Classic Audiobook Collection - The Two Noble Kinsmen by William Shakespeare ~ Full Audiobook [drama]

Episode Date: May 7, 2025

The Two Noble Kinsmen by William Shakespeare audiobook. Genre: drama In The Two Noble Kinsmen, William Shakespeare (with collaborator John Fletcher) adapts a tale from Chaucer into a tragicomic story of friendship tested by fate. After the warriors Palamon and Arcite are captured in battle and imprisoned in Athens, they cling to their bond as the one certainty left to them. That certainty fractures when both men glimpse Emilia, sister to the Amazon queen Hippolyta, and fall instantly and fiercely in love. Their rivalry escapes the prison walls and draws in Theseus, Duke of Athens, whose commitment to law and honor forces him to decide how such a dispute should be judged. Alongside the high-stakes contest of chivalry and desire runs a contrasting thread: the earnest, socially awkward Jailer's Daughter, whose own longing and confusion pull her into the orbit of the prisoners and expose how love can unmoor the mind. As oaths collide with obsession, the play explores whether devotion can survive jealousy, how power defines justice, and what love demands when it becomes indistinguishable from destiny. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:31:34) Chapter 2 (01:04:02) Chapter 3 (01:48:09) Chapter 4 (02:11:07) Chapter 5 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Two Noble Kinsman By William Shakespeare and John Fletcher Prologue New plays and maidenheads are near akin. Much followed both, for both much money ginn. If they stand sound and well, And a good play whose modest scenes blush on his marriage day And shake to lose his honour,

Is like her, that after holy tie and first night stir, Yet still is modesty. and still retains more of the maid to sight than husband's pains. We pray our play may be so, For I'm sure it has a noble breeder and a pure, A learned and a poet never went more famous yet Twixt Poe and Silver Trent. Chaucer, of all admired, the story gives,

There constant to eternity it lives. If we let fall the nobleness of this, And the first sound this child here be a hiss, How will it shake the bones of that good man, And make him cry from underground, O fan from me the witless chaff of such a writer That blasts my bays, And my famed works makes lighter than Robin Hood.

This is the fear we bring. For to say truth, it were an endless thing, And too ambitious to aspire to him. Weak as we are, and almost breathless, swim in this deep water. Do but you hold out your hands. helping hands, and we shall tack about, and something due to save us. You shall hear scenes, though below his art, may yet appear worth two hours travail. To his bones, sweet sleep, content

to you. If this play do not keep a little dull time from us, we perceive our losses fall so thick, we needs must leave. Act 1. Scene 1. Athens, before a temple. Enter Hyman with a torch burning, a boy in a white robe, before, singing and strewing flowers. After Hyman a nymph, encompassed in her tresses, bearing a wheaten garland. Then Theseus, between two other nymphs with wheat and chaplets on their heads. Then Hippolyta, the bride, led by Perithous, and another holding a garland over her head, her tresses likewise hanging. After her, Amelia, holding a while.

up her train, artesius and attendance. Music, the song. Roses, their sharp spines being gone, not royal in their smells alone, but in their hue, made in pinks of odour faint, daisies smellless, yet most quaint, and sweet thyme true. Primrose, first-born child of Verre, Mary Springtime's Harbinger, with her bells dim. Ocks lips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on their deathbeds blowing, Lark heels trim. All dear nature's children sweet

Lie for bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense. Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence. The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, Nor the boating raven, Nor chuff whore,

Nor chattering pie May on our bridehouse perch or sing, or with them any discord bring, but from it fly. Enter three queens in black with veils, stained, and with imperial crowns. The first queen falls down at the foot of Theseus, the second falls down at the foot of Hippolyta, the third before Amelia. For pity's sake and true gentilities, hear and respect me. For your mother's sake, and as you wish yourself may thrive with fair ones, hear and respect me.

Now for the love of him whom Jove have marked, the honour of your bed, and for the sake of clear virginity, be advocate for us our distresses. This good deed shall raise you out of the book of trespasses. All you are, set down there. Sad lady rise. Stand up. No knees to me. What woman I may steed that is distressed does bind me to her. What's your request?

Deliver you for all. We are three queens, whose sovereigns fell before. the wrath of cruel Creon, who endure the beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, and pecks of crows in the foul fields of Thebes. He will not suffer us to burn their bones, to earn their ashes, nor to take the offence of mortal loathsomeness from the blessed eye of Holy Phoebus, but infects the winds with stench of our slain lords. Oh, pity, Duke! Thou perjure of the earth, draw thy feared sword that does good turns to the world. Give us the bones of our dead kings, that we may chapel them. And of thy boundless goodness, take some note that for our crowned heads

we have no roof save this, which is the lions and the bears, and vaults to everything. Pray you, kneel not, I was transported with your speech and suffered your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting as wakes my vengeance and revenge for him. King Capanius was your lord. The day that he should marry you at such a season as now it is with me, I met your groom by Mars's altar.

You were at that time fair, not Juno's mantle fairer than your tresses, nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath was then nor threshed nor blasted. Fortune at you dimpled her cheek with smiles. Hercules, our kinsman, then weaker than your eyes, Laid by his club, he tumbled down upon his Nemean hide,

And swore his sinews thawed. O grief and time, fearful consumers you will all devour. Oh, I hope some God, some God hath put his mercy in your manhood, Whereeto he'll infuse power and press you forth our undertaker. Oh, no knees, none, widow. Unto the helmeted balona use them, and pray for me, your soul. Soldier, troubled I am. Turns away.

Honored Hippolyta, most dreaded Amazonian that has slain the scythe-tusked boar, that with thy arm as strong as it is white, was near to make the male to thy sex captive, but that this thy lord, born to uphold creation in that honour first nature styled in, shrunk thee into the bound thou wast overflowing, at once subduing thy force and thy affection. Soldieress, that equally canst poise sternness with pity, who now, Now, I know, hast much more power on him than ere he had on thee, who oest his strength and his love too, who is a servant for the tenor of thy speech. Dear glass of ladies, bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch, under the shadow of his

sword may cool us. Require him, he advance it o'er our heads. Speak it in a woman's key, like such a woman as any of us three. Weep ere you fail, lend us a knee. But touch the ground for us no longer time than a dove's motion when the head is plucked off. him, if he in the blood-sized field lay swollen, showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, what you would do. Poor lady, say no more.

I had his leaf trace this good action with you as that where to I'm going, and ne'er yet went I so willing way. My lord is taken heart deep with your distress. Let him consider. I'll speak anon. Niels to Amelia. Oh, my petition was set down in ice, which, by hot grief and candidees, melts into drops, sorrow, wanting form, is pressed with deeper matter. Pray, stand up. Your grief is written in your

cheek. Oh, whoa, you cannot read it there. There, through my tears like wrinkled pebbles. In a glassy stream you may behold them. Lady, lady, alack. He that will all the treasure know of the earth, must come to the centre too. He that will fish for the least minnow. Let him lead his line to catch one my heart. Oh, pardon me. Exremities, that sharp and sundry wits make me a fool. Pray you, say nothing, pray you. Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in't, nose neither wet nor dry. If that you were the ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you, to instruct me against a capital grief indeed. Such heart-pierced demonstration. But, alas, being a natural sister of our sex,

your sorrow beat so ardently upon me, that it shall make a counter-reflect against my brother's heart, and warm it to some pity, though it were made of stone. Pray have good comfort. Forward to the temple. Leave not out a jot of the sacred ceremony.

Oh, this celebration will longer last and be more costly than your suppliant's war. Remember that your fame knows in the ear of the world. What you do quickly is not done rash, Your first thought is more than others labored meditants. You're premeditating more than their actions. But, O Jove, your actions, soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish, subdue before they touch.

Think, dear Duke, think what beds our slain kings have. What grieves our beds that our dear lords have none? None fit for the deeds. Those that, with cords, knives, drams, precipitance, weary of this world's light, Have to themselves been death's most horrid agents? Human grace affords them dust and shadow. But our lords lie blistering for the visiting sun, and we're good kings when living. It is true, and I will give you comfort to give your dead lord's graves.

The witch-to-do must make some work with Creon. And that work now presents itself to the doing. Now it will take form. The heats are gone tomorrow. then bootless toil must recompense itself with its own sweat. Now he's secure. Not dreams we stand before your puyacence, rinsing our holy begging in our eyes to make petition clear.

Now you may take him drunk with his victory. And his army full of bread and sloth? Artesius, that best knowest how to draw out, fit to this enterprise, the primest for this proceeding, and the number to carry such a business. Fourth, and levy are a worthy, theest instruments, whilst we dispatch this grand act of our life, this daring deed of fate

in wedlock. Dowagers take hands. Let us be widows to our woes. Delay commends us to a famishing hope. Fare well. We come unseasonably, but when could grief call forth as unpaying judgment can fit as time for best solicitation? Why, good ladies, this is a service where to I am going greater than any war.

It more imports me than all the actions that I have foregone or futurely can cope. The more proclaiming our suit shall be neglected. When her arms, able to lock Jove from a synod, shall by warranting moonlight coarslet thee. O when her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care for what thou feelest not? What thou feelest being able to make Mars spurn his drum?

O, if thou couch but one night with her, every hour in it will take hostage of thee for a hundred, and thou shalt remember nothing more than what that banquet bids thee to. Hippolyta, kneeling to Theseus. Though much unlike, you should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor, yet I think, did I not by the abstaining of my joy which breeds a deeper longing cure their surfeit that craves a present medicine, I should pluck all lady's scandal on me. Therefore, sir, as I shall here make trial of my prayers, either presuming them to have some force,

or sentencing for I their vigor dumb, prerog this business we are going about, and hang your shield afore your heart, about that neck which is my fee, and which I freely lend to do these poor queen's service. Oh, help now! To Amelia, our cause cries for your knee. Amelia,

kneeling to Theseus. If you grant not my sister her petition, in that force, with that celerity and nature, which she makes it in, from henceforth I'll not dare to ask you anything, nor be so hardy ever to take a husband. Pray stand up. Hippolyta and Amelia rise. I am entreating of myself to do that which you kneel to have me. Perithoos lead on the bride.

Get you and pray the gods for success and return, omit not anything in the pretended celebration. Queens, follow your soldier. As before, hence you. To Artesius. And at the banks of Aalus, meet us with the forces you can raise, where we shall find the moiety of a number

for a business more bigger looked. To Hippolyta. Since that our theme is haste, I stamp this kiss upon thy current lip. Sweet, keep it as my token. To Artesius. Set you forward, for I will see you gone. Exit.

Artesius. Farewell, my beauteous sister. Perithous, keep the feast full, bait not an hour on it. Sir, I'll follow you at heels. The feast solemnity shall want to your return. Cousin, I charge you, budge not from Athens, we shall be returning ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you, make no abatement. Once more, farewell all. Hippolyta, Amelia, Perithuus, Hyman, boy, nymphs, and attendance, and enter the temple. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue of the world, and earnst a deity equal with Mars. If not above him, for thou, being but mortal, make his affections bend to God-like honours, they themselves say, grown under such a mastery. As we are men, thus should we do,

being sensually subdued, we lose our human title. Good cheer ladies, now turn we towards your comforts. Flourish. Axiant. Scene two. Thebes. The court of the palace. Enter Palaman and Archite.

Dear Palaman, dearer in love than blood, and our prime cousin, yet unhearteded in the crimes of nature, let us leave the city, Thebes and the temptings in, before we further sully our gloss of youth. And here to keep in abstinence, we shame as in incontinence. for not to swim in the aid of the current were almost to sink, at least to frustrate striving, and to follow the common stream would bring us to an eddy where we should turn or drown, if labour through our gain but life and weakness. Your advice has cried up with example.

