# The Complete Works of William Shakespeare ## Part 210 Book page: https://www.cyberlibrary.org/en/books/the-complete-works-of-william-shakespeare-100/index.md PALAMON. No, no, cousin, I will no more be hidden, nor put off This great adventure to a second trial; I know your cunning and I know your cause. He that faints now, shame take him! Put thyself Upon thy present guard— ARCITE. You are not mad? PALAMON. Or I will make th’advantage of this hour Mine own, and what to come shall threaten me I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak cousin, I love Emilia, and in that I’ll bury Thee, and all crosses else. ARCITE. Then, come what can come, Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well Die, as discourse, or sleep. Only this fears me, The law will have the honour of our ends. Have at thy life! PALAMON. Look to thine own well, Arcite. [_They fight. Horns within. They stand._] Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous and train. THESEUS. What ignorant and mad malicious traitors Are you, that ’gainst the tenor of my laws Are making battle, thus like knights appointed, Without my leave, and officers of arms? By Castor, both shall die. PALAMON. Hold thy word, Theseus. We are certainly both traitors, both despisers Of thee and of thy goodness. I am Palamon, That cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison. Think well what that deserves. And this is Arcite. A bolder traitor never trod thy ground, A falser ne’er seemed friend. This is the man Was begged and banished; this is he contemns thee And what thou dar’st do; and in this disguise, Against thine own edict, follows thy sister, That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia, Whose servant—if there be a right in seeing And first bequeathing of the soul to—justly I am; and, which is more, dares think her his. This treachery, like a most trusty lover, I called him now to answer. If thou be’st As thou art spoken, great and virtuous, The true decider of all injuries, Say “Fight again,” and thou shalt see me, Theseus, Do such a justice thou thyself wilt envy. Then take my life; I’ll woo thee to ’t. PIRITHOUS. O heaven, What more than man is this! THESEUS. I have sworn. ARCITE. We seek not Thy breath of mercy, Theseus. ’Tis to me A thing as soon to die as thee to say it, And no more moved. Where this man calls me traitor, Let me say thus much: if in love be treason, In service of so excellent a beauty, As I love most, and in that faith will perish, As I have brought my life here to confirm it, As I have served her truest, worthiest, As I dare kill this cousin that denies it, So let me be most traitor, and you please me. For scorning thy edict, Duke, ask that lady Why she is fair, and why her eyes command me Stay here to love her; and if she say “traitor,” I am a villain fit to lie unburied. PALAMON. Thou shalt have pity of us both, O Theseus, If unto neither thou show mercy. Stop, As thou art just, thy noble ear against us; As thou art valiant, for thy cousin’s soul, Whose twelve strong labours crown his memory, Let’s die together at one instant, Duke; Only a little let him fall before me, That I may tell my soul he shall not have her. THESEUS. I grant your wish, for, to say true, your cousin Has ten times more offended, for I gave him More mercy than you found, sir, your offences Being no more than his. None here speak for ’em, For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever. HIPPOLYTA. Alas the pity! Now or never, sister, Speak, not to be denied. That face of yours Will bear the curses else of after ages For these lost cousins. EMILIA. In my face, dear sister, I find no anger to ’em, nor no ruin; The misadventure of their own eyes kill ’em. Yet that I will be woman and have pity, My knees shall grow to’ th’ ground but I’ll get mercy. [_She kneels._] Help me, dear sister; in a deed so virtuous The powers of all women will be with us. Most royal brother— HIPPOLYTA. [_Kneels._] Sir, by our tie of marriage— EMILIA. By your own spotless honour— HIPPOLYTA. By that faith, That fair hand, and that honest heart you gave me— EMILIA. By that you would have pity in another, By your own virtues infinite— HIPPOLYTA. By valour, By all the chaste nights I have ever pleased you— THESEUS. These are strange conjurings. PIRITHOUS. Nay, then, I’ll in too. [_Kneels._] By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers, By all you love most: wars and this sweet lady— EMILIA. By that you would have trembled to deny A blushing maid— HIPPOLYTA. By your own eyes, by strength, In which you swore I went beyond all women, Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus— PIRITHOUS. To crown all this, by your most noble soul, Which cannot want due mercy, I beg