MESSENGER. Methinks, Being so few and well disposed, they show Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-haired, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an auburn; tough and nimble-set, Which shows an active soul. His arms are brawny, Lined with strong sinews. To the shoulder-piece Gently they swell, like women new-conceived, 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-eyed, Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em, He’s swift to make ’em his. He does no wrongs, Nor takes none. He’s round-faced, and when he smiles He shows a lover; when he frowns, a soldier. About his head he wears the winner’s oak, And in it stuck the favour of his lady. His age some six-and-thirty. In his hand He bears a charging-staff embossed with silver. THESEUS. Are they all thus? PIRITHOUS. They are all the sons of honour. THESEUS. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see’em. Lady, you shall see men fight now. HIPPOLYTA. I wish it, But not the cause, my lord. They would show Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms. ’Tis pity love should be so tyrannous.— O, my soft-hearted sister, what think you? Weep not till they weep blood. Wench, it must be. THESEUS. You have steeled ’em with your beauty. Honoured friend, To you I give the field; pray order it Fitting the persons that must use it. PIRITHOUS. Yes, sir. THESEUS. Come, I’ll go visit ’em. I cannot stay, Their fame has fired me so; till they appear. Good friend, be royal. PIRITHOUS. There shall want no bravery. [_Exeunt all but Emilia._] EMILIA. Poor wench, go weep, for whosoever wins, Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A room in the prison Enter Jailer, Wooer and Doctor. DOCTOR. Her distraction is more at some time of the moon, than at other some, is it not? JAILER. 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 soe’er she’s about, the name Palamon lards it, that she farces every business withal, fits it to every question. Enter Jailer’s Daughter. Look where she comes; you shall perceive her behaviour. DAUGHTER. I have forgot it quite. The burden on ’t was “Down-a, down-a,” and penned by no worse man than Geraldo, Emilia’s schoolmaster. He’s as fantastical, too, as ever he may go upon’s legs, for in the next world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be out of love with Æneas. DOCTOR. What stuff’s here? Poor soul! JAILER. Even thus all day long.