What strange ruins since first we went to school may we perceive walking in Thebes. Scars and bare weeds the gain of the martialist, who did propound to his bold ends honour and golden ingots, which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted by peace for whom he fought. Who then shall offer to Mars's so scorned altar? I do bleed when such I meet, and wish great Juno would resume her ancient fit of jealousy to get the soldier work, that peace might purge for her repletion, and retain anew her charitable heart, now hard and harsher than strife or war could be.

Are you not out? I mean, do you no ruin but the soldier in the cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin as if you met decays of many kinds. Perceive you none that do arouse your pity your pity, but the unconsidered soldier? Yes, I pity decays where I find them, but such most that sweating in an honourable toil are paid with ice to cool them. Tis not this I did begin to speak of. This is virtue of no respect in Thebes. I speak of Thebes. How dangerous if we will keep our honours it is for our residing, where every evil have a good colour, where every seeming goods a certain evil,

where not to be even jump as they are here were to be strangers, and such things to be mere monsters. It is in our power, unless we fear that apes can tutor us, to be masters of our manners. What need I affect another's gate which is not catching where there is faith, or to be fond upon another's way of speech, when by mine own I may be reasonably conceived, saved, too, speaking it truly. Why am I bound by any generous bond to follow him follows his tailor,

happily so long until the followed make pursuit? Or let me know why mine own barber is unblessed, with him my poor chin too, for it is not scissored just to such a favourites' glass? What canon is there that does command my rapier from my hip to danglet, in my hand, or to go tiptoe before the street be foul. Either I am the four-horse in the team, or I am none that draw in the sequent trace. These poor slight sores need not a plantain. That which rips my bosom almost of the hearts—

Our Uncle Crayon! He, a most unbounded tyrant, whose successes makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured beyond its power there's nothing, almost puts face in a fever, and deifies a alone voluble chance, who only attributes the faculties of other instruments to his own nerves and act. Commands men's service, and what they winn't, boot and glory. One that fears not to do harm, good dares not. Let the blood of mind that sib to him be sucked from me with leeches. Let them break and fall off me with that corruption. 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 kinsman in blood, unless in quality. Nothing truer. I think the echoes of his shames have defted the ears of heavenly justice. Widows' cries descend again into their throats and have not due audience of the gods. Valerius. Enter Valerius. calls for you, yet be leaden-footed till his great rage be off him. Phoebus, when he broke his whip-stock and exclaimed against the horses of the sun, but whispered to the loudness of his fury.

Small winds shake him, but what's the matter? Theseus, who, where he threats appalls, hath sent deadly defiance to him, and pronounces ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal the promise of his wrath. Let him approach. but that we fear that gods in him, he brings not a jot of terror to us. Yet what man thirt's his own worth?

The case in each of ours, when that his actions dragged with mind assured tis bad he goes about. Leave that unreasoned. Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon. Yet, to be neutral to him were dishonor, rebellious to oppose. Therefore we must, with him, stand to the mercy of our fate who have bounded our last minute.

So we must. Ist set some wars afoot? Or it shall be, on fail of some condition. Tis in motion. The intelligence of state came in the instant with the defier. Let's to the king. Who, were he a quarter-carrier of that honour which his enemy comes in, the blood we venture should be as for our health,

which were not spent, rather laid out for purchase. But alas, our hands advance before our hearts. What will the fall of the stroke do damage? Let the event, that never-erring arbitrator, tell us when we know all ourselves, and let us follow the becking of our chance. Xient Scene 3. Before the gates of Athens.

Enter Perithous, Hippolyta, and Amelia. No further. Sir, farewell. Well, 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, and might be to dare ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him. Store never hurts good governors. 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-tempered pieces,

keep enthroned in your dear heart thanks sir remember me to our all royal brother for whose speed the great bologna i'll solicit and since in our terrain state petitions are not without gifts understood i'll offer to her what i shall be advised she likes our hearts are in his army in his tent In his bosom, we have been soldiers, and we cannot weep when our friends donned their helms or put to sea, or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women that have sod their infants in and after eat them, the brine they weep at killing them. Then if you stay to see us such spinsters, we should hold you here forever. Peace be to you as I pursue this war, which shall be then beyond further requiring. Exit. How his longing follows his friend. since his depart his sports though craving seriousness and skill pass 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-nour equal to these so differing twins Have you observed him since our great lord departed?

With much labour, and I did love him for it. They too have cabined in many as dangerous as poor a corner, peril and want contending. They have skiffed torrents whose roaring tyranny and power in the least of these was dreadful, and they have fought out together, yet fate hath brought them off. They're not of love, tide, weaved, entangled with so true, so long, and with a finger of so deep a cunning may be outworn, 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.

Doubtless there is a best, and reason has no manners to say it is not to you. I was acquainted once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow. You were at wars when she the grave enriched, who made too proud the bed, took leave or the moon, which then looked pale at parting. when our count was each eleven. "'Twas Flavina.' "'Yes, you talk of Perithuous, and Theseus's love. "'Their's has more ground, is more maturely seasoned,

"'more buckled with strong judgment, "'and their needs that one of the other may be said to water, "'their entangled roots of love. "'But I and she I sigh and spoke of were things innocent. "'Loved for we did, and like the elements, "'that know not what, nor why, "'yet do affect rare issues by their operants. Our souls did so to one another.

What she liked was then of me approved. What not? Condemned. No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck and put between my breasts, then but beginning to swell about the blossom. She will long till she had such another, and committed to the like innocent cradle,

where phoenix-like, they died and perfume. On my head no toy but was her pattern. Her affections, pretty, though happily her careless wear, I followed for my most serious decking. Had mine ear stolen some new air, or at adventure hummed one from musical coinage, why it was a note wherein her spirits would sojourn, rather dwell on, and sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal, which every innocent what's well, comes in like old importman's bastard, has this end, that the true love tween made and made may be more than in sex-divitual.

You're out of breath, and this high-speed pace is but to say, you shall never, like the maid of Lavina, love any that's called man. I am sure I shall not. Now, alack, weak, sister, I must no more believe thee in this point, though in it I know thou dost believe thyself, then I will trust a sickly appetite that loads even as it longs. Be sure, my sister, if I were ripe for your persuasion you have said enough to shake me from the arm of the all-noble Theseus, for whose fortunes I will now in and kneel,

with great assurance that we, more than his Perithewas, possessed the high throne in his heart. I'm not against your faith, yet I continue mine. Exeunt Scene 4. A field before Thebes. Cornets. A battle struck within. Then a retreat.

Then a flourish. Then enter Theseus, Victor. The three queens meet him, and fall on their faces before him. To thee no star be dark. Both heaven and earth friend thee forever. All the good that may be wished upon my heads, I cry amen toots. The impartial gods who from the mounted heavens view us their mortal herd, behold who err, and in their time chastise.

Go and find out the bones of your dead lords, and honour them with treble ceremony. Rather than a gap should be in their dear rights we would supply it. But those we will depute which shall invest you in your dignity, and even each thing our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu, and heaven's good eyes look on you. Axiant queens. What are those? Men of great qualities may be judged by their appointment.

Some of Thebes have told us they are sisters' children, nephews to the king. By the helm of Mars, I saw them in the war, like to a pair of lions smeared with prey, make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note constantly on them, for they were a mark worth a God's view. What was it that prisoner told me when I inquired their names? We learn they're called Archite and Palomon. Tis right, those, those, they are not dead. Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken when their last hurts were given, t'was possible they might have been recovered, yet they breathe and have the name of men. Then like men use them.

The very lees of such millions of rates exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons convent in their behoof, our richest bombs rather than niggered waste. Their lives concern us much more than Thebes' worth. Rather than have them freed of this plight and in their mourning state sound in that liberty, not would him dead, but forty thousandfold we had read, rather have em prisoners to us than death. Bear them speedily from our kind air, to them unkind, and minister what man to man may do, for our sake more.

Since I have known fights fury, friends behest, loves provocations, zeal, a mistress task, desire of liberty, a fever, madness hath set a mark, which nature could not reach to without some imposition, sickness in will or wrestling. strength in reason. For our love and great Apollo's mercy, all our best, their best skill tender. Lead into the city where, having bound things scattered, we will post to Athens for our army. Flourish, Exeant. Scene 5. Another part of the field. Enter the queens with the herses of their husbands in a funeral solemnity, etc. Song. urns and odours bring away vapours sighs dark in the day our doll more deadly looks than dying barms and gums and heavy cheers sacred vials filled with tears and clamours through the wild air flying

come all sad and solemn shows that are quick-eyed pleasures foes we convent not else but woes we convent not else but woes This funeral path brings to your household's grave Joy sees on you again Peace sleep with him And this to yours Yours this way Heavens lend a thousand differing ways To one sure end

This world's a city full of straying streets And deaths the marketplace Where each one meets Excient severally End of Act 1 Act 2 Of the two noble kinsmen by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher.

This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Act 2. Scene 1 Athens A garden with a castle in the background. Enter Jailer and wooer. I made it part with little while I live. Something I may cast to you, not much. Alas, the prison I keep,

there would be for great ones yet they said them come before one's salmon you shall take a number of minnows i am given out to be better lined than it can appear to me report is a true speaker i would i were really that i am delivered to be marry what i have be it what it will i will assure upon my daughter at the day of my death sir i demand no more than your own offer, and I will estate your daughter in what I have promised. Well, we will talk more of this when the solemnity has passed, but have you a full promise of her? When that shall be seen, I tend to my consent. I have, sir. Here she comes. Enter jailer's daughter, with rushes.

Your friend and I have chance to name you here, upon the old business. But no more of that now. So soon as the court hurry is over, we shall have an end of it. In the meantime look tenderly to the two prisoners. I can tell you, they are princes. These strewings are for their chamber. Tis a pity they are in prison, and to a pity they should be out. I do think they have patience to make any adversity ashamed.

The prison itself is proud of them, and they have all the world in their chamber. He affirmed to be a pair of absolute men. By my troth I think fame but stammer-ism. They stand agrize above the reach of report. I heard them reported in a battle to be the only doers. Nay, most likely, for they are noble sufferers. I marvel how they would have looked, had they been victors,

that with such a constant nobility and force of freedom out of bondage, making misery their mirth, and affliction. a toy to jest at. Do they so. It seems to me they have no more sense of their captivity than I of ruling Athens. They eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet, sometime, a divided sigh, martyred as twere the deliverance,

will break from one of them. When the other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke that I could wish my self a sigh to be so chid, or at least a sire to be comforted. I never saw him. The Duke himself came privately in the night, and so did they. What the reason of it is I know not? Palamon and Archite appear at a window above. Look, yonder they are. That's Arachite looks out.

No, sir, no, that's Palamon. Arquite is the lower of the twain. You may perceive a part of him. Go too. Leave your pointin. They would not make as their object. Out of their sight. It is a holiday to look on them. Lord, the difference of men. Exciant.

Scene two. A room in the prison. Enter Palaman and Archite. How do you, noble cousin? How do you, sir? Why, strong enough to laugh at misery and bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners, I fear, forever, cousin.

