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Some honest harted Maides, 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 doe, Maides will not so easily

       Trust men againe: And yet he has not thank’d me

       For what I have done: no not so much as kist me,

       And that (me thinkes) is not so well; nor scarcely

       Could I perswade him to become a Freeman,

       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 doe

       What he will with me, so he use me kindly;

       For use me so he shall, or ile proclaime him,

       And to his face, no man. Ile presently

       Provide him necessaries, and packe my cloathes up,

       And where there is a patch of ground Ile venture,

       So hee be with me; By him, like a shadow,

       Ile ever dwell; within this houre the whoobub

       Will be all ore the prison: I am then

       Kissing the man they looke for: farewell, Father;

       Get many more such prisoners and such daughters,

       And shortly you may keepe your selfe. Now to him!

       Actus Tertius.

      Scaena 1. (A forest near Athens.)

       [Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallowing as people a

       Maying.]

       [Enter Arcite alone.]

       ARCITE.

       The Duke has lost Hypolita; each tooke

       A severall land. This is a solemne Right

       They owe bloomd May, and the Athenians pay it

       To’th heart of Ceremony. O Queene Emilia,

       Fresher then May, sweeter

       Then hir gold Buttons on the bowes, or all

       Th’enamelld knackes o’th Meade or garden: yea,

       We challenge too the bancke of any Nymph

       That makes the streame seeme flowers; thou, o Iewell

       O’th wood, o’th world, hast likewise blest a place

       With thy sole presence: in thy rumination

       That I, poore man, might eftsoones come betweene

       And chop on some cold thought! thrice blessed chance,

       To drop on such a Mistris, expectation

       Most giltlesse on’t! tell me, O Lady Fortune,

       (Next after Emely my Soveraigne) how far

       I may be prowd. She takes strong note of me,

       Hath made me neere her; and this beuteous Morne

       (The prim’st of all the yeare) presents me with

       A brace of horses: two such Steeds might well

       Be by a paire of Kings backt, in a Field

       That their crownes titles tride. Alas, alas,

       Poore Cosen Palamon, poore prisoner, thou

       So little dream’st upon my fortune, that

       Thou thinkst thy selfe the happier thing, to be

       So neare Emilia; me thou deem’st at Thebs,

       And therein wretched, although free. But if

       Thou knew’st my Mistris breathd on me, and that

       I ear’d her language, livde in her eye, O Coz,

       What passion would enclose thee!

       [Enter Palamon as out of a Bush, with his Shackles: bends his fist at Arcite.]

       PALAMON.

       Traytor kinesman,

       Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signes

       Of prisonment were off me, and this hand

       But owner of a Sword: By all othes in one,

       I and the iustice of my love would make thee

       A confest Traytor. O thou most perfidious

       That ever gently lookd; the voydest of honour,

       That eu’r bore gentle Token; falsest Cosen

       That ever blood made kin, call’st thou hir thine?

       Ile prove it in my Shackles, with these hands,

       Void of appointment, that thou ly’st, and art

       A very theefe in love, a Chaffy Lord,

       Nor worth the name of villaine: had I a Sword

       And these house clogges away—

       ARCITE.

       Deere Cosin Palamon—

       PALAMON.

       Cosoner Arcite, give me language such

       As thou hast shewd me feate.

       ARCITE.

       Not finding in

       The circuit of my breast any grosse stuffe

       To forme me like your blazon, holds me to

       This gentlenesse of answer; tis your passion

       That thus mistakes, the which to you being enemy,

       Cannot to me be kind: honor, and honestie

       I cherish, and depend on, how so ev’r

       You skip them in me, and with them, faire Coz,

       Ile maintaine my proceedings; pray, be pleas’d

       To shew in generous termes your griefes, since that

       Your question’s with your equall, who professes

       To cleare his owne way with the minde and Sword

       Of a true Gentleman.

       PALAMON.

       That thou durst, Arcite!

       ARCITE.

       My Coz, my Coz, you have beene well advertis’d

       How much I dare, y’ave seene me use my Sword

       Against th’advice of feare: sure, of another

       You would not heare me doubted, but your silence

       Should breake out, though i’th Sanctuary.

       PALAMON.

       Sir,

       I have seene you move in such a place, which well

       Might justifie your manhood; you were calld

       A good knight and a bold; But the whole weeke’s not faire,

       If any day it rayne: Their valiant temper

       Men loose when they encline to trecherie,

       And then they fight like coupelld Beares, would fly

       Were they not tyde.

       ARCITE.

       Kinsman, you might as well

       Speake this and act it in your Glasse, as to

       His eare which now disdaines you.

       PALAMON.

       Come up to me,

       Quit me of these cold Gyves, give

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