_Per._ When he speaks, his tongue Sounds like a Trumpet; all his lineaments Are as a man would wish 'em, strong and clean, He wears a well-steel'd Axe, the staffe of Gold, His age some five and twenty. _Mess._ There's another, A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming As great as any, fairer promises In such a Body yet I never look'd on. _Per._ Oh he that's freckle fac'd? _Mess._ The same my Lord, Are they not sweet ones? _Per._ Yes, they are well. _Mess._ Methinks, Being so few, and well dispos'd, they shew Great, and fine Art in nature, he's white hair'd, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an aborn, tough, and nimble set, Which shows an active soul: his arms are brawny Lin'd with strong sinews: to the shoulder-piece, Gently they swell, like Women new conceiv'd, Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting Under the weight of Arms, stout-hearted still, But when he stirs, a Tiger; he's grey ey'd, Which yields compassion where he conquers: sharp To spie advantages, and where he finds 'em, He's swift to make 'em his: He does no wrongs, Nor takes none; he's round fac'd, and when he smiles He shows a Lover, when he frowns, a Soldier: About his head he wears the winners oak, And in it stuck the favour of his Lady: His age, some six and thirty. In his hand He bears a Charging Staffe, emboss'd with Silver. _Thes._ Are they all thus? _Per._ They are all the sons of honor. _Thes._ Now as I have a soul, I long to see 'em, Lady, you shall see men fight now. _Hip._ I wish it, But not the cause my Lord; They would shew Bravely about the Titles of two Kingdoms; 'Tis pity Love should be so tyrannous: Oh my soft-hearted Sister, what think you? Weep not, till they weep bloud: Wench it must be. _Thes._ You have steel'd 'em with your Beauty: honor'd friend, To you I give the Field; pray order it, Fitting the persons that must use it. _Per._ Yes Sir. _Thes._ Come, I'll go visit 'em: I cannot stay, Their fame has fir'd me so; till they appear, Good friend be royal. _Per._ There shall want no bravery. _Emil._ Poor wench go weep, for whosoever wins, Looses a noble Cosin, for thy sins. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Tertia._ _Enter Jailor, Wooer, Doctor._ _Doct._ Her distraction is more at some time of the Moon, Than at other some, is it not? _Jay._ She is continually in a harmless distemper, sleeps Little, altogether without appetite, save often drinking, Dreaming of another world, and a better; and what Broken piece of matter so e'er she's about, the name _Palamon_ lards it, that she farces ev'ry business _Enter Daughter._ Withal, fits it to every question; Look where She comes, you shall perceive her behaviour.