Bab Bab 34 · THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN

ents

ACT I

PROLOGUE

Scene I. Athens. Before a temple

Scene II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace

Scene III. Before the gates of Athens

Scene IV. A field before Thebes.

Scene V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes

ACT II

Scene I. Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background

Scene II. The prison

Scene III. The country near Athens

Scene IV. Athens. A room in the prison

Scene V. An open place in Athens

Scene VI. Athens. Before the prison

ACT III

Scene I. A forest near Athens

Scene II. Another part of the forest

Scene III. The same part of the forest as in scene I.

Scene IV. Another part of the forest

Scene V. Another part of the forest

Scene VI. The same part of the forest as in scene III.

ACT IV

Scene I. Athens. A room in the prison

Scene II. A Room in the Palace

Scene III. A room in the prison

ACT V

Scene I. Athens. Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana

Scene II. Athens. A Room in the Prison

Scene III. A part of the Forest near Athens, and near the Place appointed for the Combat

Scene IV. The same; a Block prepared

EPILOGUE

Dramatis Personæ

PROLOGUE

ARCITE, the two noble kinsmen, cousins,

PALAMON, nephews of Creon, King of Thebes

THESEUS, Duke of Athens

HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, later Duchess of Athens

EMILIA, Sister of Hippolyta

PIRITHOUS, friend to Theseus

Three QUEENS, widows of the kings killed in laying siege to Thebes

The JAILER of Theseus’s prison

His DAUGHTER, in love with Palamon

His BROTHER,

The WOOER of the Jailer’s daughter

Two FRIENDS of the Jailer,

A DOCTOR

ARTESIUS, an Athenian soldier

VALERIUS, a Theban

WOMAN, attending on Emilia

An Athenian GENTLEMAN

Six KNIGHTS, three accompanying Arcite, three Palamon

Six COUNTRYMEN, one dressed as a Bavian or baboon

Gerald, a SCHOOLMASTER

NEL, a countrywoman

A TABORER

A singing BOY

A HERALD

A MESSENGER

A SERVANT

EPILOGUE

Hymen (god of weddings), lords, soldiers, four countrywomen (Fritz,

Maudlin, Luce, and Barbary), nymphs, attendants, maids, executioner,

guard

SCENE: Athens and the Neighbourhood, except in part of the first Act,

where it is Thebes and the Neighbourhood

PROLOGUE

Flourish. Enter Prologue.

PROLOGUE.

New plays and maidenheads are near akin:

Much followed both, for both much money gi’en,

If they stand sound and well. And a good play,

Whose modest scenes blush on his marriage day

And shake to lose his honour, is like her

That after holy tie and first night’s stir

Yet still is Modesty, and still retains

More of the maid, to sight, than husband’s pains.

We pray our play may be so, for I am sure

It has a noble breeder and a pure,

A learned, and a poet never went

More famous yet ’twixt Po and silver Trent.

Chaucer, of all admired, the story gives;

There, constant to eternity, it lives.

If we let fall the nobleness of this,

And the first sound this child hear be a hiss,

How will it shake the bones of that good man

And make him cry from underground, “O, fan

From me the witless chaff of such a writer

That blasts my bays and my famed works makes lighter

Than Robin Hood!” This is the fear we bring;

For, to say truth, it were an endless thing

And too ambitious, to aspire to him,

Weak as we are, and, almost breathless, swim

In this deep water. Do but you hold out

Your helping hands, and we shall tack about

And something do to save us. You shall hear

Scenes, though below his art, may yet appear

Worth two hours’ travel. To his bones sweet sleep;

Content to you. If this play do not keep

A little dull time from us, we perceive

Our losses fall so thick, we must needs leave.

[_Flourish. Exit._]

ACT I

SCENE I. Athens. Before a temple

Enter Hymen with a torch burning; a Boy, in a white robe before

singing, and strewing flowers. After Hymen, a Nymph encompassed in her

tresses, bearing a wheaten garland; then Theseus between two other

Nymphs with wheaten chaplets on their heads. Then Hippolyta, the bride,

led by Pirithous, and another holding a garland over her head, her

tresses likewise hanging. After her, Emilia, holding up her train. Then

Artesius and Attendants.

[_Music._]

The Song

_Roses, their sharp spines being gone,

Not royal in their smells alone,

But in their hue;

Maiden pinks of odour faint,

Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,

And sweet thyme true;_

_Primrose, first-born child of Ver,

Merry springtime’s harbinger,

With harebells dim,

Oxlips in their cradles growing,

Marigolds on deathbeds blowing,

Lark’s-heels trim;_

[_Strews flowers._]

_All dear Nature’s children sweet

Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,

Blessing their sense.

