ARCITE. I beleeve it, And to that destiny have patiently Laide up my houre to come. PALAMON. O Cosen Arcite, Where is Thebs now? where is our noble Country? Where are our friends, and kindreds? never more Must we behold those comforts, never see The hardy youthes strive for the Games of honour (Hung with the painted favours of their Ladies, Like tall Ships under saile) then start among’st ’em And as an Eastwind leave ’en all behinde us, Like lazy Clowdes, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg Out-stript the peoples praises, won the Garlands, Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. O never Shall we two exercise, like Twyns of honour, Our Armes againe, and feele our fyry horses Like proud Seas under us: our good Swords now (Better the red-eyd god of war nev’r wore) Ravishd our sides, like age must run to rust, And decke the Temples of those gods that hate us: These hands shall never draw’em out like lightning, To blast whole Armies more. ARCITE. No, Palamon, Those hopes are Prisoners with us; here we are And here the graces of our youthes must wither Like a too-timely Spring; here age must finde us, And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried; The sweete embraces of a loving wife, Loden with kisses, armd with thousand Cupids Shall never claspe our neckes, no issue know us, No figures of our selves shall we ev’r see, To glad our age, and like young Eagles teach ’em Boldly to gaze against bright armes, and say: ‘Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.’ The faire-eyd Maides, shall weepe our Banishments, And in their Songs, curse ever-blinded fortune, Till shee for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world; We shall know nothing here but one another, Heare nothing but the Clocke that tels our woes. The Vine shall grow, but we shall never see it: Sommer shall come, and with her all delights; But dead-cold winter must inhabite here still. PALAMON. Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban houndes, That shooke the aged Forrest with their ecchoes, No more now must we halloa, no more shake Our pointed Iavelyns, whilst the angry Swine Flyes like a parthian quiver from our rages, Strucke with our well-steeld Darts: All valiant uses (The foode, and nourishment of noble mindes,) In us two here shall perish; we shall die (Which is the curse of honour) lastly Children of greife, and Ignorance. ARCITE. Yet, Cosen, Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rysing, two meere blessings, If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience, And the enjoying of our greefes together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I thinke this our prison. PALAMON. Certeinly, Tis a maine goodnes, Cosen, that our fortunes Were twyn’d together; tis most true, two soules Put in two noble Bodies—let ’em suffer The gaule of hazard, so they grow together— Will never sincke; they must not, say they could: A willing man dies sleeping, and all’s done.