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       DAUGHTER.

       It seemes to me they have no more sence of their Captivity, then I of ruling Athens: they eate well, looke merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their owne restraint, and disasters: yet sometime a devided sigh, martyrd as ‘twer i’th deliverance, will breake from one of them; when the other presently gives it so sweete a rebuke, that I could wish my selfe a Sigh to be so chid, or at least a Sigher to be comforted.

       WOOER.

       I never saw ‘em.

       IAILOR.

       The Duke himselfe came privately in the night,

       [Enter Palamon, and Arcite, above.]

       and so did they: what the reason of it is, I know not: Looke, yonder they are! that’s Arcite lookes out.

       DAUGHTER.

       No, Sir, no, that’s Palamon: Arcite is the lower of the twaine; you may perceive a part of him.

       IAILOR.

       Goe too, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object; out of their sight.

       DAUGHTER.

       It is a holliday to looke on them: Lord, the diffrence of men!

       [Exeunt.]

      Scaena 2. (The prison)

       [Enter Palamon, and Arcite in prison.]

       PALAMON.

       How doe you, Noble Cosen?

       ARCITE.

       How doe you, Sir?

       PALAMON.

       Why strong inough to laugh at misery,

       And beare the chance of warre, yet we are prisoners,

       I feare, for ever, Cosen.

       ARCITE.

       I beleeve it,

       And to that destiny have patiently

       Laide up my houre to come.

       PALAMON.

       O Cosen Arcite,

       Where is Thebs now? where is our noble Country?

       Where are our friends, and kindreds? never more

       Must we behold those comforts, never see

       The hardy youthes strive for the Games of honour

       (Hung with the painted favours of their Ladies,

       Like tall Ships under saile) then start among’st ‘em

       And as an Eastwind leave ‘en all behinde us,

       Like lazy Clowdes, whilst Palamon and Arcite,

       Even in the wagging of a wanton leg

       Out-stript the peoples praises, won the Garlands,

       Ere they have time to wish ‘em ours. O never

       Shall we two exercise, like Twyns of honour,

       Our Armes againe, and feele our fyry horses

       Like proud Seas under us: our good Swords now

       (Better the red-eyd god of war nev’r wore)

       Ravishd our sides, like age must run to rust,

       And decke 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 youthes must wither

       Like a too-timely Spring; here age must finde us,

       And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;

       The sweete embraces of a loving wife,

       Loden with kisses, armd with thousand Cupids

       Shall never claspe our neckes, no issue know us,

       No figures of our selves shall we ev’r see,

       To glad our age, and like young Eagles teach ‘em

       Boldly to gaze against bright armes, and say:

       ‘Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.’

       The faire-eyd Maides, shall weepe our Banishments,

       And in their Songs, curse ever-blinded fortune,

       Till shee 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,

       Heare nothing but the Clocke that tels our woes.

       The Vine shall grow, but we shall never see it:

       Sommer shall come, and with her all delights;

       But dead-cold winter must inhabite here still.

       PALAMON.

       Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban houndes,

       That shooke the aged Forrest with their ecchoes,

       No more now must we halloa, no more shake

       Our pointed Iavelyns, whilst the angry Swine

       Flyes like a parthian quiver from our rages,

       Strucke with our well-steeld Darts: All valiant uses

       (The foode, and nourishment of noble mindes,)

       In us two here shall perish; we shall die

       (Which is the curse of honour) lastly

       Children of greife, and Ignorance.

       ARCITE.

       Yet, Cosen,

       Even from the bottom of these miseries,

       From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

       I see two comforts rysing, two meere blessings,

       If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience,

       And the enjoying of our greefes together.

       Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish

       If I thinke this our prison.

       PALAMON.

       Certeinly,

       Tis a maine goodnes, Cosen, that our fortunes

       Were twyn’d together; tis most true, two soules

       Put in two noble Bodies—let ‘em suffer

       The gaule of hazard, so they grow together—

       Will never sincke; 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 Cosen?

       ARCITE.

       Let’s thinke this prison holy sanctuary,

       To keepe us from corruption of worse men.

       We are young and yet desire the waies of honour,

       That liberty and common Conversation,

       The poyson of pure spirits, might like women

       Wooe us to wander from. What worthy blessing

       Can be but our Imaginations

       May make it ours? And heere being thus together,

       We are an endles mine to one another;

       We are one anothers wife, ever begetting

       New birthes of love; we

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