Not an angel of the air,

Bird melodious or bird fair,

Is absent hence._

_The crow, the sland’rous cuckoo, nor

The boding raven, nor chough hoar,

Nor chatt’ring ’pie,

May on our bride-house perch or sing,

Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly._

Enter three Queens in black, with veils stained, with imperial crowns.

The first Queen falls down at the foot of Theseus; the second falls

down at the foot of Hippolyta; the third before Emilia.

FIRST QUEEN.

For pity’s sake and true gentility’s,

Hear and respect me.

SECOND QUEEN.

For your mother’s sake,

And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones,

Hear and respect me.

THIRD QUEEN.

Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath marked

The honour of your bed, and for the sake

Of clear virginity, be advocate

For us and our distresses. This good deed

Shall raze you out o’ th’ book of trespasses

All you are set down there.

THESEUS.

Sad lady, rise.

HIPPOLYTA.

Stand up.

EMILIA.

No knees to me.

What woman I may stead that is distressed,

Does bind me to her.

THESEUS.

What’s your request? Deliver you for all.

FIRST QUEEN.

We are three queens whose sovereigns fell before

The wrath of cruel Creon, who endure

The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites,

And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes.

He will not suffer us to burn their bones,

To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence

Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye

Of holy Phœbus, but infects the winds

With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, Duke!

Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feared sword

That does good turns to th’ world; give us the bones

Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them;

And of thy boundless goodness take some note

That for our crowned heads we have no roof

Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s,

And vault to everything.

THESEUS.

Pray you, kneel not.

I was transported with your speech and suffered

Your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes

Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting

As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em.

King Capaneus was your lord. The day

That he should marry you, at such a season

As now it is with me, I met your groom

By Mars’s altar. You were that time fair!

Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses,

Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath

Was then nor threshed nor blasted. Fortune at you

Dimpled her cheek with smiles. Hercules, our kinsman,

Then weaker than your eyes, laid by his club;

He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide

And swore his sinews thawed. O grief and time,

Fearful consumers, you will all devour!

FIRST QUEEN.

O, I hope some god,

Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood,

Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth

Our undertaker.

THESEUS.

O, no knees, none, widow!

Unto the helmeted Bellona use them,

And pray for me, your soldier.

Troubled I am.

[_Turns away._]

SECOND QUEEN.

Honoured Hippolyta,

Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain

The scythe-tusked boar; that with thy arm, as strong

As it is white, wast near to make the male

To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord,

Born to uphold creation in that honour

First nature styled it in, shrunk thee into

The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing

Thy force and thy affection; soldieress

That equally canst poise sternness with pity,

Whom now I know hast much more power on him

Than ever he had on thee, who ow’st his strength

And his love too, who is a servant for

The tenor of thy speech, dear glass of ladies,

Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch,

Under the shadow of his sword may cool us;

Require him he advance it o’er our heads;

Speak ’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman

As any of us three; weep ere you fail.

Lend us a knee;

But touch the ground for us no longer time

Than a dove’s motion when the head’s plucked off.

Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-sized field lay swollen,

Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,

What you would do.

HIPPOLYTA.

Poor lady, say no more.

I had as lief trace this good action with you

As that whereto I am going, and never yet

Went I so willing way. My lord is taken

Heart-deep with your distress. Let him consider;

I’ll speak anon.

THIRD QUEEN.

O, my petition was

Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied

Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form,

Is pressed with deeper matter.

EMILIA.

Pray, stand up;

Your grief is written in your cheek.

THIRD QUEEN.

O, woe!

You cannot read it there. There through my tears,

Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream,

You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack!

He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth

Must know the center too; he that will fish

For my least minnow, let him lead his line

To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me!

Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits,

Makes me a fool.

EMILIA.

Pray you say nothing, pray you.

Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in ’t,

Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were

The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you

T’ instruct me ’gainst a capital grief, indeed

Such heart-pierced demonstration. But, alas,

Being a natural sister of our sex,

Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me

That it shall make a counter-reflect ’gainst

My brother’s heart and warm it to some pity,

Though it were made of stone. Pray have good comfort.

THESEUS.

Forward to th’ temple! Leave not out a jot

O’ th’ sacred ceremony.

FIRST QUEEN.

O, this celebration

Will longer last and be more costly than

Your suppliants’ war! Remember that your fame

Knolls in the ear o’ th’ world; what you do quickly

Is not done rashly; your first thought is more

Than others’ laboured meditance, your premeditating

More than their actions. But, O Jove, your actions,

Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish,

Subdue before they touch. Think, dear Duke, think

What beds our slain kings have!

SECOND QUEEN.

What griefs our beds,

That our dear lords have none!

THIRD QUEEN.

None fit for th’ dead.

Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance,

Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves

Been death’s most horrid agents, human grace

Affords them dust and shadow.

FIRST QUEEN.

But our lords

Lie blist’ring ’fore the visitating sun,

And were good kings when living.

THESEUS.