I believe it, and to that destiny have patiently laid up my hour to come. Oh, cousin, Arkite, where is Thebes now? Where is our noble country? Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more must we behold those comforts, never see the hardy youths strive for the games of honour hung with the painted favours of their ladies like tall ships under sail, then start amongst them, and, as an east wind, leave them all behind us like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Archite,

even in the wagging of a wanton leg outstripped the people's praises, one the garlands ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never shall we two exercise like twins of honour our arms again, and feel our fiery horses like proud seas under us? Our good swords now, better the red-eyed god of war, ne'er war, ravished our, Our sides like age must run to rust and deck the temples of those gods that hate us. These hands shall never draw them out like lightning to blast whole armies more. No, Palaman, those hopes are prisoners with us. Here we are, and here the graces of our youth must wither like a too timely spring. Here the age must find us, and, which is heaviest, palaman,

unmarried. The sweet embraces of a loving wife, loathen with kisses, armed with thousand cupids, shall never clasp our necks? No issue know us, no figures of ourselves shall we e'er see to glad our age and, like young eagles teach him boldly to gaze against bright arms and say, remember what your fathers were and conquer. The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments. And in their songs curse ever-blinded fortune. until she 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.

Here nothing but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it. Summer shall come and with her all the lights, but dead cold winter must inhabit here still. Tis too true, Argyte. To our thieban hounds that shook the aged forest with their echoes, No more now must we halloo. No more shake our pointed javelins

whilst the angry swine flies Like a parthian quiver from our rages stuck with our well-stealed darts. All valiant uses, the food and nourishment of noble minds, and us two here shall perish. We shall die, which is the curse of honour, lazily, children of grief and ignorance.

Yet, cousin, even from the bottom of these miseries, from all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings if the gods pleased to hold here, a brave patience and the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palerman is with me, let me perish if I think this our prison. Certainly tis a main goodness, cousin,

that our fortunes were twined together. Tis most true, two souls put in two noble bodies, let them suffer the gall of, hazard, so they grow together will never sink. They must not say they could. A willing man dies sleeping and all's done. Should we make worthy uses of this place that all men hate so much? How, gentle cousin?

Let's think this prison holy sanctuary, to keep us from corruption of worse men. We are young and yet desire the ways of honor, that liberty and common conversation the poison of pure spirits might like women woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing can be, but our imaginations may make it ours. And here, being thus together, we are an endless mind to one another. We are one another's wife, ever beginning new births of love. We are father, friends, acquaintance. We are in one another families.

I am your errand, you are mine. This place is our inheritance. No hard oppressor dare take this from us. Here, with a little patience, we shall live long and loving. No serfids seek 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 business. Quarrels consume us, envy of ill men grave our acquaintance.

I might sicken, cousin, where you should never know it, and so perish without your noble hand to close mine eyes, or prayers to the gods? A thousand chances were we from hence would sever us. You have made me, I thank you, Cousin, Arquite, almost wanton with my captivity. What a misery it is to live abroad and everywhere! Tis like a beast, me thinks! I find the court here I am sure a more content, and all those pleasures that woo the wills of men to vanity I see. through now, and am sufficient to tell the world, tis but a gaudy shadow that old time as he passes by takes with him. What had we been old in the court of Creon, where sin is justice,

lust and ignorance the virtues of the great ones? Cousin Argyte, had not the loving gods found this place for us, we had died as they do, ill old men, unwept, and had their epitaphs, the people's curses. Shall I say more? I would hear you still. You shall. Is there any record of any two that loved better than we do, Archite? Sure, there cannot. I do not think it possible our friendship should ever leave us. Till our death it cannot, and after death our spirits should be led to those that love eternally. Speak on, sir. Enter Amelia and Waiting Woman below. This garden has a world of pleasure scent. What flower is this? Tis called narcissus, madam. That was a fair boy certain, but a fool to love himself.

Were they not made enough? Pray, forward! Yes. Or were they all hard-hearted? They could not be to one so fair. That would's not. I think I should not, madam. That's a good wench.

But take heed to your kindness, though. Why, madam? Men are mad things. Will he go forward, cousin? Canst they not work such flowers in silk, wench? Yes. I'll have a gown full of them. And of these, this.

this is a pretty colour. We'll not do rarely upon a skirt wench. Dainty, madam. Cousin! Cousin! How do you, sir? Why, palerman? Never till now I was in prison, Arquite.

Why, what's the matter, man? Behold and wonder! By heaven, she is a goddess. Ha! Do reverence! She is a goddess, Argyte. Of all flowers, methinks a rose is best. Why, gentle, madam?

It is a very emblem of a maid. For when the west wind courts her gently, how modestly she blows, and paints the sun with her chaste blushes, when the north comes near her, rude and impatient, then, like chastity, she locks her beauties in her bud again, and leaves him to base briars. She's wondrous fair! She is all the beauty extent.

The sun grows high. Let's walk in. Keep these flowers. We'll see how near art can come near their colours. Exit. with waiting woman. What think you of this beauty? It is a rare one.

Is it but a rare one? Yes, a matchless beauty. Might not a man well lose himself and love her? I cannot tell what you have done. I have, besrew mine eyes for it. Now I feel my shackles. You love her then? Who would not?

And desire her? Before my liberty. I saw her first. That's nothing. But it shall be. I saw her too. Yes, but you must not. love her. I will not as you do to worship her, as she is heavenly and a blessed goddess. I love her as a

woman, to enjoy her. So both may love. You shall not love at all. Not love at all? Who shall shall deny me? I that first saw her. I that took possession first with mine eye of all those beauties in her revealed to mankind. If thou lovest her, or entertains to hope to blast my wishes, thou art a traitor, Archite, and a fellow false as thy title to her. Friendship, blood, and all the titles between us, I disclaim if thou once think upon her. Yes, I love her. And if the lives of all my name lay on it, I must do so. I love her with my soul.

If that will lose ye, farewell, Palomen. I say again, I love, and in loving her maintain I am as worthy, and as free a lover, and have as just a title to her beauty as any. Palaman, or any living that's a man's son. Have I called thee, friend? Yes, and have found me so. Why are you moved thus? Let me deal coldly with you. Am not I part of your blood, part of your soul?

You have told me that I was Palaman and you were Archite? Yes. I'm not I liable to those affections, those joys, griefs, angers, fears. My friends shall suffer? You may be. Why then would you deal so cunningly, so strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman to love alone? Speak truly, do you think me unworthy of her sight? No, but unjust if thou pursue that sight.

Because another first seized the enemy. Shall I stand still and let mine on or down and never charge? Yes, if he be but one. But say that one had rather combat me. Let that one say so and use thy freedom. Else, if thou pursuest her, be as that cursed man that hates his country, a branded villain. You're mad! I must be, till thou art worthy, Archite.

It concerns me, and in this madness, if I hazard thee and take thy life, ideal but truly. Fie, sir, you play the child extremely. I love her. I must. I ought to do so. And I dare. and all this justly. Oh, that now, that now thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune,

to be one hour at liberty and grasp our good swords in our hands, I'd quickly teach thee what it were to filch affection from another, thou art baser in it than a cut purse. Push but thy head out of this window more, and as I have a soul, I'll nail thy life to it. Thou dares not, fool! Thou canst not, thou art feeble. Put my head out, I'll throw my body out, and leap in the garden when I see her next

and pitch between her arms to anger thee. No more, the keeper's coming. I shall live to knock thy brains out with my shawls. Huh, do. Enter jailer. Be your leave, gentlemen. Now, honest keeper. Lord Arrcate, you must presently to the Duke,

the guys I know not yet. I am ready, keeper. Prince Bellamon, I must a while bereave you, of your Veracusans' company. Exit with Archite. And me, too, even when you please of life. Why is he sent for? It may be he shall marry her.

He's goodly, and like enough the Duke has taken notice both of his blood and body. But his falsehood! Why should a friend be treacherous? If that get him a wife so noble and so fair, let honest men ne'er love again. Once more I would. but see this fair one. Blessed garden, and fruit and flowers more blessed that still blossom as her bright eyes shine on

ye? Would I were for all the fortune of my life hereafter yon little tree, yon blooming apricot? How I would spread and fling my wanton arms in at her window, I would bring her fruit fit for the gods to feed on. Youth and pleasure still as she tasted should be doubled on her, and if she be not heavenly, I would make her so near the gods in nature they should fear her. And then, I am sure, she would love me. Re-enter, jailer.

How now, keeper. Where's Arkite? Banished. Prince Perithewis obtained his liberty. But never more upon his oath and life must he set foot upon his kingdom. He's a blessed man. He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms the bold young men, that when he bids them charge, fall on like. fire. Archite shall have a fortune. If he dare make himself a worthy lover yet in the field

to strike a battle for her, and if he lose her then, he's a cold coward. How bravely may he bear himself to win her, if he be noble Archite, thousand ways. Where I at liberty, I would do things of such a virtuous greatness that this lady, this blushing virgin, should take manhood to her, and seek to ravish me. My lord, for you I have this charge too. To discharge my life? No, but from its place to remove your lordship. The windows are too open.

Devil's taken that are so envious to me, pray thee kill me! And hang for it afterward. By this good light, had I a sword I'd kill thee. Why, my lord? Thou brings such pelting scurvy news continually, thou art not worthy life. I will not go. Indeed, you must, my lord. May I see the garden?

No. But I am resolved I will not go. I must constrain you then, for you are dangerous. I'll clap for irons on you. Do, good keeper. I'll shake them so you shall not sleep. I'll make you a new Morris. Must I go?

There is no remedy. Farewell, kind window. May rude wind never hurt thee. Oh, my lady, if thou ever hast felt what sorry. sorrow was, dream how I suffer. Come, now bury me. Eccient. Scene 3. The country near Athens. Enter Archite. Banish'd the kingdom? Tis a benefit, a mercy I must thank him for, but banished the free enjoying of that face I die for?

O, t'was a studied punishment, a death beyond imagination. Such a vengeance that, were I old and wicked, all my sins could never pluck upon me. Palaman, thou hast to start now. Thou shalt stay and see her bright eyes break each morning against thy window, and let in life into thee. Thou shalt feed upon the sweetness of a noble beauty that nature ne'er exceeded nor ne'er shawl Hell! Good gods!

What happiness has Palaman? Twenty to one he'll come to speak to her. And if she be as gentle as she's fair, I know she's his. He has a tongue will tame tempests and make the wild rocks wanton. Come what can come, the worst is death. I will not leave this kingdom. I know mine own is but a heap of ruins and no redress there. If I go, he has her.

I'm resolved. Another shape shall make me or end my fortunes. Either way I'm happy. I'll see her and be near her or no more. Enter four countrymen, one with a garland before them. My masters, I will be there, that's certain. And I'll be there. And I.

Why then, have with you boys, tis better triding. Let the plow play today. I'll tickled out of the jade's tales tomorrow. I am sure to hire my wife as jealous as a turkey, but that's all one. I'll go through, let her mumble. Do we all hold against the main? Hold, what should ill us? Arcus will be there.

And senwas and rikas, and three better lads never danced under green tree. And you know what wench is? Ha! But will the dainty Dominé, the schoolmaster, keep touch, do you think? For he does all, you know. He'll eat a hornbook ere he fail. Go too. The matter's too far driven between him and the Tanner's daughter to let slip now. And she must see the Duke and she must dance too.

Shall we be lusty? There I'll be and there I'll be for our town, and here again and there again. Ah, boys, hey, for the weavers. This must be done in the woods. Oh, pardon me. By any means, our thing a-learnin says so, where he himself will edify the Duke, most powerlessly in our behalfs. He's excellent in the woods.

Bring him to the plains, his learn and makes no cry. We'll see the sports, then every man to his tackle. And sweet companions, let's rehearse by any means before the ladies see us, and do sweetly, and God knows what may come on it. Content, the sports once ended will perform. Away, boys, and hold. By your leaves, honest friends, pray you, Whither go you?

Whither? Why? What a question's that? Yes, tis a question. To me, that know not. To the games, my friend. Where were you, Bredge, know it not? Not far, sir.

