The Complete Works of William Shakespeare · William Shakespeare
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.
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. HIPPOLYTA. Farewell, sister. I am like to know your husband ’fore yourself By some small start of time. He whom the gods Do of the two know best, I pray them he Be made your lot. [_Exeunt all but Emilia._] EMILIA. Arcite is gently visaged, yet his eye Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon In a soft sheath; mercy and manly courage Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon Has a most menacing aspect; his brow Is graved, and seems to bury what it frowns on; Yet sometimes ’tis not so, but alters to The quality of his thoughts. Long time his eye Will dwell upon his object. Melancholy Becomes him nobly; so does Arcite’s mirth; But Palamon’s sadness is a kind of mirth, So mingled as if mirth did make him sad And sadness merry. Those darker humours that Stick misbecomingly on others, on them Live in fair dwelling.
Enter Servant. SERVANT. They said that Palamon had Arcite’s body Within an inch o’ th’ pyramid, that the cry Was general “À Palamon.” But anon, Th’ assistants made a brave redemption, and The two bold titlers at this instant are Hand to hand at it. EMILIA. Were they metamorphosed Both into one—O, why? There were no woman Worth so composed a man! Their single share, Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives The prejudice of disparity, value’s shortness, To any lady breathing. [_Cornets. Cry within, “Arcite, Arcite.”_] More exulting? “Palamon” still? SERVANT. Nay, now the sound is “Arcite.” EMILIA. I prithee, lay attention to the cry; Set both thine ears to th’ business. [_Cornets. A great shout and cry “Arcite, victory!”_] SERVANT. The cry is “Arcite”, and “Victory!” Hark, “Arcite, victory!” The combat’s consummation is proclaimed By the wind instruments. EMILIA. Half-sights saw That Arcite was no babe. God’s lid, his richness And costliness of spirit looked through him; it could No more be hid in him than fire in flax, Than humble banks can go to law with waters That drift-winds force to raging. I did think Good Palamon would miscarry, yet I knew not Why I did think so. Our reasons are not prophets When oft our fancies are. They are coming off. Alas, poor Palamon! Cornets. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous, Arcite as victor, and Attendants.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.