All his words are worthy.
THESEUS.
Sir, we are much endebted to your travell, Nor shall you loose your wish: Perithous, Dispose of this faire Gentleman.
PERITHOUS.
Thankes, Theseus. What ere you are y'ar mine, and I shall give you To a most noble service, to this Lady, This bright yong Virgin; pray, observe her goodnesse; You have honourd hir faire birth-day with your vertues, And as your due y'ar hirs: kisse her faire hand, Sir.
ARCITE.
Sir, y'ar a noble Giver: dearest Bewtie, Thus let me seale my vowd faith: when your Servant (Your most unworthie Creature) but offends you, Command him die, he shall.
EMILIA.
That were too cruell. If you deserve well, Sir, I shall soone see't: Y'ar mine, and somewhat better than your rancke Ile use you.
PERITHOUS.
Ile see you furnish'd, and because you say You are a horseman, I must needs intreat you This after noone to ride, but tis a rough one.
ARCITE.
I like him better, Prince, I shall not then Freeze in my Saddle.
THESEUS.
Sweet, you must be readie, And you, Emilia, and you, Friend, and all, To morrow by the Sun, to doe observance To flowry May, in Dians wood: waite well, Sir, Vpon your Mistris. Emely, I hope He shall not goe a foote.
EMILIA.
That were a shame, Sir, While I have horses: take your choice, and what You want at any time, let me but know it; If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you You'l finde a loving Mistris.
ARCITE.
If I doe not, Let me finde that my Father ever hated, Disgrace and blowes.
THESEUS.
Go, leade the way; you have won it: It shall be so; you shall receave all dues Fit for the honour you have won; Twer wrong else. Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a Servant, That, if I were a woman, would be Master, But you are wise. [Florish.]
EMILIA.
I hope too wise for that, Sir. [Exeunt omnes.]
Scaena 6. (Before the prison.)
[Enter Iaylors Daughter alone.]
DAUGHTER.
Let all the Dukes, and all the divells rore, He is at liberty: I have venturd for him, And out I have brought him to a little wood A mile hence. I have sent him, where a Cedar, Higher than all the rest, spreads like a plane Fast by a Brooke, and there he shall keepe close, Till I provide him Fyles and foode, for yet His yron bracelets are not off. O Love, What a stout hearted child thou art! My Father Durst better have indur'd cold yron, than done it: I love him beyond love and beyond reason, Or wit, or safetie: I have made him know it. I care not, I am desperate; If the law Finde me, and then condemne me for't, some wenches, Some honest harted Maides, will sing my Dirge, And tell to memory my death was noble, Dying almost a Martyr: That way he takes, I purpose is my way too: Sure he cannot Be so unmanly, as to leave me here; If he doe, Maides will not so easily Trust men againe: And yet he has not thank'd me For what I have done: no not so much as kist me, And that (me thinkes) is not so well; nor scarcely Could I perswade him to become a Freeman, He made such scruples of the wrong he did To me, and to my Father. Yet I hope, When he considers more, this love of mine Will take more root within him: Let him doe What he will with me, so he use me kindly; For use me so he shall, or ile proclaime him, And to his face, no man. Ile presently Provide him necessaries, and packe my cloathes up, And where there is a patch of ground Ile venture, So hee be with me; By him, like a shadow, Ile ever dwell; within this houre the whoobub Will be all ore the prison: I am then Kissing the man they looke for: farewell, Father; Get many more such prisoners and such daughters, And shortly you may keepe your selfe. Now to him!
Actus Tertius.
Scaena 1. (A forest near Athens.)
[Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallowing as people a Maying.]
[Enter Arcite alone.]
ARCITE.
The Duke has lost Hypolita; each tooke A severall land. This is a solemne Right They owe bloomd May, and the Athenians pay it To'th heart of Ceremony. O Queene Emilia, Fresher then May, sweeter Then hir gold Buttons on the bowes, or all Th'enamelld knackes o'th Meade or garden: yea, We challenge too the bancke of any Nymph That makes the streame seeme flowers; thou, o Iewell O'th wood, o'th world, hast likewise blest a place With thy sole presence: in thy rumination That I, poore man, might eftsoones come betweene And chop on some cold thought! thrice blessed chance, To drop on such a Mistris, expectation Most giltlesse on't! tell me, O Lady Fortune, (Next after Emely my Soveraigne) how far I may be prowd.