Are there such games today? Yes, Maddie, are there? And such as you never saw, The Duke himself will be in person there. What pastimes are they? Wrestling and running. Tis a pretty fellow. Thou wilt not go along.

Not yet, sir. Well, sir, take your own time. Come, boys. My mind misgives me. This fellow has a vengeance trick on the hip. Mark, how his body's made for it? I'll be hanged, though, if he dare venture. Hang him, plum porridge. He wrestle? He roast eggs. Come, let's be gone, lads. Excient countrymen.

This is an offered opportunity I'd just not wish for. Well, I could have wrestled. The best men called it excellent, and run swifter than wind upon a field of corn curling the wealthy ears or flu? I'll venture, and in some poor disguise be there. Who knows whether my brows may not be girt with garlands, and happiness prefer me to a place where I may ever dwell in sight of her? Exit

Scene 4. Athens, a room in the prison. Enter Jailer's daughter. Why should I love this gentleman? Tis odds he never will affect me. I am base, my father the mean keeper of his prison. And he a prince! To marry him is hopeless.

To be his whore is witless. Oh, out upon't! What pushes are we wenches driven to when fifteen once has found us? First I saw him. I, seeing, thought he was a goodly man. He has as much to please a woman in him, if he pleased to bestow it so, as ever these eyes yet looked on. Next I pitied him, and so would any young wench of my conscience that ever dreamed or vowed her maidenhead to a young handsome man. Then I loved him. Extremely! loved him, infinitely loved him. And yet he had a cousin fair as he too. But in my heart

was Palaman. And there, Lord, what a coil he keeps! Oh, to hear him sing in an evening! What a heaven it is! And yet his songs are sad ones. Farer spoken was never gentlemen. When I come in to bring him water in a morning, first he bows his noble body, Then salutes me thus. Fair gentle maid, good-morrow. May thy goodness get thee a happy husband. Once he kissed me.

I loved my lips the better ten days after. Would he would do so every day? He grieves much, and me as much to see his misery. What should I do to make him know I love him? For I would fain enjoy him. Say I ventured to set him free. What says the law then?

Thus much for law, or kindred, I will do it, and this night or to-morrow he shall love me. Exit scene five an open place in athens a short flourish of cornets and shouts within enter theseus hippolyta parithous amelia archite disguised wearing a garland and countryman you have done worthily i have not seen since hercules a man of tougher sinews whate'er you are you run the best and wrestle that these times can allow i'm proud to please you what country bred you this But far off, Prince. Are you a gentleman? Well, my father said so, and two those gentle uses gave me life. Are you his heir?

His youngest, sir. Your father sure is a happy sire then. What proves you? A little of all noble qualities. I could have kept a hawk and well have allude to a deep cry of dogs. I dare not praise my feet in horsemanship, yet they that knew me would say that it was my best piece. Last and greatest, I would be thought a soldier. You are perfect.

Upon my soul, a proper man. He is so. How do you like him, lady? I admire him. I have not seen so young a man so noble if he say true of his sort. Believe, his mother was a wondrous, handsome woman. His face, methinks, goes that way. But his body and fiery mind illustrate a brave father.

Mark how his virtue, like a hidden son. breaks through his baser garment. He's well got, sure. What made you seek this place, sir? Noble Theseus, to purchase name and do my ablest service to such a well-found wonder as thy worth. For only in thy court of all the world dwells fair-eyed honour. All his words are worthy. Sir, we are much indebted to your travail, nor shall you lose your wish.

Perithewas, dispose of this fair gentleman. Thanks, Theseus. Whate'er you are, you're mine. And I shall give you to a most noble service. To this lady, this bright young virgin, pray observe her goodness. You've honored her fair birthday with your virtues, and, as you're due, you're hers. Kiss her fair hand, sir. Sir, you're a noble giver.

Dearest beauty, thus let me seal my vowed faith. When your servant, your most unworthy creature but offends you, command him die and he shall. That were too cruel. If you deserve well, sir, I shall soon seat. You're mine, and somewhat better than your rank, I'll use you. I'll see you furnished. And because you say you are a horseman, I must needn't treat you this afternoon to ride. But it is a rough one.

I like him better, Prince. I shall not then freeze in my saddle. sweet you must be ready and you amelia and you friend and all to-morrow by the sun to do observance to flowery may in diane's wood wait well sir upon your mistress emily i hope he shall not go afoot that were a shame sir while i have horses take your choice and what you want at any time let me but know it if you serve faithfully i dare assure you you'll find a loving mistress if i do not let me find that my father ever hated, disgrace and blows. Go, lead the way. You've won it. It shall be so. You shall receive all dues fit for the honor you have won, to a wrong else. Sister, beshrew my heart. You have a servant that if I were a woman would be master, but you are wise. I hope too wise for that, sir. Flourish.

Exeant Scene 6. Before the prison. Enter Jailer's daughter. Let all the dukes and all the devil's roar. He is at liberty. I ventured for him, and out I have brought him to a little wood a mile hence. I have sent him where a cedar, higher than all the rest, spreads like a plain fast by a brook. And there he shall keep close, till I provide him files and food,

for yet his iron bracelets are not off. Oh, love! What a stout-hearted child thou art. My father durst better have endured cold iron than done it. I love him beyond love and beyond reason, or wit, or safety. I have made him know it. I care not, I am desperate. If the law find me and then condemn me for it,

some wenches, some honest-hearted maids will sing my dirge, and tell to memory my death was noble, dying almost a martyr. That way he takes, I purpose, is my way, too. Surely he cannot be so unmanly as to leave me here. If he do, maids will not so easily trust men again. And yet, he has not thanked me for what I've done. No, not so much has kissed me. And that, methinks, is not so well.

Nor scarcely could I persuade him to become a freeman, he made such scruples of the wrong he did to me and to my father. Yet I hope, when he considers more, this love of mine will take more root within him. Let him do what he will with me, so he use me kindly. For use me so he shall, or I'll proclaim him, and to his face, no man. I'll presently provide him necessaries, and pack my necessary's, and pack my clothes up, and where there is a patch of ground I'll venture, so he be with me. By him, like a shadow, I'll air dwell. Within this hour the hub-bub will be all o'er the prison. I am then kissing the man they look for. Farewell, father. Get many more such prisoners and such daughters, and shortly

you may keep yourself. Now to him. Exit. End of Act 2. Act 3 of the two Noble Kinsman by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Act 3. Scene 1. A forest. Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallooing as of people amaying. Enter Archite.

The Duke has lost Hippolyta. Each took a several lawn. this is a solemn right they owe bloomed may and the athenians pay it to the heart of ceremony o queen amelia fresher than may sweeter than her gold buttons on the boughs or all the enabled knacks of the mead or garden yea we challenge too the bank of any nymph that makes the stream seem flowers thou o jewel of the wood of the world hast likewise blessed a place with thy sole presence In thy rumination that I, poor man, might have soon's come between and chop on some cold thought, Thrice blessed chance to drop on such a mistress's expectation most guiltless aunt. Tell me, O lady, fortune, next after Emily, my sovereign, how far I may be proud, She takes strong note of me, hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn,

The primest of all the year, presents me with a brace of all the year, presents me with a brace of horses. Two such steeds might well be by a pair of kings backed in a field that their crown's title tried. Alas! Alas! Poor cousin Palaman! Poor prisoner! Thou so little dreamsst upon my fortune that thou think'st thyself the happier thing to be so near Amelia. Me thou deemst at Thebes, and therein wretched although free. But if thou knew'st my mistress breathed on me and that I eared her language, lived in her eye. Oh, Cus, what passion would enclose thee?

Enter Palaman out of a bush with his shackles. He bends his fist at Arkite. Traitor, kinsman! Thou shouldst perceive my passion if these signs of imprisonment were off me in this hand but owner of a sword. By all oaths in one eye and the justice of my love would make thee a confessed, traitor. O thou most perfidious that ever gently looked! the voids of honour that ere bore gentle token falsest cousin that ever blood made kin call'st thou her vine i'll prove it in my shackles with these hands void of appointment that thou liest and art a very thief in love a chaffy lord not worth the name of villain

had i a sword and these house-clogues away dear cousin palaman cousin arcyte give me language such as thou hast showed me feet not finding in the circuit of my breast, any gross stuff to form me like your blazon, holds me to the gentleness of answer. Tis your passion that thus mistakes. The which to you being enemy cannot to me be kind. Honor and honesty I cherish and depend on howsoever you skip them in me. And with them, fair cause, I'll maintain my proceedings. Pray, be pleased to show in generous terms your griefs, since that your questions with your

equal who professes to clear his own way with the mind and sword of a true gentleman. That thou durst, Archite. My cousin, my cousin, you've been well advertised how much I dare. You've seen me use my sword against the advice of fear.

Sure, of another you would not hear me doubted. But your silence should break out, though, in the sanctuary. Sir, I've seen you move in such a place which well might justify your manhood. You were called a good knight and a bold. But the whole week's not fair if any day it rain. Their valiant temper men lose when they inclined to treachery,

and then they fight like compelled bears, would fly were they not tied. Kinsman, you might as well speak this and act it in your glass, as to his ear which now disdains you. Come up to me. Quit me of these cold jives. Give me a sword, though it be rusty, and the charity of one meal lend me. Come before me then a good sword in thy hand, And do but say that Emily is thine,

I will forgive the trespass thou hast done me, Yea, my life, if then thou carry it. And brave souls in shades that have died manly, Which will seek of me some news from earth, They shall get none but this, That thou art brave and noble. Be content. Again betake you to your Hawthorn house.

With counsel of the night, I will be here with wholesome vians. These impediments will I file off. You shall have garments and perfumes to kill the smell of the prison. After, when you shall stretch yourself and say, But, Archite, I am in plight. There shall be your choice, both sword and armor. Oh, you heavens!

Dares any so noble bear a guilty business. None but only Archite. Therefore none but Archite in this kind is so bold. Sweet Palaman I do embrace you and your offer For your offer Do it I only, sir Your person

Without hypocrisy I may not wish more than my sword's edge on't Horns winded within You hear the horns Enter your musset lest this match between's be crossed ere met Give me your hand Farewell

I'll bring you every needful thing I pray you take comfort And be strong pray hold your promise and do the deed with a bent brow most certain you love me not be rough with me and pour this oil out of your language by this air i could for each word give a cuff my stomach not reconciled by reason plainly spoken yet pardon me hard language when i spur my horse i chide him not content and anger in me have but one face horns winded again hark sir they call the scattered to the the banquet. You must guess I have an office there. Sir, your attendance cannot please heaven, and I know your office unjustly is achieved. I have a good title, I'm persuaded. This question, sick betweens, by bleeding must be cured.

I am a suitor that to your sword you will bequeath this plea and talk of it no more. But this one word! You are going now to gaze upon my mistress, For note you mine she is. Nay, then. Nay, pray you. You talk of feeding me to breed me strength. You are going now to look upon a sun that strengthens what it looks on. There you have advantage, Ome.

But enjoy it till I may enforce my remedy. Farewell. Xient. Scene two. Another part of the forest. Enter jailer's daughter. He is mistook the break. I meant, he's gone after his fancy. Tis now well-nigh morning. No matter, would it were perpetual night and darkness lord of the world? Hark, tis a wolf!

In me hath grief slain fear, and but for one thing, I care for nothing, and that's Palamon. I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so he had this fire. What if I hallooed for him? I cannot hallo. If I whooped, what then? If he not answered I should call a wolf, and do him but that service. I have heard strange howls this live-long night. Why may it not be they have made prey of him?