first. HIPPOLYTA. Next, hear my prayers. EMILIA. Last, let me entreat, sir. PIRITHOUS. For mercy. HIPPOLYTA. Mercy. EMILIA. Mercy on these princes. THESEUS. Ye make my faith reel. Say I felt Compassion to’em both, how would you place it? [_Emilia, Hippolyta and Pirithous rise._] EMILIA. Upon their lives. But with their banishments. THESEUS. You are a right woman, sister: you have pity, But want the understanding where to use it. If you desire their lives, invent a way Safer than banishment. Can these two live, And have the agony of love about ’em, And not kill one another? Every day They’d fight about you, hourly bring your honour In public question with their swords. Be wise, then, And here forget ’em; it concerns your credit And my oath equally. I have said they die. Better they fall by th’ law than one another. Bow not my honour. EMILIA. O, my noble brother, That oath was rashly made, and in your anger; Your reason will not hold it; if such vows Stand for express will, all the world must perish. Besides, I have another oath ’gainst yours, Of more authority, I am sure more love, Not made in passion neither, but good heed. THESEUS. What is it, sister? PIRITHOUS. Urge it home, brave lady. EMILIA. That you would ne’er deny me anything Fit for my modest suit and your free granting. I tie you to your word now; if ye fail in ’t, Think how you maim your honour— For now I am set a-begging, sir, I am deaf To all but your compassion—how their lives Might breed the ruin of my name. Opinion! Shall anything that loves me perish for me? That were a cruel wisdom. Do men prune The straight young boughs that blush with thousand blossoms Because they may be rotten? O, Duke Theseus, The goodly mothers that have groaned for these, And all the longing maids that ever loved, If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty, And in their funeral songs for these two cousins Despise my cruelty, and cry woe worth me, Till I am nothing but the scorn of women. For heaven’s sake, save their lives, and banish ’em. THESEUS. On what conditions? EMILIA. Swear ’em never more To make me their contention, or to know me, To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be, Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers To one another. PALAMON. I’ll be cut a-pieces Before I take this oath! Forget I love her? O, all ye gods, despise me then! Thy banishment I not mislike, so we may fairly carry Our swords and cause along; else never trifle, But take our lives, Duke. I must love, and will And for that love must and dare kill this cousin On any piece the earth has. THESEUS. Will you, Arcite, Take these conditions? PALAMON. He’s a villain, then. PIRITHOUS. These are men! ARCITE. No, never, Duke. ’Tis worse to me than begging To take my life so basely. Though I think I never shall enjoy her, yet I’ll preserve The honour of affection, and die for her, Make death a devil. THESEUS. What may be done? For now I feel compassion. PIRITHOUS. Let it not fall again, sir. THESEUS. Say, Emilia, If one of them were dead, as one must, are you Content to take th’ other to your husband? They cannot both enjoy you. They are princes As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble As ever fame yet spoke of. Look upon ’em, And, if you can love, end this difference; I give consent.—Are you content too, princes? BOTH. With all our souls. THESEUS. He that she refuses Must die, then. BOTH. Any death thou canst invent, Duke. PALAMON. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour, And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes. ARCITE. If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me, And soldiers sing my epitaph. THESEUS. Make choice, then. EMILIA. I cannot, sir, they are both too excellent; For me, a hair shall never fall of these men. HIPPOLYTA. What will become of ’em? THESEUS. Thus I ordain it And, by mine honour, once again, it stands, Or both shall die. You shall both to your country, And each within this month, accompanied With three fair knights, appear again in this place, In which I’ll plant a pyramid; and whether, Before us that are here, can force his cousin By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar, He shall enjoy her; th’ other lose his head, And all his friends; nor shall he grudge to fall, Nor think he dies with interest in this lady. Will this content ye? PALAMON. Yes. Here, cousin Arcite, I am friends again, till that hour. [_He offers his hand._] ARCITE. I embrace ye. THESEUS. Are you content, sister? EMILIA. Yes, I must, sir, Else both miscarry. THESEUS. Come, shake hands again, then; And take heed, as you are gentlemen, this quarrel Sleep till the hour prefixed, and hold your course. PALAMON. We dare not fail thee, Theseus. [_They shake hands._] THESEUS. Come, I’ll give ye Now usage like to princes, and to friends. When ye return, who wins, I’ll settle here; Who loses, yet I’ll weep upon his bier. