Arch’d like the great eyd Iuno’s, but far sweeter,
Smoother then Pelops Shoulder! Fame and honour,
Me thinks, 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 neere ‘em. Palamon
Is but his foyle, to him a meere dull shadow:
Hee’s swarth 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 sharpenes not a smile;
Yet these that we count errours may become him:
Narcissus was a sad Boy, but a heavenly:—
Oh who can finde the bent of womans fancy?
I am a Foole, my reason is lost in me;
I have no choice, and I have ly’d so lewdly
That women ought to beate me. On my knees
I aske thy pardon, Palamon; thou art alone,
And only beutifull, and these the eyes,
These the bright lamps of beauty, that command
And threaten Love, and what yong Mayd dare crosse ‘em?
What a bold gravity, and yet inviting,
Has this browne manly face! O Love, this only
From this howre is Complexion: Lye there, Arcite,
Thou art a changling to him, a meere Gipsey,
And this the noble Bodie. I am sotted,
Vtterly lost: My Virgins faith has fled me;
For if my brother but even now had ask’d me
Whether I lov’d, I had run mad for Arcite;
Now, if my Sister, More for Palamon.
Stand both together: Now, come aske me, Brother.—
Alas, I know not! Aske me now, sweet Sister;—
I may goe looke. What a meere child is Fancie,
That, having two faire gawdes of equall sweetnesse,
Cannot distinguish, but must crie for both.
[Enter (a) Gent(leman.)]
EMILIA.
How now, Sir?
GENTLEMAN.
From the Noble Duke your Brother,
Madam, I bring you newes: The Knights are come.
EMILIA.
To end the quarrell?
GENTLEMAN.
Yes.
EMILIA.
Would I might end first:
What sinnes have I committed, chast Diana,
That my unspotted youth must now be soyld
With blood of Princes? and my Chastitie
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 Beautie?
[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Perithous and attendants.]
THESEUS.
Bring ‘em in
Quickly, By any meanes; I long to see ‘em.—
Your two contending Lovers are return’d,
And with them their faire Knights: Now, my faire Sister,
You must love one of them.
EMILIA.
I had rather both,
So neither for my sake should fall untimely.
[Enter Messenger. (Curtis.)]
THESEUS.
Who saw ‘em?
PERITHOUS.
I, a while.
GENTLEMAN.
And I.
THESEUS.
From whence come you, Sir?
MESSENGER.
From the Knights.
THESEUS.
Pray, speake,
You that have seene them, what they are.
MESSENGER.
I will, Sir,
And truly what I thinke: Six braver spirits
Then 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 lookes so say him) his complexion,
Nearer a browne, than blacke, sterne, and yet noble,
Which shewes him hardy, fearelesse, proud of dangers:
The circles of his eyes show fire within him,
And as a heated Lyon, so he lookes;
His haire hangs long behind him, blacke and shining
Like Ravens wings: his shoulders broad and strong,
Armd long and round, and on his Thigh a Sword
Hung by a curious Bauldricke, when he frownes
To seale his will with: better, o’my conscience
Was never Souldiers friend.
THESEUS.
Thou ha’st well describde him.
PERITHOUS.
Yet a great deale short,
Me thinkes, of him that’s first with Palamon.
THESEUS.
Pray, speake him, friend.
PERITHOUS.
I ghesse he is a Prince too,
And, if it may be, greater; for his show
Has all the ornament of honour in’t:
Hee’s somewhat bigger, then 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 owne: In’s face appeares
All the faire hopes of what he undertakes,
And when he’s angry, then a setled valour
(Not tainted with extreames) runs through his body,
And guides his arme to brave things: Feare he cannot,
He shewes no such soft temper; his head’s yellow,
Hard hayr’d, and curld, thicke twind like Ivy tods,
Not to undoe with thunder; In his face
The liverie of the warlike Maide appeares,
Pure red, and white, for yet no beard has blest him.
And in his rowling eyes sits victory,
As if she ever ment to court his valour: