Part 211

MESSENGER. Methinks, Being so few and well disposed, they show Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-haired, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an auburn; tough and nimble-set, Which shows an active soul. His arms are brawny, Lined with strong sinews. To the shoulder-piece Gently they swell, like women new-conceived, Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted still, But when he stirs, a tiger. He’s grey-eyed, Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em, He’s swift to make ’em his. He does no wrongs, Nor takes none. He’s round-faced, and when he smiles He shows a lover; when he frowns, a soldier. About his head he wears the winner’s oak, And in it stuck the favour of his lady. His age some six-and-thirty. In his hand He bears a charging-staff embossed with silver.

THESEUS. Are they all thus?

PIRITHOUS. They are all the sons of honour.

THESEUS. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see’em. Lady, you shall see men fight now.

HIPPOLYTA. I wish it, But not the cause, my lord. They would show Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms. ’Tis pity love should be so tyrannous.— O, my soft-hearted sister, what think you? Weep not till they weep blood. Wench, it must be.

THESEUS. You have steeled ’em with your beauty. Honoured friend, To you I give the field; pray order it Fitting the persons that must use it.

PIRITHOUS. Yes, sir.

THESEUS. Come, I’ll go visit ’em. I cannot stay, Their fame has fired me so; till they appear. Good friend, be royal.

PIRITHOUS. There shall want no bravery.

[_Exeunt all but Emilia._]

EMILIA. Poor wench, go weep, for whosoever wins, Loses a noble cousin for thy sins.

[_Exit._]

SCENE III. A room in the prison

Enter Jailer, Wooer and Doctor.

DOCTOR. Her distraction is more at some time of the moon, than at other some, is it not?

JAILER. She is continually in a harmless distemper, sleeps little, altogether without appetite, save often drinking, dreaming of another world, and a better; and what broken piece of matter soe’er she’s about, the name Palamon lards it, that she farces every business withal, fits it to every question.

Enter Jailer’s Daughter.

Look where she comes; you shall perceive her behaviour.

DAUGHTER. I have forgot it quite. The burden on ’t was “Down-a, down-a,” and penned by no worse man than Geraldo, Emilia’s schoolmaster. He’s as fantastical, too, as ever he may go upon’s legs, for in the next world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be out of love with Æneas.

DOCTOR. What stuff’s here? Poor soul!

JAILER. Even thus all day long.

DAUGHTER. Now for this charm that I told you of: you must bring a piece of silver on the tip of your tongue, or no ferry. Then if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits are, there’s a sight now! We maids that have our livers perished, cracked to pieces with love, we shall come there, and do nothing all day long but pick flowers with Proserpine. Then will I make Palamon a nosegay; then let him mark me—then.

DOCTOR. How prettily she’s amiss! Note her a little further.

DAUGHTER. Faith, I’ll tell you, sometime we go to barley-break, we of the blessed. Alas, ’tis a sore life they have i’ th’ other place—such burning, frying, boiling, hissing, howling, chattering, cursing—O, they have shrewd measure; take heed! If one be mad, or hang or drown themselves, thither they go; Jupiter bless us! And there shall we be put in a cauldron of lead and usurers’ grease, amongst a whole million of cutpurses, and there boil like a gammon of bacon that will never be enough.

DOCTOR. How her brain coins!

DAUGHTER. Lords and courtiers that have got maids with child, they are in this place. They shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to the heart, and there th’ offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes. In troth, a very grievous punishment, as one would think, for such a trifle. Believe me, one would marry a leprous witch to be rid on ’t, I’ll assure you.

DOCTOR. How she continues this fancy! ’Tis not an engraffed madness, but a most thick, and profound melancholy.

DAUGHTER. To hear there a proud lady and a proud city wife howl together! I were a beast an I’d call it good sport. One cries “O this smoke!” th’ other, “This fire!”; one cries, “O, that ever I did it behind the arras!” and then howls; th’ other curses a suing fellow and her garden house.

[_Sings._] _I will be true, my stars, my fate, &c._

[_Exit Jailer’s Daughter._]

JAILER. What think you of her, sir?

DOCTOR. I think she has a perturbed mind, which I cannot minister to.