It is true, and I will give you comfort

To give your dead lords graves;

The which to do must make some work with Creon.

FIRST QUEEN.

And that work presents itself to th’ doing.

Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone tomorrow.

Then, bootless toil must recompense itself

With its own sweat. Now he’s secure,

Not dreams we stand before your puissance,

Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes

To make petition clear.

SECOND QUEEN.

Now you may take him, drunk with his victory.

THIRD QUEEN.

And his army full of bread and sloth.

THESEUS.

Artesius, that best knowest

How to draw out fit to this enterprise

The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number

To carry such a business: forth and levy

Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch

This grand act of our life, this daring deed

Of fate in wedlock.

FIRST QUEEN.

Dowagers, take hands.

Let us be widows to our woes; delay

Commends us to a famishing hope.

ALL THE QUEENS.

Farewell!

SECOND QUEEN.

We come unseasonably; but when could grief

Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fitt’st time

For best solicitation?

THESEUS.

Why, good ladies,

This is a service, whereto I am going,

Greater than any war; it more imports me

Than all the actions that I have foregone,

Or futurely can cope.

FIRST QUEEN.

The more proclaiming

Our suit shall be neglected when her arms,

Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall

By warranting moonlight corselet thee. O, when

Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall

Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think

Of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care

For what thou feel’st not, what thou feel’st being able

To make Mars spurn his drum? O, if thou couch

But one night with her, every hour in ’t will

Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and

Thou shalt remember nothing more than what

That banquet bids thee to.

HIPPOLYTA.

Though much unlike

You should be so transported, as much sorry

I should be such a suitor, yet I think,

Did I not, by th’ abstaining of my joy,

Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit

That craves a present med’cine, I should pluck

All ladies’ scandal on me. Therefore, sir,

[_She kneels._]

As I shall here make trial of my prayers,

Either presuming them to have some force,

Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb,

Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang

Your shield afore your heart, about that neck

Which is my fee, and which I freely lend

To do these poor queens service.

ALL QUEENS.

[_To Emilia_.] O, help now!

Our cause cries for your knee.

EMILIA.

[_To Theseus, kneeling_.] If you grant not

My sister her petition in that force,

With that celerity and nature, which

She makes it in, from henceforth I’ll not dare

To ask you anything, nor be so hardy

Ever to take a husband.

THESEUS.

Pray stand up.

I am entreating of myself to do

[_They rise._]

That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous,

Lead on the bride; get you and pray the gods

For success and return; omit not anything

In the pretended celebration.—Queens,

Follow your soldier. [_To Artesius._] As before, hence you,

And at the banks of Aulis meet us with

The forces you can raise, where we shall find

The moiety of a number for a business

More bigger looked.

[_Exit Artesius._]

[_To Hippolyta._] Since that our theme is haste,

I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip;

Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward,

For I will see you gone.

[_The wedding procession moves towards the temple._]

Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous,

Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on ’t.

PIRITHOUS.

Sir,

I’ll follow you at heels. The feast’s solemnity

Shall want till your return.

THESEUS.

Cousin, I charge you,

Budge not from Athens. We shall be returning

Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you

Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all.

[_Exeunt all but Theseus and the Queens._]

FIRST QUEEN.

Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o’ th’ world.

SECOND QUEEN.

And earn’st a deity equal with Mars.

THIRD QUEEN.

If not above him, for

Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend

To godlike honours; they themselves, some say,

Groan under such a mast’ry.

THESEUS.

As we are men,

Thus should we do; being sensually subdued,

We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies.

Now turn we towards your comforts.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace

Enter Palamon and Arcite.

ARCITE.

Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood

And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in

The crimes of nature, let us leave the city

Thebes, and the temptings in ’t, before we further

Sully our gloss of youth

And here to keep in abstinence we shame

As in incontinence; for not to swim

I’ th’ aid o’ th’ current, were almost to sink,

At least to frustrate striving; and to follow

The common stream, ’twould bring us to an eddy

Where we should turn or drown; if labour through,

Our gain but life and weakness.

PALAMON.

Your advice

Is cried up with example. What strange ruins,

Since first we went to school, may we perceive

Walking in Thebes! Scars and bare weeds

The gain o’ th’ martialist, who did propound

To his bold ends honour and golden ingots,

Which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted

By peace for whom he fought! Who then shall offer

To Mars’s so-scorned altar? I do bleed

When such I meet, and wish great Juno would

Resume her ancient fit of jealousy

To get the soldier work, that peace might purge

For her repletion, and retain anew

Her charitable heart, now hard and harsher

Than strife or war could be.

ARCITE.

Are you not out?

Meet you no ruin but the soldier in

The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin

As if you met decays of many kinds.

Perceive you none that do arouse your pity

But th’ unconsidered soldier?

PALAMON.