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Athens. A room in the prison Enter Jailer and his Friend. JAILER. Hear you no more? Was nothing said of me Concerning the escape of Palamon? Good sir, remember. FIRST FRIEND. Nothing that I heard, For I came home before the business Was fully ended. Yet I might perceive, Ere I departed, a great likelihood Of both their pardons; for Hippolyta And fair-eyed Emily, upon their knees, Begged with such handsome pity that the Duke Methought stood staggering whether he should follow His rash oath or the sweet compassion Of those two ladies. And, to second them, That truly noble prince, Pirithous, Half his own heart, set in too, that I hope All shall be well. Neither heard I one question Of your name or his ’scape. JAILER. Pray heaven it hold so. Enter Second Friend. SECOND FRIEND. Be of good comfort, man; I bring you news, Good news. JAILER. They are welcome. SECOND FRIEND. Palamon has cleared you, And got your pardon, and discovered how And by whose means he escaped, which was your daughter’s, Whose pardon is procured too; and the prisoner, Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness, Has given a sum of money to her marriage, A large one, I’ll assure you. JAILER. You are a good man And ever bring good news. FIRST FRIEND. How was it ended? SECOND FRIEND. Why, as it should be; they that never begged But they prevailed had their suits fairly granted; The prisoners have their lives. FIRST FRIEND. I knew ’twould be so. SECOND FRIEND. But there be new conditions, which you’ll hear of At better time. JAILER. I hope they are good. SECOND FRIEND. They are honourable; How good they’ll prove, I know not. FIRST FRIEND. ’Twill be known. Enter Wooer. WOOER. Alas, sir, where’s your daughter? JAILER. Why do you ask? WOOER. O, sir, when did you see her? SECOND FRIEND. How he looks? JAILER. This morning. WOOER. Was she well? Was she in health, sir? When did she sleep? FIRST FRIEND. These are strange questions. JAILER. I do not think she was very well, for now You make me mind her, but this very day I asked her questions, and she answered me So far from what she was, so childishly, So sillily, as if she were a fool, An innocent, and I was very angry. But what of her, sir? WOOER. Nothing but my pity. But you must know it, and as good by me As by another that less loves her. JAILER. Well, sir? FIRST FRIEND. Not right? SECOND FRIEND. Not well? WOOER. No, sir, not well: ’Tis too true, she is mad. FIRST FRIEND. It cannot be. WOOER. Believe, you’ll find it so. JAILER. I half suspected What you have told me. The gods comfort her! Either this was her love to Palamon, Or fear of my miscarrying on his ’scape, Or both. WOOER. ’Tis likely. JAILER. But why all this haste, sir? WOOER. I’ll tell you quickly. As I late was angling In the great lake that lies behind the palace, From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges, As patiently I was attending sport, I heard a voice, a shrill one; and, attentive, I gave my ear, when I might well perceive ’Twas one that sung, and by the smallness of it A boy or woman. I then left my angle To his own skill, came near, but yet perceived not Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds Had so encompassed it. I laid me down And listened to the words she sung, for then, Through a small glade cut by the fishermen, I saw it was your daughter. JAILER. Pray, go on, sir. WOOER. She sung much, but no sense; only I heard her Repeat this often: “Palamon is gone, Is gone to th’ wood to gather mulberries; I’ll find him out tomorrow.” FIRST FRIEND. Pretty soul! WOOER. “His shackles will betray him; he’ll be taken, And what shall I do then? I’ll bring a bevy, A hundred black-eyed maids that love as I do, With chaplets on their heads of daffadillies, With cherry lips and cheeks of damask roses, And all we’ll dance an antic ’fore the Duke, And beg his pardon.” Then she talked of you, sir; That you must lose your head tomorrow morning, And she must gather flowers to bury you, And see the house made handsome. Then she sung Nothing but “Willow, willow, willow,” and between Ever was “Palamon, fair Palamon,” And “Palamon was a tall young man.” The place Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless tresses, A wreath of bulrush rounded; about her stuck Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours, That methought she appeared like the fair nymph That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris Newly dropped down from heaven. Rings she made Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke The prettiest posies: “Thus