He has no weapons. He cannot run. The jingling of his jives might call fell things to listen, who have in them a sense to know a man unarmed, and can smell where resistance is. I'll set it down. He's torn to pieces. They howled many together, and then they fed on him. So much to that. Be bold to ring the bell. How stand I then? Ors charred when he is gone. No. No, I lie. My father's to be hanged for his escape, myself to beg if I prized life so much as to deny my act, but that I would not, should I try death by dozens?

I ammoat. Food took I none these two days, sipped some water. I have not closed mine eyes, save when my lids scoured off their brine. Alas! Disolve my life! Let not my sense unsettle lest I should drown or stab or hang myself! O state of nature fail together in me, since thy best props are warped. So, which way now? The best way is the next way to a grave. Each errant step beside is torment. Lo! The moon is down.

The crickets chirp. The screech-ow calls in the dawn. All offices are done, save what I fail in. But the point is this. An end. And that is all. Exit. Scene 3.

The same part of the forest as in scene 1. Enter Archite, with meat, wine, files, etc. I should be near the place. Ho! Cousin Palomen! Enter Palamon. Archite. The same. I have brought you food and files.

Come forth and fear not. There's no Theseus. Nor none so honest, Archite. That's no matter. We'll argue that hereafter. Come take courage. You shall not die thus beastly. Here, sir, drink.

I know your fate. Then I'll talk further with you. Arquite, thou might now poison me. I might. But I must fear you first. Sit down. And good now, no more of these vain parlies. Let us not having our ancient reputation with us make talk for fools and cowards.

Dear health, Drinks. Do. Praise it down, then. And let me entreat you by all the honesty and honor in you. No mention of this woman. It will disturb us. We shall have time enough.

Well, sir, I'll pledge you. Drinks. Drink a good, hearty draught. It breeds good blood, man. Do you not feel it thaw you? Stay. I'll tell you after a draft or two more. Spare it not.

The Duke has more, cuz. Eat now. Yes. I'm glad you're so good. his stomach. I'm glad to have so good meat to it. It's not mad lodging here in the wild woods, cousin? Yes, for them that have wild consciences. Hmm. How tastes your victuals? Your hunger needs no sauce, I see. Not much, but if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin. What is this? Venison. It is a lusty meat. Give me more wine. Here, Argyte. To the wenches we have known in our

days. The Lord Stewart's daughter. Do you remember her? After you, Cus. She loved a black-haired man. She did so. Well, sir? And I've heard some call him Arkite. And... Out with it, Faith!

And she met him in an arbor. What did she there, Cus? Play of the Virginals. Something she did, sir. Made her groan a month for it. Or two. Or three. Or ten.

The Marshall's sister had her share too, as I remember her cousin. Else there be tails abroad. You'll pledge her. Yes. Pretty brown wench, Tess. There was a time when young men went to hunting and a wood and a broad beach, and thereby hangs a tail. Hey-ho.

For Emily upon my life. Fool away with this strained mirth. I say again, that sigh was breathed for Emily. Bess, cousin, dares thou break first. You are wide By heaven and earth There's nothing in the honest Well, then I'll leave you

You're a beast now As thou makes me traitor There's all things needful Files and shirts and perfumes I'll come again some two hours hence And bring that that you'll quiet all A sword and armour Fear me not

You're now too foul, farewell Get off your trinkets, you shall want not Sarah? I'll hear no more. Exit. If he keep touch, he dies for it. Exit. Scene four.

Another part of the forest. Enter jailer's daughter. Oh, I'm very cold, and all the stars are out too. The little stars, and all that looks like Aguilts. The sun has seen my first. folly. Palamon! Alas, no! He's in heaven! Where am I now? Yonder's the sea, and there's a ship, how it tumbles, and there's

a rock lies watching under water. Now, now it beats upon it, now, now, no, no, no! there's a leak sprung a sound one how they cry run her before the wind you'll lose all else up with a course or two and tack about boys good-night good-night you're gone Oh, I'm very hungry. Would I could find a fine frog? He would tell me news from all parts of the world. Then would I make a carrick of a cockle-shell, and sail by east and north-east to the king of pygmies, for he tells fortunes rarely. Now my father, twenty to one, is trussed up in a trice to-morrow morning. I'll say never a word. for I'll cut my green coat a foot above my knee And I'll grip my yellow locks an inch below my knee Hey, nonny, nony Hey, nony

He's by me a white cut, forth for to ride, And I'll go seek him through the world that is so white, Hey, nonny, nony, hey, Hey, nonny, gna. For a prick now, like a nightingale To put my breast against, I shall sleep like a top-bells. Exit

Scene 5 Another part of the forest Enter Gerald, four countrymen As Morrist answers, another as the babian, five wenches, and a taber. Fie, fie! What tediosity and dis-ensanity is here among ye? Have my rudiments been laboured so long with ye,

milked unto ye, and, by a figure, even the very plum-broth and marrow of my understanding laid upon ye? And do you still cry, where? and how and wherefore you most coarse fris capacities ye jane's of judgment have i said thus let be and there let be and then let be and no man understand me pro deum medius fidius ye all are dunces for why here stand i here the duke comes there are you close in a thicket the duke appears i meet him and unto him i utter learned things and many figures he hears and nods and hums and then rise rare, and I go forward. At length, I fling my cap up, mark there. Then do you, as once did Meliger and the Boar, break comely out before him like true lovers. Cast yourself in

a body decently, by a figure, trace and turn, boys. And sweetly we will do it, Master Gerald. the company where's the Taborer why Timothy here my mad boys have at you but I say where's there women here's Fris and Maudlin and little luce with the white legs and bouncing Barbary and freckled net that never failed her master where be your ribbons maids swim with your bodies and carry it sweetly and deliverly and now and then a favour and a frisk. Let us alone, sir.

Where's the rest of the music? Disbursed as you commanded. Couple then, and see what's wanting. Where's the Bavion? My friend, carry your tail without offence or scandal to the ladies, and be sure you tumble with audacity and manhood. And when you bark, do it with judgment. Yes, sir.

Quosquay tandem. Here is a woman wanting. We may go whistle, all the fats in the fire. We have, as learned authors utter, washed a tile. We have been fart us, and laboured vainly. This is that scornful piece. That scurvy hilding that gave her promise faithfully she would be here. Sisley, the Semster's daughter.

The next gloves that I give her shall be dogskin. Nay, and she fail me once. You can tell, Arcus, she swore by wine and bread she would not break. An e'lm woman, a learned poet says, Unless by the tail and with thy teeth thou hold, Will either fail. In manners, this was a false position. A fire ill taker?

Does she flinch now? What, shall we determine, sir? Nothing. Our business is become a nullity. yea anna woeful and a precious nullity now when the credit of our town lay on it now to be frample go thy ways i'll remember thee i'll fit thee enter jailer's daughter the georgia low came from the south from the coast of barborea and there he met with brave gallants of war by one by two by three ah well hailed well hailed you jolly gallants and whither now are you bounda oh let me have your company till i come to the sounder there was three fools fell out about a howlet the one said it was an owl the other he said no'l the other he said

The third he said it was a hawk and her bells were cut away There's a dainty and madwoman, master. Come in the nick, as mad as a march hare. If we can get her dance, we are made again. I warrant her she'll do the rarest gambles. A madwoman? We are made, boys. And are you mad, good woman? I'd be sorry, else. Give me your hand. Why? I can tell your fortune.

You are a fool. Tell ten. I have posed him. Buzz. Friend, you must eat no white bread. If you do, your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall he dance, ho? I know you.

You're a tinker. Sir a tinker. D.A. Boney. A tinker damsel? Or a conjurer. Raise me a devil now and let him play. Quipasa are the bells and bones. Go, taker, and fluently persuade her to a piece.

Eupus exigee, Quadnec iovis, Ira, neck idnis. Strike up, and lead her in. Calm, lass, let's trip it. I'll lead. Do, do. Windhorns. Persuasive.

and cunningly. Away, boys, I hear the horns. Give me some meditation and mark your cue. Axi and all but Gerald. Palace. inspire me.

Enter Theseus, Perithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arquite, and Train. This way the stag took. Stay and edify. What have we here? Some countries bought upon my life, sir.

Well, sir, go forward. We will edify. Ladies, sit down. We'll stay it. Thou doughty Duke, all hail. All hail, sweet ladies. This is a cold beginning. If you but favour, our country pastime maidies. We are a few of those collected here that ruder tongues distinguish villager.

And to say very, and not to fable we are a merry rout or else a rable or company or by a figure chorus that for thy dignity will dance a moris and i that am the rectifier of all by title pedagogus that let fall the birch upon the breeches of the small ones and humble with a ferula that tall ones do here present this machine or this frame and dainty duke whose doughty dismal fame from this to dedalus from post to pillar is blown abroad help me thy poor well-willer and with thy twinkling eyes look right and straight upon this mighty moor of mickle weight is is now comes in which being glued together makes morris and the cause that we came hither the body of our sport of no small study i first appear though rude and raw and muddy to speak before thy noble grace this tenor at whose great feet i offer up my penner the next the lord of may and lady bright the chambermaid and serving man by night that seek out silent hanging then mine host and his fat spouse that welcomes to their cost the gall-ed traveller with a beckoning informs the tapster to inflame the reckoning then the beast-eating clown and next fool the bayion with long tail and eke long tool

Come Maltis Alice that make a dance, say aye, and all shall presently advance. Aye, aye, by any means, dear Dominé. Produce. Intrata fee-le. Come forth and foot it. Enter the four countrymen, the Bavian, the Taborer, the five wenches, and the jailer's daughter, with others of both sexes. They dance amorous. after which Gerald speaks the epilogue.

Ladies, if we have been merry and have pleased ye with a derry, and a derry and a down, say the schoolmasters no clown. Duke, if we have pleased thee too, and have done as good boys should do, give us but a tree or twain, for a maypole, and again, ere another year run out, we'll make thee laugh and all this route. Take twenty, Domene, how does my sweetheart?

Never so pleased, sir. It was an excellent dance, and for a preface I never heard a better. Schoolmaster, I thank you. Once I'm all rewarded. And here's something to paint your pole with all. Gives money. Now, to our sports again. May the stag thou huntest stand long,

And thy dogs be swift and strong. May they kill him without lets, And the ladies eat his do sets. Come, we're all made. D'A. D'A. Dekwe omnes. Ye have dance rarely, wenches? Windhorns. Exeant

Scene 6 The same part of the forest as in scene 3 Enter Palaman from the bush About this hour my cousin gave his faith to visit me again And with him bring two swords and two good armours If he fail he's neither man nor soldier When he left me I did not think a week Could have restored my lost strength to me

I was grown so low and crestfallen with my wants I thank thee, Arkite Thou art yet a fair foe and I feel myself with this refreshing, able, once again, to outdure danger. To delay it longer would make the world think, when it comes to hearing, that I lay fatting like a swine to fight and not a soldier. Therefore this blessed morning shall be the last, and that sword he refuses, if it but hold I kill him with.

It is justice. So, love and fortune for me. Oh good-morrow! Enter Archite with armors and swords. Good morrow, noble kinsman. I have put you to too much pain, sir. That too much, fair cousin, is but a debt to honour and my duty. Would you were so in all, sir?

I could wish you as kind a kinsman as you forced me find a beneficial foe, that my embraces might thank you, not my blows. I shall think either, well done, a noble recompense. Then I shall quit you. Defy me in these fair terms, and you'd, show more than a mistress to me. No more anger as you love anything that's honorable. We were not bred to talk, man.

