After several alternations of fortune in the fight, she again speaks thus of the two: ... [51:1]Were they metamor|phosed Both into one--oh why? there were no wom|an Worth so composed a man! their single share, Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives The prejudice of dispar|ity,| value's shortness, To any lady breathing.... (_Cornets: a great shout, and cry_, Arcite, victory!) [51:2]_Servant._ The cry is Arcite and victory! Hark, Arcite, vic|tory! The combat's consummation is proclaimed By the wind instruments. [Sidenote: Shakspere touch.] [Sidenote: Shakspere reflection.] _Emilia._ Half-sights saw That Arcite was no babe: god's-lid! _his rich|ness_ _And costliness of spirit looked through |him_: | it could No more be hid in him than fire in flax, Than humble banks can go to law with wa|ters 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 net proph|ets When oft our Fancies are._ They're coming off: Alas, poor Palamon! Theseus enters with his attendants, conducting Arcite, as conqueror, and presents him to Emilia as her husband. Arcite's situation is a painful one, and is well discriminated: he utters but a single grave sentence. _Theseus._ (_To Arcite and Emilia._) 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 cheap|ly, As I do rate your value. . . . . . [Sidenote: Shakspere touch.] _Theseus._ (_To Arcite._) Wear the gar|land With joy that you have won. For the subdued,-- Give them our present justice, _since I know Their lives but pinch them_. Let it here be done. The sight's not for our seeing: go we hence Right joyful, with some sorrow!--Arm your prize: I know you will not lose | her.| Hippolita, I see one eye of yours conceives a tear, The which it will deliv|er.| _Emilia._ Is this, winning? Oh, all you heavenly powers! where is your mer|cy? But that your wills have said it must be so, And charge me live to comfort this unfriend|ed, This miserable prince, that cuts away A life more worthy from him than all wom|en, I should and would die too. [52:1]_Hippolita._ Infinite pity, That four such eyes should be so fixed on one, That two must needs be blind for't. (_Exeunt._) [Sidenote: Act V. scene vi. (Weber; sc. iv. Littledale) is clearly Shakspere's.]