our true love’s tied,” “This you may loose, not me,” and many a one; And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed, And with the same breath smiled and kissed her hand. SECOND FRIEND. Alas, what pity it is! WOOER. I made in to her. She saw me, and straight sought the flood. I saved her And set her safe to land, when presently She slipped away, and to the city made With such a cry and swiftness that, believe me, She left me far behind her. Three or four I saw from far off cross her—one of ’em I knew to be your brother—where she stayed And fell, scarce to be got away. I left them with her And hither came to tell you. Enter Jailer’s Brother, Jailer’s Daughter and others. Here they are. DAUGHTER. [_Sings_.] _May you never more enjoy the light, &c._ Is not this a fine song? BROTHER. O, a very fine one. DAUGHTER. I can sing twenty more. BROTHER. I think you can. DAUGHTER. Yes, truly can I. I can sing “The Broom” and “Bonny Robin.” Are not you a tailor? BROTHER. Yes. DAUGHTER. Where’s my wedding gown? BROTHER. I’ll bring it tomorrow. DAUGHTER. Do, very rarely, I must be abroad else To call the maids and pay the minstrels, For I must lose my maidenhead by cocklight. ’Twill never thrive else. [_Sings_.] _O fair, O sweet, &c._ BROTHER. [_To Jailer._] You must e’en take it patiently. JAILER. ’Tis true. DAUGHTER. Good ev’n, good men; pray, did you ever hear Of one young Palamon? JAILER. Yes, wench, we know him. DAUGHTER. Is’t not a fine young gentleman? JAILER. ’Tis, love. BROTHER. By no means cross her; she is then distempered Far worse than now she shows. FIRST FRIEND. Yes, he’s a fine man. DAUGHTER. O, is he so? You have a sister? FIRST FRIEND. Yes. DAUGHTER. But she shall never have him, tell her so, For a trick that I know; you’d best look to her, For if she see him once, she’s gone, she’s done, And undone in an hour. All the young maids Of our town are in love with him, but I laugh at ’em And let ’em all alone. Is ’t not a wise course? FIRST FRIEND. Yes. DAUGHTER. There is at least two hundred now with child by him— There must be four; yet I keep close for all this, Close as a cockle; and all these must be boys He has the trick on ’t; and at ten years old They must be all gelt for musicians And sing the wars of Theseus. SECOND FRIEND. This is strange. DAUGHTER. As ever you heard, but say nothing. FIRST FRIEND. No. DAUGHTER. They come from all parts of the dukedom to him. I’ll warrant ye, he had not so few last night As twenty to dispatch. He’ll tickle ’t up In two hours, if his hand be in. JAILER. She’s lost Past all cure. BROTHER. Heaven forbid, man! DAUGHTER. Come hither, you are a wise man. FIRST FRIEND. [_Aside._] Does she know him? SECOND FRIEND. [_Aside._] No, would she did. DAUGHTER. You are master of a ship? JAILER. Yes. DAUGHTER. Where’s your compass? JAILER. Here. DAUGHTER. Set it to th’ north. And now direct your course to th’ wood, where Palamon Lies longing for me. For the tackling, Let me alone. Come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly. ALL. Owgh, owgh, owgh! ’Tis up, the wind’s fair! Top the bowline; out with the mainsail; Where’s your whistle, master? BROTHER. Let’s get her in. JAILER. Up to the top, boy. BROTHER. Where’s the pilot? FIRST FRIEND. Here. DAUGHTER. What kenn’st thou? SECOND FRIEND. A fair wood. DAUGHTER. Bear for it, master. Tack about! [_Sings_.] _When Cinthia with her borrowed light, &c._ [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in the Palace Enter Emilia alone, with two pictures. EMILIA. Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must open And bleed to death for my sake else. I’ll choose, And end their strife. Two such young handsome men Shall never fall for me; their weeping mothers, Following the dead cold ashes of their sons, Shall never curse my cruelty. [_Looks at one of the pictures._] Good heaven, What a sweet face has Arcite! If wise Nature, With all her best endowments, all those beauties She sows into the births of noble bodies, Were here a mortal woman, and had in her The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless She would run mad for this man. What an eye, Of what a fiery sparkle and quick sweetness, Has this young prince! Here Love himself sits smiling; Just such another wanton Ganymede Set Jove afire with, and enforced the god Snatch up the goodly boy and set him by him, A shining constellation. What a brow, Of what a spacious majesty, he carries, Arched like the great-eyed Juno’s, but far sweeter, Smoother than Pelops’ shoulder! Fame and Honour, Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings and sing To all the under-world the loves and fights Of gods and such men near ’em. [_Looks at the other picture._] Palamon Is but his foil; to him a mere dull