_Arcite._ The Duke has lost Hippolita: each took A several laund. This is a solemn rite They owe bloom'd May, and the Athenians pay|it _To the heart of ceremony_. Oh, queen Emil|ia! Fresher than May, sweeter Than her _gold buttons_ on the boughs, or all [40:1]The enamell'd knacks o' the mead or garden! Yea, We challenge too the bank of any nymph, That makes the stream seem flowers!--Thou,--oh jew|el _O' the wood, o' the world_,--hast likewise blest a place With thy sole presence. In thy rumina|tion That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between, And chop on some cold thought!--Thrice blessed chance, To drop on such a mistress! Expecta|tion Most guiltless of | it.| Tell me, oh lady For|tune, (Next after Emily my sovran,) how far I may be proud. She takes strong note of me, Hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn, (The primest of all the year,) presents me with A brace of horses; two such steeds might well Be by a pair of kings back'd, in a field That their crowns' titles tried. Alas, alas! Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner!... ... If Thou knew'st my mistress breathed on me, and that I _cared_ her language, lived in her eye, oh coz, What passion would enclose thee! There is great spirit, also, in what follows. Some phrases, here again, are precisely Shakspeare's; and several parts of the dialogue have much of his pointed epigrammatic style. The massive accumulation of reproaches which Palamon hurls on Arcite is, in its energy, more like him than his assistant; and the opposition of character between Palamon and his calmer kinsman, is well kept up; but the dialogue cannot be accounted one of the best in the play. [Sidenote: Shaksperean string of epithets.] _Palamon._ ... Oh, thou most perfid|ious That ever gently look'd! The void'st of hon|our That e'er bore gentle token! Falsest cous|in That ever blood made kin! call'st thou her thine? I'll prove it in my shackles, in these hands Void of appointment, that thou liest, and art A very thief in love, a chaffy lord, Not worth the name of villain!--Had I a sword, And these house-clogs away! [Sidenote: Shaksperean word-play.] _Arcite._ _Dear cousin Pal|amon!_ _Palamon._ _Cozener Arcite!_ give me language such As thou hast shewed me feat. _Arcite._ Not finding in [41:1]The circuit of my breast, any gross stuff To form me like your _blazon_, holds me to This gentleness of answer. 'Tis your pas|sion That thus mistakes; the which, to you being en|emy, Cannot to me be kind.... [Sidenote: Act III. scene ii.]