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 bloomâd May, and the Athenians pay it
To thâ heart of ceremony.2â
O Queen Emilia, fresher than May, sweeter
Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all
Thâ enamellâd knacks3 oâ the mead or garden! yea,
We challenge too the bank of any nymph,
That makes the stream seem flowers; thou, O jewel
Oâ the wood, oâ the world, hast likewise blessâd 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-blessĂšd chance,
To drop on such a mistress, expectation
Most guiltless on ât. Tell me, O Lady Fortune,â
Next after Emily my sovereign,âhow 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 backâd, in a field
That their crownsâ titles tried.5 Alas, alas,
Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner! thou
So little dreamâst upon my fortune, that
Thou thinkâst thyself the happier thing, to be
So near Emilia; me thou deemâst at Thebes,
And therein wretched although free: but, if
Thou knewâst my mistress breathed on me, and that
I earâd 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 confessâd traitor! O thou most perfidious
That ever gently lookâd! the voidâst of honour
That eâer bore gentle token! falsest cousin
That ever blood made kin! callâst thou her thine?
Iâll 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,â
ARC. Dear cousin Palamon,â
PAL. Cozener Arcite, give me language such
As thou hast showâd 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: âTis your passion
That thus mista...