shadow; He’s swart and meagre, of an eye as heavy As if he had lost his mother; a still temper, No stirring in him, no alacrity; Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile. Yet these that we count errors may become him; Narcissus was a sad boy but a heavenly. O, who can find the bent of woman’s fancy? I am a fool; my reason is lost in me; I have no choice, and I have lied so lewdly That women ought to beat me. On my knees I ask thy pardon, Palamon, thou art alone And only beautiful, and these the eyes, These the bright lamps of beauty, that command And threaten love, and what young maid dare cross ’em? What a bold gravity, and yet inviting, Has this brown manly face! O Love, this only From this hour is complexion. Lie there, Arcite. [_She puts aside his picture._] Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gypsy, And this the noble body. I am sotted, Utterly lost. My virgin’s faith has fled me. For if my brother but even now had asked me Whether I loved, I had run mad for Arcite; Now, if my sister, more for Palamon. Stand both together. Now, come ask me, brother. Alas, I know not! Ask me now, sweet sister. I may go look! What a mere child is Fancy, That, having two fair gauds of equal sweetness, Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both. Enter a Gentleman. EMILIA. How now, sir? GENTLEMAN. From the noble Duke your brother, Madam, I bring you news. The knights are come. EMILIA. To end the quarrel? GENTLEMAN. Yes. EMILIA. Would I might end first! What sins have I committed, chaste Diana, That my unspotted youth must now be soiled With blood of princes, and my chastity Be made the altar where the lives of lovers— Two greater and two better never yet Made mothers joy—must be the sacrifice To my unhappy beauty? Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous and Attendants. THESEUS. Bring ’em in Quickly, by any means; I long to see ’em. Your two contending lovers are returned, And with them their fair knights. Now, my fair sister, You must love one of them. EMILIA. I had rather both, So neither for my sake should fall untimely. THESEUS. Who saw ’em? PIRITHOUS. I a while. GENTLEMAN. And I. Enter Messenger. THESEUS. From whence come you, sir? MESSENGER. From the knights. THESEUS. Pray, speak, You that have seen them, what they are. MESSENGER. I will, sir, And truly what I think. Six braver spirits Than these they have brought, if we judge by the outside, I never saw nor read of. He that stands In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming Should be a stout man, by his face a prince, His very looks so say him; his complexion Nearer a brown than black, stern and yet noble, Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers; The circles of his eyes show fire within him, And as a heated lion so he looks. His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining Like ravens’ wings; his shoulders broad and strong; Armed long and round; and on his thigh a sword Hung by a curious baldric, when he frowns To seal his will with. Better, o’ my conscience, Was never soldier’s friend. THESEUS. Thou hast well described him. PIRITHOUS. Yet a great deal short, Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon. THESEUS. Pray, speak him, friend. PIRITHOUS. I guess he is a prince too, And, if it may be, greater; for his show Has all the ornament of honour in ’t: He’s somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of, But of a face far sweeter; his complexion Is, as a ripe grape, ruddy. He has felt Without doubt what he fights for, and so apter To make this cause his own. In ’s face appears All the fair hopes of what he undertakes And when he’s angry, then a settled valour, Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body And guides his arm to brave things. Fear he cannot; He shows no such soft temper. His head’s yellow, Hard-haired and curled, thick-twined like ivy tods, Not to undo with thunder. In his face The livery of the warlike maid appears, Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blessed him; And in his rolling eyes sits Victory, As if she ever meant to crown his valour. His nose stands high, a character of honour; His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies. EMILIA. Must these men die too? PIRITHOUS. When he speaks, his tongue Sounds like a trumpet. All his lineaments Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean. He wears a well-steeled axe, the staff of gold; His age some five-and-twenty. MESSENGER. There’s another, A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming As great as any; fairer promises In such a body yet I never looked on. PIRITHOUS. O, he that’s freckle-faced? MESSENGER. The same, my lord; Are they not sweet ones? PIRITHOUS. Yes, they are well.