_Theseus._ You valiant and strong-hearted enemies, You royal germane foes, that this day come To blow the nearness out that flames between | ye,-- Lay by your anger for an hour, and dove|-like, Before the holy altars of your Help|ers (The all-feard Gods) bow down your stubborn bod|ies! Your ire is more than mortal: so your help | be! . . . . . [Sidenote: Shakspere phrases.] _Arcite._ ... Hoist | we Those sails that must these vessels port even where The Heavenly Limiter pleases! . . . . . [46:2]Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifi|ces! True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you Expels the seeds of fear, and the apprehen|sion Which still is father of it,--go with me Before the god of our profession. There Require of him the hearts of lions, and _The breath of tigers, yea the fierceness too, Yea the speed also!_ to go on I mean, Else wish we to be snails. You know my prize Must be draggd out of blood: Force and great Feat Must put my garland on, where she will stick The queen of flowers; our intercession then Must be to him that makes the camp _a ces|tron Brimmd with the blood of men_: give me your aid, And bend your spirits towards him! (_They fall prostrate before the statue._) [Sidenote: Shakspere's own work,] Thou mighty one! that with thy power has turn'd Green Neptune into purple,--whose approach Comets prewarn,--_whose havock in vast field Unearthèd skulls proclaim_,--whose breath blows down The teeming Ceres' foyson,--who dost pluck _With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds_ The masoned turrets,--that both mak'st and break'st The stony girths of cities;--me, thy pup|il, Young'st follower of thy drum, instruct this day With military skill, that to thy laud I may advance my streamer, and by thee Be styled the lord o' the day: Give me, great Mars, Some token of thy pleasure! (_Here there is heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle; whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar._) [Sidenote: Shakspere again.] Oh, great Corrector of enormous times! _Shaker of o'er rank states!_ Thou grand Decid|er Of dusty and old ti|tles;|--_that heal'st with blood The earth when it is sick_, and cur'st the world O' the pleurisy of people! I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design march boldly. Let us go! (_Exeunt._) [Sidenote: Palamon's prayer in V. ii (i. L.) not equal to V. i. or iii. (i. L.), but is yet clearly Shakspere's.]