Arm’d long and round; and on his thigh a sword
Hung by a curious baldrick, when he frowns
To seal his will with; better, o’ my conscience,
Was never soldier’s friend.
Yet a great deal short,
Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon.
I guess he is a prince too,
And, if it may be, greater; for his show
Has all the ornament of honour in’t:
He’s somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of,
But of a face far sweeter; his complexion
Is, as a ripe grape, ruddy; he has felt,
Without doubt, what he fights for, and so apter
To make this cause his own; in’s face appears
All the fair hopes of what he undertakes;
And when he’s angry, then a settled valour,
Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body,
And guides his arm to brave things; fear he cannot,
He shows no such soft temper; his head’s yellow,
Hard-hair’d, and curl’d, thick-twin’d, like ivy-tods,
Not to undo with thunder; in his face
The livery of the warlike maid appears,
Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blest him;
And in his rolling eyes sits Victory,
As if she ever meant to court his valour;
His nose stands high, a character of honour,
His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies.
When he speaks, his tongue
Sounds like a trumpet; all his lineaments
Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean;
He wears a well-steel’d axe, the staff of gold;
His age some five-and-twenty.
There’s another,
A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming
As great as any; fairer promises
In such a body yet I never look’d on.
The same, my lord:
Are they not sweet ones?
Methinks,
Being so few and well-dispos’d, they show
Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-hair’d,
Not wanton-white, but such a manly colour
Next to an aborne; tough and nimble-set,
Which shows an active soul; his arms are brawny,
Lin’d with strong sinews; to the shoulder-piece
Gently they swell, like women new-conceiv’d,
Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting
Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted, still,
But, when he stirs, a tiger; he’s gray-ey’d,
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-fac’d, 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, emboss’d with silver.
Now, as I have a soul, I long to see ’em.—
Lady, you shall see men fight now.
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.
You’ve steel’d ’em with your beauty.—Honour’d friend,
To you I give the field; pray, order it
Fitting the persons that must use it.
Come, I’ll go visit ’em: I cannot stay—
Their fame has fir’d me so—till they appear.
Good friend, be royal.
Poor wench, go weep; for whosoever wins,
Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. Exeunt.
Scene III
Athens. A room in the prison.
| Enter Gaoler, Wooer, and Doctor. | |
| Doctor | Her distraction is more at some time of the moon than at other some, is it not? |
| Gaoler | 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.—Look, where she comes; you shall perceive her behaviour. |
| Enter Gaoler’s Daughter. | |
| Daughter | I have forgot it quite; the burden on’t, was Down-a, down-a; and penned by no worse man than Giraldo, 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 Aeneas. |
| Doctor | What stuff’s here! poor soul! |
| Gaoler | Even thus all day long. |
| Daughter | Now for this charm that I told you of. You must bring a piece of silver on the tip of your tongue, or no ferry: then, if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits—as there’s a sight now!—we maids that have our livers perished, cracked to pieces with love, we shall come there, and do nothing all day long but pick flowers with Proserpine; then will I make Palamon a nosegay; then let him—mark me—then— |
| Doctor | How prettily she’s amiss! note her a little further. |
| Daughter | Faith, I’ll tell you; sometime we go to barley-break, we of the blessed. Alas, ’tis a sore life they have i’ th’ other place, such burning, frying, boiling, hissing, howling, chattering, cursing! O, they have shrewd measure! Take heed: if one be mad, or hang, or drown themselves, thither they go; Jupiter bless us! and there shall we be put in a caldron of lead and usurers’ grease, amongst a whole million of cut-purses, and there boil like a gammon of bacon that will never be enough. |
| Doctor | How her brain coins! |
| Daughter | Lords and courtiers that have got maids with child, they are in this place; they shall stand in fire up to the navel, and in ice up to the heart, and there th’ offending part burns, and the deceiving part freezes; in troth, a very grievous punishment, as one would think, for such a trifle: believe me, one would marry a leprous witch to be rid on’t, I’ll assure you. |
| Doctor | How she continues this fancy! ’Tis not an engraffed madness, but a most thick and profound melancholy. |
| Daughter |
To hear there a proud lady and a proud city-wife howl together! I were a beast, an I’d call it good sport: one cries, “O, this smoke!” th’ other, “This |
