Now let ’em enter, and before the gods
Tender their holy prayers: let the temples
Burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars
In hallow’d clouds commend their swelling incense
To those above us: let no due be wanting:
They have a noble work in hand, will honour
The very powers that love ’em.

You valiant and strong-hearted enemies,
You royal germane foes, that this day come
To blow that nearness out that flames between ye,
Lay by your anger for an hour, and dove-like
Before the holy altars of your helpers,
The all-fear’d gods, bow down your stubborn bodies:
Your hire is more than mortal; so your help be!
And, as the gods regard ye, fight with justice:
I’ll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye
I part my wishes.

The glass is running now that cannot finish
Till one of us expire: think you but thus,
That, were there aught in me which strove to show
Mine enemy in this business, were’t one eye
Against another, arm oppress’d by arm,
I would destroy th’ offender; coz, I would,
Though parcel of myself: then from this gather
How I should tender you.

I am in labour
To push your name, your ancient love, our kindred,
Out of my memory; and i’ the selfsame place
To seat something I would confound: so hoist we
The sails, that must these vessels port even where
The heavenly lymiter pleases.

You speak well.
Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin:
This I shall never do again.

Farewell, sir! They embrace.⁠—Exeunt Palamon and his Knights.
Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices,
True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you
Expels the seeds of fear, and th’ apprehension
Which still is farther off it, go with me
Before the god of our profession: there
Require of him the hearts of lions, and
The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too,
Yea, the speed also⁠—to go on, I mean,
Else wish we to be snails: you know my prize
Must be dragg’d out of blood; force and great feat
Must put my garland on, where she sticks
The queen of flowers; our intercession, then,
Must be to him that makes the camp a cestron
Brimm’d with the blood of men; give me your aid,
And bend your spirits towards him. They advance to the altar of Mars, and fall on their faces; then kneel.
Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turn’d
Green Neptune into purple; whose approach
Comets prewarn; whose havoc in vast field
Unearth’d skulls proclaim; whose breath blows down
The teeming Ceres’ foyzon; who dost pluck
With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds
The mason’d turrets; that both mak’st and break’st
The stony girths of cities; me thy pupil,
Young’st follower of thy drum, instruct this day
With military skill, that to thy laud
I may advance my streamer, and by thee
Be styl’d the lord o’ the day;⁠—give me, great Mars,
Some token of thy pleasure. Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar.
O great corrector of enormous times,
Shaker of o’er-rank states, thou grand decider
Of dusty and old titles, that heal’st with blood
The earth when it is sick, and cur’st the world
O’ the pluresie of people; I do take
Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name
To my design march boldly.⁠—Let us go. Exeunt.

Our stars must glister with new fire, or be
To-day extinct; our argument is love,
Which if the goddess of it grant, she gives
Victory too: then blend your spirits with mine,
You, whose free nobleness do make my cause
Your personal hazard: to the goddess Venus
Commend we our proceeding, and implore
Her power unto our party. They advance to the alter of Venus, and fall on their faces; then kneel.
Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power
To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage,
And weep unto a girl; that hast the might
Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars’s drum,
And turn th’ alarm to whispers; that canst make
A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him
Before Apollo; that may’st force the king
To be his subject’s vassal, and induce
Stale gravity to dance; the poul’d bach’lor⁠—
Whose youth, like wonton boys through bonfires,
Have skipt thy flame⁠—at seventy thou canst catch,
And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat,
Abuse young lays of love: what godlike power
Hast thou not power upon? to Phoebus thou
Add’st flames, hotter than his; the heavenly fires
Did scorch his mortal son, thine him: the huntress
All moist and cold, some say, began to throw
Her bow away, and sigh: take to thy grace
Me, thy vow’d soldier, who do bear thy yoke
As ’twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier
Than lead itself, stings more than nettles: I
Have never been foul mouth’d against thy law;
Ne’er reveal’d secret, for I knew none⁠—would not,
Had I kenn’d all that were; I never practis’d
Upon man’s wife, nor would the libels read
Of liberal wits; I never at great feasts
Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush’d
At simpering sirs that did; I have been harsh
To large confessors, and have hotly ask’d them,
If they had mothers? I had one, a woman,
And women ’twere they wrong’d: I knew a man
Of eighty winters⁠—this I told them⁠—who
A lass of fourteen brided; ’twas thy power
To put life into dust; the aged cramp
Had screw’d his square foot round,
The gout had knit his fingers into knots,
Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes
Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life
In him seem’d torture; this anatomy
Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I
Believ’d it was his, for she swore it was,
And who would not believe her? Brief, I am
To those that prate, and have done, no companion;
To those that boast, and have not, a defier;
To those that would, and cannot, a rejoicer:
Yea, him I do not love, that tells close offices
The foulest way, nor names concealments in
The boldest language; such a one I am,
And vow that lover never yet made sigh
Truer than I. O, then, most soft sweet goddess,
Give me the victory of this question, which
Is true love’s merit, and bless me with a sign
Of thy great pleasure. Here music is heard, and doves are seen to flutter: they fall again upon their faces, then on their knees.
O thou that from eleven to ninety reign’st
In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world,
And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks
For this fair token; which being laid unto
Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance
My body to this business.⁠—Let us rise,
And bow before the goddess: time comes on. They bow, then exeunt.

