Scene
III
A part of the forest near Athens, and near the place appointed for the combat.
Flourish. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous, and 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 punish’d
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, pencill’d: nature now
Shall make and act the story, the belief
Both seal’d 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’ the 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 accurs’d
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’m 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 except Emilia and some of the Attendants.
Emilia
Arcite is gently visag’d; 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 grav’d, 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 him
Live in fair dwelling. Cornets; trumpets sound as to a charge, within.
Hark, how yon spurs to spirit do incite
The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me
And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to
The spoiling of his figure. O, what pity
Enough for such a chance! If I were by,
I might do hurt; for they would glance their eyes
Toward my seat, and in that motion might
Omit a ward, or forfeit an offence,
Which crav’d that very time: it is much better
I am not there; O, better never born
Than minister to such harm. Cornets; and a great cry of “A Palamon!” within. What is the chance?
First Servant
The cry’s “A Palamon!”
Emilia
Then he has won. ’Twas ever likely:
He look’d all grace and success, and he is
Doubtless the prim’st of men. I pry’thee, run
And tell me how it goes. Shouts; cornets; and cry of “A Palamon!” within.
First Servant
Still “Palamon!”
Emilia
Run and inquire. Exit First Servant. Poor servant, thou hast lost:
Upon my right side still I wore thy picture,
Palamon’s on the left: why so, I know not;
I had no end in’t else; chance would have it so:
On the sinister side the heart lies; Palamon
Had the best-boding chance. Another cry, and shout, and cornets, within. This burst of clamour
Is sure the end o’ the combat.
Reenter First Servant.
First Servant
They said that Palamon had Arcite’s body
Within an inch o’ the pyramid, that the cry
Was general “A Palamon!” but anon
Th’ assistants made a brave redemption, and
The two bold tytlers at this instant are
Hand to hand at it.
Emilia
Were they metamorphos’d
Both into one—O, why? there were no woman
Worth so compos’d a man: their single share,
Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives
The prejudice of disparity, values shortness
To any lady breathing. Cornets; and cry of “Arcite, Arcite!” within. More exulting?
“Palamon” still?
First Servant
Nay, now the sound is “Arcite.”
Emilia
I pr’ythee, lay attention to the cry;
Set both thine ears to the business. Cornets; and a great shout, and cry of “Arcite, victory!” within.
First Servant
The cry is
“Arcite!” and “victory!” Hark: “Arcite, victory!”
The combat’s consummation is proclaim’d
By the wind-instruments.
Emilia
Half-sights saw
That Arcite was no babe: God’s lid, his richness
And costliness of spirit look’d 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’re coming off:
Alas, poor Palamon! Cornets within.
Reenter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous, with Arcite as victor, Attendants, etc.
Theseus
Lo, where our sister is in expectation,
Yet quaking and unsettled.—Fairest Emily,
The gods, by their divine arbitrament,
Have given you this knight: he is a good one
As ever struck at head. Give me your hands:
Receive you her, you him; be plighted with
A love that grows as you decay.
Arcite
Emily,
To buy you I have lost what’s dearest to me,
Save what is bought; and yet I purchase cheaply,
As I do rate your value.
Theseus
O lov’d sister,
He speaks now of as brave a knight as e’er
Did spur a noble steed: surely, the gods
Would have him die a bach’lor, lest his race
Should show i’ the world too godlike: his behaviour
So charm’d me, that methought Alcides was
To him a sow of lead: if I could praise
Each part of him to th’ all I’ve spoke, your Arcite
Did not lose by’t; for he that was thus good
Encounter’d yet his better. I have heard
Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o’ the night
With their contentious throats, now one the higher,
Anon the other, then again the first,
And by-and-by out-breasted, that the sense
Could not be judge between ’em: so it far’d
Good space between these kinsmen; till heavens did
Make hardly one the winner.—Wear the garland
With joy that you have won.—For the subdu’d,
Give them our present justice, since I know
Their lives but pinch ’em; let it here be done.
The scene’s not for our seeing: go we hence,
Right joyful, with some sorrow.—Arm your prize;
I know you will not lose her.—Hippolyta,
I see one eye of yours conceives a tear,
The which it will deliver.
Emilia
Is this winning?
O all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy?
But that your wills have said it must be so,
And charge me live to comfort this unfriended,
This miserable prince, that cuts away
A life more worthy from him than all women,
I should and would die too.
Hippolyta
Infinite pity,
That four such eyes should be so fix’d on one,
That two must needs be blind for’t!
Theseus
So it is. Flourish. Exeunt.