_Thes._ Oh loved Sister, He speaks now of as brave a Knight as e'er Did spur a noble Steed: surely the gods Would have him die a batchelor, lest his race Should show i'th' world too godlike: his behaviour So charm'd me, that methought _Alcides_ was To him a Sow of Lead: if I could praise Each part of him to th' all I have spoke, your _Arcite_ Did not lose by't; for he that was thus good Encountred yet his Better, I have heard Two emulous Philomels, beat the ear o'th' night With their contentious throats, now on[e] the higher, Anon the other, then again the first, And by and by out-breasted, that the sense Could not be judge between 'em: so it far'd Good space between these kinsmen; till heavens did Make hardly one the winner: wear the Garland With joy that you have won: for the subdu'd, Give them our present Justice, since I know Their lives but pinch 'em, let it here be done: The Scene's not for our seeing, goe we hence, Right joyful, with some sorrow. Arm your prize, I know you will not lose her: _Hippolita_ I see one eye of yours conceives a tear The which it will deliver. [_Florish._ _Emil._ Is this winning? Oh all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy? But that your wills have said it must be so, And charge me live to comfort this unfriended, This miserable Prince that cuts away A life more worthy from him, than all women; I should, and would die too. _Hip._ Infinite pity That four such eyes should be so fix'd on one That two must needs be blind for't. _Thes._ So it is. [_Exeunt._ _Scena Quarta._ _Enter_ Palamon _and his Knights pinion'd: Jailor_ _Executioner_, &c. _Gard._ [_Pal._] There's many a man alive that hath out-liv'd The love o' th' people, yea, i'th' self-same state Stands many a Father with his child; some comfort We have by so considering: we expire And not without mens pity. To live still, Have their good wishes, we prevent The lothsome misery of age, beguile The Gout and Rheum, that in lag hours attend For grey approachers; we come towards the gods Young, and unwapper'd, not halting under Crimes Many and stale: that sure shall please the gods Sooner than such, to give us Nectar with 'em, For we are more clear Spirits. My dear kinsmen. Whose lives (for this poor comfort) are laid down, You have sold 'em too too cheap. _1 K._ What ending could be Of more content? o'er us the victors have Fortune, whose Title is as momentary, As to us death is certain: a grain of honor They not o'er-weigh us. _2 K._ Let us bid farewel; And, with our patience, anger tott'ring Fortune, Who at her certain'st reels. _3 K._ Come: who begins?