PALAMON.
You have made me
(I thanke you, Cosen Arcite) almost wanton
With my Captivity: what a misery
It is to live abroade, and every where!
Tis like a Beast, me thinkes: I finde the Court here—
I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures
That wooe the wils of men to vanity,
I see through now, and am sufficient
To tell the world, tis but a gaudy shaddow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we bin, old in the Court of Creon,
Where sin is Iustice, lust and ignorance
The vertues of the great ones! Cosen Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died as they doe, ill old men, unwept,
And had their Epitaphes, the peoples Curses:
Shall I say more?
ARCITE.
I would heare you still.
PALAMON.
Ye shall.
Is there record of any two that lov’d
Better then we doe, Arcite?
ARCITE.
Sure, there cannot.
PALAMON.
I doe not thinke it possible our friendship
Should ever leave us.
ARCITE.
Till our deathes it cannot;
[Enter Emilia and her woman (below).]
And after death our spirits shall be led
To those that love eternally. Speake on, Sir.
EMILIA.
This garden has a world of pleasures in’t.
What Flowre is this?
WOMAN.
Tis calld Narcissus, Madam.
EMILIA.
That was a faire Boy, certaine, but a foole,
To love himselfe; were there not maides enough?
ARCITE.
Pray forward.
PALAMON.
Yes.
EMILIA.
Or were they all hard hearted?
WOMAN.
They could not be to one so faire.
EMILIA.
Thou wouldst not.
WOMAN.
I thinke I should not, Madam.
EMILIA.
That’s a good wench:
But take heede to your kindnes though.
WOMAN.
Why, Madam?
EMILIA.
Men are mad things.
ARCITE.
Will ye goe forward, Cosen?
EMILIA.
Canst not thou worke such flowers in silke, wench?
WOMAN.
Yes.
EMILIA.
Ile have a gowne full of ‘em, and of these;
This is a pretty colour, wilt not doe
Rarely upon a Skirt, wench?
WOMAN.
Deinty, Madam.
ARCITE.
Cosen, Cosen, how doe you, Sir? Why, Palamon?
PALAMON.
Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.
ARCITE.
Why whats the matter, Man?
PALAMON.
Behold, and wonder.
By heaven, shee is a Goddesse.
ARCITE.
Ha.
PALAMON.
Doe reverence. She is a Goddesse, Arcite.
EMILIA.
Of all Flowres, me thinkes a Rose is best.
WOMAN.
Why, gentle Madam?
EMILIA.
It is the very Embleme of a Maide.
For when the west wind courts her gently,
How modestly she blowes, and paints the Sun,
With her chaste blushes! When the North comes neere her,
Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity,
Shee lockes her beauties in her bud againe,
And leaves him to base briers.
WOMAN.
Yet, good Madam,
Sometimes her modesty will blow so far
She fals for’t: a Mayde,
If shee have any honour, would be loth
To take example by her.
EMILIA.
Thou art wanton.
ARCITE.
She is wondrous faire.
PALAMON.
She is beauty extant.
EMILIA.
The Sun grows high, lets walk in: keep these flowers;
Weele see how neere Art can come neere their colours.
I am wondrous merry hearted, I could laugh now.
WOMAN.
I could lie downe, I am sure.
EMILIA.
And take one with you?
WOMAN.
That’s as we bargaine, Madam.
EMILIA.
Well, agree then. [Exeunt Emilia and woman.]
PALAMON.
What thinke you of this beauty?
ARCITE.
Tis a rare one.
PALAMON.
Is’t but a rare one?
ARCITE.
Yes, a matchles beauty.
PALAMON.
Might not a man well lose himselfe and love her?
ARCITE.
I cannot tell what you have done, I have;
Beshrew mine eyes for’t: now I feele my Shackles.
PALAMON.
You love her, then?
ARCITE.
Who would not?
PALAMON.
And desire her?