The duke has lost Hippolyta; each took
A several land. This is a solemn rite
They owe bloom’d May, and the Athenians pay it
To th’ heart of ceremony. O Queen Emilia,
Fresher than May, sweeter
Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all
Th’ enamell’d knacks o’ the mead or garden! yea,
We challenge to the bank of any nymph,
That makes the stream seem flowers; thou, O jewel
O’ the wood, o’ the world, hast likewise bless’d a place
With thy sole presence! In thy rumination
That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between,
And chop on some cold thought! thrice-blessed chance,
To drop on such a mistress, expectation
Most guiltless on’t. Tell me, O Lady Fortune⁠—
Next after Emily my sovereign⁠—how far
I may be proud? She takes strong note of me,
Hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn,
The prim’st of all the year, presents me with
A brace of horses; two such steeds might well
Be by a pair of kings back’d, in a field
That their crowns’ titles tried. Alas, alas,
Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner! thou
So little dream’st upon my fortune, that
Thou think’st thyself the happier thing, to be
So near Emilia; me thou deem’st at Thebes,
And therein wretched, although free: but if
Thou knew’st my mistress breath’d on me, and that
I ear’d her language, liv’d in her eye, O coz,
What passion would enclose thee!

Traitor kinsman!
Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs
Of prisonment were off me, and this hand
But owner of a sword. By all oaths in one,
I, and the justice of my love, would make thee
A confess’d traitor! O thou most perfidious
That ever gently look’d! the void’st of honour
That e’er bore gentle token! falsest cousin
That ever blood made kin! call’st thou her thine?
I’ll prove it in my shackles, with these hands
Void of appointment, that thou liest, and art
A very thief in love, a chaffy lord,
Nor worth the name of villain! Had I a sword,
And these house-clogs away⁠—

Cozener Arcite, give me language such
As thou hast show’d me feat!

Not finding in
The circuit of my breast any gross stuff
To form me like your blazon, holds me to
This gentleness of answer: ’tis your passion
That thus mistakes; the which, to you being enemy,
Cannot to me be kind. Honour and honesty
I cherish and depend on, howsoe’er
You skip them in me; and with them, fair coz,
I’ll maintain my proceedings. Pray, be pleas’d
To show in generous terms your griefs, since that
Your question’s with your equal, who professes
To clear his own way with the mind and sword
Of a true gentleman.

My coz, my coz, you have been well advertis’d
How much I dare: you’ve seen me use my sword
Against th’ advice of fear. Sure, of another
You would not hear me doubted, but your silence
Should break out, though i’ the sanctuary.

Sir,
I’ve seen you move in such a place, which well
Might justify your manhood; you were call’d
A good knight and a bold: but the whole week’s not fair,
If any day it rain. Their valiant temper
Men lose when they incline to treachery;
And then they fight like compell’d bears, would fly
Were they not tied.

Kinsman, you might as well
Speak this, and act it in your glass, as to
His ear which now disdains you.

Come up to me:
Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword,
Though it be rusty, and the charity
Of one meal lend me; come before me then,
A good sword in thy hand, and do but say
That Emily is thine, I will forgive
The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life,
If then thou carry’t; and brave souls in shades,
That have died manly, which will seek of me
Some news from earth, they shall get none but this,
That thou art brave and noble.

Be content,
Again betake you to your hawthorn-house:
With counsel of the night, I will be here
With wholesome viands; these impediments
Will I file off; you shall have garments, and
Perfumes to kill the smell o’ the prison; after,
When you shall stretch yourself, and say but, “Arcite,
I am in plight,” there shall be at your choice
Both sword and armour.

O you heavens, dares any
So noble bear a guilty business? none
But only Arcite; therefore none but Arcite
In this kind is so bold.

I do embrace you and your offer: for
Your offer do’t I only, sir; your person,
Without hypocrisy, I may not wish
More than my sword’s edge on’t. Wind horns of cornets.

