Part 207

FIRST QUEEN. And that work presents itself to th’ doing. Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone tomorrow. Then, bootless toil must recompense itself With its own sweat. Now he’s secure, Not dreams we stand before your puissance, Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes To make petition clear.

SECOND QUEEN. Now you may take him, drunk with his victory.

THIRD QUEEN. And his army full of bread and sloth.

THESEUS. Artesius, that best knowest How to draw out fit to this enterprise The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business: forth and levy Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch This grand act of our life, this daring deed Of fate in wedlock.

FIRST QUEEN. Dowagers, take hands. Let us be widows to our woes; delay Commends us to a famishing hope.

ALL THE QUEENS. Farewell!

SECOND QUEEN. We come unseasonably; but when could grief Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fitt’st time For best solicitation?

THESEUS. Why, good ladies, This is a service, whereto I am going, Greater than any war; it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope.

FIRST QUEEN. The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected when her arms, Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall By warranting moonlight corselet thee. O, when Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care For what thou feel’st not, what thou feel’st being able To make Mars spurn his drum? O, if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in ’t will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shalt remember nothing more than what That banquet bids thee to.

HIPPOLYTA. Though much unlike You should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor, yet I think, Did I not, by th’ abstaining of my joy, Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit That craves a present med’cine, I should pluck All ladies’ scandal on me. Therefore, sir,

[_She kneels._]

As I shall here make trial of my prayers, Either presuming them to have some force, Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb, Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang Your shield afore your heart, about that neck Which is my fee, and which I freely lend To do these poor queens service.

ALL QUEENS. [_To Emilia_.] O, help now! Our cause cries for your knee.

EMILIA. [_To Theseus, kneeling_.] If you grant not My sister her petition in that force, With that celerity and nature, which She makes it in, from henceforth I’ll not dare To ask you anything, nor be so hardy Ever to take a husband.

THESEUS. Pray stand up. I am entreating of myself to do

[_They rise._]

That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous, Lead on the bride; get you and pray the gods For success and return; omit not anything In the pretended celebration.—Queens, Follow your soldier. [_To Artesius._] As before, hence you, And at the banks of Aulis meet us with The forces you can raise, where we shall find The moiety of a number for a business More bigger looked.

[_Exit Artesius._]

[_To Hippolyta._] Since that our theme is haste, I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip; Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward, For I will see you gone.

[_The wedding procession moves towards the temple._]

Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous, Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on ’t.

PIRITHOUS. Sir, I’ll follow you at heels. The feast’s solemnity Shall want till your return.

THESEUS. Cousin, I charge you, Budge not from Athens. We shall be returning Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all.

[_Exeunt all but Theseus and the Queens._]

FIRST QUEEN. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o’ th’ world.

SECOND QUEEN. And earn’st a deity equal with Mars.

THIRD QUEEN. If not above him, for Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend To godlike honours; they themselves, some say, Groan under such a mast’ry.

THESEUS. As we are men, Thus should we do; being sensually subdued, We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies. Now turn we towards your comforts.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace

Enter Palamon and Arcite.

ARCITE. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in The crimes of nature, let us leave the city Thebes, and the temptings in ’t, before we further Sully our gloss of youth And here to keep in abstinence we shame As in incontinence; for not to swim I’ th’ aid o’ th’ current, were almost to sink, At least to frustrate striving; and to follow The common stream, ’twould bring us to an eddy Where we should turn or drown; if labour through, Our gain but life and weakness.

PALAMON. Your advice Is cried up with example. What strange ruins, Since first we went to school, may we perceive Walking in Thebes! Scars and bare weeds The gain o’ th’ martialist, who did propound To his bold ends honour and golden ingots, Which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted By peace for whom he fought! Who then shall offer To Mars’s so-scorned altar? I do bleed When such I meet, and wish great Juno would Resume her ancient fit of jealousy To get the soldier work, that peace might purge For her repletion, and retain anew Her charitable heart, now hard and harsher Than strife or war could be.

ARCITE. Are you not out? Meet you no ruin but the soldier in The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin As if you met decays of many kinds. Perceive you none that do arouse your pity But th’ unconsidered soldier?

PALAMON. Yes, I pity Decays where’er I find them, but such most That, sweating in an honourable toil, Are paid with ice to cool ’em.