When we are armed and both upon our guards, then let our fury like meeting of two tides fly strongly from us. And then to whom the birthright of this beauty truly pertains, without upbraiding, scorns, despisance of our persons and such poutings fit for girls and schoolboys, will be seen, and quickly, yours or mine, will please you arms, sir? Or if you feel yourself not fitting yet and furnished with your old strength, I'll stay, cousin, and every day discourse you into health, as I am spared. Your person I am friends with, and I could wish I had not said I loved her, though I died. But, loving such a lady, and justifying my love, I must not fly from it.

Archite, thou art so brave an enemy that no man but thy cousins fit to kill thee. I'm well and lusty. Choose your arms. Choose you, sir. Will thou exceed in all? Or dost thou do it to make me spare thee? If you think so, cousin, you are deceived. For as I am a soldier, I will not spare you. That's well said. You'll find it.

Then as I am an honest man and love with all the justice of affection, I'll pay thee soundly. This I'll take That's mine then I'll arm you first Do Prithee tell me, cousin Where got'st thou this good armour

To the dukes And to say true I stole it Do I pinch you? No It's not too heavy I've worn a lighter But I shall make it serve

I'll buckled close By any means You care not for a grand guard No no, we'll use no horses I perceive you'd fain be at that fight. I'm indifferent. Faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust the buckle through far enough?

I warrant you. My cask now. Will you fight bare-armed? We shall be the nimbler. But use your gauntlets, though. Those are the least. Pretty thick mine, good cousin. Thank you, Argyte.

How do I look? Am I fallen much away? Faith, very little. Love is used you kindly. I warrant thee. I'll strike her. home. Do, and spare not. I'll give you cause, sweet cousin. Now, to you, sir, when he thinks this armour's very like that, Arkite, thou waltz that day the three kings fell,

but lighter. Ah, that was a very good one. And that day I well remember, you outdid me, cousin. I never saw such valor. When you charged upon the left wing of the enemy, I spurred hard to come up, and under me had a right good horse. You had indeed, a bright bay, I remember. Yes, but all was vainly labored in me. You outwent me, nor could my wishes reach you. Yet a little I did, by imitation. More by virtue, your modest cousin. When I saw you charge first, methought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder break from the troop. But still before that flew the lightning of your valor. Stay a little, is not this piece too straight?

No, no, too's well. I would have nothing hurt thee but my sword. A bruise would be dishonor. Now I'm perfect. Stand off then. Take my sword. I hold it better. I think you know. Keep it. Your life lies on it. Here's one. If it but hold, I ask no more for all my hopes.

My course and honour guard me. And me, my love. Is there aught else to say? They bow several ways, then advance and stand. This only and no more. Thou art my aunt's son, and that blood we desire to shed is mutual. In me, thine, and in thee mine. My sword is in my hand, and if thou kill'st me, the gods and I forgive thee. If there be a place prepared for those that sleep in honour, I wish his weary soul that falls may win it.

Fight bravely, cousin. Give me thy noble hand. Here, Palerman, this hand will never more. come near thee with such friendship. I commend thee. If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward, for none but such dare die in these just trials. Once more, farewell, my cousin.

Farewell, Archite. They fight. Horns within. They stand. Lo, cousin, lo! Our folly has undone us. Why? This is the duke hunting, as I told you.

If we he found, we are wretched, I'll retire for honour's sake and safety, presently into your bush against her. We shall find too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin, if you be seen you perish instantly for breaking prison, and I, if you, reveal me for my contempt, then all the world will scorn us and say we had a noble difference, but base disposers of it.

No, no, cousin, I will no more be hidden or put off this great adventure to a second trial. I know your cunning and I know your cause. he that faints now shame take him put thyself upon thy present guard are you not mad or i will make the advantage of this our mine own and what to come shall threaten me i fear less than my fortune no weak cousin i love emilia and in that i'll bury thee and all crosses else then come what can come thou shalt know palaman i dare as well die as discourse or sleep only this fears me the law will have the honour of our ends. Oh, have at thy life. Look to thine own well, Archite.

They fight again. Horns. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Perithous, and Train. What ignorant and mad malicious traitors are you that against the tenor of my laws are making battle, thus like knights appointed, without my leave and officers of arms? By castor, both shall die. Hold thy word, Theseus. We are certainly both traitors, both despises of thee and of thy goodness.

I am Palamon, that cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison. Think well what that deserves. And this is Archite. A bolder traitor never trod thy ground. A fulser ne'er seemed friend. This is the man was begged and banished. This is he contemns thee and what thou darest do. And in this disguise, against thine own edict follows thy sister, that fortunate bright star, Emilia, whose servant, if there be a right in seeing, and first bequeathing of the soul to, justly I am, and which is more, dares think her his. This treachery, like a most trusty lover, I call him now to answer. If thou beest, as thou art spoken great and virtuous the true decider of all injuries, say, fight again, and thou shalt see, me, Theseus, do such a justice

thou thyself wilt envy. Then take my life. I'll woo thee to it. What more than man is this? I've sworn. We seek not the breath of mercy, Theseus. Tis to me a thing as soon to die as thee to say it, and no more moved. Where this man calls me traitor, let me say thus much, If in love be treason, in service of so excellent a beauty, As I love most, and in that faith will perish,

As I have brought my life here to confirm it, as I have served her truest, worthiest, as I dare kill this cousin that denies it, so let me be most traitor, and ye please me. For scorning thy edict, Duke, ask that lady why she is fair, and why her eyes command me stay here to love her. And if she say traitor, I am a villain fit to lie unburied. Thou shalt have pity of us both, Othesius, if unto neither thou show mercy. stop as thou art just thy noble ear against us, as thou art valiant for thy cousin's soul,

whose twelve strong labours crown his memory, let us die together at one instant, duke. Only a little let him fall before me that I may tell my soul he shall not have her. I grant your wish, for to say true, your cousin has ten times more offended, for I gave him more mercy than you found, sir, your offences being no more than his. None here speak for him. For ere the sun set, both shall sleep forever. Alas, the pity. Now or never, sister, speak, not to be denied. That face of yours will bear the curses else of after ages for these lost cousins.

In my face, dear sister, I find no anger to him, nor no ruin. The misadventure of their own eyes kill them. Yet that I will be woman and have pity, my knee shall grow to the ground, but I'll get mercy. Help me, dear sister, in a deed so virtuous the powers of all women. will be with us. Most royal brother. Sir, by our tie of marriage. By your own spotless honour.

By that faith, that fair hand, and that honest heart you gave me. By that you would have pity in another. By your own virtues infinite. By valor, by all the chaste knights I have ever pleased you. These are strange conjurings. Nay, then I'm in, too. By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers, By all you love most, wars, and this sweet lady.

By that you would have trembled to deny a blushing maid. By your own eyes, by strength in which you swore I went beyond all women, almost all men, And yet I yielded Theseus. To crown all this by your most noble soul which cannot want do mercy, I beg first. Next hear my prayers. Last, let me entreat, sir. For mercy.

Mercy. Mercy on these princes. You make my faith real. Say I felt compassion to them both. How would you place it? Upon their lives, but with their banishments. You are a right woman, sister. You have pity, but want the understanding where to use it. If you desire their lives, invent a way safer than banishment.

Can these two live and have the agony of love about him and not kill one another? Every day they'd fight about you, hourly bring your honor, in public question with their swords. Be wise, then, and here forget him. It concerns your credit and my oath equally. I hath said they die. Better they fall by the law than one another. Bow not my honour. Oh, my noble brother, that oath was rationally made, and in your anger, your reason will not hold it. If such vows stand for express will, all the world must perish. Beside, I have another oath against yours, of more authority. I'm sure more love, not made in passion neither, but good heed.

What is it, sister? Urge it home, brave lady. That you were ne'er deny me anything fit for my modest suit, and your free grunting. I tire you to your word now. If you failn't, think how you maim your honour. For now I am set to begging, sir, I am deaf to all but your compassion. How their lives might read the ruin of my name's opinion! Shall anything that loves me perish for me?

That were a cruel wisdom. Do men prine that straight young boughs that blush with thousand blossoms, because they may be rotten? O Duke Theseus, the goodly mothers that have groaned for these, and all the longing maids that ever loved, if your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty, and, in their funeral songs for these two cousins, despise my cruelty, and cry woe worth me, till I am nothing but the scorn of women. For heaven's sake save their lives and banish them. On what conditions? Swear I'm never more to make me their contention,

Or to know me, to tread upon thy dukedom, And to be, wherever they shall travel, Ever strangers to one another. I'll be cut of pieces before I take this oath. Forget I love her? Oh, all ye gods despise me then. Thy banishment I not mislike, So we may fairly carry our swords and cause along,

Else never trifle but take our lives, Duke. I must love and will, and for that love must and dare kill this cousin on any peace the earth has. Will you, Arkite, take these conditions? He's a villain, then. These are men. No, never, Duke. Tis worse to me than begging to take my life so basely.

Though I think I never shall enjoy her, yet I'll preserve the honor of affection, and die for her, make death a devil. What may be done, for now I feel compassion. Let it not fall again, sir. Say, Amelia, if one of them were dead, as one must, are you content to take the other to your husband? They cannot both enjoy you. They are princes as goodly as your own eyes,

and as noble as ever fame yet spoke of. Look upon him, and if you can love, end this difference. I give consent. Are you content, two princes? With all our souls. He that she refuses must die then. Any death thou canst invent, Duke. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour, and lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes.

If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me, and soldiers sing my epitaph. Make choice, then. I cannot, sir. They are both too excellent. For me, a hair shall never fall of these men. What will become of them? Thus I ordain it, and by mine honour once again it stands or both shall die. you shall both to your country and each within this month accompanied with three fair knights appear again in this place in which i'll plant a pyramid and whether before us that are here can force his cousin by fair and nightly strength to touch the pillar he shall enjoy her the other lose his head and all his friends nor shall he grudge to fall nor think he dies with interest in this lady

Will this content ye? Yes. Here, Cousin, Arkite, I am friends again, till that hour. I embrace ye. Are you content, sister? Yes, I must, sir, else both miscarry. Come, shake hands again then, and take heed as you are gentlemen, this quarrel sleep till the hour prefixed, and hold your course.

We dare not fail, thee, Theseus. Come, I'll give ye now usage like to princes and to friends. When ye return, who wins, I'll settle here. Who loses, yet I'll weep upon his beer. Axiant. End of Act 3. Act 4 of the two noble kinsmen by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher. This Libervox recording is in the public domain.

Act 4. Scene 1. Athens, A room in the prison. Enter Jailer and First Friend. "'Dear you no more, was nothing said of me concerning the escape of Palemon? Good sir, remember—' "'Nothing that I heard, for I came home before the business was fully ended. Yet I might perceive, ere I departed, a great likelihood of both their pardons. For Hippolita and fair-eyed Emily upon their knees begged with such handsome pity

that the duke methought stood staggering whether he should follow his rash oath or the sweet compassion of those two ladies, and to second them that truly noble prince Pyrethos half his own heart said in two that I hope all shall be well, neither heard I one question of your name or his scape. Pray heaven it holds so. Enter second friend. Be of good comfort, man.

I bring you news, good news. They are welcome. Palamon has cleared you and got your pardon and discovered how and by whose means he escaped, which was your daughters, whose pardon is procured too. And the prisoner, not to be held ungrateful to her goodness, has given a sum of money to her marriage.

A large one, I'll assure you. You are a good man, I never bring good news. How was it ended? Why, as it should be? They that never begged, but they prevailed, had their suits fairly granted. The prisoners have their lives. I knew t'would be so.

But there be new conditions, which you'll hear of at better time. I hope they are good. They're honourable. How good they'll prove, I'll know not. T'will be known. Enter Woer. Alas, sir, where's your daughter? Why do you ask?