Yes, I pity

Decays where’er I find them, but such most

That, sweating in an honourable toil,

Are paid with ice to cool ’em.

ARCITE.

’Tis not this

I did begin to speak of. This is virtue

Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes,

How dangerous, if we will keep our honours,

It is for our residing, where every evil

Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s

A certain evil; where not to be e’en jump

As they are here were to be strangers, and,

Such things to be, mere monsters.

PALAMON.

’Tis in our power—

Unless we fear that apes can tutor ’s—to

Be masters of our manners. What need I

Affect another’s gait, which is not catching

Where there is faith? Or to be fond upon

Another’s way of speech, when by mine own

I may be reasonably conceived, saved too,

Speaking it truly? Why am I bound

By any generous bond to follow him

Follows his tailor, haply so long until

The followed make pursuit? Or let me know

Why mine own barber is unblessed, with him

My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissored just

To such a favourite’s glass? What canon is there

That does command my rapier from my hip

To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tiptoe

Before the street be foul? Either I am

The fore-horse in the team, or I am none

That draw i’ th’ sequent trace. These poor slight sores

Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom

Almost to th’ heart’s—

ARCITE.

Our uncle Creon.

PALAMON.

He.

A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes

Makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured

Beyond its power there’s nothing; almost puts

Faith in a fever, and deifies alone

Voluble chance; who only attributes

The faculties of other instruments

To his own nerves and act; commands men service,

And what they win in ’t, boot and glory; one

That fears not to do harm; good, dares not. Let

The blood of mine that’s sib to him be sucked

From me with leeches; let them break and fall

Off me with that corruption.

ARCITE.

Clear-spirited cousin,

Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share

Of his loud infamy; for our milk

Will relish of the pasture, and we must

Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen

In blood unless in quality.

PALAMON.

Nothing truer.

I think the echoes of his shames have deafed

The ears of heavenly justice. Widows’ cries

Descend again into their throats and have not

Due audience of the gods.

Enter Valerius.

Valerius!

VALERIUS.

The King calls for you; yet be leaden-footed

Till his great rage be off him. Phœbus, when

He broke his whipstock and exclaimed against

The horses of the sun, but whispered to

The loudness of his fury.

PALAMON.

Small winds shake him.

But what’s the matter?

VALERIUS.

Theseus, who where he threats appalls, hath sent

Deadly defiance to him and pronounces

Ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal

The promise of his wrath.

ARCITE.

Let him approach.

But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not

A jot of terror to us. Yet what man

Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours—

When that his action’s dregged with mind assured

’Tis bad he goes about?

PALAMON.

Leave that unreasoned.

Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon.

Yet to be neutral to him were dishonour,

Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must

With him stand to the mercy of our fate,

Who hath bounded our last minute.

ARCITE.

So we must.

[_To Valerius._] Is ’t said this war’s afoot? Or, it shall be,

On fail of some condition?

VALERIUS.

’Tis in motion;

The intelligence of state came in the instant

With the defier.

PALAMON.

Let’s to the King; who, were he

A quarter carrier of that honour which

His enemy come in, the blood we venture

Should be as for our health, which were not spent,

Rather laid out for purchase. But alas,

Our hands advanced before our hearts, what will

The fall o’ th’ stroke do damage?

ARCITE.

Let th’ event,

That never-erring arbitrator, tell us

When we know all ourselves; and let us follow

The becking of our chance.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Before the gates of Athens

Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta and Emilia.

PIRITHOUS.

No further.

HIPPOLYTA.

Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes

To our great lord, of whose success I dare not

Make any timorous question; yet I wish him

Excess and overflow of power, an ’t might be,

To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him!

Store never hurts good governors.

PIRITHOUS.

Though I know

His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they

Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid,

Those best affections that the heavens infuse

In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned

In your dear heart!

EMILIA.

Thanks, sir. Remember me

To our all-royal brother, for whose speed

The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and

Since in our terrene state petitions are not

Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her

What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts

Are in his army, in his tent.

HIPPOLYTA.

In ’s bosom.

We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep

When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,

Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women

That have sod their infants in—and after eat them—

The brine they wept at killing ’em. Then if

You stay to see of us such spinsters, we

Should hold you here for ever.

PIRITHOUS.

Peace be to you

As I pursue this war, which shall be then

Beyond further requiring.

[_Exit Pirithous._]

EMILIA.

How his longing

Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports,

Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly

His careless execution, where nor gain

Made him regard, or loss consider, but

Playing one business in his hand, another

Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal

To these so differing twins. Have you observed him

Since our great lord departed?

HIPPOLYTA.

With much labour,

And I did love him for ’t. They two have cabined

In many as dangerous as poor a corner,

Peril and want contending; they have skiffed

Torrents whose roaring tyranny and power

I’ th’ least of these was dreadful; and they have

Fought out together where Death’s self was lodged;

Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love,

Tied, weaved, entangled, with so true, so long,

And with a finger of so deep a cunning,

May be outworn, never undone. I think

Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,

Cleaving his conscience into twain and doing

Each side like justice, which he loves best.

