ARCITE. Shall we make worthy uses of this place That all men hate so much? PALAMON. How, gentle Cosen? ARCITE. Let’s thinke this prison holy sanctuary, To keepe us from corruption of worse men. We are young and yet desire the waies of honour, That liberty and common Conversation, The poyson of pure spirits, might like women Wooe us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be but our Imaginations May make it ours? And heere being thus together, We are an endles mine to one another; We are one anothers wife, ever begetting New birthes of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance; We are, in one another, Families, I am your heire, and you are mine: This place Is our Inheritance, no hard Oppressour Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience, We shall live long, and loving: No surfeits seeke us: The hand of war hurts none here, nor the Seas Swallow their youth: were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or busines; Quarrels consume us, Envy of ill men Grave our acquaintance; I might sicken, Cosen, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eies, Or praiers to the gods: a thousand chaunces, Were we from hence, would seaver us. PALAMON. You have made me (I thanke you, Cosen Arcite) almost wanton With my Captivity: what a misery It is to live abroade, and every where! Tis like a Beast, me thinkes: I finde the Court here— I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures That wooe the wils of men to vanity, I see through now, and am sufficient To tell the world, tis but a gaudy shaddow, That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. What had we bin, old in the Court of Creon, Where sin is Iustice, lust and ignorance The vertues of the great ones! Cosen Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us, We had died as they doe, ill old men, unwept, And had their Epitaphes, the peoples Curses: Shall I say more? ARCITE. I would heare you still. PALAMON. Ye shall. Is there record of any two that lov’d Better then we doe, Arcite? ARCITE. Sure, there cannot. PALAMON. I doe not thinke it possible our friendship Should ever leave us. ARCITE. Till our deathes it cannot; [Enter Emilia and her woman (below).] And after death our spirits shall be led To those that love eternally. Speake on, Sir. EMILIA. This garden has a world of pleasures in’t. What Flowre is this? WOMAN. Tis calld Narcissus, Madam. EMILIA. That was a faire Boy, certaine, but a foole, To love himselfe; were there not maides enough? ARCITE. Pray forward. PALAMON. Yes. EMILIA. Or were they all hard hearted? WOMAN. They could not be to one so faire. EMILIA. Thou wouldst not. WOMAN. I thinke I should not, Madam. EMILIA. That’s a good wench: But take heede to your kindnes though. WOMAN. Why, Madam? EMILIA. Men are mad things. ARCITE. Will ye goe forward, Cosen? EMILIA. Canst not thou worke such flowers in silke, wench? WOMAN. Yes.