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me, Brother.—

       Alas, I know not! Aske me now, sweet Sister;—

       I may goe looke. What a meere child is Fancie,

       That, having two faire gawdes of equall sweetnesse,

       Cannot distinguish, but must crie for both.

       [Enter (a) Gent(leman.)]

       EMILIA.

       How now, Sir?

       GENTLEMAN.

       From the Noble Duke your Brother,

       Madam, I bring you newes: The Knights are come.

       EMILIA.

       To end the quarrell?

       GENTLEMAN.

       Yes.

       EMILIA.

       Would I might end first:

       What sinnes have I committed, chast Diana,

       That my unspotted youth must now be soyld

       With blood of Princes? and my Chastitie

       Be made the Altar, where the lives of Lovers

       (Two greater and two better never yet

       Made mothers joy) must be the sacrifice

       To my unhappy Beautie?

       [Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Perithous and attendants.]

       THESEUS.

       Bring ‘em in

       Quickly, By any meanes; I long to see ‘em.—

       Your two contending Lovers are return’d,

       And with them their faire Knights: Now, my faire Sister,

       You must love one of them.

       EMILIA.

       I had rather both,

       So neither for my sake should fall untimely.

       [Enter Messenger. (Curtis.)]

       THESEUS.

       Who saw ‘em?

       PERITHOUS.

       I, a while.

       GENTLEMAN.

       And I.

       THESEUS.

       From whence come you, Sir?

       MESSENGER.

       From the Knights.

       THESEUS.

       Pray, speake,

       You that have seene them, what they are.

       MESSENGER.

       I will, Sir,

       And truly what I thinke: Six braver spirits

       Then these they have brought, (if we judge by the outside)

       I never saw, nor read of. He that stands

       In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming,

       Should be a stout man, by his face a Prince,

       (His very lookes so say him) his complexion,

       Nearer a browne, than blacke, sterne, and yet noble,

       Which shewes him hardy, fearelesse, proud of dangers:

       The circles of his eyes show fire within him,

       And as a heated Lyon, so he lookes;

       His haire hangs long behind him, blacke and shining

       Like Ravens wings: his shoulders broad and strong,

       Armd long and round, and on his Thigh a Sword

       Hung by a curious Bauldricke, when he frownes

       To seale his will with: better, o’my conscience

       Was never Souldiers friend.

       THESEUS.

       Thou ha’st well describde him.

       PERITHOUS.

       Yet a great deale short,

       Me thinkes, of him that’s first with Palamon.

       THESEUS.

       Pray, speake him, friend.

       PERITHOUS.

       I ghesse he is a Prince too,

       And, if it may be, greater; for his show

       Has all the ornament of honour in’t:

       Hee’s somewhat bigger, then the Knight he spoke of,

       But of a face far sweeter; His complexion

       Is (as a ripe grape) ruddy: he has felt,

       Without doubt, what he fights for, and so apter

       To make this cause his owne: In’s face appeares

       All the faire hopes of what he undertakes,

       And when he’s angry, then a setled valour

       (Not tainted with extreames) runs through his body,

       And guides his arme to brave things: Feare he cannot,

       He shewes no such soft temper; his head’s yellow,

       Hard hayr’d, and curld, thicke twind like Ivy tods,

       Not to undoe with thunder; In his face

       The liverie of the warlike Maide appeares,

       Pure red, and white, for yet no beard has blest him.

       And in his rowling eyes sits victory,

       As if she ever ment to court his valour:

       His Nose stands high, a Character of honour.

       His red lips, after fights, are fit for Ladies.

       EMILIA.

       Must these men die too?

       PERITHOUS.

       When he speakes, his tongue

       Sounds like a Trumpet; All his lyneaments

       Are as a man would wish ‘em, strong and cleane,

       He weares a well-steeld Axe, the staffe of gold;

       His age some five and twenty.

       MESSENGER.

       Ther’s another,

       A little man, but of a tough soule, seeming

       As great as any: fairer promises

       In such a Body yet I never look’d on.

       PERITHOUS.

       O, he that’s freckle fac’d?

       MESSENGER.

       The same, my Lord;

       Are they not sweet ones?

       PERITHOUS.

       Yes, they are well.

       MESSENGER.

       Me thinkes,

       Being so few, and well disposd, they show

       Great, and fine art in nature: he’s white hair’d,

       Not wanton white, but such a manly colour

       Next to an aborne; tough, and nimble set,

       Which showes an active soule; his armes are brawny,

       Linde with strong sinewes: To the shoulder peece

       Gently they swell, like women new conceav’d,

       Which speakes him prone to labour, never fainting

       Vnder the waight of Armes; stout harted, still,

       But when he stirs, a Tiger; he’s gray eyd,

       Which yeelds compassion where he conquers: sharpe

       To spy advantages, and where he finds ‘em,

      

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