JAILER. Alas, what then?

DOCTOR. Understand you she ever affected any man ere she beheld Palamon?

JAILER. I was once, sir, in great hope she had fixed her liking on this gentleman, my friend.

WOOER. I did think so too, and would account I had a great penn’orth on’t, to give half my state, that both she and I at this present stood unfeignedly on the same terms.

DOCTOR. That intemperate surfeit of her eye hath distempered the other senses. They may return and settle again to execute their preordained faculties, but they are now in a most extravagant vagary. This you must do: confine her to a place where the light may rather seem to steal in than be permitted. Take upon you, young sir, her friend, the name of Palamon; say you come to eat with her, and to commune of love. This will catch her attention, for this her mind beats upon; other objects that are inserted ’tween her mind and eye become the pranks and friskins of her madness. Sing to her such green songs of love as she says Palamon hath sung in prison. Come to her stuck in as sweet flowers as the season is mistress of, and thereto make an addition of some other compounded odours which are grateful to the sense. All this shall become Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is sweet and every good thing. Desire to eat with her, carve her, drink to her, and still among intermingle your petition of grace and acceptance into her favour. Learn what maids have been her companions and play-feres, and let them repair to her with Palamon in their mouths, and appear with tokens, as if they suggested for him. It is a falsehood she is in, which is with falsehoods to be combated. This may bring her to eat, to sleep, and reduce what’s now out of square in her into their former law and regiment. I have seen it approved, how many times I know not, but to make the number more I have great hope in this. I will, between the passages of this project, come in with my appliance. Let us put it in execution and hasten the success, which, doubt not, will bring forth comfort.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT V

SCENE I. Athens. Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana

Flourish. Enter Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta and Attendants.

THESEUS. Now let ’em enter and before the gods Tender their holy prayers. Let the temples Burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars In hallowed clouds commend their swelling incense To those above us. Let no due be wanting. They have a noble work in hand, will honour The very powers that love ’em.

PIRITHOUS. Sir, they enter.

Enter Palamon and Arcite and their Knights.

THESEUS. You valiant and strong-hearted enemies, You royal german foes, that this day come To blow that nearness out that flames between ye, Lay by your anger for an hour and, dove-like, Before the holy altars of your helpers, The all-feared gods, bow down your stubborn bodies. Your ire is more than mortal; so your help be; And, as the gods regard ye, fight with justice. I’ll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye I part my wishes.

PIRITHOUS. Honour crown the worthiest.

[_Exeunt Theseus and his Train._]

PALAMON. The glass is running now that cannot finish Till one of us expire. Think you but thus, That were there aught in me which strove to show Mine enemy in this business, were ’t one eye Against another, arm oppressed by arm, I would destroy th’ offender, coz, I would Though parcel of myself. Then from this gather How I should tender you.

ARCITE. I am in labour To push your name, your ancient love, our kindred Out of my memory, and i’ th’ selfsame place To seat something I would confound. So hoist we The sails that must these vessels port even where The heavenly limiter pleases.

PALAMON. You speak well. Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin. This I shall never do again.

ARCITE. One farewell.

PALAMON. Why, let it be so. Farewell, coz.

ARCITE. Farewell, sir.

[_Exeunt Palamon and his Knights._]

Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices, True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you Expels the seeds of fear and th’ apprehension Which still is father of it, go with me Before the god of our profession. There Require of him the hearts of lions and The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too, Yea, the speed also—to go on, I mean; Else wish we to be snails. You know my prize Must be dragged out of blood; force and great feat Must put my garland on, where she sticks, The queen of flowers. Our intercession, then, Must be to him that makes the camp a cistern Brimmed with the blood of men. Give me your aid, And bend your spirits towards him.

[_They advance to the altar of Mars, fall on their faces before it, and then kneel._]

Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turned Green Neptune into purple; whose approach Comets prewarn, whose havoc in vast field Unearthed skulls proclaim; whose breath blows down The teeming Ceres’ foison, who dost pluck With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds The masoned turrets, that both mak’st and break’st The stony girths of cities; me thy pupil, Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day With military skill, that to thy laud I may advance my streamer, and by thee Be styled the lord o’ th’ day. Give me, great Mars, Some token of thy pleasure.

