_Arcite._ Dear _Palamon_, dearer in Love than Blood And our prime Cosin, yet unhard'ned in The Crimes of nature; Let us leave the City _Thebs_, and the temptings in't, before we further Sully our gloss of youth, And here to keep in abstinence we shame As in Incontinence; for not to swim I' th' aid o'th' current, were almost to sink, At least to frustrate striving, and to follow The common stream, 't would bring us to an Eddy Where we should turn or drown; if labour through, Our gain but life, and weakness. _Pal._ Your advice Is cry'd up with example; what strange ruins Since first we went to School, may we perceive Walking in _Thebs_! Skars, and bare weeds The gain o'th' Martialist, who did propound To his bold ends, honor, and golden Ingots, Which though he won, he had not, and now flurted By peace, for whom he fought, who then shall offer To _Mars's_ so scorn'd Altar? I doe bleed When such I meet, and wish great _Juno_ would Resume her antient fit of _jealousie_ To get the Soldier work, that peace might purge For her repletion, and retain anew Her charitable heart now hard, and harsher Than strife, or war could be. _Arcite._ Are you not out? Meet you no ruin, but the Soldier in The crancks and turns of _Thebs_? you did begin As if you met decaies of many kinds: Perceive you none, that do arouse your pity But th' unconsider'd Soldier? _Pal._ Yes, I pity Decaies where-e'er I find them, but such most That sweating in an honourable toil Are paid with Ice to cool 'em. _Arcite._ 'Tis not this I did begin to speak of, this is virtue Of no respect in _Thebs_, I spake of _Thebs_ How dangerous if we will keep our honors, It is for our residing, where every evil Hath a good colour; where ev'ry seeming good's A certain evil, where not to be ev'n jump As they are, here were to be strangers, and Such things to be meer Monsters. _Pal._ 'Tis in our power, (Unless we fear that Apes can Tutor's) to Be Masters of our manners: what need I Affect anothers gate, which is not catching Where there is faith, or to be fond upon Anothers way of speech, when by mine own I may be reasonably conceiv'd; sav'd too, Speaking it truly; why am I bound By any generous bond to follow him Follows his Taylor, haply so long, until The follow'd, make pursuit? or let me know, Why mine own Barber is unblest, with him My poor Chinn too, for 'tis not Cizard just To such a Favorites glass: What Cannon is there That does command my Rapier from my hip To dangle't in my hand, or to goe tip toe Before the street be foul? either I am The fore-horse in the Team, or I am none That draw i' th' sequent trace: these poor slight sores, Need not a Plantain; That which [r]ips my bosome Almost to th' heart's.