_Leu._ Last, I beseech you that my Mother-in-law may have a burial according to-- [_Dies._ _Isme._ To what, Sir? _Dor._ There is a full point. _Isme._ I will interpret for him; she shall have burial according to her own deserts, with dogs. _Dor._ I would your Majesty would haste for setling of the people. _Isme._ I am ready. _Age._ Goe, and let the Trumpets sound Some mournful thing, whilst we convey the body Of this unhappy Prince unto the Court, And of that virtuous Virgin to a Grave: But drag her to a ditch, where let her lie, Accurst, whilst one man has a memory. [_Exeunt._ Cupid's _Speech_. _The time now of my Revenge draws near._ _Nor shall it lessen as I am a god,_ _With all the cries and prayers that have been;_ _And those that be to come, though they be infinite,_ _In need and number._ The Two Noble Kinsmen. The Persons represented in the Play. Hymen, Theseus, Hippolita, } Emelia, }_Sisters to_ Theseus Nymphs, Three Queens, Three valiant Knights, Palamon, } _'The two Noble Kinsmen, in_ Arcite, } _love with fair_ Emelia. Perithous, Jaylor, His Daughter, _in love with_ Palamon, Countrey-men, Wenches, A Taborer, Gerrold, _A Schoolmaster_. PROLOGUE. Florish. _New Plays and Maiden-heads are near a-kin,_ _Much follow'd both; for both much money gi'n,_ _If they stand sound, and well: And a good Play_ _(Whose modest Scenes blush on his marriage day,_ _And shake to loose his honour) is like hir_ _That after holy Tie, and first nights stir_ _Yet still is Modesty, and still retains_ _More of the Maid to sight, than Husbands pains;_ _We pray our Play may be so; for I'm sure_ _It has a noble breeder, and a pure,_ _A Learned, and a Poet never went_ _More famous yet 'twixt_ Po, _and silver_ Trent. Chaucer (_of all admir'd_) _the Story gives,_ _There constant to eternity it lives:_ _If we let fall the Nobleness of this,_ _And the first sound this Child hear, be a hiss,_ _How will it shake the bones of that good man_ _And make him cry from under-ground. Oh fan_ _From me the witless chaff of such a writer_ _That blasts my Bayes, and my fam'd Works makes lighter_ _Than_ Robin Hood, _this is the fear we bring_ _For to say Truth, it were an endless thing:_ _And too ambitious to aspire to him;_ _Weak as we are, and almost breathless swim_ _In this deep water. Do but you hold out_ _Your helping hands, and we shall tack about,_ _And something do to save us: You shall hear_ _Scænes, though below his Art, may yet appear_ _Worth two hours travel. To his bones sweet sleep:_ _Content to you. If this Play do not keep,_ _A little dull time from us, we perceive_