O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen,
Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative,
Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure
As wind-fann’d snow, who to thy female knights
Allow’st no more blood than will make a blush,
Which is their order’s robe; I here, thy priest,
Am humbled ’fore thine altar: O, vouchsafe,
With that thy rare green eye⁠—which never yet
Beheld thing maculate⁠—look on thy virgin;
And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear⁠—
Which nev’r heard scurril term, into whose port
Nev’r entered wanton sound⁠—to my petition,
Season’d with holy fear. This is my last
Of vestal office; I’m bride-habited,
But maiden-hearted: a husband I have ’pointed,
But do not know him; out of two I should
Choose one, and pray for his success; but I
Am guiltless of election: of mine eyes
Were I to lose one⁠—they are equal precious⁠—
I could doom neither; that which perish’d should
Go to’t unsentenc’d: therefore, most modest queen,
He, of the two pretenders, that best loves me
And has the truest title in’t, let him
Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant
The file and quality I hold I may
Continue in thy band. Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose-tree, having one rose upon it.
See what our general of ebbs and flows
Out from the bowels of her holy altar
With sacred act advances; but one rose!
If well inspir’d, this battle shall confound
Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flower,
Must grow alone, unpluck’d. Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree, which vanishes under the altar.
The flower is fall’n, the tree descends.⁠—O mistress,
Thou here dischargest me; I shall be gather’d,
I think so; but I know not thine own will:
Unclasp thy mystery.⁠—I hope she’s pleas’d;
Her signs were gracious. They curtsy, and exeunt.

O, very much; the maids that kept her company
Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon;
Within this half-hour she came smiling to me,
And ask’d me what I’d eat, and when I’d kiss her:
I told her presently, and kiss’d her twice.

’Twas well done: twenty times had been far better;
For there the cure lies mainly.

Then she told me
She’d watch with me to-night, for well she knew
What hour my fit would take me.

Let her do so;
And when your fit comes, fit her home, and presently.

’Twas very ill done, then;
You should observe her every way.

Alas,
I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way!

That’s all one, if ye make a noise:
If she entreat again, do anything;
Lie with her, if she ask you.

But first, by your leave,
I’ the way of honesty.

That’s but a niceness;
Ne’er cast your child away for honesty:
Cure her first this way; then, if she’ll be honest,
She has the path before her.

Pray, bring her in,
And let’s see how she is.

I will, and tell her
Her Palamon stays for her: but, doctor,
Methinks you are i’ the wrong still. Exit.

Go, go;
You fathers are fine fools: her honesty!
And we should give her physic till we find that⁠—

She may be;
But that’s all one, ’tis nothing to our purpose:
Whate’er her father says, if you perceive
Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of,
Videlicet, the way of flesh⁠—you have me?

Please her appetite,
And do it home; it cures her, ipso facto,
The melancholy humour that infects her.

Come; your love Palamon stays for you, child,
And has done this long hour, to visit you.

I thank him for his gentle patience;
He’s a kind gentleman, and I’m much bound to him.
Did you ne’er see the horse he gave me?

I have often:
He dances very finely, very comely;
And, for a jig, come cut and long tail to him;
He turns ye like a top.

He’ll dance the morris twenty mile an hour,
And that will founder the best hobby-horse,
If I have any skill, in all the parish;
And gallops to the tune of “Light o’ Love:”
What think you of this horse?

Having these virtues,
I think he might be brought to play at tennis.

A very fair hand; and casts himself th’ accounts
Of all his hay and provender; that hostler
Must rise betime that cozens him. You know
The chestnut mare the duke has?