EMILIA.

Doubtless

There is a best, and reason has no manners

To say it is not you. I was acquainted

Once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow;

You were at wars when she the grave enriched,

Who made too proud the bed, took leave o’ th’ moon

Which then looked pale at parting, when our count

Was each eleven.

HIPPOLYTA.

’Twas Flavina.

EMILIA.

Yes.

You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love.

Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned,

More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs

The one of th’ other may be said to water

Their intertangled roots of love; but I,

And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent,

Loved for we did, and like the elements

That know not what nor why, yet do effect

Rare issues by their operance, our souls

Did so to one another. What she liked

Was then of me approved, what not, condemned,

No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck

And put between my breasts, O, then but beginning

To swell about the blossom—she would long

Till she had such another, and commit it

To the like innocent cradle, where, phœnix-like,

They died in perfume. On my head no toy

But was her pattern; her affections—pretty,

Though haply her careless wear—I followed

For my most serious decking; had mine ear

Stol’n some new air, or at adventure hummed one

From musical coinage, why, it was a note

Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather, dwell on,

And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal,

Which fury-innocent wots well, comes in

Like old importment’s bastard—has this end,

That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be

More than in sex individual.

HIPPOLYTA.

You’re out of breath;

And this high-speeded pace is but to say

That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,

Love any that’s called man.

EMILIA.

I am sure I shall not.

HIPPOLYTA.

Now, alack, weak sister,

I must no more believe thee in this point—

Though in ’t I know thou dost believe thyself—

Than I will trust a sickly appetite,

That loathes even as it longs. But sure, my sister,

If I were ripe for your persuasion, you

Have said enough to shake me from the arm

Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes

I will now in and kneel, with great assurance

That we, more than his Pirithous, possess

The high throne in his heart.

EMILIA.

I am not

Against your faith, yet I continue mine.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. A field before Thebes.

Cornets. A battle struck within; then a retreat. Flourish. Then enter,

Theseus, as victor, with a Herald, other Lords, and Soldiers. The three

Queens meet him and fall on their faces before him.

FIRST QUEEN.

To thee no star be dark!

SECOND QUEEN.

Both heaven and earth

Friend thee for ever!

THIRD QUEEN.

All the good that may

Be wished upon thy head, I cry “Amen” to ’t!

THESEUS.

Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens

View us their mortal herd, behold who err

And, in their time, chastise. Go and find out

The bones of your dead lords and honour them

With treble ceremony, rather than a gap

Should be in their dear rites, we would supply ’t,

But those we will depute which shall invest

You in your dignities and even each thing

Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu,

And heaven’s good eyes look on you.

[_Exeunt Queens._]

Enter a Herald and Soldiers bearing Palamon and Arcite on hearses.

What are those?

HERALD.

Men of great quality, as may be judged

By their appointment. Some of Thebes have told ’s

They are sisters’ children, nephews to the King.

THESEUS.

By th’ helm of Mars, I saw them in the war,

Like to a pair of lions, smeared with prey,

Make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note

Constantly on them, for they were a mark

Worth a god’s view. What prisoner was ’t that told me

When I enquired their names?

HERALD.

Wi’ leave, they’re called Arcite and Palamon.

THESEUS.

’Tis right; those, those. They are not dead?

HERALD.

Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken

When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible

They might have been recovered; yet they breathe

And have the name of men.

THESEUS.

Then like men use ’em.

The very lees of such, millions of rates,

Exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons

Convent in their behoof; our richest balms,

Rather than niggard, waste. Their lives concern us

Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than have ’em

Freed of this plight, and in their morning state,

Sound and at liberty, I would ’em dead;

But forty-thousandfold we had rather have ’em

Prisoners to us than death. Bear ’em speedily

From our kind air, to them unkind, and minister

What man to man may do, for our sake, more,

Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests,

Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task,

Desire of liberty, a fever, madness,

Hath set a mark which nature could not reach to

Without some imposition, sickness in will

O’er-wrestling strength in reason. For our love

And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best

Their best skill tender. Lead into the city,

Where, having bound things scattered, we will post

To Athens ’fore our army.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes

Music. Enter the Queens with the hearses of their knights, in a funeral

solemnity, &c.

SONG.

_Urns and odours bring away;

Vapours, sighs, darken the day;

Our dole more deadly looks than dying;

Balms and gums and heavy cheers,

Sacred vials filled with tears,

And clamours through the wild air flying._

_Come, all sad and solemn shows

That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes;

We convent naught else but woes.

We convent naught else but woes._

THIRD QUEEN.

This funeral path brings to your household’s grave.

Joy seize on you again; peace sleep with him.