[_Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar._]

O, great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o’er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that heal’st with blood The earth when it is sick, and cur’st the world O’ th’ pleurisy of people; I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design march boldly.—Let us go.

[_Exeunt._]

Enter Palamon and his Knights, with the former observance.

PALAMON. Our stars must glister with new fire, or be Today extinct. Our argument is love, Which, if the goddess of it grant, she gives Victory too. Then blend your spirits with mine, You whose free nobleness do make my cause Your personal hazard. To the goddess Venus Commend we our proceeding, and implore Her power unto our party.

[_Here they kneel as formerly._]

Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage And weep unto a girl; that hast the might Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars’s drum And turn th’ alarm to whispers; that canst make A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him Before Apollo; that mayst force the king To be his subject’s vassal, and induce Stale gravity to dance. The polled bachelor, Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires, Have skipped thy flame, at seventy thou canst catch, And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat, Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power Hast thou not power upon? To Phœbus thou Add’st flames hotter than his; the heavenly fires Did scorch his mortal son, thine him. The huntress, All moist and cold, some say, began to throw Her bow away and sigh. Take to thy grace Me, thy vowed soldier, who do bear thy yoke As ’twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier Than lead itself, stings more than nettles. I have never been foul-mouthed against thy law, Ne’er revealed secret, for I knew none—would not, Had I kenned all that were. I never practised Upon man’s wife, nor would the libels read Of liberal wits. I never at great feasts Sought to betray a beauty, but have blushed At simpering sirs that did. I have been harsh To large confessors, and have hotly asked them If they had mothers—I had one, a woman, And women ’twere they wronged. I knew a man Of eighty winters, this I told them, who A lass of fourteen brided; ’twas thy power To put life into dust. The aged cramp Had screwed his square foot round; The gout had knit his fingers into knots, Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life In him seemed torture. This anatomy Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I Believed it was his, for she swore it was, And who would not believe her? Brief, I am To those that prate and have done, no companion; To those that boast and have not, a defier; To those that would and cannot, a rejoicer. Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices The foulest way, nor names concealments in The boldest language. Such a one I am, And vow that lover never yet made sigh Truer than I. O, then, most soft sweet goddess, Give me the victory of this question, which Is true love’s merit, and bless me with a sign Of thy great pleasure.

[_Here music is heard; doves are seen to flutter. They fall again upon their faces, then on their knees._]

O thou that from eleven to ninety reign’st In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks For this fair token, which being laid unto Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance My body to this business.—Let us rise And bow before the goddess.

[_They rise and bow._]

Time comes on.

[_Exeunt._]

Still music of recorders. Enter Emilia in white, her hair about her shoulders, wearing a wheaten wreath. One in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers. One before her carrying a silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odours, which being set upon the altar of Diana, her maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it; then they curtsy and kneel.

EMILIA. O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen, Abandoner of revels, mute contemplative, Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure As wind-fanned snow, who to thy female knights Allow’st no more blood than will make a blush, Which is their order’s robe, I here, thy priest, Am humbled ’fore thine altar. O, vouchsafe With that thy rare green eye, which never yet Beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin; And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear, Which ne’er heard scurrile term, into whose port Ne’er entered wanton sound, to my petition, Seasoned with holy fear. This is my last Of vestal office. I am bride-habited But maiden-hearted. A husband I have ’pointed, But do not know him. Out of two I should Choose one, and pray for his success, but I Am guiltless of election. Of mine eyes, Were I to lose one, they are equal precious; I could doom neither; that which perished should Go to ’t unsentenced. Therefore, most modest queen, He of the two pretenders that best loves me And has the truest title in ’t, let him Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant The file and quality I hold I may Continue in thy band.

[_Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose tree, having one rose upon it._]

See what our general of ebbs and flows Out from the bowels of her holy altar With sacred act advances: but one rose! If well inspired, this battle shall confound Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flower, Must grow alone, unplucked.

[_Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree._]

The flower is fall’n, the tree descends. O mistress, Thou here dischargest me. I shall be gathered; I think so, but I know not thine own will. Unclasp thy mystery!—I hope she’s pleased; Her signs were gracious.