She’s horribly in love with him, poor beast;
But he is like his master, coy and scornful.

Some two hundred bottles,
And twenty strike of oats; but he’ll ne’er have her:
He lisps in’s neighing, able to entice
A miller’s mare; he’ll be the death of her.

Pretty soul,
How do ye? That’s a fine maid; there’s a curtsy!

Yours to command, i’ the way of honesty.
How far is’t now to th’ end o’ the world, my masters?

Why, play at stool-ball:
What is there else to do?

I am content,
If we shall keep our wedding there.

’Tis true;
For there, I will assure you, we shall find
Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture
To marry us, for here they’re nice and foolish;
Besides, my father must be hang’d to-morrow,
And that would be a blot i’ the business.
Are not you Palamon?

Yes; but you care not for me: I have nothing
But this poor petticoat and two coarse smocks.

’Tis a sweet one,
And will perfume me finely ’gainst the wedding.
Is not this your cousin Arcite?

Yes, sweetheart;
And I am glad my cousin Palamon
Has made so fair a choice.

We shall have many children.⁠—Lord, how y’are grown!
My Palamon I hope will grow, too, finely,
Now he’s at liberty: alas, poor chicken,
He was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging;
But I’ll kiss him up again.

What do you here? you’ll lose the noblest sight
That e’er was seen.

They are:
You bear a charge there too.

I’ll away straight.⁠—
I must even leave you here.

Nay, we’ll go with you;
I will not lose the sight.

I’ll warrant you, within these three or four days
I’ll make her right again.⁠—You must not from her,
But still preserve her in this way.

Come, sweet, we’ll go to dinner;
And then we’ll play at cards.

I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly,
Than this decision: every blow that falls
Threats a brave life; each stroke laments
The place whereon it falls, and sounds more like
A bell than blade: I will stay here⁠—
It is enough my hearing shall be punish’d
With what shall happen, ’gainst the which there is
No deafing, but to hear⁠—not taint mine eye
With dread sights it may shun.

Sir, my good lord,
Your sister will no further.

O, she must:
She shall see deeds of honour in their kind,
Which sometime show well, pencill’d: nature now
Shall make and act the story, the belief
Both seal’d with eye and ear. You must be present;
You are the victor’s meed, the price and garland
To crown the question’s title.

Pardon me;
If I were there, I’d wink.

You must be there;
This trial is as ’twere i’ the night, and you
The only star to shine.

I am extinct:
There is but envy in that light, which shows
The one the other. Darkness, which ever was
The dam of Horror, who does stand accurs’d
Of many mortal millions, may even now,
By casting her black mantle over both,
That neither could find other, get herself
Some part of a good name, and many a murder
Set off whereto she’s guilty.

Why, the knights must kindle
Their valour at your eye: know, of this war
You are the treasure, and must needs be by
To give the service pay.

Sir, pardon me;
The title of a kingdom may be tried
Out of itself.

Well, well, then, at your pleasure:
Those that remain with you could wish their office
To any of their enemies.

Farewell, sister:
I’m like to know your husband ’fore yourself,
By some small start of time: he whom the gods
Do of the two know best, I pray them he
Be made your lot. Exeunt all except Emilia and some of the Attendants.

Arcite is gently visag’d; yet his eye
Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon
In a soft sheath; mercy and manly courage
Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon
Has a most menacing aspect; his brow
Is grav’d, and seems to bury what it frowns on;
Yet sometimes ’tis not so, but alters to
The quality of his thoughts; long time his eye
Will dwell upon his object; melancholy
Becomes him nobly; so does Arcite’s mirth;
But Palamon’s sadness is a kind of mirth,
So mingled as if mirth did make him sad,
And sadness merry; those darker humours that
Stick misbecomingly on others, on him
Live in fair dwelling. Cornets; trumpets sound as to a charge, within.
Hark, how yon spurs to spirit do incite
The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me
And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to
The spoiling of his figure. O, what pity
Enough for such a chance! If I were by,
I might do hurt; for they would glance their eyes
Toward my seat, and in that motion might
Omit a ward, or forfeit an offence,
Which crav’d that very time: it is much better
I am not there; O, better never born
Than minister to such harm. Cornets; and a great cry of “A Palamon!” within. What is the chance?

Then he has won. ’Twas ever likely:
He look’d all grace and success, and he is
Doubtless the prim’st of men. I pry’thee, run
And tell me how it goes. Shouts; cornets; and cry of “A Palamon!” within.