SECOND QUEEN.

And this to yours.

FIRST QUEEN.

Yours this way. Heavens lend

A thousand differing ways to one sure end.

THIRD QUEEN.

This world’s a city full of straying streets,

And death’s the market-place where each one meets.

[_Exeunt severally._]

ACT II

SCENE I. Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background

Enter Jailer and Wooer.

JAILER.

I may depart with little while I live; something I may cast to you, not

much. Alas, the prison I keep, though it be for great ones, yet they

seldom come; before one salmon, you shall take a number of minnows. I

am given out to be better lined than it can appear to me report is a

true speaker. I would I were really that I am delivered to be. Marry,

what I have, be it what it will, I will assure upon my daughter at the

day of my death.

WOOER.

Sir, I demand no more than your own offer, and I will estate your

daughter in what I have promised.

JAILER.

Well, we will talk more of this when the solemnity is past. But have

you a full promise of her? When that shall be seen, I tender my

consent.

Enter the Jailer’s Daughter, carrying rushes.

WOOER.

I have sir. Here she comes.

JAILER.

Your friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old business.

But no more of that now; so soon as the court hurry is over, we will

have an end of it. I’ th’ meantime, look tenderly to the two prisoners.

I can tell you they are princes.

DAUGHTER.

These strewings are for their chamber. ’Tis pity they are in prison,

and ’twere pity they should be out. I do think they have patience to

make any adversity ashamed. The prison itself is proud of ’em, and they

have all the world in their chamber.

JAILER.

They are famed to be a pair of absolute men.

DAUGHTER.

By my troth, I think fame but stammers ’em; they stand a grise above

the reach of report.

JAILER.

I heard them reported in the battle to be the only doers.

DAUGHTER.

Nay, most likely, for they are noble sufferers. I marvel how they would

have looked had they been victors, that with such a constant nobility

enforce a freedom out of bondage, making misery their mirth and

affliction a toy to jest at.

JAILER.

Do they so?

DAUGHTER.

It seems to me they have no more sense of their captivity than I of

ruling Athens. They eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things,

but nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet sometime a

divided sigh, martyred as ’twere i’ th’ deliverance, will break from

one of them—when the other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke that I

could wish myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least a sigher to be

comforted.

WOOER.

I never saw ’em.

JAILER.

The Duke himself came privately in the night, and so did they.

Enter Palamon and Arcite, above.

What the reason of it is, I know not. Look, yonder they are; that’s

Arcite looks out.

DAUGHTER.

No, sir, no, that’s Palamon. Arcite is the lower of the twain; you may

perceive a part of him.

JAILER.

Go to, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object. Out of

their sight.

DAUGHTER.

It is a holiday to look on them. Lord, the difference of men!

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. The prison

Enter Palamon and Arcite in prison.

PALAMON.

How do you, noble cousin?

ARCITE.

How do you, sir?

PALAMON.

Why, strong enough to laugh at misery

And bear the chance of war; yet we are prisoners

I fear for ever, cousin.

ARCITE.

I believe it,

And to that destiny have patiently

Laid up my hour to come.

PALAMON.

O, cousin Arcite,

Where is Thebes now? Where is our noble country?

Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more

Must we behold those comforts, never see

The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,

Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,

Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst ’em,

And as an east wind leave ’em all behind us,

Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,

Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,

Outstripped the people’s praises, won the garlands,

Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. O, never

Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,

Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses

Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now—

Better the red-eyed god of war ne’er wore—

Ravished our sides, like age must run to rust

And deck 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 youths must wither

Like a too-timely spring; here age must find us

And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried.

The sweet embraces of a loving wife,

Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids,

Shall never clasp our necks; no issue know us,

No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see,

To glad our age, and like young eagles teach ’em

Boldly to gaze against bright arms and say

“Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!”

The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments

And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune

Till she 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,

Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes.

The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it;

Summer shall come, and with her all delights,

But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

PALAMON.

’Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds

That shook the aged forest with their echoes

No more now must we hallow, no more shake

Our pointed javelins whilst the angry swine

Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,

Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses,

The food and nourishment of noble minds,

In us two here shall perish; we shall die,

Which is the curse of honour, lastly,

Children of grief and ignorance.

ARCITE.

Yet, cousin,

Even from the bottom of these miseries,

From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,

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

And the enjoying of our griefs together.

Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish

If I think this our prison!

PALAMON.

Certainly

’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes

Were twined together; ’tis most true, two souls

Put in two noble bodies, let ’em suffer

The gall of hazard, so they grow together,

Will never sink; 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 cousin?

ARCITE.

Let’s think this prison holy sanctuary,

To keep us from corruption of worse men.

