Not worth the name of villain. Had I as word

And these house-clogs away—

ARCITE

Dear cousin Palamon—

PALAMON

Cozener Arcite, give me language such

As thou hast showed me feat.

ARCITE

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 pleased

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.

PALAMON

That thou durst, Arcite!

ARCITE

My coz, my coz, you have been well advertised

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’th’ sanctuary.

PALAMON

Sir, I have seen you move in such a place which well

Might justify your manhood; you were called

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 compelled bears—would fly

Were they not tied.

ARCITE

Kinsman, you might as well Speak this and act it in your glass as to

His ear which now disdains you.

PALAMON

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.

ARCITE

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’th’ 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.

PALAMON

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.

ARCITE Sweet Palamon.

PALAMON

I do embrace you and your offer—for

Your offer do’t I only, sir; your person,

Without hypocrisy, I may not wish

Wind horns within

More than my sword’s edge on’t.

ARCITE

You hear the horns—Enter your muset lest this match between’s

Be crossed ere met. Give me your hand, farewell.

I’ll bring you every needful thing—I pray you,

Take comfort and be strong.

PALAMON

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 reconciled by reason.

ARCITE

Plainly spoken, Yet—pardon me—hard language: when I spur

Wind horns within

My horse I chide him not. Content and anger

In me have but one face. Hark, sir, they call

The scattered to the banquet. You must guess

I have an office there.

PALAMON

Sir, your attendance Cannot please heaven, and I know your office

Unjustly is achieved.

ARCITE

’Tis a good title. I am persuaded this question, sick between’s,

By bleeding must be cured. I am a suitor

That to your sword you will bequeath this plea

And talk of it no more.

PALAMON

But this one word: You are going now to gaze upon my mistress—

For note you, mine she is—

ARCITE Nay then—

PALAMON

Nay, pray you—You talk of feeding me to breed me strength—

You are 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, ⌈Palamon as into the bush⌉

3.2 Enter the Jailer’s Daughter, with a file

JAILER’S DAUGHTER

He has mistook the brake I meant, is gone

After his fancy. ’Tis now wellnigh morning.

No matter—would it were perpetual night,

And darkness lord o’th’ 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 hollered for him?

I cannot holler. If I whooped, what then?

If he not answered, I should call a wolf

And do him but that service. I have heard

Strange howls this livelong night—why may’t not be

They have made prey of him? He has no weapons;

He cannot run; the jangling of his gyves