William Shakespeare - The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

PALAMON.

O Cosen Arcite,

Where is Thebs now? where is our noble Country?

Where are our friends, and kindreds? never more

Must we behold those comforts, never see

The hardy youthes strive for the Games of honour

(Hung with the painted favours of their Ladies,

Like tall Ships under saile) then start among’st ‘em

And as an Eastwind leave ‘en all behinde us,

Like lazy Clowdes, whilst Palamon and Arcite,

Even in the wagging of a wanton leg

Out-stript the peoples praises, won the Garlands,

Ere they have time to wish ‘em ours. O never

Shall we two exercise, like Twyns of honour,

Our Armes againe, and feele our fyry horses

Like proud Seas under us: our good Swords now

(Better the red-eyd god of war nev’r wore)

Ravishd our sides, like age must run to rust,

And decke 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 youthes must wither

Like a too-timely Spring; here age must finde us,

And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;

The sweete embraces of a loving wife,

Loden with kisses, armd with thousand Cupids

Shall never claspe our neckes, no issue know us,

No figures of our selves shall we ev’r see,

To glad our age, and like young Eagles teach ‘em

Boldly to gaze against bright armes, and say:

‘Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.’

The faire-eyd Maides, shall weepe our Banishments,

And in their Songs, curse ever-blinded fortune,

Till shee 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,

Heare nothing but the Clocke that tels our woes.

The Vine shall grow, but we shall never see it:

Sommer shall come, and with her all delights;

But dead-cold winter must inhabite here still.

PALAMON.

Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban houndes,

That shooke the aged Forrest with their ecchoes,

No more now must we halloa, no more shake

Our pointed Iavelyns, whilst the angry Swine

Flyes like a parthian quiver from our rages,

Strucke with our well-steeld Darts: All valiant uses

(The foode, and nourishment of noble mindes,)

In us two here shall perish; we shall die

(Which is the curse of honour) lastly

Children of greife, and Ignorance.

ARCITE.

Yet, Cosen,

Even from the bottom of these miseries,

From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

I see two comforts rysing, two meere blessings,

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

And the enjoying of our greefes together.

Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish

If I thinke this our prison.

PALAMON.

Certeinly,

Tis a maine goodnes, Cosen, that our fortunes

Were twyn’d together; tis most true, two soules

Put in two noble Bodies—let ‘em suffer

The gaule of hazard, so they grow together—

Will never sincke; 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 Cosen?

ARCITE.

Let’s thinke this prison holy sanctuary,

To keepe us from corruption of worse men.

We are young and yet desire the waies of honour,

That liberty and common Conversation,

The poyson of pure spirits, might like women

Wooe us to wander from. What worthy blessing

Can be but our Imaginations

May make it ours? And heere being thus together,

We are an endles mine to one another;

We are one anothers wife, ever begetting

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

We are, in one another, Families,

I am your heire, and you are mine: This place

Is our Inheritance, no hard Oppressour

Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience,

We shall live long, and loving: No surfeits seeke 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 busines;

Quarrels consume us, Envy of ill men

Grave our acquaintance; I might sicken, Cosen,

Where you should never know it, and so perish

Without your noble hand to close mine eies,

Or praiers to the gods: a thousand chaunces,

Were we from hence, would seaver us.

PALAMON.

You have made me

(I thanke you, Cosen Arcite) almost wanton

With my Captivity: what a misery

It is to live abroade, and every where!

Tis like a Beast, me thinkes: I finde the Court here—

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

That wooe the wils of men to vanity,

I see through now, and am sufficient

To tell the world, tis but a gaudy shaddow,

That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.

What had we bin, old in the Court of Creon,

Where sin is Iustice, lust and ignorance

The vertues of the great ones! Cosen Arcite,

Had not the loving gods found this place for us,

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

And had their Epitaphes, the peoples Curses:

Shall I say more?

ARCITE.

I would heare you still.

PALAMON.

Ye shall.

Is there record of any two that lov’d

Better then we doe, Arcite?

ARCITE.

Sure, there cannot.

PALAMON.

I doe not thinke it possible our friendship

Should ever leave us.

ARCITE.

Till our deathes it cannot;

[Enter Emilia and her woman (below).]

And after death our spirits shall be led

To those that love eternally. Speake on, Sir.

EMILIA.

This garden has a world of pleasures in’t.

What Flowre is this?

WOMAN.

Tis calld Narcissus, Madam.

EMILIA.

That was a faire Boy, certaine, but a foole,

To love himselfe; were there not maides enough?

ARCITE.

Pray forward.

PALAMON.

Yes.

EMILIA.

Or were they all hard hearted?

WOMAN.

They could not be to one so faire.

EMILIA.

Thou wouldst not.

WOMAN.

I thinke I should not, Madam.

EMILIA.

That’s a good wench:

But take heede to your kindnes though.

WOMAN.

Why, Madam?

EMILIA.

Men are mad things.

ARCITE.

Will ye goe forward, Cosen?

EMILIA.

Canst not thou worke such flowers in silke, wench?

WOMAN.

Yes.

EMILIA.

Ile have a gowne full of ‘em, and of these;

This is a pretty colour, wilt not doe

Rarely upon a Skirt, wench?

WOMAN.

Deinty, Madam.

ARCITE.

Cosen, Cosen, how doe you, Sir? Why, Palamon?

PALAMON.

Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.

ARCITE.

Why whats the matter, Man?

PALAMON.

Behold, and wonder.

By heaven, shee is a Goddesse.

ARCITE.

Ha.

PALAMON.

Doe reverence. She is a Goddesse, Arcite.

EMILIA.

Of all Flowres, me thinkes a Rose is best.

WOMAN.

Why, gentle Madam?

EMILIA.

It is the very Embleme of a Maide.

For when the west wind courts her gently,

How modestly she blowes, and paints the Sun,

With her chaste blushes! When the North comes neere her,

Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity,

Shee lockes her beauties in her bud againe,

And leaves him to base briers.

WOMAN.

Yet, good Madam,

Sometimes her modesty will blow so far

She fals for’t: a Mayde,

If shee have any honour, would be loth

To take example by her.

EMILIA.