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make his length a mile, if’t pleas’d his Rider

       To put pride in him: as he thus went counting

       The flinty pavement, dancing, as t’wer, to’th Musicke

       His owne hoofes made; (for as they say from iron

       Came Musickes origen) what envious Flint,

       Cold as old Saturne, and like him possest

       With fire malevolent, darted a Sparke,

       Or what feirce sulphur else, to this end made,

       I comment not;—the hot horse, hot as fire,

       Tooke Toy at this, and fell to what disorder

       His power could give his will; bounds, comes on end,

       Forgets schoole dooing, being therein traind,

       And of kind mannadge; pig-like he whines

       At the sharpe Rowell, which he freats at rather

       Then any jot obaies; seekes all foule meanes

       Of boystrous and rough Iadrie, to dis-seate

       His Lord, that kept it bravely: when nought serv’d,

       When neither Curb would cracke, girth breake nor diffring plunges

       Dis-roote his Rider whence he grew, but that

       He kept him tweene his legges, on his hind hoofes on end he stands,

       That Arcites leggs, being higher then his head,

       Seem’d with strange art to hand: His victors wreath

       Even then fell off his head: and presently

       Backeward the Iade comes ore, and his full poyze

       Becomes the Riders loade: yet is he living,

       But such a vessell tis, that floates but for

       The surge that next approaches: he much desires

       To have some speech with you: Loe he appeares.

       [Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Emilia, Arcite in a chaire.]

       PALAMON.

       O miserable end of our alliance!

       The gods are mightie, Arcite: if thy heart,

       Thy worthie, 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 worlds joy: Reach thy hand:

       Farewell: I have told my last houre. I was false,

       Yet never treacherous: Forgive me, Cosen:—

       One kisse from faire Emilia: Tis done:

       Take her: I die.

       PALAMON.

       Thy brave soule seeke Elizium.

       EMILIA.

       Ile close thine eyes, Prince; blessed soules be with thee!

       Thou art a right good man, and while I live,

       This day I give to teares.

       PALAMON.

       And I to honour.

       THESEUS.

       In this place first you fought: ev’n very here

       I sundred you: acknowledge to the gods

       Our thankes that you are living.

       His part is playd, and though it were too short,

       He did it well: your day is lengthned, and

       The blissefull dew of heaven do’s arowze you.

       The powerfull Venus well hath grac’d her Altar,

       And given you your love: Our Master Mars

       Hath vouch’d his Oracle, and to Arcite gave

       The grace of the Contention: So the Deities

       Have shewd due justice: Beare this hence.

       PALAMON.

       O Cosen,

       That we should things desire, which doe cost us

       The losse of our desire! That nought could buy

       Deare love, but losse of deare love!

       THESEUS.

       Never Fortune

       Did play a subtler Game: The conquerd triumphes,

       The victor has the Losse: yet in the passage

       The gods have beene most equall: Palamon,

       Your kinseman hath confest the right o’th Lady

       Did lye in you, for you first saw her, and

       Even then proclaimd your fancie: He restord her

       As your stolne Iewell, and desir’d your spirit

       To send him hence forgiven; The gods my justice

       Take from my hand, and they themselves become

       The Executioners: Leade your Lady off;

       And call your Lovers from the stage of death,

       Whom I adopt my Frinds. A day or two

       Let us looke sadly, and give grace unto

       The Funerall of Arcite; in whose end

       The visages of Bridegroomes weele put on

       And smile with Palamon; for whom an houre,

       But one houre, since, I was as dearely 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 lacke

       We laugh, for what we have, are sorry: still

       Are children in some kind. Let us be thankefull

       For that which is, and with you leave dispute

       That are above our question. Let’s goe off,

       And beare us like the time. [Florish. Exeunt.]

       EPILOGVE

       I would now aske ye how ye like the Play,

       But, as it is with Schoole Boyes, cannot say,

       I am cruell fearefull: pray, yet stay a while,

       And let me looke upon ye: No man smile?

       Then it goes hard, I see; He that has

       Lov’d a yong hansome wench, then, show his face—

       Tis strange if none be heere—and if he will

       Against his Conscience, let him hisse, and kill

       Our Market: Tis in vaine, I see, to stay yee;

       Have at the worst can come, then! Now what say ye?

       And yet mistake me not: I am not bold;

       We have no such cause. If the tale we have told

       (For tis no other) any way content ye

       (For to that honest purpose it was ment ye)

       We have our end; and ye shall have ere long,

       I dare say, many a better, to prolong

       Your old loves to us: we, and all our might

       Rest at your service. Gentlemen, good night. [Florish.]

       THE END

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