Oh, sir, when did you see her? How he looks. This morning. Was she well? Was she in health, sir? Where did she sleep? These are strange questions. I do not think she was very well, for now you make me mind her.

But this very day I asked her questions, and she answered me so far from what she was, so childishly, so sillily, as if she was. she were a fool and innocent, and I was very angry. But what of her, sir? Nothing but my pity, but you must know it, and as good by me as by another that less loves her. Well, sir. Not right. Not well?

No, sir, not well. Tis too true. She is mad. It cannot be. Believe, you'll find it so. I have suspected what you have told. me, the gods comforter, either this was her love to Pelhamon, or fear of my miscarrying on his scape, or both.

Tis likely. But why all this haste, sir? I'll tell you quickly. As I late was angling in the great lake that lies behind the palace, from the far shore, thick-set with reeds and sedges, as patiently I was attending sport, I heard a voice, a shrill one, and attentive I gave my ear, when I might well perceived was one that sung. and by the smallness of it a boy or a woman. I then left my angle to his own skill,

came near, but yet perceived not who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds had so encompassed it. I laid me down and listened to the words she sung, for then, through a small glade cut by the fisherman, I saw it was your daughter. Pri, go on, sir. She sang much, but no sense, only I heard her repeat this often.

Palaman is gone, is gone to the wood to gather mulberries. I'll find him out tomorrow. pretty soul his shackles will betray him he'll be taken and what shall i do then or bring a bevy a hundred black-eyed maids that love as i do with chaplets on their heads of daffodillies with cherry lips and cheeks of damask roses and all will dance an antick for the duke and beg his pardon then she talked of you sir that you must lose your head to-morrow morning and she must gather flowers to bury you and see the house made handsome then she sang nothing but willow willow willow and between ever was palaman fair palaman and palaman was a tall young man the place was knee-deep where she sat her careless tresses a wreath of bulrushes round it about her stuck thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours that methought she appeared like the fair nymph that feeds the lakes with waters or as an iris newly dropped down from heaven rings she made of rushes that grew by and to him spoke the prettiest posies thus our true love's tide this you may lose not me and many a one and then she wept and sung again and sighed and with the same breath smiled and kissed her hand alas what pity tis i made in to her she saw me and straight sought the flood i saved her and set her safe to land when presently she slipped away and to the city made with such a cry and swiftness that believe me she left me far behind her three or four i saw from far off cross her one of them i knew to be your brother where she stayed and fell scarce to be got away i left them with her and hither came to tell you here they are

Enter Jailer's brother, daughter, and others. May you never more enjoy the light. Is not this a fine song? Oh, a very fine one. I can sing twenty more. I think you can. Yes, truly can I. I can sing the broom and Bonnie Robin.

Are not you a tailor? Yes. Where's my wife? wedding gown. I'll bring it tomorrow. Do, very rarely. I must be abroad, else, to call the maids and pay the minstrels. Oh, fair, oh, sweet. You must even take it patiently. It is true.

Good even, good men. Pray, did you ever hear of one young Palemon? Yes, wench, we know him. It's not a fine, young gentleman. It is love. By no means cross her. She is then distempered, far worse than now she shoes. Yes, he's a fine man.

Oh, is he so? You have a sister? Yes. But she shall never have him. Tell her so. For a trick that I know. He'd better look to her, and if she see him once, she's gone,

she's done and undone in an hour. All the young maids of our town are in love with him. but I laugh at him, then let him all alone. It's not a wise cause? Yes. They come from all parts of the dukedom to him. I'll warrant ye. She lost past all cure.

Heaven forbid, man! Come hither. You're a wise man. Does she know him? No. Would she did? You're master of a ship? Yes.

Where's your compass? Here. Set it to the north. And now, direct your course to the wood, where Palamon lies longing for me. For the tackling, let me alone. Come way my hearts cheerily. Away, away, away.

Tis up. The wind is fair. Where's your whistle, master? Top the bowling. Top the bowling, out with the main zeal. Let's get her in. Up to the top, boy. Where's the pilot?

Here. What canst thou? A fair wood. Bear for it, master. Tack about. When Zindia with her borrowed light. Xient. Scene two.

Athens. A room in the palace. Enter Amelia with two pictures. Yet I may bind those wounds up that must open and bleed to death for my. my sake else, I'll choose, and end their strife. Two such young handsome men shall never fall for me. Their weeping mothers, following the dead-cold ashes of their sons, shall never curse my cruelty. Good heaven! What a sweet face has archite! If wise nature, with all her best

endowments, all those beauties she sews into the births of noble bodies, were here a mortal woman, and had in her the coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless she would run mad for this man. What an eye, of what a fiery sparkle and quick sweetness has this young prince! Here love himself sits smiling. Just another wanton, Ganymede, set Jove a fire with, and enforce the guards snatch up the goodly boy, and set him by him, a shining constellation. What a brow of what a spacious majesty he carries, arched like the great-eyed Juno's, but far sweeter, smoother than Pellop's shoulder. Fame and honor! methinks from hence as from a promontory, pointed in heaven, should clap their wings,

and sing to all the underworld, the loves and fights of gods, and such men near them. Palaman is but his foil, to him a mere dull shadow. He's swarth and meagre, of an eye as heavy as if he had lost his mother, a still temper, no stirring in him, no alacrity, of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile. Yet these that we count errors may become him. Narcissus was a sad boy, but a heavenly. Oh, who can find the bent of women's fancy? I am a fool. My reason is lost in me.

I had no choice, and I have lied so loonly that women ought to beat me. On my knees I ask thy pardon, Parliament. Thou art alone, and only beautiful, and these the eyes, these the bright lamps of beauty, that command and threaten love, and what young maid dare cross them. of bold gravity, and yet inviting, has this brown manly face. O love, this only from this hour is complexion.

Lie there, Archite, thou art a changeling to him, a mere gypsy, and this the noble body. I am sotted, utterly lost, my virgin's faith has fled me, for if my brother but Ene now had asked me, whether I loved, I had run mad for Archite, now if my sister, more for Palaman. Stand both together. Now come, ask me, brother. Alas, I know not. Ask me now, sweet sister. I may go look.

What am me a child as fancy, that having two fair gods of equal sweetness cannot distinguish, but must cry for both. Enter a gentleman. From the noble duke, your brother, madam, I bring you news. The knights are come. To end the quarrel?

Yes. Would I might end first? What sins have I committed, Chase Diana? that my unspotted youth must now be soiled with blood of princes, and my chastity be made the altar with the lives of lovers. Too greater and too better never yet made mother's joy, must be the sacrifice to my unhappy beauty. I had rather both, so neither for my sake should fall untimely.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Perithewus, and attendance. Bring them in quickly by any means. I long to see them. Your two contending lovers are returned, and with them their fair knights. Now, my fair sister, you must love one of them. Must these men die too? Husam.

I, a while, and I. Enter a messenger. From whence come you, sir? From the knights. Pray speak, you that have seen them what they are. I will, sir, and truly what I think, six braver spirits than these they have brought, if we judge by the outside,

I never saw nor Reddorf. He that stands in the first place with Archite, by his seeming, should be a stout man, by his face a prince, his very looks to say him, his complexion, nearer a brown than black, stern, and yet noble, which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers, the circles of his eyes show fire within him, and as a heated lion, so he looks, his hair hangs long behind him black and shining like raven's wings his shoulders broad and strong armed long and round and on his thigh a sword hung by a curious bulwreck when he frowns to seal his will with there are o my conscience was never soldier's friend thou hast well described him yet a great deal short methinks of him that's first with palamon pray speak him friend I guess he is a prince, too, and, if it may be, greater, for his show has all the ornament of honour in it.

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, that 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 Valor, 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-haired and curled, thick, twinned, 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 blessed him, and in his rolling eyes sits victory. as if she ever meant to crown his valor. His nose stands high, a character of honor. His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies. When he speaks, his tongue sounds like a trumpet. All his liniments are as a man would wish him, strong and clean. He wears a well-steeled 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 a any fairer promises in such a body yet I never looked on. Oh! He that's freckle-faced? The same, my lord. Are they not sweet ones? Yes, they're well. Methinks, being so few and well-disposed, they show great and fine art and nature.

His white-haired, not wanton white, but such a manly color, next to an urban, tough and set, which shoes an active soul. His arms are brawny, leaned with strong sinews, to the shoulder piece gently they swell like women new-conceived, which speaks him prone to labor, never fainting under the weight of arms, stout hearted still, but when he stirs a tiger, his great-eyed, which yields compassion where he conquers, sharp to spire advantages, and when he finds them, he's swift to take him 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. Are they all thus? They're all the sons of honour. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see him. 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. Oh, my soft-hearted sister, what think you? Weep not till they weep blood. You have steeled them with your beauty. Honored friend, to you I give the field. Pray order it fitting the persons that must use it. Yes, sir.

Come, I'll go visit him. I cannot stay. Their fame has fired me so till they appear. Good friend, be royal. There shall want no bravery. Poor wench, go weep, for whosoever wins, loses a noble cousin for thy sins. Exeunt. Scene 3. Athens, a room in the prison. Enter jailer, wooer, and doctor. Her distraction is more at some time of the moon than at the other sum. Is it not? she is continually in a harmless distemper sleeps little altogether without appetite save up and drinking dreaming of another world an abeta and what broken piece of matters so ere she's about the name pelham un lards it that she farses every business with old fits it to every question look where she comes you shall perceive her behaviour and her daughter I have forgot it quite.

The burden-a-d-unt was Downer, downer, and penned by no worse man than D'eraldo, Emilia's schoolmaster. He's as fantastical, too, as ever he may go upon's legs, for in the next world we'll die-do, see Palamon. And then will she be out of love with Aeneas.

What stuff's here? Poor soul. Ain't this all day long? Now for this charm I told you of, You must bring a piece of silver on the tip of your tongue, Or no fairy. Then if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits are, There's a sight now.

We maids that have our lives perished, cracked to pieces with love, We shall come there, And do nothing all day long but pick flowers with prosopine. Then will I make Palam on a nosegay. Then let him mark me. Then. How prettyly she is her miss.

Not her a little further. Faith, I'll tell you. Sometime we go to Bali break, we of the blessed. Alas, tis a sore life they have in the other place. Such burning, hissing, howling, chattering, cursing. Oh, they have such shrewd measures. Take heed. If one be mad,

or hang or drown themselves. Dither they go. Jupiter bless us. And there they shall be put in a cauldron of lead and user as grease, amongst a whole million of cut purses. And there boil like a gammon of bacon that will never be enough. How she continues this fancy. This is not an engraft madness,

but a most thick and profound melancholy. To hear there a proud lady and a proud city wife howled together. I were a beast and I'd call it good sport. I will be true. My stars, my fate, I will be true. Exeter's daughter. What think you of her, sir?

I think she has a pert up mind, which I cannot minister to. Alas, what then? Understand you she ever affected any man ere she beheld Palamore? I was once, sir, in great hope she had fixed to like on this gentleman, my friend. I did think so too, and would account I had a great penurth on it to give half my state that both she and I at this present stood unfeantly on the same terms. That intemperate surefeit of her high at distempered the other senses. They may return, and settle again to execute their preordant

faculties. But they are now in a most extravagant vagary. This you must do. Confine her to a place where the light may rather seem to steal in than be permitted. Take upon you, young sir, her friend, the name of Palamon. Say you come to eat with her and to commune of love. This will catch her attention, for this her mind beats upon other objects that are inside between her mind and eye, become the pranks and friskings of her madness. Sing to her such green songs of love as she says Palamon had sung in present. Come to her, stuck in as sweet flowers as the season is mistress of, and that too make an addition of some other compounded orders which are grateful to the sense.

