_Emil._ I am extinct, There is but envy in that light, which shows The one the other: darkness which ever was The [dam] of horror; who does stand accurst Of many mortal Millions, may even now By casting her black mantle over both That neither could find other, get her self Some part of a good name, and many a murther Set off whereto she's guilty. _Hip._ You must go. _Emil._ In faith I will not. _Thes._ Why the Knights must kindle Their valour at your eye: know of this war You are the Treasure, and must needs be by To give the Service pay. _Emil._ Sir, pardon me, The Title of a Kingdom may be try'd Out of it self. _Thes._ Well, well then, at your pleasure, Those that remain with you, could wish their office To any of their enemies. _Hip._ Farewel Sister, I am like to know your Husband 'fore your self By some small start of time, he whom the gods Doe of the two, know best, I pray them, he Be made your Lot. [_E[xeunt_] Theseus, Hippolita, Perithous, _&c._ _Emil. Arcite_ is gently visag'd; yet his eye Is like an Engine bent, or a sharp weapon In a soft sheath; mercy, and manly courage Are bedfellows in his visage: _Palamon_ Has a most menacing aspect, his brow Is grav'd, and seems to bury what it frowns on, Yet sometimes 'tis not so, but alters to The quality of his thoughts; long time his eye Will dwell upon his object. Melancholly Becomes him nobly; so does _Arcite's_ mirth, But _Palamon's_ sadness is a kind of mirth, So mingled, as if mirth did make him sad. And sadness, merry; those darker humors that Stick mis-becomingly on others, on them Live in fair dwelling. [_Cornets. Trumpets sound as to a Charge._ Hark how yo[n] spurs to spirit doe incite The Princes to their proof, _Arcite_ may win me, And yet may _Palamon_ wound _Arcite_, to The spoiling of his figure. Oh what pity Enough for such a chance; if I were by I might do hurt, for they would glance their eies Toward my Seat, and in that motion might Omit a Ward, or forfeit an offence Which crav'd that very time: it is much better [_Cornets. A great cry, and noise_ _within, crying a_ Palamon. I am not there, oh better never born Than minister to such harm, what is the chance? _Enter Servant._ _Ser._ The cry's a _Palamon_. _Emil._ Then he has won: 'twas ever likely, He look'd all grace and success, and he is Doubtless the prim'st of men: I prethee run And tell me how it goes. [_Shout, and Cornets: crying a_ Palamon. _Ser._ Still _Palamon_.