[_They curtsy and exeunt._]

SCENE II. Athens. A Room in the Prison

Enter Doctor, Jailer and Wooer in the habit of Palamon.

DOCTOR. Has this advice I told you, done any good upon her?

WOOER. O, very much. The maids that kept her company Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon; Within this half-hour she came smiling to me, And asked me what I would eat, and when I would kiss her. I told her “Presently,” and kissed her twice.

DOCTOR. ’Twas well done. Twenty times had been far better, For there the cure lies mainly.

WOOER. Then she told me She would watch with me tonight, for well she knew What hour my fit would take me.

DOCTOR. Let her do so, And when your fit comes, fit her home, and presently.

WOOER. She would have me sing.

DOCTOR. You did so?

WOOER. No.

DOCTOR. ’Twas very ill done, then; You should observe her every way.

WOOER. Alas, I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way.

DOCTOR. That’s all one, if ye make a noise. If she entreat again, do anything. Lie with her, if she ask you.

JAILER. Hoa, there, doctor!

DOCTOR. Yes, in the way of cure.

JAILER. But first, by your leave, I’ th’ way of honesty.

DOCTOR. That’s but a niceness, Ne’er cast your child away for honesty. Cure her first this way; then if she will be honest, She has the path before her.

JAILER. Thank ye, Doctor.

DOCTOR. Pray, bring her in, And let’s see how she is.

JAILER. I will, and tell her Her Palamon stays for her. But, Doctor, Methinks you are i’ th’ wrong still.

[_Exit Jailer._]

DOCTOR. Go, go; You fathers are fine fools. Her honesty? An we should give her physic till we find that!

WOOER. Why, do you think she is not honest, sir?

DOCTOR. How old is she?

WOOER. She’s eighteen.

DOCTOR. She may be, But that’s all one; ’tis nothing to our purpose. Whate’er her father says, if you perceive Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of, _Videlicet_, the way of flesh—you have me?

WOOER. Yes, very well, sir.

DOCTOR. Please her appetite, And do it home; it cures her, _ipso facto_, The melancholy humour that infects her.

WOOER. I am of your mind, Doctor.

Enter Jailer, Jailer’s Daughter and Maid.

DOCTOR. You’ll find it so. She comes, pray, humour her.

JAILER. Come, your love Palamon stays for you, child, And has done this long hour, to visit you.

DAUGHTER. I thank him for his gentle patience; He’s a kind gentleman, and I am much bound to him. Did you ne’er see the horse he gave me?

JAILER. Yes.

DAUGHTER. How do you like him?

JAILER. He’s a very fair one.

DAUGHTER. You never saw him dance?

JAILER. No.

DAUGHTER. I have often. He dances very finely, very comely, And for a jig, come cut and long tail to him, He turns ye like a top.

JAILER. That’s fine, indeed.

DAUGHTER. He’ll dance the morris twenty mile an hour, And that will founder the best hobby-horse If I have any skill in all the parish, And gallops to the tune of “Light o’ love.” What think you of this horse?

JAILER. Having these virtues, I think he might be brought to play at tennis.

DAUGHTER. Alas, that’s nothing.

JAILER. Can he write and read too?

DAUGHTER. A very fair hand, and casts himself th’ accounts Of all his hay and provender. That hostler Must rise betime that cozens him. You know The chestnut mare the Duke has?

JAILER. Very well.

DAUGHTER. She is horribly in love with him, poor beast; But he is like his master, coy and scornful.

JAILER. What dowry has she?

DAUGHTER. Some two hundred bottles, And twenty strike of oates; but he’ll ne’er have her. He lisps in’s neighing, able to entice A miller’s mare. He’ll be the death of her.

DOCTOR. What stuff she utters!

JAILER. Make curtsy; here your love comes.

Enter Wooer and Doctor come forward.

WOOER. Pretty soul, How do ye? That’s a fine maid; there’s a curtsy!

DAUGHTER. Yours to command i’ th’ way of honesty. How far is’t now to’ th’ end o’ th’ world, my masters?

DOCTOR. Why, a day’s journey, wench.

DAUGHTER. Will you go with me?

WOOER. What shall we do there, wench?