Run and inquire. Exit First Servant. Poor servant, thou hast lost:
Upon my right side still I wore thy picture,
Palamon’s on the left: why so, I know not;
I had no end in’t else; chance would have it so:
On the sinister side the heart lies; Palamon
Had the best-boding chance. Another cry, and shout, and cornets, within. This burst of clamour
Is sure the end o’ the combat.

They said that Palamon had Arcite’s body
Within an inch o’ the pyramid, that the cry
Was general “A Palamon!” but anon
Th’ assistants made a brave redemption, and
The two bold tytlers at this instant are
Hand to hand at it.

Were they metamorphos’d
Both into one⁠—O, why? there were no woman
Worth so compos’d a man: their single share,
Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives
The prejudice of disparity, values shortness
To any lady breathing. Cornets; and cry of “Arcite, Arcite!” within. More exulting?
“Palamon” still?

I pr’ythee, lay attention to the cry;
Set both thine ears to the business. Cornets; and a great shout, and cry of “Arcite, victory!” within.

The cry is
“Arcite!” and “victory!” Hark: “Arcite, victory!”
The combat’s consummation is proclaim’d
By the wind-instruments.

Half-sights saw
That Arcite was no babe: God’s lid, his richness
And costliness of spirit look’d through him; it could
No more be hid in him than fire in flax,
Than humble banks can go to law with waters
That drift-winds force to raging. I did think
Good Palamon would miscarry; yet I knew not
Why I did think so: our reasons are not prophets,
When oft our fancies are. They’re coming off:
Alas, poor Palamon! Cornets within.

Lo, where our sister is in expectation,
Yet quaking and unsettled.⁠—Fairest Emily,
The gods, by their divine arbitrament,
Have given you this knight: he is a good one
As ever struck at head. Give me your hands:
Receive you her, you him; be plighted with
A love that grows as you decay.

Emily,
To buy you I have lost what’s dearest to me,
Save what is bought; and yet I purchase cheaply,
As I do rate your value.

O lov’d sister,
He speaks now of as brave a knight as e’er
Did spur a noble steed: surely, the gods
Would have him die a bach’lor, lest his race
Should show i’ the world too godlike: his behaviour
So charm’d me, that methought Alcides was
To him a sow of lead: if I could praise
Each part of him to th’ all I’ve spoke, your Arcite
Did not lose by’t; for he that was thus good
Encounter’d yet his better. I have heard
Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o’ the night
With their contentious throats, now one the higher,
Anon the other, then again the first,
And by-and-by out-breasted, that the sense
Could not be judge between ’em: so it far’d
Good space between these kinsmen; till heavens did
Make hardly one the winner.⁠—Wear the garland
With joy that you have won.⁠—For the subdu’d,
Give them our present justice, since I know
Their lives but pinch ’em; let it here be done.
The scene’s not for our seeing: go we hence,
Right joyful, with some sorrow.⁠—Arm your prize;
I know you will not lose her.⁠—Hippolyta,
I see one eye of yours conceives a tear,
The which it will deliver.

Is this winning?
O all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy?
But that your wills have said it must be so,
And charge me live to comfort this unfriended,
This miserable prince, that cuts away
A life more worthy from him than all women,
I should and would die too.

Infinite pity,
That four such eyes should be so fix’d on one,
That two must needs be blind for’t!

There’s many a man alive that hath outliv’d
The love o’ the people; yea, i’ the selfsame state
Stands many a father with his child: some comfort
We have by so considering; we expire,
And not without men’s pity; to live, still
Have their good wishes; we prevent
The loathsome misery of age, beguile
The gout and rheum, that in lag hours attend
For gray approachers; we come towards the gods,
Young and unwapper’d, not halting under crimes
Many and stale; that, sure, shall please the gods
Sooner than such, to give us nectar with ’em,
For we are more clear spirits. My dear kinsmen,
Whose lives for this poor comfort are laid down,
You’ve sold ’em too too cheap.

What ending could be
Of more content? O’er us the victors have
Fortune, whose title is as momentary
As to us death is certain; a grain of honour
They not o’erweigh us.

Let us bid farewell;
And with our patience anger tottering Fortune,
Who, at her certain’st, reels.

Even he that led you to this banquet shall
Taste to you all.⁠—Ah, ha, my friend, my friend!
Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once;
You’ll see’t done now for ever: pray, how does she?
I heard she was not well; her kind of ill
Gave me some sorrow.

