The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. William Shakespeare
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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
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