DAUGHTER. Why, play at stool-ball; What is there else to do?

WOOER. I am content, If we shall keep our wedding there.

DAUGHTER. ’Tis true, For there, I will assure you, we shall find Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture To marry us, for here they are nice and foolish. Besides, my father must be hanged tomorrow, And that would be a blot i’ th’ business. Are not you Palamon?

WOOER. Do not you know me?

DAUGHTER. Yes, but you care not for me. I have nothing But this poor petticoat, and two coarse smocks.

WOOER. That’s all one; I will have you.

DAUGHTER. Will you surely?

WOOER. [_Taking her hand._] Yes, by this fair hand, will I.

DAUGHTER. We’ll to bed, then.

WOOER. E’en when you will.

[_Kisses her._]

DAUGHTER. [_Rubs off the kiss._] O sir, you would fain be nibbling.

WOOER. Why do you rub my kiss off?

DAUGHTER. ’Tis a sweet one, And will perfume me finely against the wedding. Is not this your cousin Arcite?

[_She indicates the Doctor._]

DOCTOR. Yes, sweetheart, And I am glad my cousin Palamon Has made so fair a choice.

DAUGHTER. Do you think he’ll have me?

DOCTOR. Yes, without doubt.

DAUGHTER. Do you think so too?

JAILER. Yes.

DAUGHTER. We shall have many children. [_To Doctor._] Lord, how you’re grown! My Palamon, I hope, will grow too, finely, Now he’s at liberty. Alas, poor chicken, He was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging, But I’ll kiss him up again.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. What do you here? You’ll lose the noblest sight That e’er was seen.

JAILER. Are they i’ th’ field?

MESSENGER. They are. You bear a charge there too.

JAILER. I’ll away straight. I must e’en leave you here.

DOCTOR. Nay, we’ll go with you; I will not lose the sight.

JAILER. How did you like her?

DOCTOR. I’ll warrant you, within these three or four days I’ll make her right again. You must not from her, But still preserve her in this way.

WOOER. I will.

DOCTOR. Let’s get her in.

WOOER. Come, sweet, we’ll go to dinner; And then we’ll play at cards.

DAUGHTER. And shall we kiss too?

WOOER. A hundred times.

DAUGHTER. And twenty.

WOOER. Ay, and twenty.

DAUGHTER. And then we’ll sleep together.

DOCTOR. Take her offer.

WOOER. Yes, marry, will we.

DAUGHTER. But you shall not hurt me.

WOOER. I will not, sweet.

DAUGHTER. If you do, love, I’ll cry.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. A part of the Forest near Athens, and near the Place appointed for the Combat

Flourish. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous and some Attendants.

EMILIA. I’ll no step further.

PIRITHOUS. Will you lose this sight?

EMILIA. I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly Than this decision. Every blow that falls Threats a brave life; each stroke laments The place whereon it falls, and sounds more like A bell than blade. I will stay here. It is enough my hearing shall be punished With what shall happen, ’gainst the which there is No deafing, but to hear; not taint mine eye With dread sights it may shun.

PIRITHOUS. Sir, my good lord, Your sister will no further.

THESEUS. O, she must. She shall see deeds of honour in their kind, Which sometime show well, penciled. Nature now Shall make and act the story, the belief Both sealed with eye and ear. You must be present; You are the victor’s meed, the price and garland To crown the question’s title.

EMILIA. Pardon me; If I were there, I’d wink.

THESEUS. You must be there; This trial is as ’twere i’ th’ night, and you The only star to shine.

EMILIA. I am extinct. There is but envy in that light which shows The one the other. Darkness, which ever was The dam of horror, who does stand accursed Of many mortal millions, may even now, By casting her black mantle over both, That neither could find other, get herself Some part of a good name, and many a murder Set off whereto she’s guilty.

HIPPOLYTA. You must go.

EMILIA. In faith, I will not.

THESEUS. Why, the knights must kindle Their valour at your eye. Know, of this war You are the treasure, and must needs be by To give the service pay.

EMILIA. Sir, pardon me; The title of a kingdom may be tried Out of itself.

THESEUS. Well, well, then, at your pleasure. Those that remain with you could wish their office To any of their enemies.