You hear the horns:
Enter your musite, lest this match between’s
Be cross’d ere met. Give me your hand; farewell:
I’ll bring you every needful thing: I pray you,
Take comfort, and be strong.

Pray, hold your promise,
And do the deed with a bent brow: most certain
You love me not: be rough with me, and pour
This oil out of your language. By this air,
I could for each word give a cuff; my stomach
Not reconcil’d by reason.

Plainly spoken!
Yet pardon me hard language: when I spur
My horse, I chide him not; content and anger
In me have but one face. Wind horns. Hark, sir! they call
The scatter’d to the banquet: you must guess
I have an office there.

Sir, your attendance
Cannot please heaven; and I know your office
Unjustly is achiev’d.

I’ve a good title,
I am persuaded: this question sick between’s,
My bleeding must be cur’d. I am a suitor
That to your sword you will bequeath this plea,
And talk of it no more.

But this one word:
You’re going now to gaze upon my mistress;
For note you, mine she is⁠—

Nay, pray you⁠—
You talk of feeding me to breed me strength;
You’re going now to look upon a sun
That strengthens what it looks on; there you have
A vantage o’er me: but enjoy it till
I may enforce my remedy. Farewell. Exeunt severally.

He has mistook the brake I meant; is gone
After his fancy. ’Tis now well-nigh morning;
No matter: would it were perpetual night,
And darkeness lord o’ the world!⁠—Hark! ’tis a wolf:
In me hath grief slain fear, and, but for one thing,
I care for nothing, and that’s Palamon:
I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so
He had this file. What if I holla’d for him?
I cannot holla: if I whooped, what then?
If he not answer’d, I should call a wolf,
And do him but that service. I have heard
Strange howls this live-long night: why may’t not be
They have made prey of him? he has no weapons;
He cannot run; the jingling of his gyves
Might call fell things to listen, who have in them
A sense to know a man unarm’d, and can
Smell where resistance is. I’ll set it down
He’s torn to pieces; they howl’d many together,
And then they fed on him: so much for that!
Be bold to ring the bell; how stand I, then?
All’s charr’d when he is gone. No, no, I lie;
My father’s to be hang’d for his escape;
Myself to beg, if I priz’d life so much
As to deny my act; but that I would not,
Should I try death by dozens.⁠—I am mop’d:
Food took I none these two days⁠—
Sipp’d some water; I’ve not clos’d mine eyes,
Save when my lids scour’d off their brine. Alas,
Dissolve my life! let not my sense unsettle,
Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself!
O state of nature, fail together in me,
Since thy best props are warp’d!⁠—So, which way now?
The best way is the next way to a grave:
Each errant step beside is torment. Lo,
The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screeching owl
Calls in the dawn! all offices are done,
Save what I fail in: but the point is this,
An end, and that is all. Exit.

The same: I’ve brought you food and files.
Come forth and fear not; here’s no Theseus.

That’s no matter:
We’ll argue that hereafter. Come, take courage;
You shall not die thus beastly: here, sir, drink;
I know you’re faint; then I’ll talk further with you.

I might;
But I must fear you first. Sit down; and, good, now,
No more of these vain parleys: let us not,
Having our ancient reputation with us,
Make talk for fools and cowards. To your health! Drinks.

Pray, sit down, then; and let me entreat you,
By all the honesty and honour in you,
No mention of this woman! ’twill disturb us;
We shall have time enough.

Drink a good hearty draught; it breeds good blood, man.
Do not you feel it thaw you?

Stay; I’ll tell you
After a draught or two more.

Spare it not;
The duke has more, coz. Eat now.

I’m glad
You have so good a stomach.

I am gladder
I have so good meat to’t.

Is’t not mad lodging
Here in the wild woods, cousin?

Yes, for them
That have wild consciences.

How tastes your victuals?
Your hunger needs no sauce, I see.

Not much:
But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin.
What is this?