ARCITE. ’Tis not this I did begin to speak of. This is virtue Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes, How dangerous, if we will keep our honours, It is for our residing, where every evil Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s A certain evil; where not to be e’en jump As they are here were to be strangers, and, Such things to be, mere monsters.

PALAMON. ’Tis in our power— Unless we fear that apes can tutor ’s—to Be masters of our manners. What need I Affect another’s gait, which is not catching Where there is faith? Or to be fond upon Another’s way of speech, when by mine own I may be reasonably conceived, saved too, Speaking it truly? Why am I bound By any generous bond to follow him Follows his tailor, haply so long until The followed make pursuit? Or let me know Why mine own barber is unblessed, with him My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissored just To such a favourite’s glass? What canon is there That does command my rapier from my hip To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tiptoe Before the street be foul? Either I am The fore-horse in the team, or I am none That draw i’ th’ sequent trace. These poor slight sores Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom Almost to th’ heart’s—

ARCITE. Our uncle Creon.

PALAMON. He. A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes Makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured Beyond its power there’s nothing; almost puts Faith in a fever, and deifies alone Voluble chance; who only attributes The faculties of other instruments To his own nerves and act; commands men service, And what they win in ’t, boot and glory; one That fears not to do harm; good, dares not. Let The blood of mine that’s sib to him be sucked From me with leeches; let them break and fall Off me with that corruption.

ARCITE. Clear-spirited cousin, Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share Of his loud infamy; for our milk Will relish of the pasture, and we must Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen In blood unless in quality.

PALAMON. Nothing truer. I think the echoes of his shames have deafed The ears of heavenly justice. Widows’ cries Descend again into their throats and have not Due audience of the gods.

Enter Valerius.

Valerius!

VALERIUS. The King calls for you; yet be leaden-footed Till his great rage be off him. Phœbus, when He broke his whipstock and exclaimed against The horses of the sun, but whispered to The loudness of his fury.

PALAMON. Small winds shake him. But what’s the matter?

VALERIUS. Theseus, who where he threats appalls, hath sent Deadly defiance to him and pronounces Ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal The promise of his wrath.

ARCITE. Let him approach. But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not A jot of terror to us. Yet what man Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours— When that his action’s dregged with mind assured ’Tis bad he goes about?

PALAMON. Leave that unreasoned. Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon. Yet to be neutral to him were dishonour, Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must With him stand to the mercy of our fate, Who hath bounded our last minute.

ARCITE. So we must. [_To Valerius._] Is ’t said this war’s afoot? Or, it shall be, On fail of some condition?

VALERIUS. ’Tis in motion; The intelligence of state came in the instant With the defier.

PALAMON. Let’s to the King; who, were he A quarter carrier of that honour which His enemy come in, the blood we venture Should be as for our health, which were not spent, Rather laid out for purchase. But alas, Our hands advanced before our hearts, what will The fall o’ th’ stroke do damage?

ARCITE. Let th’ event, That never-erring arbitrator, tell us When we know all ourselves; and let us follow The becking of our chance.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. Before the gates of Athens

Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta and Emilia.

PIRITHOUS. No further.

HIPPOLYTA. Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes To our great lord, of whose success I dare not Make any timorous question; yet I wish him Excess and overflow of power, an ’t might be, To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him! Store never hurts good governors.

PIRITHOUS. Though I know His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid, Those best affections that the heavens infuse In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned In your dear heart!

EMILIA. Thanks, sir. Remember me To our all-royal brother, for whose speed The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and Since in our terrene state petitions are not Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts Are in his army, in his tent.

HIPPOLYTA. In ’s bosom. We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep When our friends don their helms, or put to sea, Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women That have sod their infants in—and after eat them— The brine they wept at killing ’em. Then if You stay to see of us such spinsters, we Should hold you here for ever.

PIRITHOUS. Peace be to you As I pursue this war, which shall be then Beyond further requiring.

[_Exit Pirithous._]

EMILIA. How his longing Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports, Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly His careless execution, where nor gain Made him regard, or loss consider, but Playing one business in his hand, another Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal To these so differing twins. Have you observed him Since our great lord departed?

