ACT III.
SCENE I. A Forest near Athens. Cornets in sundry places: noise and hallooing as of People a-Maying.
Enter ARCITE.
ARC. The Duke has lost Hippolyta; each took
A several laund.1 This is a solemn rite
They owe bloom’d May, and the Athenians pay it
To th’ heart of ceremony.2—
O Queen Emilia, fresher than May, sweeter
Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all
Th’ enamell’d knacks3 o’ the mead or garden! yea,
We challenge too 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 [10]
With thy sole presence! In thy rumination
That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between,
And chop on some cold thought?4 thrice-blessèd 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 primest of all the year, presents me with
A brace of horses: two such steeds might well [20]
Be by a pair of kings back’d, in a field
That their crowns’ titles tried.5 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 breathed on me, and that
I ear’d her language, lived in her eye, O coz,
What passion would enclose thee!
Enter PALAMON out of a bush, with his shackles: he bends his fist at ARCITE.
PAL. Traitor kinsman! [30]
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,6 that thou liest, and art [40]
A very thief in love, a chaffy lord,
Not worth the name of villain! Had I a sword,
And these house-clogs away,—
ARC. Dear cousin Palamon,—
PAL. Cozener Arcite, give me language such
As thou hast show’d me feat!7
ARC. 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 mista...