’Tis a lusty meat.
Give me more wine: here, Arcite, to the wenches
We’ve known in our days! The lord-steward’s daughter;
Do you remember her?

She met him in an arbour:
What did she there, coz? play o’ the virginals?

Made her groan a month for’t;
Or two, or three, or ten.

The marshal’s sister
Had her share too, as I remember, cousin,
Else there be tales abroad: you’ll pledge her?

A pretty brown wench ’tis: there was a time
When young men went a-hunting, and a wood,
And a broad beech; and thereby hangs a tale.⁠—
Heigh-ho!

For Emily, upon my life! Fool,
Away with this strain’d mirth! I say again,
That sigh was breath’d for Emily: base cousin,
Dar’st thou break first?

By heaven and earth,
There’s nothing in thee honest.

Then I’ll leave you:
You are a beast now.

There’s all things needful⁠—files, and shirts, and perfumes:
I’ll come again some two hours hence, and bring
That that shall quiet all.

Fear me not. You are now too foul; farewell:
Get off your trinkets; you shall want nought.

I am very cold; and all the stars are out too,
The little stars, and all that look like aglets:
The sun has seen my folly. Palamon!
Alas, no! he’s in heaven.⁠—Where am I now?⁠—
Yonder’s the sea, and there’s a ship; how’t tumbles!
And there’s a rock lies watching under water;
Now, now, it beats upon it; now, now, now,
There’s a leak sprung, a sound one; how they cry!
Spoon her before the wind, you’ll lose all else;
Up with a course or two, and tack about, boys:
Good night, good night; ye’re gone.⁠—I’m very hungry:
Would I could find a fine frog! he would tell me
News from all parts o’ the world; then would I make
A careck of a cockle-shell, and sail
By east and north-east to the king of Pigmies,
For he tells fortunes rarely. Now, my father,
Twenty to one, is truss’d up in a trice
To-morrow morning: I’ll say never a word. Sings.

O for a prick now, like a nightingale,
To put my breast against! I shall sleep like a top else. Exit.

Fie, fie!
What tediosity and disensanity
Is here among ye! Have my rudiments
Been labour’d so long with ye, milk’d unto ye,
And, by a figure, even the very plum-broth
And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye,
And do you still cry “Where,” and “How,” and “Wherfore?”
You most coarse freeze capacities, ye jane judgements,
Have I said “Thus let be,” and “There let be,”
And “Then let be,” and no man understand me?
Proh Deum, medius fidius, ye are all dunces!
For why here stand I; here the duke comes; there are you,
Close in the thicket; the duke appears; I meet him,
And unto him I utter learned things
And many figures; he hears, and nods, and hums,
And then cries “Rare!” and I go forward; at length
I fling my cap up; mark there! then do you,
As once did Meleager and the boar,
Break comely out before him, like true lovers
Cast yourselves in a body decently,
And sweetly, by a figure, trace and turn, boys.

Where be your ribands, maids? swim with your bodies,
And carry it sweetly and deliverly;
And now and then a favour and a frisk.

Couple, then,
And see what’s wanting. Where’s the Bavian?
My friend, carry your tail without offence
Or scandal to the ladies; and be sure
You tumble with audacity and manhood;
And when you bark, do it with judgement.

We have,
As learned authors utter, wash’d a tile;
We have been fatuus, and labour’d vainly.

This is that scornful piece, that scurvy hilding,
That gave her promise faithfully she would
Be here, Cicely the sempster’s daughter:
The next gloves that I give her shall be dog-skin;
Nay, an she fail me once⁠—You can tell, Arcas,
She swore, by wine and bread, she would not break.

An eel and woman,
A learned poet says, unless by the tail
And with thy teeth thou hold, will either fail.
In manners this was false position.

What
Shall we determine, sir?

Nothing;
Our business is become a nullity,
Yea, and a woful and a piteous nullity.