Sir, she’s well restor’d,
And to be married shortly.

By my short life,
I am most glad on’t; ’tis the latest thing
I shall be glad of; pr’ythee, tell her so;
Commend me to her, and, to piece her portion,
Tender her this. Gives purse.

Verily, I think so;
A right good creature, more to me deserving
That I can ’quite or speak of.

Adieu; and let my life be now as short
As my leave-taking.

Hold, hoa! it is a cursed haste you made,
If you have done so quickly.⁠—Noble Palamon,
The gods will show their glory in a life
That thou art yet to lead.

Can that be, when
Venus I’ve said, is false? How do things fare?

Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear Palamon rises.
That are most dearly sweet and bitter.

What
Hath wak’d us from our dream?

List, then. Your cousin
Mounted upon a steed that Emily
Did first bestow on him⁠—a black one, owing
Not a hair-worth of white, which some will say
Weakens his price, and many will not buy
His goodness with this note; which superstition
Here finds allowance⁠—on this horse is Arcite
Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins
Did rather tell than trample; for the horse
Would make his length a mile, if’t pleas’d his rider
To put pride in him: as he thus went counting
The flinty pavement, dancing as ’twere to the music
His own hoofs made⁠—for, as they say, from iron
Came music’s origin⁠—what envious flint,
Cold as old Saturn, and like him possess’d
With fire malevolent, darted a spark,
Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made
I comment not; the hot horse, hot as fire,
Took toy at this, and fell to what disorder
His power could give his will, bounds, comes on end,
Forgets school-doing, being therein train’d,
And of kind manage; pig-like he whines
At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather
Than any jot obeys; seeks all foul means
Of boisterous and rough jadry, to dis-seat
His lord that kept it bravely: when nought serv’d,
When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor differing plunges
Disroot his rider whence he grew, but that
He kept him ’tween his legs, on his hind hoofs
… on end he stands,
That Arcite’s legs, being higher than his head,
Seem’d with strange art to hand: his victor’s wreath
Even then fell off his head; and presently
Backward the jade comes o’er, and his full poise
Becomes the rider’s load. Yet is he living;
But such a vessel ’tis that floats but for
The surge that next approaches: he much desires
To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears.

O miserable end of our alliance!
The gods are mighty.⁠—Arcite, if thy heart,
Thy worthy, manly heart, be yet unbroken,
Give me thy last words; I am Palamon,
One that yet loves thee dying.

Take Emilia,
And with her all the world’s joy. Reach thy hand:
Farewell; I’ve told my last hour. I was false,
Yet never treacherous: forgive me, cousin.⁠—
One kiss from fair Emilia. Kisses her.⁠—’Tis done:
Take her. I die.

I’ll close thine eyes, prince; blessed souls be with thee!
Thou art a right good man; and, while I live,
This day I give to tears.

In this place first you fought; even very here
I sunder’d you: acknowledge to the gods
Our thanks that you are living.
His part is play’d, and, though it were too short,
He did it well; your day is lengthen’d, and
The blissful dew of heaven does arrowze you:
The powerful Venus well hath grac’d her altar,
And given you your love; our master Mars
Hath vouch’d his oracle, and to Arcite gave
The grace of the contention: so the deities
Have show’d due justice.⁠—Bear this hence.

O cousin,
That we should things desire, which do cost us
The loss of our desire! that naught could buy
Dear love but loss of dear love!

Never fortune
Did play a subtler game: the conquer’d triumphs,
The victor has the loss; yet in the passage
The gods have been most equal. Palamon,
Your kinseman hath confess’d the right o’ the lady
Did lie in you; for you first saw her, and
Even then proclaim’d your fancy; he restor’d her,
As your stol’n jewel, and desir’d your spirit
To send him hence forgiven: the gods my justice
Take from my hand, and they themselves become
The executioners. Lead your lady off;
And call your lovers from the stage of death,
Whom I adopt my friends. A day or two
Let us look sadly, and give grace unto
The funeral of Arcite; in whose end
The visages of bridegrooms we’ll put on,
And smile with Palamon; for whom an hour,
But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry
As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad
As for him sorry.⁠—O you heavenly charmers,
What things you make of us! For what we lack
We laugh, for what we have are sorry; still
Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful
For that which is, and with you leave dispute
That are above our question.⁠—Let’s go off,
And bear us like the time. Flourish. Exeunt.