Scene
III
Before the gates of Athens.
Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta, and Emilia.
Pirithous
No further!
Hippolyta
Sir, farewell: repeat my wishes
To our great lord, of whose success I dare not
Make any timorous question; yet I wish him
Excess and overflow of power, an’t might be,
To dare ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him;
Store never hurts good governors.
Pirithous
Though I know
His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they
Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid,
Those best affections that the heavens infuse
In their best-temper’d pieces, keep enthron’d
In your dear heart!
Emilia
Thanks, sir. Remember me
To our all-royal brother; for whose speed
The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and
Since, in our terrene state petitions are not
Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her
What I shall be advis’d she likes. Our hearts
Are in his army, in his tent.
Hippolyta
In’s bosom.
We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep
When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,
Or tell of babes broach’d on the lance, or women
That have sod their infants in—and after eat them—
The brine they wept at killing ’em: then, if
You stay to see of us such spinsters, we
Should hold you here for ever.
Pirithous
Peace be to you,
As I pursue this war! which shall be then
Beyond further requiring. Exit.
Emilia
How his longing
Follows his friend! since his depart, his sports,
Though craving seriousness and skill, pass’d slightly
His careless execution, where nor gain
Made him regard, or loss consider; but
Playing one business in his hand, another
Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal
To these so differing twins. Have you observ’d him
Since our great lord departed?
Hippolyta
With much labour;
And I did love him for’t. They two have cabin’d
In many as dangerous as poor a corner,
Peril and want contending; they have skiff’d
Torrents, whose roaring tyranny and power
I’ the least of these was dreadful; and they have
Fought out together, where death’s self was lodg’d;
Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love
Tied, weav’d, entangled, with so true, so long,
And with a finger of so deep a cunning,
May be out-worn, never undone. I think
Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,
Cleaving his conscience into twain, and doing
Each side like justice, which he loves best.
Emilia
Doubtless
There is a best, and reason has no manners
To say it is not you. I was acquainted
Once with a time, when I enjoy’d a play-fellow;
You were at wars when she the grave enrich’d,
Who made too proud the bed, took leave of the moon—
Which then look’d pale at parting—when our count
Was each eleven.
Hippolyta
’Twas Flavina.
Emilia
Yes.
You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love:
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season’d,
More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs
The one or th’ other may be said to water
Their intertangled roots of love; but I,
And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent,
Lov’d for we did, and like the elements
That know not what nor why, yet do effect
Rare issues by their operance, our souls
Did so to one another: what she lik’d
Was then of me approv’d; what not, condemn’d,
No more arraignment; the flower that I would pluck
And put between my breasts, O—then but beginning
To swell about the blossom—she would long
Till she had such another, and commit it
To the like innocent cradle, where, phoenix-like,
They died in perfume; on my head no toy
But was her pattern; her affections—pretty,
Though happily her careless wear—I follow’d
For my most serious decking; had mine ear
Stol’n some new air, or at adventure humm’d one
From musical coinage, why, it was a note
Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather dwell on—
And sing it in her slumbers: this rehearsal—
Which, every innocent wots well, comes in
Like old importments bastard—has this end,
That the true love ’tween maid, and maid may be
More than in sex dividual.
Hippolyta
You’re out of breath;
And this high-speeded pace is but to say,
That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,
Love any that’s call’d man.
Emilia
I’m sure I shall not.
Hippolyta
Now, alack, weak sister,
I must no more believe thee in this point—
Though in’t I know thou dost believe thyself—
Than I will trust a sickly appetite,
That loathes even as it longs. But, sure, my sister,
If I were ripe for your persuasion, you
Have said enough to shake me from the arm
Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes
I will now in and kneel, with great assurance
That we, more than his Pirithous, possess
The high throne in his heart.
Emilia
I am not
Against your faith; yet I continue mine. Cornets. Exeunt.