We are young and yet desire the ways of honour;

That liberty and common conversation,

The poison of pure spirits, might like women,

Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing

Can be but our imaginations

May make it ours? And here being thus together,

We are an endless mine to one another;

We are one another’s wife, ever begetting

New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance;

We are, in one another, families;

I am your heir, and you are mine. This place

Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor

Dare take this from us; here with a little patience

We shall live long and loving. No surfeits seek us;

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas

Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty,

A wife might part us lawfully, or business;

Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men

Crave our acquaintance. I might sicken, cousin,

Where you should never know it, and so perish

Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,

Or prayers to the gods. A thousand chances,

Were we from hence, would sever us.

PALAMON.

You have made me—

I thank you, cousin Arcite—almost wanton

With my captivity. What a misery

It is to live abroad and everywhere!

’Tis like a beast, methinks. I find the court here,

I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures

That woo the wills of men to vanity

I see through now, and am sufficient

To tell the world ’tis but a gaudy shadow

That old Time as he passes by takes with him.

What had we been, old in the court of Creon,

Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance

The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,

Had not the loving gods found this place for us,

We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept,

And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses.

Shall I say more?

ARCITE.

I would hear you still.

PALAMON.

Ye shall.

Is there record of any two that loved

Better than we do, Arcite?

ARCITE.

Sure, there cannot.

PALAMON.

I do not think it possible our friendship

Should ever leave us.

ARCITE.

Till our deaths it cannot;

Enter Emilia and her Woman, below.

And after death our spirits shall be led

To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir.

EMILIA.

This garden has a world of pleasures in’t.

What flower is this?

WOMAN.

’Tis called narcissus, madam.

EMILIA.

That was a fair boy, certain, but a fool,

To love himself. Were there not maids enough?

ARCITE.

Pray, forward.

PALAMON.

Yes.

EMILIA.

Or were they all hard-hearted?

WOMAN.

They could not be to one so fair.

EMILIA.

Thou wouldst not.

WOMAN.

I think I should not, madam.

EMILIA.

That’s a good wench.

But take heed to your kindness, though.

WOMAN.

Why, madam?

EMILIA.

Men are mad things.

ARCITE.

Will ye go forward, cousin?

EMILIA.

Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench?

WOMAN.

Yes.

EMILIA.

I’ll have a gown full of ’em, and of these.

This is a pretty colour; will ’t not do

Rarely upon a skirt, wench?

WOMAN.

Dainty, madam.

ARCITE.

Cousin, cousin! How do you, sir? Why, Palamon!

PALAMON.

Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.

ARCITE.

Why, what’s the matter, man?

PALAMON.

Behold, and wonder!

By heaven, she is a goddess.

ARCITE.

Ha!

PALAMON.

Do reverence. She is a goddess, Arcite.

EMILIA.

Of all flowers,

Methinks a rose is best.

WOMAN.

Why, gentle madam?

EMILIA.

It is the very emblem of a maid.

For when the west wind courts her gently,

How modestly she blows and paints the sun

With her chaste blushes! When the north comes near her,

Rude and impatient, then, like chastity,

She locks her beauties in her bud again,

And leaves him to base briers.

WOMAN.

Yet, good madam,

Sometimes her modesty will blow so far

She falls for ’t. A maid,

If she have any honour, would be loath

To take example by her.

EMILIA.

Thou art wanton.

ARCITE.

She is wondrous fair.

PALAMON.

She is all the beauty extant.

EMILIA.

The sun grows high; let’s walk in. Keep these flowers.

We’ll see how near art can come near their colours.

I am wondrous merry-hearted. I could laugh now.

WOMAN.

I could lie down, I am sure.

EMILIA.

And take one with you?

WOMAN.

That’s as we bargain, madam.

EMILIA.

Well, agree then.

[_Exeunt Emilia and Woman._]

PALAMON.

What think you of this beauty?

ARCITE.

’Tis a rare one.

PALAMON.

Is’t but a rare one?

ARCITE.

Yes, a matchless beauty.

PALAMON.

Might not a man well lose himself, and love her?

ARCITE.

I cannot tell what you have done; I have,

Beshrew mine eyes for’t! Now I feel my shackles.

PALAMON.

You love her, then?

ARCITE.

Who would not?

PALAMON.

And desire her?

ARCITE.

Before my liberty.

PALAMON.

I saw her first.

ARCITE.

That’s nothing.

PALAMON.

But it shall be.

ARCITE.

I saw her too.

PALAMON.

Yes, but you must not love her.

ARCITE.

I will not, as you do, to worship her

As she is heavenly and a blessed goddess.

I love her as a woman, to enjoy her.

So both may love.

PALAMON.

You shall not love at all.

ARCITE.

Not love at all! Who shall deny me?

PALAMON.

I, that first saw her; I that took possession

First with mine eye of all those beauties in her

Revealed to mankind. If thou lovest her,

Or entertain’st a hope to blast my wishes,

Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow

False as thy title to her. Friendship, blood,

And all the ties between us, I disclaim

If thou once think upon her.

