ heart’s—
ARCITE.
Our uncle Creon.
PALAMON.
He.
A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes
Makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured
Beyond its power there’s nothing; almost puts
Faith in a fever, and deifies alone
Voluble chance; who only attributes
The faculties of other instruments
To his own nerves and act; commands men service,
And what they win in ’t, boot and glory; one
That fears not to do harm; good, dares not. Let
The blood of mine that’s sib to him be sucked
From me with leeches; let them break and fall
Off me with that corruption.
ARCITE.
Clear-spirited cousin,
Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share
Of his loud infamy; for our milk
Will relish of the pasture, and we must
Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen
In blood unless in quality.
PALAMON.
Nothing truer.
I think the echoes of his shames have deafed
The ears of heavenly justice. Widows’ cries
Descend again into their throats and have not
Due audience of the gods.
Enter Valerius.
Valerius!
VALERIUS.
The King calls for you; yet be leaden-footed
Till his great rage be off him. Phœbus, when
He broke his whipstock and exclaimed against
The horses of the sun, but whispered to
The loudness of his fury.
PALAMON.
Small winds shake him.
But what’s the matter?
VALERIUS.
Theseus, who where he threats appalls, hath sent
Deadly defiance to him and pronounces
Ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal
The promise of his wrath.
ARCITE.
Let him approach.
But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not
A jot of terror to us. Yet what man
Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours—
When that his action’s dregged with mind assured
’Tis bad he goes about?
PALAMON.
Leave that unreasoned.
Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon.
Yet to be neutral to him were dishonour,
Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must
With him stand to the mercy of our fate,
Who hath bounded our last minute.
ARCITE.
So we must.
[_To Valerius._] Is ’t said this war’s afoot? Or, it shall be,
On fail of some condition?
VALERIUS.
’Tis in motion;
The intelligence of state came in the instant
With the defier.
PALAMON.
Let’s to the King; who, were he
A quarter carrier of that honour which
His enemy come in, the blood we venture
Should be as for our health, which were not spent,
Rather laid out for purchase. But alas,
Our hands advanced before our hearts, what will
The fall o’ th’ stroke do damage?
ARCITE.
Let th’ event,
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves; and let us follow
The becking of our chance.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Before the gates of Athens
Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta and Emilia.
PIRITHOUS.
No further.
HIPPOLYTA.
Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes
To our great lord, of whose success I dare not
Make any timorous question; yet I wish him
Excess and overflow of power, an ’t might be,
To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him!
Store never hurts good governors.
PIRITHOUS.
Though I know
His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they
Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid,
Those best affections that the heavens infuse
In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned
In your dear heart!
EMILIA.
Thanks, sir. Remember me
To our all-royal brother, for whose speed
The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and
Since in our terrene state petitions are not
Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her
What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts
Are in his army, in his tent.
HIPPOLYTA.
In ’s bosom.
We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep
When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,
Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women
That have sod their infants in—and after eat them—
The brine they wept at killing ’em. Then if
You stay to see of us such spinsters, we
Should hold you here for ever.
PIRITHOUS.
Peace be to you
As I pursue this war, which shall be then
Beyond further requiring.
[_Exit Pirithous._]
EMILIA.
How his longing
Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports,
Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly
His careless execution, where nor gain
Made him regard, or loss consider, but
Playing one business in his hand, another
Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal
To these so differing twins. Have you observed him
Since our great lord departed?
HIPPOLYTA.
With much labour,
And I did love him for ’t. They two have cabined
In many as dangerous as poor a corner,
Peril and want contending; they have skiffed
Torrents whose roaring tyranny and power
I’ th’ least of these was dreadful; and they have
Fought out together where Death’s self was lodged;
Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love,
Tied, weaved, entangled, with so true, so long,
And with a finger of so deep a cunning,
May be outworn, never undone. I think
Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,
Cleaving his conscience into twain and doing
Each side like justice, which he loves best.
EMILIA.
Doubtless
There is a best, and reason has no manners
To say it is not you. I was acquainted
Once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow;
You were at wars when she the grave enriched,
Who made too proud the bed, took leave o’ th’ moon
Which then looked pale at parting, when our count
Was each eleven.
HIPPOLYTA.
’Twas Flavina.
EMILIA.
Yes.
You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love.
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned,
More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs
The one of th’ other may be said to water
Their intertangled roots of love; but I,
And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent,
Loved for we did, and like the elements
That know not what nor why, yet do effect
Rare issues by their operance, our souls
Did so to one another. What she liked
Was then of me approved, what not, condemned,
No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck
And put between my breasts, O, then but beginning
To swell about the blossom—she would long
Till she had such another, and commit it
To the like innocent cradle, where, phœnix-like,
They died in perfume. On my head no toy
But was her pattern; her affections—pretty,
Though haply her careless wear—I followed
For my most serious decking; had mine ear
Stol’n some new air, or at adventure hummed one
From musical coinage, why, it was a note
Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather, dwell on,
And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal,
Which fury-innocent wots well, comes in
Like old importment’s bastard—has this end,
That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be
More than in sex individual.
HIPPOLYTA.
You’re out of breath;
And this high-speeded pace is but to say
That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,
Love any that’s called man.
EMILIA.
I am sure I shall not.
HIPPOLYTA.
Now, alack, weak sister,
I must no more believe thee in this point—
Though in ’t I know thou dost believe thyself—
Than I will trust a sickly appetite,
That loathes even as it longs. But sure, my sister,
If I were ripe for your persuasion, you
Have said enough to shake me from the arm
Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes
I will now in and kneel, with great assurance
That we, more than his Pirithous, possess
The high throne in his heart.
EMILIA.
I am not
Against your faith, yet I continue mine.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. A field before Thebes.
Cornets. A battle struck within; then a retreat. Flourish. Then enter,
Theseus, as victor, with a Herald, other Lords, and Soldiers. The three
Queens meet him and fall on their faces before him.
FIRST QUEEN.
To thee no star be dark!
SECOND QUEEN.
Both heaven and earth
Friend thee for ever!
THIRD QUEEN.
All the good that may
Be wished upon thy head, I cry “Amen” to ’t!
THESEUS.
Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens
View us their mortal herd, behold who err
And, in their time, chastise. Go and find out
The bones of your dead lords and honour them
With treble ceremony, rather than a gap
Should be in their dear rites, we would supply ’t,
But those we will depute which shall invest
You in your dignities and even each thing
Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu,
And heaven’s good eyes look on you.
[_Exeunt Queens._]
Enter a Herald and Soldiers bearing Palamon and Arcite on hearses.
What are those?
HERALD.
Men of great quality, as may be judged
By their appointment. Some of Thebes have told ’s
They are sisters’ children, nephews to the King.
THESEUS.
By th’ helm of Mars, I saw them in the war,
Like to a pair of lions, smeared with prey,
Make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note
Constantly on them, for they were a mark
Worth a god’s view. What prisoner was ’t that told me
When I enquired their names?
HERALD.
Wi’ leave, they’re called Arcite and Palamon.
THESEUS.
’Tis right; those, those. They are not dead?
HERALD.
Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken
When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible
They might have been recovered; yet they breathe
And have the name of men.
THESEUS.
Then like men use ’em.
The very lees of such, millions of rates,
Exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons
Convent in their behoof; our richest balms,
Rather than niggard, waste. Their lives concern us
Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than have ’em
Freed of this plight, and in their morning state,
Sound and at liberty, I would ’em dead;
But forty-thousandfold we had rather have ’em
Prisoners to us than death. Bear ’em speedily
From our kind air, to them unkind, and minister
What man to man may do, for our sake, more,
Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests,
Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task,
Desire of liberty, a fever, madness,
Hath set a mark which nature could not reach to
Without some imposition, sickness in will
O’er-wrestling strength in reason. For our love
And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best
Their best skill tender. Lead into the city,
Where, having bound things scattered, we will post
To Athens ’fore our army.
[_Flourish. Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes
Music. Enter the Queens with the hearses of their knights, in a funeral
solemnity, &c.
SONG.
_Urns and odours bring away;
Vapours, sighs, darken the day;
Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials filled with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying._
_Come, all sad and solemn shows
That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes;
We convent naught else but woes.
We convent naught else but woes._
THIRD QUEEN.
This funeral path brings to your household’s grave.
Joy seize on you again; peace sleep with him.
SECOND QUEEN.
And this to yours.
FIRST QUEEN.
Yours this way. Heavens lend
A thousand differing ways to one sure end.
THIRD QUEEN.
This world’s a city full of straying streets,
And death’s the market-place where each one meets.
[_Exeunt severally._]
ACT II
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._]
ACT III
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._]