Now, when the credit of our town lay on it,
Now to be frampal, now to piss o’ the nettle!
Go thy ways; I’ll remember thee, I’ll fit thee!

The George, holla! came from the south,
From the coast of Barbary-a;
And there he met with brave gallants of war,
By one, by two, by three-a.

Well hail’d, well hail’d, you jolly gallants!
And whither now are you bound-a?
O, let me have your company
Till I come to the Sound-a!

There was three fools fell out about an howlet:
The one said it was an owl;
The other he said nay;
The third he said it was a hawk,
And her bells were cut away.

There’s a dainty mad woman, master,
Come i’ the nick; as mad as a March hare:
If we can get her dance, we’re made again;
I warrant her she’ll do the rarest gambols.

I’d be sorry else.
Give me your hand.

I can tell your fortune:
You are a fool. Tell ten. I’ve pos’d him. Buzz!
Friend, you must eat no white bread; if you do,
Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we dance, ho?
I know you; you’re a tinker; sirrah tinker,
Stop no more holes but what you should.

Dii boni!
A tinker, damsel!

Or a conjurer:
Raise me a devil now, and let him play
Qui passa o’ the bells and bones.

Go, take her,
And fluently persuade her to a peace;
Et opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis⁠—
Strike up, and lead her in.

Persuasively and cunningly; away, boys!
I hear the horns: give me some meditation,
And mark your cue. Exeunt all except Gerrold. Pallas inspire me!

Well, sir, go forward; we will edify.⁠—
Ladies, sit down: we’ll stay it.

If you but favour, our country pastime made is.
We are a few of those collected here,
That ruder tongues distinguish villager;
And, to say verity and not to fable,
We are a merry rout, or else a rable.
Or company, or, by a figure, choris,
That ’fore thy dignity will dance a morris.
And I, that am the rectifier of all,
By title poedagogus, that let fall
The birch upon the breeches of the small ones,
And humble with a ferula the tall ones,
Do here present this machine, or this frame:
And, dainty duke, whose doughty dismal fame
From Dis to Daedalus, from post to pillar,
Is blown abroad, help me, thy poor well-willer,
And, with thy twinkling eyes, look right and straight
Upon this mighty morr⁠—of mickle weight⁠—
Is⁠—now comes in, which being glu’d together
Makes morris, and the cause that we came hether,
The body of our sport, of no small study.
I first appear, though rude and raw and muddy,
To speak, before thy noble grace, this tenner;
At whose great feet I offer up my penner:
The next, the Lord of May and Lady bright,
The Chambermaid and Servingman, by night
That seek out silent hanging: then mine Host
And his fat spouse, that welcomes to their cost
The galled traveller, and with a beck’ning
Informs the tapster to inflame the reck’ning:
Then the beast-eating Clown, and next the Fool,
The Bavian, with long tail and eke long tool;
Cum multis aliis that make a dance:
Say “Ay,” and all shall presently advance.

Ladies, if we have been merry,
And have pleas’d ye with a derry,
And a derry, and a down,
Say the schoolmaster’s no clown.
Duke, if we have pleas’d thee too,
And have done as good boys should do,
Give us but a tree or twain
For a Maypole, and again,
Ere another year run out,
We’ll make thee laugh, and all this rout.

’Twas an excellent dance; and for a preface,
I never heard a better.

Schoolmaster, I thank you.⁠—
One see ’em all rewarded.

And here’s something Gives money.
To paint your pole withal.

May the stag thou hunt’st stand long,
And thy dogs be swift and strong!
May they kill him without lets,
And the ladies eat his dowsets! Exeunt Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arcite, and Train. Horns winded as they go out.
Come, we’re all made. Dii Deoeque omnes!
Ye have danc’d rarely, wenches. Exeunt.

