Hear you no more? was nothing said of me
Concerning the escape of Palamon?
Good sir, remember.

Nothing that I heard;
For I came home before the business
Was fully ended: yet I might perceive,
Ere I departed, a great likelihood
Of both their pardons; for Hippolyta
And fair-ey’d Emily upon their knees
Begg’d with such handsome pity, that the duke
Methought stood staggering whether he should follow
His rash oath, or the sweet compassion
Of those two ladies; and to second them,
That truly noble Prince Pirithous,
Half his own heart, set in too, that I hope
All shall be well: neither heard I one question
Of your name or his scape.

Be of good comfort, man: I bring you news,
Good news.

Palamon has clear’d you,
And got your pardon, and discover’d how
And by whose means he escap’d, which was your daughter’s,
Whose pardon is procur’d too; and the prisoner⁠—
Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness⁠—
Has given a sum of money to her marriage,
A large one, I’ll assure you.

Ye’re a good man,
And ever bring good news.

Why, as it should be; they that never begg’d
But they prevail’d, had their suits fairly granted:
The prisoners have their lives.

But there be new conditions, which you’ll hear of
At better time.

They’re honourable:
How good they’ll prove, I know not.

Was she well? was she in health, sir?
When did she sleep?

I do not think she was very well; for, now
You make me mind her, but this very day
I ask’d her questions, and she answer’d me
So far from what she was, so childishly,
So sillily, as if she were a fool,
An innocent; and I was very angry.
But what of her, sir?

Nothing but my pity:
But you must know it, and as good by me
As by another that less loves her.

No, sir; not well:
’Tis too true, she is mad.

I half suspected
What you have told me; the gods comfort her!
Either this was her love to Palamon,
Or fear of my miscarrying on his scape,
Or both.

I’ll tell you quickly. As I late was angling
In the great lake that lies behind the palace,
From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges,
As patiently I was attending sport,
I heard a voice, a shrill one; and attentive
I gave my ear; when I might well perceive
’Twas one that sung, and, by the smallness of it,
A boy or woman. I then left my angle
To his own skill, came near, but yet perceiv’d not
Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds
Had so encompass’d it: I laid me down,
And listen’d to the words she sung; for then,
Through a small glade cut by the fishermen,
I saw it was your daughter.

She sung much, but no sense; only I heard her
Repeat this often, “Palamon is gone,
Is gone to the wood to gather mulberries;
I’ll find him out to-morrow.”

“His shackles will betray him, he’ll be taken;
And what shall I do then? I’ll bring a bevy,
A hundred black-ey’d maids that love as I do,
With chaplets on their heads of daffodillies,
With cherry lips, and cheeks of damask roses,
And all we’ll dance an antic ’fore the duke,
And beg his pardon.” Then she talk’d of you, sir;
That you must lose your head to-morrow morning,
And she must gather flowers to bury you,
And see the house made handsome. Then she sung
Nothing but “Willow, willow, willow;” and between
Ever was, “Palamon, fair Palamon,”
And “Palamon was a tall young man.” The place
Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless tresses
A wreath of bulrush rounded; about her stuck
Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours;
That methought she appear’d like the fair nymph
That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris
Newly dropt down from heaven. Rings she made
Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke
The prettiest posies⁠—“Thus our true love’s tied,”
“This you may loose, not me,” and many a one;
And then she wept, and sung again, and sigh’d,
And with the same breath smil’d, and kiss’d her hand.

I made in to her:
She saw me, and straight sought the flood; I sav’d her,
And set her safe to land: when presently
She slipt away, and to the city made,
With such a cry, and swiftness, that, believe me,
She left me far behind her. Three or four
I saw from far off cross her, one of ’em
I knew to be your brother; where she stay’d,
And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her,
And hither came to tell you. Here they are.

Sings.

Is not this a fine song?

Yes, truly, can I; I can sing “The Broom,”
And “Bonny Robin.” Are not you a tailor?

Do, very rarely; I must be abroad else,
To call the maids and pay the minstrels;
For I must lose my maidenhead by cock-light;
’Twill never thrive else. Sings.

Good even, good men. Pray, did you ever hear
Of one young Palamon?

By no mean cross her; she is then distemper’d
Far worse than now she shows.

But she shall never have him, tell her so,
For a trick that I know: y’had best look to her,
For, if she see him once, she’s gone; she’s done,
And undone in an hour. All the young maids
Of our town are in love with him: but I laugh at ’em,
And let ’em all alone; is’t not a wise course?

There is at least two hundred now with child by him⁠—
There must be four; yet I keep close for all this,
Close as a cockle; and all these must be boys⁠—
He has the trick on’t; and at ten years old
They must be all gelt for musicians,
And sing the wars of Theseus.

They come from all parts of the dukedome to him;
I’ll warrant ye, he had not so few last night
As twenty to dispatch; he’ll tickle’t up
In two hours, if his hand be in.

She’s lost,
Past all cure.

Set it to the north;
And now direct your course to the wood, where Palamon
Lies longing for me; for the tackling
Let me alone: come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly!

Owgh, owgh, owgh! ’tis up, the wind is fair:
Top the bowling; out with the main-sail:
Where’s your whistle, master?

Bear for it, master:
Tack about! Sings.

Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must open
And bleed to death for my sake else: I’ll choose,
And end their strife: two such young handsome men
Shall never fall for me: their weeping mothers,
Following the dead-cold ashes of their sons,
Shall never curse my cruelty. Good heaven,
What a sweet face has Arcite! If wise Nature,
With all her best endowments, all those beauties
She sows into the births of noble bodies,
Were here a mortal woman, and had in her
The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless
She would run mad for this man: what an eye⁠—
Of what a fiery sparkle and quick sweetness,
Has this young prince! here Love himself sits smiling!⁠—
Just such another, wanton Ganymede
Set Jove a-fire with, and enforc’d the god
Snatch up the goodly boy and set him by him,
A shining constellation: what a brow,
Of what a spacious majesty, he carries,
Arch’d like the great-ey’d Juno’s, but far sweeter,
Smoother than Pelops’ shoulder! Fame and honour,
Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory
Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings, and sing
To all the under-world, the loves and fights
Of gods, and such men near ’em. Palamon
Is but his foil; to him, a mere dull shadow:
He’s swarth and meagre, of an eye as heavy
As if he had lost his mother; a still temper,
No stirring in him, no alacrity;
Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile;⁠—
Yet these that we count errors, may become him:
Narcissus was a sad boy, but a heavenly.
O, who can find the bent of woman’s fancy?
I am a fool, my reason is lost in me;
I have no choice, and I have lied so lewdly
That women ought to beat me. On my knees
I ask thy pardon, Palamon; thou art alone,
And only beautiful; and these the eyes,
These the bright lamps of beauty, that command
And threaten Love; and what young maid dare cross ’em?
What a bold gravity, and yet inviting,
Has this brown manly face! O Love, this only
From this hour is complexion. Lie there, Arcite;
Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gipsy,
And this the noble body. I am sotted,
Utterly lost; my virgin’s faith has fled me,
For, if my brother but even now had ask’d me
Whether I lov’d, I had run mad for Arcite;
Now if my sister, more for Palamon.⁠—
Stand both together.⁠—Now, come, ask me, brother;⁠—
Alas, I know not!⁠—Ask me now, sweet sister;⁠—
I may go look!⁠—What a mere child is fancy,
That, having two fair gauds of equal sweetness,
Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both!

From the noble duke your brother,
Madam, I bring you news: the knights are come.

Would I might end first!
What sins have I committed, chaste Diana,
That my unspotted youth must now be soil’d
With blood of princes, and my chastity
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 beauty?

Bring ’em in
Quickly by any means; I long to see ’em.⁠—
Your two contending lovers are return’d,
And with them their fair knights: now, my fair sister,
You must love one of them.

I had rather both,
So neither for my sake should fall untimely.

Pray, speak,
You that have seen them, what they are.

I will, sir,
And truly what I think. Six braver spirits
Than these the’ve brought⁠—if we judge by th’ 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 looks so say him; his complexion
Nearer a brown than black; stern, and yet noble,
Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers;
The circles of his eyes show fire within him,
And as a heated lion so he looks;
His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining
Like ravens’ wings; his shoulders broad and strong;
Arm’d long and round; and on his thigh a sword
Hung by a curious baldrick, when he frowns
To seal his will with; better, o’ my conscience,
Was never soldier’s friend.

Yet a great deal short,
Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon.

I guess he is a prince too,
And, if it may be, greater; for his show
Has all the ornament of honour in’t:
He’s somewhat bigger than 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 own; in’s face appears
All the fair hopes of what he undertakes;
And when he’s angry, then a settled valour,
Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body,
And guides his arm to brave things; fear he cannot,
He shows no such soft temper; his head’s yellow,
Hard-hair’d, and curl’d, thick-twin’d, like ivy-tods,
Not to undo with thunder; in his face
The livery of the warlike maid appears,
Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blest him;
And in his rolling eyes sits Victory,
As if she ever meant to court his valour;
His nose stands high, a character of honour,
His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies.

When he speaks, his tongue
Sounds like a trumpet; all his lineaments
Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean;
He wears a well-steel’d axe, the staff of gold;
His age some five-and-twenty.

There’s another,
A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming
As great as any; fairer promises
In such a body yet I never look’d on.

The same, my lord:
Are they not sweet ones?

Methinks,
Being so few and well-dispos’d, 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 shows an active soul; his arms are brawny,
Lin’d with strong sinews; to the shoulder-piece
Gently they swell, like women new-conceiv’d,
Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting
Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted, still,
But, when he stirs, a tiger; he’s gray-ey’d,
Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp
To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em,
He’s swift to make ’em his; he does no wrongs,
Nor takes none; he’s round-fac’d, and when he smiles
He shows a lover, when he frowns, a soldier;
About his head he wears the winner’s oak,
And in it stuck the favour of his lady;
His age some six-and-thirty; in his hand
He bears a charging-staff, emboss’d with silver.

Now, as I have a soul, I long to see ’em.⁠—
Lady, you shall see men fight now.

I wish it,
But not the cause, my lord: they would show
Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms:
’Tis pity Love should be so tyrannous.⁠—
O my soft-hearted sister, what think you?
Weep not, till they weep blood, wench: it must be.

You’ve steel’d ’em with your beauty.⁠—Honour’d friend,
To you I give the field; pray, order it
Fitting the persons that must use it.

Come, I’ll go visit ’em: I cannot stay⁠—
Their fame has fir’d me so⁠—till they appear.
Good friend, be royal.

Poor wench, go weep; for whosoever wins,
Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. Exeunt.

To hear there a proud lady and a proud city-wife howl together! I were a beast, an I’d call it good sport: one cries, “O, this smoke!” th’ other, “This fire!” one cries, “O, that ever I did it behind the arras!” and then howls; th’ other curses a suing fellow and her garden-house. Sings.