The Two Noble Kinsmen

mine that’s sibbe to him be suck’d
From me with leeches; let them break and fall
Off me with that corruption! Arcite

Clear-spirited cousin,
Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share
Of his loud infamy; for our milk
Will relish of the pasture, and we must
Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen
In blood, unless in quality.

Palamon

Nothing truer:
I think the echoes of his shames have deaf’d
The ears of heavenly justice: widdows’ cries
Descend again into their throats, and have not
Due audience of the gods.⁠—Valerius!

Enter Valerius. Valerius

The king calls for you; yet be leaden-footed,
Till his great rage be off him: Phoebus when
He broke his whipstock, and exclaim’d against
The horses of the sun, but whisper’d, to
The loudness of his fury.

Palamon

Small winds shake him!
But what’s the matter?

Valerius

Theseus⁠—who where he threats appals⁠—hath sent
Deadly defiance to him, and pronounces
Ruin to Thebes; who is at hand to seal
The promise of his wrath.

Arcite

Let him approach:
But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not
A jot of terror to us: yet what man
Thirds his own worth⁠—the case is each of ours⁠—
When that his action’s dregg’d with mind assur’d
’Tis bad he goes about?

Palamon

Leave that unreason’d;
Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon:
Yet, to be neutral to him were dishonour,
Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must
With him stand to the mercy of our fate,
Who hath bounded our last minute.

Arcite

So we must.⁠—
Is’t said this war’s afoot? or it shall be,
On fail of some condition?

Valerius

’Tis in motion;
Th’ intelligence of state came in the instant
With the defier.

Palamon

Let’s to the king; who, were he
A quarter carrier of that honour which
His enemy come in, the blood we venture
Should be as for our health; which were not spent,
Rather laid out for purchase: but, alas!
Our hands advanc’d before our hearts, what will
The fall o’ the stroke do damage?

Arcite

Let th’ event
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves; and let us follow
The becking of our chance. Exeunt.

Scene III

Before the gates of Athens.

	Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta, and Emilia.
Pirithous	No further!
Hippolyta	Sir, farewell: repeat my wishes To our great lord, of whose success I dare not Make any timorous question; yet I wish him Excess and overflow of power, an’t might be, To dare ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him; Store never hurts good governors.
Pirithous	Though I know His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid, Those best affections that the heavens infuse In their best-temper’d pieces, keep enthron’d In your dear heart!
Emilia	Thanks, sir. Remember me To our all-royal brother; for whose speed The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and Since, in our terrene state petitions are not Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her What I shall be advis’d she likes. Our hearts Are in his army, in his tent.
Hippolyta	In’s bosom. We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep When our friends don their helms, or put to sea, Or tell of babes broach’d on the lance, or women That have sod their infants in⁠—and after eat them⁠— The brine they wept at killing ’em: then, if You stay to see of us such spinsters, we Should hold you here for ever.
Pirithous	Peace be to you, As I pursue this war! which shall be then Beyond further requiring. Exit.
Emilia	How his longing Follows his friend! since his depart, his sports, Though craving seriousness and skill, pass’d slightly His careless execution, where nor gain Made him regard, or loss consider; but Playing one business in his hand, another Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal To these so differing twins. Have you observ’d him Since our great lord departed?
Hippolyta	With much labour; And I did love him for’t. They two have cabin’d In many as dangerous as poor a corner, Peril and want contending; they have skiff’d Torrents, whose roaring tyranny and power I’ the least of these was dreadful; and they have Fought out together, where death’s self was lodg’d; Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love Tied, weav’d, entangled, with so true, so long, And with a finger of so deep a cunning, May be out-worn, never undone. I think Theseus cannot be umpire to himself, Cleaving his conscience into twain, and doing Each side like justice, which he loves best.
Emilia	Doubtless There is a best, and reason has no manners To say it is not you. I was acquainted Once with a time, when I enjoy’d a play-fellow; You were at wars when she the grave enrich’d, Who made too proud the bed, took leave of the moon⁠— Which then look’d pale at parting⁠—when our count Was each eleven.
Hippolyta	’Twas Flavina.
Emilia	Yes. You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love: Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season’d, More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs The one or th’ other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love; but I, And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent, Lov’d for we did, and like the elements That know not what nor why, yet do effect Rare issues by their operance, our souls Did so to one another: what she lik’d Was then of me approv’d; what not, condemn’d, No more arraignment; the flower that I would pluck And put between my breasts, O⁠—then but beginning To swell about the blossom⁠—she would long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent cradle, where, phoenix-like, They died in perfume; on my head no toy But was her pattern; her affections⁠—pretty, Though happily her careless wear⁠—I follow’d For my most serious decking; had mine ear Stol’n some new air, or at adventure humm’d one From musical coinage, why, it was a note Whereon her spirits would sojourn⁠—rather dwell on⁠— And sing it in her slumbers: this rehearsal⁠— Which, every innocent wots well, comes in Like old importments bastard⁠—has this end, That the true love ’tween maid, and maid may be More than in sex dividual.
Hippolyta	You’re out of breath; And this high-speeded pace is but to say, That you shall never, like the maid Flavina, Love any that’s call’d man.
Emilia	I’m sure I shall not.
Hippolyta	Now, alack, weak sister, I must no more believe thee in this point⁠— Though in’t I know thou dost believe thyself⁠— Than I will trust a sickly appetite, That loathes even as it longs. But, sure, my sister, If I were ripe for your persuasion,