About this hour my cousin gave his faith
To visit me again, and with him bring
Two swords and two good armours: if he fail,
He’s neither man nor soldier. When he left me,
I did not think a week could have restor’d
My lost strength to me, I was grown so low
And crest-fall’n with my wants: I thank thee, Arcite,
Thou’rt yet a fair foe; and I feel myself
With this refreshing, able once again
To outdure danger. To delay it longer
Would make the world think, when it comes to hearing,
That I lay fatting like a swine, to fight,
And not a soldier: therefore, this blest morning
Shall be the last; and that sword he refuses,
If it but hold, I kill him with; ’tis justice:
So, love and fortune for me!

I have put you
To too much pains, sir.

That too much, fair cousin,
Is but a debt to honour and my duty.

Would you were so in all, sir! I could wish ye
As kind a kinsman as you force me find
A beneficial foe, that my embraces
Might thank ye, not my blows.

I shall think either,
Well done, a noble recompense.

Defy me in these fair terms, and you show
More than a mistress to me: no more anger,
As you love anything that’s honourable:
We were not bred to talk, man; when we’re arm’d,
And both upon our guards, then let our fury,
Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us;
And then to whom the birthright of this beauty
Truly pertains⁠—without upbraidings, scorns,
Despisings of our persons, and such poutings,
Fitter for girls and school-boys⁠—will be seen,
And quickly, yours or mine. Will’t please you arm, sir?
Or, if you feel yourself not fitting yet,
And furnish’d with your old strength, I’ll stay, cousin,
And every day discourse you into health,
As I am spar’d: your person I am friends with;
And I could wish I had not said I lov’d her,
Though I had died; but, loving such a lady,
And justifying my love, I must not fly from’t.

Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy,
That no man but thy cousin’s fit to kill thee:
I’m well and lusty; choose your arms.

Wilt thou exceed in all, or dost thou do it
To make me spare thee?

If you think so, cousin,
You are deceiv’d; for, as I am a soldier,
I will not spare you.

Then, as I am an honest man, and love
With all the justice of affection,
I’ll pay thee soundly. This I’ll take.

That’s mine, then.
I’ll arm you first. Proceeds to put on Palamon’s armour.

Do. Pray thee, tell me, cousin,
Where gott’st thou this good armour?

’Tis the duke’s;
And, to say true, I stole’t. Do I pinch you?

I have worn a lighter;
But I shall make it serve.

No, no; we’ll use no horses: I perceive
You’d fain be at that fight.

Faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust the buckle
Through far enough.

But use your gauntlets though: those are o’ the least;
Pr’ythee, take mine, good cousin.

Thank you, Arcite.
How do I look? am I fall’n much away?

Do, and spare not.
I’ll give you cause, sweet cousin.

Now to you, sir.
Methinks this armour’s very like that, Arcite,
Thou wor’st that day the three kings fell, but lighter.

That was a very good one; and that day,
I well remember, you outdid me, cousin;
I never saw such valour: when you charg’d
Upon the left wing of the enemy,
I spurr’d hard to come up, and under me
I had a right good horse.

You had indeed;
A bright bay, I remember.

Yes. But all
Was vainly labour’d in me; you outwent me,
Nor could my wishes reach you: yet a little
I did by imitation.

More by virtue;
You’re modest, cousin.

When I saw you charge first,
Methought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder
Break from the troop.

But still before that flew
The lightning of your valour. Stay a little:
Is not this piece too straight?

I would have nothing hurt thee but my sword;
A bruise would be dishonour.

I thank ye. No, keep it; your life lies on it:
Here’s one, if it but hold, I ask no more
For all my hopes. My cause and honour guard me!

This only, and no more. Thou art mine aunt’s son,
And that blood we desire to shed is mutual;
In me thine, and in thee mine: my sword
Is in my hand, and, if thou killest me,
The gods and I forgive thee: if there be
A place prepar’d for those that sleep in honour,
I wish his weary soul that falls may win it.
Fight bravely, cousin: give me thy noble hand.

