_Arcite._ The Duke has lost Hypolita; Each took A severall land. This is a solemn Right They owe bloom'd May, and the _Athenians_ pay it To 'th' heart of Ceremony: O Queen _Emilia_ Fresher than May, sweeter Then her gold Buttons on the bows, or all Th'enamell'd knacks o'th' Mead, or garden, ye[a] (We challenge too) the banck of any Nymph That makes the stream seem flowers; Thou o Jewell O'th wood, o'th world, hast likewise blest a pace With thy sole presence, in thy rumination That I poor man might eftsoones come betwen And chop on some cold thought, thrice blessed chance To drop on such a Mistris, expectation Most guiltless on't: tell me O Lady Fortune (Next after _Emely_ my Sovereign) how far I may be proud. She takes strong note of me, Hath made me near her; and this beauteous Morn (The prim'st of all the year) presents me with A brace of horses, two such Steeds might well Be by a pair of Kings backt, in a Field That their crowns titles tried: Alas, alas Poor Cosen _Palamon_, poor prisoner, thou So little dream'st upon my fortune, that Thou thinkst thy self, the happier thing, to be So near _Emilia_, me thou deem'st at _Thebs_, And therein wretched, although free; But if Thou knew'st my Mistris breath'd on me, and that I ear'd her language, liv'd in her eye; O Coz What passion would enclose thee. _Enter Palamon as out of a Bush, with his Shackles:_ _bends his fist at Arcite._ _Palamon._ Traytor kinsman, Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs Of prisonment were off me, and this hand But owner of a Sword: By all oaths in one I, and the justice of my love would make thee A confest Traytor: O thou most perfidious That ever gently look'd the voydes of honor. That ev'r bore gentle Token; falsest Cosen That ever blood made kin, call'st thou her thine? I'll prove it in my Shackles, with these hands, Void of appointment, that thou ly'st, and art A very theef in love, a Chaffy Lord Nor worth the name of villain: had I a Sword And these house cloggs away. _Arc._ Dear Cosin _Palamon_. _Pal._ Cosoner _Arcite_, give me language, such As thou hast shew'd me feat. _Arc._ Not finding in The circuit of my breast, any gross stuff To form me like your blazon, holds me to This gentleness of answer; 'tis your passion That thus mistakes, the which to you being enemy, Cannot to me be kind: honor, and honestie I cherish, and depend on, how so ev'r You skip them in me, and with them fair Coz I'll maintain my proceedings; pray be pleas'd To shew in generous terms, your griefs, since that Your question's with your equall, who professes To clear his own way, with the mind and Sword Of a true Gentleman. _Pal._ That tho[u] durst _Arcite_.