HIPPOLYTA. With much labour, And I did love him for ’t. They two have cabined In many as dangerous as poor a corner, Peril and want contending; they have skiffed Torrents whose roaring tyranny and power I’ th’ least of these was dreadful; and they have Fought out together where Death’s self was lodged; Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love, Tied, weaved, entangled, with so true, so long, And with a finger of so deep a cunning, May be outworn, never undone. I think Theseus cannot be umpire to himself, Cleaving his conscience into twain and doing Each side like justice, which he loves best.

EMILIA. Doubtless There is a best, and reason has no manners To say it is not you. I was acquainted Once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow; You were at wars when she the grave enriched, Who made too proud the bed, took leave o’ th’ moon Which then looked pale at parting, when our count Was each eleven.

HIPPOLYTA. ’Twas Flavina.

EMILIA. Yes. You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love. Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned, More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs The one of th’ other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love; but I, And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent, Loved for we did, and like the elements That know not what nor why, yet do effect Rare issues by their operance, our souls Did so to one another. What she liked Was then of me approved, what not, condemned, No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck And put between my breasts, O, then but beginning To swell about the blossom—she would long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent cradle, where, phœnix-like, They died in perfume. On my head no toy But was her pattern; her affections—pretty, Though haply her careless wear—I followed For my most serious decking; had mine ear Stol’n some new air, or at adventure hummed one From musical coinage, why, it was a note Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather, dwell on, And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal, Which fury-innocent wots well, comes in Like old importment’s bastard—has this end, That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be More than in sex individual.

HIPPOLYTA. You’re out of breath; And this high-speeded pace is but to say That you shall never, like the maid Flavina, Love any that’s called man.

EMILIA. I am sure I shall not.

HIPPOLYTA. Now, alack, weak sister, I must no more believe thee in this point— Though in ’t I know thou dost believe thyself— Than I will trust a sickly appetite, That loathes even as it longs. But sure, my sister, If I were ripe for your persuasion, you Have said enough to shake me from the arm Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes I will now in and kneel, with great assurance That we, more than his Pirithous, possess The high throne in his heart.

EMILIA. I am not Against your faith, yet I continue mine.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. A field before Thebes.

Cornets. A battle struck within; then a retreat. Flourish. Then enter, Theseus, as victor, with a Herald, other Lords, and Soldiers. The three Queens meet him and fall on their faces before him.

FIRST QUEEN. To thee no star be dark!

SECOND QUEEN. Both heaven and earth Friend thee for ever!

THIRD QUEEN. All the good that may Be wished upon thy head, I cry “Amen” to ’t!

THESEUS. Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens View us their mortal herd, behold who err And, in their time, chastise. Go and find out The bones of your dead lords and honour them With treble ceremony, rather than a gap Should be in their dear rites, we would supply ’t, But those we will depute which shall invest You in your dignities and even each thing Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu, And heaven’s good eyes look on you.

[_Exeunt Queens._]

Enter a Herald and Soldiers bearing Palamon and Arcite on hearses.

What are those?

HERALD. Men of great quality, as may be judged By their appointment. Some of Thebes have told ’s They are sisters’ children, nephews to the King.

THESEUS. By th’ helm of Mars, I saw them in the war, Like to a pair of lions, smeared with prey, Make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note Constantly on them, for they were a mark Worth a god’s view. What prisoner was ’t that told me When I enquired their names?

HERALD. Wi’ leave, they’re called Arcite and Palamon.

THESEUS. ’Tis right; those, those. They are not dead?

HERALD. Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible They might have been recovered; yet they breathe And have the name of men.

THESEUS. Then like men use ’em. The very lees of such, millions of rates, Exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons Convent in their behoof; our richest balms, Rather than niggard, waste. Their lives concern us Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than have ’em Freed of this plight, and in their morning state, Sound and at liberty, I would ’em dead; But forty-thousandfold we had rather have ’em Prisoners to us than death. Bear ’em speedily From our kind air, to them unkind, and minister What man to man may do, for our sake, more, Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests, Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task, Desire of liberty, a fever, madness, Hath set a mark which nature could not reach to Without some imposition, sickness in will O’er-wrestling strength in reason. For our love And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best Their best skill tender. Lead into the city, Where, having bound things scattered, we will post To Athens ’fore our army.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

SCENE V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes

Music. Enter the Queens with the hearses of their knights, in a funeral solemnity, &c.