Here, Palamon: this hand shall never more
Come near thee with such friendship.

If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward;
For none but such dare die in these just trials.
Once more, farewell, my cousin.

This is the duke, a-hunting as I told you;
If we be found, we’re wretched; O, retire,
For honour’s sake and safety, presently
Into your bush again, sir; we shall find
Too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin,
If you be seen, you perish instantly
For breaking prison; and I, if you reveal me,
For my contempt: then all the world will scorn us,
And say we had a noble difference,
But base disposers of it.

No, no, cousin;
I will no more be hidden, nor put off
This great adventure to a second trial:
I know your cunning and I know your cause:
He that faints now, shame take him! Put thyself
Upon thy present guard⁠—

Or I will make th’ advantage of this hour
Mine own; and what to come shall threaten me,
I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak cousin,
I love Emilia; and in that I’ll bury
Thee, and all crosses else.

Then, come what can come,
Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well
Die, as discourse or sleep: only this fears me,
The law will have the honour of our ends.
Have at thy life!

What ignorant and mad malicious traitors
Are you, that, ’gainst the tenor of my laws,
Are making battle, thus like knights appointed,
Without my leave, and officers of arms?
By Castor, both shall die.

Hold thy word, Theseus:
We’re certainly both traitors, both despisers
Of thee and of thy goodness: I am Palamon,
That cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison;
Think well what that deserves: and this is Arcite;
A bolder traitor never trod thy ground,
A falser ne’er seemed friend: this is the man
Was begg’d and banish’d: this is he contemns thee
And what thou dar’st do; and in this disguise,
Against thy own edict, follows thy sister,
That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia;
Whose servant⁠—if there be a right in seeing,
And first bequeathing of the soul to⁠—justly
I am; and, which is more, dares think her his.
This treachery, like a most trusty lover,
I call’d him now to answer: if thou be’st,
As thou art spoken, great and virtuous,
The true decider of all injuries,
Say “Fight again!” and thou shalt see me, Theseus,
Do such a justice thou thyself wilt envy:
Then take my life; I’ll woo thee to’t.

O heaven,
What more than man is this!

We seek not
Thy breath of mercy, Theseus: ’tis to me
A thing as soon to die as thee to say it,
And no more mov’d. Where this man calls me traitor,
Let me say thus much: if in love be treason,
In service of so excellent a beauty,
As I love most, and in that faith will perish,
As I have brought my life here to confirm it,
As I have serv’d her truest, worthiest,
As I dare kill this cousin that denies it,
So let me be most traitor, and ye please me.
For scorning thy edict, duke, ask that lady
Why she is fair, and why her eyes command me
Stay here to love her; and, if she say “traitor,”
I am a villain fit to lie unburied.

Thou shalt have pity of us both, O Theseus,
If unto neither thou show mercy; stop,
As thou art just, thy noble ear against us;
As thou art valiant: for thy cousin’s soul,
Whose twelve strong labours crown his memory,
Let’s die together, at one instant, duke;
Only a little let him fall before me,
That I may tell my soul he shall not have her.

I grant your wish; for, to say true, your cousin
Has ten times more offended, for I gave him
More mercy than you found, sir, your offences
Being no more then his.⁠—None here speak for ’em;
For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever.

Alas, the pity!⁠—Now or never, sister,
Speak, not to be denied: that face of yours
Will bear the curses else of after ages
For these lost cousins.

In my face, dear sister,
I find no anger to ’em, nor no ruin;
The misadventure of their own eyes kill ’em:
Yet that I will be woman and have pity,
My knees shall grow to the ground but I’ll get mercy.
Help me, dear sister: in a deed so virtuous
The powers of all women will be with us.⁠—
Most royal brother⁠—They kneel.

