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ARCITE.

       His yongest, Sir.

       THESEUS.

       Your Father

       Sure is a happy Sire then: what prooves you?

       ARCITE.

       A little of all noble Quallities:

       I could have kept a Hawke, and well have holloa’d

       To a deepe crie of Dogges; I dare not praise

       My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me

       Would say it was my best peece: last, and greatest,

       I would be thought a Souldier.

       THESEUS.

       You are perfect.

       PERITHOUS.

       Vpon my soule, a proper man.

       EMILIA.

       He is so.

       PERITHOUS.

       How doe you like him, Ladie?

       HIPPOLITA.

       I admire him;

       I have not seene so yong a man so noble

       (If he say true,) of his sort.

       EMILIA.

       Beleeve,

       His mother was a wondrous handsome woman;

       His face, me thinkes, goes that way.

       HIPPOLITA.

       But his Body

       And firie minde illustrate a brave Father.

       PERITHOUS.

       Marke how his vertue, like a hidden Sun,

       Breakes through his baser garments.

       HIPPOLITA.

       Hee’s well got, sure.

       THESEUS.

       What made you seeke this place, Sir?

       ARCITE.

       Noble Theseus,

       To purchase name, and doe my ablest service

       To such a well-found wonder as thy worth,

       For onely in thy Court, of all the world,

       Dwells faire-eyd honor.

       PERITHOUS.

       All his words are worthy.

       THESEUS.

       Sir, we are much endebted to your travell,

       Nor shall you loose your wish: Perithous,

       Dispose of this faire Gentleman.

       PERITHOUS.

       Thankes, Theseus.

       What ere you are y’ar mine, and I shall give you

       To a most noble service, to this Lady,

       This bright yong Virgin; pray, observe her goodnesse;

       You have honourd hir faire birthday with your vertues,

       And as your due y’ar hirs: kisse her faire hand, Sir.

       ARCITE.

       Sir, y’ar a noble Giver: dearest Bewtie,

       Thus let me seale my vowd faith: when your Servant

       (Your most unworthie Creature) but offends you,

       Command him die, he shall.

       EMILIA.

       That were too cruell.

       If you deserve well, Sir, I shall soone see’t:

       Y’ar mine, and somewhat better than your rancke

       Ile use you.

       PERITHOUS.

       Ile see you furnish’d, and because you say

       You are a horseman, I must needs intreat you

       This after noone 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 readie,

       And you, Emilia, and you, Friend, and all,

       To morrow by the Sun, to doe observance

       To flowry May, in Dians wood: waite well, Sir,

       Vpon your Mistris. Emely, I hope

       He shall not goe a foote.

       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’l finde a loving Mistris.

       ARCITE.

       If I doe not,

       Let me finde that my Father ever hated,

       Disgrace and blowes.

       THESEUS.

       Go, leade the way; you have won it:

       It shall be so; you shall receave all dues

       Fit for the honour you have won; Twer wrong else.

       Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a Servant,

       That, if I were a woman, would be Master,

       But you are wise. [Florish.]

       EMILIA.

       I hope too wise for that, Sir. [Exeunt omnes.]

      Scaena 6. (Before the prison.)

       [Enter Iaylors Daughter alone.]

       DAUGHTER.

       Let all the Dukes, and all the divells rore,

       He is at liberty: I have venturd 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 Brooke, and there he shall keepe close,

       Till I provide him Fyles and foode, for yet

       His yron bracelets are not off. O Love,

       What a stout hearted child thou art! My Father

       Durst better have indur’d cold yron, than done it:

       I love him beyond love and beyond reason,

       Or wit, or safetie: I have made him know it.

       I care not, I am desperate; If the law

       Finde me, and then condemne me for’t, some wenches,

       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

      

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