SONG.

_Urns and odours bring away; Vapours, sighs, darken the day; Our dole more deadly looks than dying; Balms and gums and heavy cheers, Sacred vials filled with tears, And clamours through the wild air flying._

_Come, all sad and solemn shows That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes; We convent naught else but woes. We convent naught else but woes._

THIRD QUEEN. This funeral path brings to your household’s grave. Joy seize on you again; peace sleep with him.

SECOND QUEEN. And this to yours.

FIRST QUEEN. Yours this way. Heavens lend A thousand differing ways to one sure end.

THIRD QUEEN. This world’s a city full of straying streets, And death’s the market-place where each one meets.

[_Exeunt severally._]

ACT II

SCENE I. Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background

Enter Jailer and Wooer.

JAILER. I may depart with little while I live; something I may cast to you, not much. Alas, the prison I keep, though it be for great ones, yet they seldom come; before one salmon, you shall take a number of minnows. I am given out to be better lined than it can appear to me report is a true speaker. I would I were really that I am delivered to be. Marry, what I have, be it what it will, I will assure upon my daughter at the day of my death.

WOOER. Sir, I demand no more than your own offer, and I will estate your daughter in what I have promised.

JAILER. Well, we will talk more of this when the solemnity is past. But have you a full promise of her? When that shall be seen, I tender my consent.

Enter the Jailer’s Daughter, carrying rushes.

WOOER. I have sir. Here she comes.

JAILER. Your friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old business. But no more of that now; so soon as the court hurry is over, we will have an end of it. I’ th’ meantime, look tenderly to the two prisoners. I can tell you they are princes.

DAUGHTER. These strewings are for their chamber. ’Tis pity they are in prison, and ’twere pity they should be out. I do think they have patience to make any adversity ashamed. The prison itself is proud of ’em, and they have all the world in their chamber.

JAILER. They are famed to be a pair of absolute men.

DAUGHTER. By my troth, I think fame but stammers ’em; they stand a grise above the reach of report.

JAILER. I heard them reported in the battle to be the only doers.

DAUGHTER. Nay, most likely, for they are noble sufferers. I marvel how they would have looked had they been victors, that with such a constant nobility enforce a freedom out of bondage, making misery their mirth and affliction a toy to jest at.

JAILER. Do they so?

DAUGHTER. It seems to me they have no more sense of their captivity than I of ruling Athens. They eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet sometime a divided sigh, martyred as ’twere i’ th’ deliverance, will break from one of them—when the other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke that I could wish myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least a sigher to be comforted.

WOOER. I never saw ’em.

JAILER. The Duke himself came privately in the night, and so did they.

Enter Palamon and Arcite, above.

What the reason of it is, I know not. Look, yonder they are; that’s Arcite looks out.

DAUGHTER. No, sir, no, that’s Palamon. Arcite is the lower of the twain; you may perceive a part of him.

JAILER. Go to, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object. Out of their sight.

DAUGHTER. It is a holiday to look on them. Lord, the difference of men!

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. The prison

Enter Palamon and Arcite in prison.

PALAMON. How do you, noble cousin?

ARCITE. How do you, sir?

PALAMON. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery And bear the chance of war; yet we are prisoners I fear for ever, cousin.

ARCITE. I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come.

PALAMON. O, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? Where is our noble country? Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more Must we behold those comforts, never see The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, Hung with the painted favours of their ladies, Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst ’em, And as an east wind leave ’em all behind us, Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Outstripped the people’s praises, won the garlands, Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. O, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now— Better the red-eyed god of war ne’er wore— Ravished our sides, like age must run to rust And deck 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 youths must wither Like a too-timely spring; here age must find us And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried. The sweet embraces of a loving wife, Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks; no issue know us, No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach ’em Boldly to gaze against bright arms and say “Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!” The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune Till she 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, Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it; Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

PALAMON. ’Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds That shook the aged forest with their echoes No more now must we hallow, no more shake Our pointed javelins whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses, The food and nourishment of noble minds, In us two here shall perish; we shall die, Which is the curse of honour, lastly, Children of grief and ignorance.

ARCITE. Yet, cousin, Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience, And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison!

PALAMON. Certainly ’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twined together; ’tis most true, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let ’em suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together, Will never sink; 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 cousin?