By that faith,
That fair hand, and that honest heart you gave me⁠—

By that you would have pity in another,
By your own virtues infinite⁠—

By valour,
By all the chaste nights I have ever pleas’d you⁠—

Nay, then, I’ll in too:⁠—Kneels.
By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers,
By all you love most, wars, and this sweet lady⁠—

By that you would have trembled to deny
A blushing maid⁠—

By your own eyes, by strength,
In which you swore I went beyond all women,
Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus⁠—

To crown all this, by your most noble soul,
Which cannot want due mercy, I beg first.

Ye make my faith reel: say I felt
Compassion to ’em both, how would you place it?

You’re a right woman, sister; you have pity,
But want the understanding where to use it.
If you desire their lives, invent a way
Safer than banishment: can these two live,
And have the agony of love about ’em,
And not kill one another? every day
They’d fight about you; hourly bring your honour
In public question with their swords. Be wise, then,
And here forget ’em; it concerns your credit
And my oath equally; I’ve said they die:
Better they fall by the law than one another.
Bow not my honour.

O my noble brother,
That oath was rashly made, and in your anger;
Your reason will not hold it: if such vows
Stand for express will, all the world must perish.
Beside, I have another oath ’gainst yours,
Of more authority, I’m sure more love;
Not made in passion neither, but good heed.

That you would ne’er deny me anything
Fit for my modest suit and your free granting:
I tie you to your word now; if ye fall in’t,
Think how you maim your honour⁠—
For now I’m set a-begging, sir, I’m deaf
To all but your compassion⁠—how their lives
Might breed the ruin of my name, opinion!
Shall anything that loves me perish for me?
That were a cruel wisedom: do men proyne
The straight young boughs that blush with thousand blossoms,
Because they may be rotten? O Duke Theseus,
The goodly mothers that have groan’d for these,
And all the longing maids that ever lov’d,
If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty,
And in their funeral songs for these two cousins
Despise my cruelty, and cry woe-worth me,
Till I am nothing but the scorn of women.
For heaven’s sake save their lives, and banish ’em.

Swear ’em never more
To make me their contention or to know me,
To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be,
Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers
To one another.

I’ll be cut to pieces
Before I take this oath: forget I love her?
O all ye gods, dispise me, then. Thy banishment
I not mislike, so we may fairly carry
Our swords and cause along; else, never trifle,
But take our lives, duke: I must love, and will;
And for that love must and dare kill this cousin,
On any piece the earth has.

Will you, Arcite,
Take these conditions?

No, never, duke; ’tis worse to me than begging,
To take my life so basely. Though I think
I never shall enjoy her, yet I’ll preserve
The honour of affection, and die for her,
Make death a devil.

Say, Emilia,
If one of them were dead, as one must, are you
Content to take the other to your husband?
They cannot both enjoy you: they are princes
As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble
As ever fame yet spoke of: look upon ’em,
And, if you can love, end this difference;
I give consent.⁠—Are you content too, princes?

He that she refuses
Must die, then.

If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour,
And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes.

If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me,
And soldiers sing my epitaph.

I cannot, sir; they’re both too excellent:
For me, a hair shall never fall of these men.

Thus I ordaine it;
And, by mine honour, once again it stands,
Or both shall die.⁠—You shall both to your country;
And each, within this month, accompanied
With three fair knights, appear again in this place,
In which I’ll plant a pyramid; and whether,
Before us that are here, can force his cousin
By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar,
He shall enjoy her; th’ other lose his head,
And all his friends; nor shall he grudge to fall,
Nor think he dies with interest in this lady.
Will this content ye?

Yes.⁠—Here, cousin Arcite,
I’m friends again till that hour.

Yes; I must, sir;
Else both miscarry.

Come, shake hands again, then;
And take heed, as you’re gentlemen, this quarrel
Sleep till the hour prefix’d, and hold your course.

Come, I’ll give ye
Now usage like to princes and to friends.
When ye return, who wins, I’ll settle here;
Who loses, yet I’ll weep upon his bier. Exeunt.