ARCITE.

Yes, I love her;

And, if the lives of all my name lay on it,

I must do so; I love her with my soul.

If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon.

I say again, I love, and in loving her maintain

I am as worthy and as free a lover

And have as just a title to her beauty,

As any Palamon, or any living

That is a man’s son.

PALAMON.

Have I called thee friend?

ARCITE.

Yes, and have found me so. Why are you moved thus?

Let me deal coldly with you: am not I

Part of your blood, part of your soul? You have told me

That I was Palamon and you were Arcite.

PALAMON.

Yes.

ARCITE.

Am not I liable to those affections,

Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall suffer?

PALAMON.

Ye may be.

ARCITE.

Why then would you deal so cunningly,

So strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman,

To love alone? Speak truly; do you think me

Unworthy of her sight?

PALAMON.

No; but unjust,

If thou pursue that sight.

ARCITE.

Because another

First sees the enemy, shall I stand still

And let mine honour down, and never charge?

PALAMON.

Yes, if he be but one.

ARCITE.

But say that one

Had rather combat me?

PALAMON.

Let that one say so,

And use thy freedom. Else, if thou pursuest her,

Be as that cursed man that hates his country,

A branded villain.

ARCITE.

You are mad.

PALAMON.

I must be,

Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me;

And in this madness, if I hazard thee

And take thy life, I deal but truely.

ARCITE.

Fie, sir!

You play the child extremely. I will love her;

I must, I ought to do so, and I dare,

And all this justly.

PALAMON.

O, that now, that now,

Thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune,

To be one hour at liberty, and grasp

Our good swords in our hands! I would quickly teach thee

What ’twere to filch affection from another!

Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse.

Put but thy head out of this window more

And, as I have a soul, I’ll nail thy life to ’t.

ARCITE.

Thou dar’st not, fool, thou canst not, thou art feeble.

Put my head out? I’ll throw my body out

And leap the garden, when I see her next

And pitch between her arms, to anger thee.

Enter Jailer.

PALAMON.

No more; the keeper’s coming. I shall live

To knock thy brains out with my shackles.

ARCITE.

Do!

JAILER.

By your leave, gentlemen.

PALAMON.

Now, honest keeper?

JAILER.

Lord Arcite, you must presently to th’ Duke;

The cause I know not yet.

ARCITE.

I am ready, keeper.

JAILER.

Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you

Of your fair cousin’s company.

[_Exeunt Arcite and Jailer._]

PALAMON.

And me too,

Even when you please, of life.—Why is he sent for?

It may be he shall marry her; he’s goodly,

And like enough the Duke hath taken notice

Both of his blood and body. But his falsehood!

Why should a friend be treacherous? If that

Get him a wife so noble and so fair,

Let honest men ne’er love again. Once more

I would but see this fair one. Blessed garden

And fruit and flowers more blessed that still blossom

As her bright eyes shine on ye! Would I were,

For all the fortune of my life hereafter,

Yon little tree, yon blooming apricock!

How I would spread and fling my wanton arms

In at her window! I would bring her fruit

Fit for the gods to feed on; youth and pleasure

Still as she tasted should be doubled on her;

And, if she be not heavenly, I would make her

So near the gods in nature, they should fear her.

Enter Jailer.

And then I am sure she would love me. How now, keeper?

Where’s Arcite?

JAILER.

Banished. Prince Pirithous

Obtained his liberty, but never more

Upon his oath and life must he set foot

Upon this kingdom.

PALAMON.

He’s a blessed man.

He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms

The bold young men that, when he bids ’em charge,

Fall on like fire. Arcite shall have a fortune,

If he dare make himself a worthy lover,

Yet in the field to strike a battle for her;

And, if he lose her then, he’s a cold coward.

How bravely may he bear himself to win her

If he be noble Arcite, thousand ways!

Were I at liberty, I would do things

Of such a virtuous greatness that this lady,

This blushing virgin, should take manhood to her

And seek to ravish me.

JAILER.

My lord for you

I have this charge to—

PALAMON.

To discharge my life?

JAILER.

No, but from this place to remove your lordship;

The windows are too open.

PALAMON.

Devils take ’em,

That are so envious to me! Prithee, kill me.

JAILER.

And hang for’t afterward!

PALAMON.

By this good light,

Had I a sword I would kill thee.

JAILER.

Why, my Lord?

PALAMON.

Thou bringst such pelting, scurvy news continually,

Thou art not worthy life. I will not go.

JAILER.

Indeed, you must, my lord.

PALAMON.

May I see the garden?

JAILER.

No.

PALAMON.

Then I am resolved, I will not go.

JAILER.

I must constrain you then; and, for you are dangerous,

I’ll clap more irons on you.

PALAMON.