All this shall become Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is sweet, and every good thing. Desire to eat with her, carve her, drink to her, and still among intermingle your petition of grace and acceptance into her favour. Learn what mates have been her companions and playfarers, and let them repair to her with palamon in their mouths and appear with tokens, as if they suggested for him. It is a falsehood she is in, which is with falsehoods to be combated. This may bring her to eat, to sleep, and to reduce what is now out of squire inner into the former law and regiment. I have seen it approved how many times I know not. But to make the number more, I have a great hope in this.

I will, between the passages of this project, come in with my appliance. Let us put it in execution and hasten the success, which, doubt not, will bring forth comfort. Excient End of Act 4. Act 5 of the two noble kinsman by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Act 5. Scene 1. Athens.

An open space before the temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana. Enter Theseus, Perithous, Hippolyta, and attendance. Now let him enter and before the gods tender their holy prayers. Let the temples burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars in hallowed clouds commend their swelling incense to those above us. Let no dew be wanting. Flourish of Cornets They have a noble work in hand

We'll honor the very powers that love them Enter Palamon, Arkite And their knights Sir, they enter You valiant and strong-hearted enemies You royal germane foes That this day come to blow the nearness out That flames between ye

Lay by your anger for an hour And dove-like before the holy altars of your helpers the all feared gods, bow down your stubborn bodies. Your ire is more than mortal, so your help be, and as the gods regard ye fight with justice. I'll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye, I part my wishes. Honor crown the worthiest. Axiant Theseus and train. The glass is running now that cannot finish till one of a six spire. think you but thus, that were there aught in me which strove to show my enemy in this business,

were at one eye against another, arm oppressed by arm, I would destroy the offender, because I would, though parcel of myself, then from this gather how I should tender you. I'm in labour to push your name, your ancient love, our kindred out of my memory, and in the self-same place to seat something I would confound. So hoist we the sails that must these vessels port, even where the heavenly limiter pleases. You speak well. Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin.

This I shall never do again. They embrace. One farewell. Why let it be so? Farewell, Cus. Farewell, sir. Eccient Palaman and his knights. Knights.

Lovers? Ye, my sacrifices! True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you expels the seeds of fear and the apprehension which still is father of it. Go with me before the God of our profession. There require of him the hearts of lions, and the breath of tigers. Yay, the fierceness, too! Yea the speed also! To go on, I mean, else wish we to be snails! You know my prize must be dragged out of blood. Force and great feet must put my garland on, where she will stick the queen of flowers. Our intercession, then, must be to him that makes the camp a cestrian brimmed with the blood of men.

Give me your aid and bend your spirits towards him. They advance to the altar of Mars, and fall on their faces. Then kneel. Thou, mighty one, that with thy power has turned green Neptune into purple, whose approach comets pre-worn, Whose havoc in vast field unearthed skulls proclaim, Whose breath blows down, The teeming series foison,

Who dost pluck with hand armipotent From forth blue clouds the masoned turrets, That both makes'd and braced the stony girths of cities. Me, thy pupil, Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day with military skill. The to thy lord I may advance my streamer, And by thee bestiled the lord of the day,

Give me, great Mars, some token of thy pleasure. Here they fall on their faces as before, And there is heard clanging of armor with a short thunder As the burst of a battle, Whereupon they all rise, and bow to the altar. O great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-ranked state, thou grand decider of dusty and old titles,

that heal'st with blood the earth when it is sick and curest the world of the pluracy of people. I do take thy signs auspiciously, and did thy name to my design march boldly. Let us go. Excient. Re-enter Palaman and his knights. Our stars must glister with new fires

or be today extinct. Our argument is love, which if the goddess of it grant, she gives victory too. Then blend your spirits with mine, you, whose free nobleness to make my cause your personal hazard. To the goddess Venus commend we our proceeding, and implore her power unto our party. Here they advance to the altar of Venus, and fall on their faces, then kneel. Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who has power to call the fiercest tyrant, from his rage and weep unto a girl. That has the might, even with an eye-glance, to choke Mars's

drum, and turn the alarm to whispers, that canst make a cripple flourish with his crutch and cure him before Apollo, that mayst force the king to be his subject's vassal, and induce stale gravity to dance. The polled bachelor, whose youth like wanton boys through bonfires have skipped thy flame, at seventy thou canst catch and make him to the scorn of his horse-throat abuse young lays of love. What godlike power hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou addst flames hotter than his. The heavenly fires did scorch his mortal son, thine him. The huntress, all moist and cold, some say, began to throw her bow away and sigh. Take to thy grace, me, thy vowed soldier.

Who do bear thy yoke as twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier than lead itself, Stings, more than nettles. I have never been foul-mouthed against thy law, Nair revealed secret, for I knew none, would not had I kend all that were. I never practised upon man's wife, nor would the libels read of liberal wits. I never at great feasts sought to betray a beauty, but have blushed at simpering sirs that did. I have been harsh to large confessors, and have hotly asked them if they had mothers. I had one, a woman, and women to were they wronged.

I knew a man of eighty winters, this I told them, who, alas of fourteen, bribed. T'was thy power to put life into dust. The aged cramp had screwed his square foot round, the gout had knit his fingers into knots, torturing convulsions from his globy eyes had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life in him seemed torture. This anatomy had, by his young fair fear, a boy, and I believed it was his, for she swore it was, and who would not believe her?

Brief, I am to those that prate and have done, no companion, to those that boast and have not, a defier, to those that would and cannot a rejoicer. Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices the foulest, way, nor names concealments in the boldest language. Such a one I am, and vow that lover never yet made sigh truer than I. O then most soft, sweet goddess, give me the victory of this question, which is true love's merit and bless me with a sign of thy great pleasure. Hear music is heard. Doves are seen to flutter. They fall again upon their faces, then on their

knees. O thou that from eleven to ninety reigns in mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world, and we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks for this fair token which, being laid unto mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance my body to this business. Let us rise and bow before the goddess. Time comes on. They bow, then exeunt. Still music of records. Enter Amelia in white, her hair about her shoulders, and wearing a wheaten wreath. One in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers, one before her carrying a silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odours, which being set upon the altar of

Diana, her maid standing aloof, she sets fire to it. Then they curtsy and kneel. O sacred, shadowy, cold and consternet. queen, abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative, sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure as wind-fanned snow, who to thy female knights allow us no more blood than will make a blush, which is their order's robe. I hear, thy priest, am humbled for thine altar. O vouchsafe, with that thy rare green eye, which never yet beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin, and sacred silver mystery. Lend thine ear, which ne'er heard scrual term, Into whose port ne'er entered wanton sound, To my petition, seasoned with holy fear.

This is my last vestal office. I'm bride-habited, but maiden-hearted. A husband I have pointed, but do not know him. Out of two I should choose one, and pray for his success. But I am guiltless of election. Of mine eyes were I to lose one. They are equal, precious. I could doom neither. That which perished should go to it unsentenced.

Therefore, most modest queen, he, of the two pretenders, that best loves me, and has the truest title in't, let him take off my wheat and garland, or else grant the file and quality I hold I may continue in thy band. Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose-tree, having one rose upon it. See what are general of ebbs and flows Out from the bowels of her holy altar With sacred act advances

But one rose If well inspired This battle shall confound both these brave knights And I, a virgin flower, must grow alone, Unplucked Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments And the rose falls from the tree Which vanishes under the altar

The flower is fallen, the tree descends, O mistress thou here dischar, I shall be gathered. I think so. But I know not thine own will. Unclasp thy mystery. I hope she's pleased. Her signs were gracious." They curtsy and axiant. Scene two. A room in the prison. Enter doctor, jailer, and wooer in the habit of Palamon. Has this advice I told you done any good upon her? Oh, very much. The maids that kept her company have half persuaded her that I am Palom

In this half-hour she came smiling to me and asked me what I'd eat and when I'd kiss her. I told her presently and kissed her twice. It was well done. Twenty times had been far better, for that the cure lies mainly. Then she told me she would watch with me tonight, for well she knew what hour my fit would take me. Let her do so. She would have me sing.

You did so? No. It was very ill done then. You should observe her every way. Alas, I have no voice, sir, to confirm her in that way. That's all one. If he make a noise, if she entreat again, do anything. Lie with her if she asks you.

Oh, there, doctor. Yes, in the way of cure. But first, by your leave, is the way of honesty. That's but a niceness. Never cast your child away for honesty. Cure her first this way. Then, if she'll be honest, she has a path before her. Thanky, Doctor.

Pray, bring her in, and let's see how she is. I will, until her, her Pelhamon stays for her. But, doctor, may think she is the wrong still. Exit. Go, go, your father's are fine fools, her honesty, and we should give her psychic till we find that. Why, do you think she is not honest, sir? How old is she?

She's 18. She may be. But that's all one. There's nothing to her purpose. Whatever our father sees, If you perceive her more inclining that way I spoke of, We'll listen the way of flesh, you have me? Yes, very well, sir.

Enter jailer, daughter, and maid. Come, your love of Palamon stays for you, child, and has done this long hour to visit you. I thank him for his gentle patience. He's a kind gentleman. and I am much bound to him. Did you ne'er see the horse he gave me? Yes.

How do you like him? He's a very fair one. You never saw him dance? No. I have often. He dances very finely, very calmly. And for a jig come cut and long tail to him, he turns you like a top. That's fine indeed.

He'll dance the Morris twenty mile an hour. and that will founder the best hobby horse. If I have any skill in all the parish and gallops to the tune of light a love, what think you of this horse? Having these virtues, I think he might be brought to play at tennis. Alas, that's nothing. Can he write and read, too? A very fair hand, and casts himself the accounts of all his hay and provender, that hostler must rise by time that cousins him.

You know the chestnut mare, the Duke-Carr. GERN up Mayor the Duke has. Very well. She is horribly in love with him, poor beast. But he is like his master, coy and scornful. What dowry has she? Some two hundred bottles and twenty strike of oats. But he'll ne'er have her.

He lisps in's neighing, able to entice a miller's mare. He'll be the death of her. What stuff she utters. Make her at sea. He will love. of comes. Pretty soul, how do ye? That's a fine maid. There's a curtsy. Yours to command in the way of honesty. How far is now to the end of the world, my masters? Why, a day's journey, wench. Will you go with me? What shall we do there, wench? Why play it's duel-ball? What is there

else to do? I am content if we shall keep our wedding there. Tis true, for there I will assure you, we shall find some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture to marry us, for here they are nice and foolish. Besides, my father must be hanged tomorrow, and that would be a blot of the business. Are not you, Palamon? Do you not know me? Yes. But you care not for me. I have nothing but this poor petticoat and two-course smocks. That's all one. I will have you.

Will you? Surely? Yes, by this fair hand, will I. Will to bed then? Even when you will. Kisses her. Oh, sir, you'd fain be nibbling. Why do you rub my kiss off? Tis a sweet one, and will perfume me finally against the wedding.

Is not this your cousin, Archite? Yes, sweetheart, and I'm glad my cousin Palamon has made so fair a choice. Do you think he'll have me? Yes, without doubt. Do you think so too? Yes. We shall have many children. Lord, how you are grown.

My palaman, I hope, will grow too finally now he's at liberty. Alas, poor chicken, he was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging. But I will kiss him up again. Enter a messenger. What do you hear? You'll lose the noblest sight that you, air was seen. Are they in the field? They are. You bear a charge there too. A yellowy street, I must even leave you here. Nay, we'll go with you. I will not lose the side.

How do you like her? I'll warrant you. Within these three or four days, I'll make her right again. You must not from her, but still preserve her in this way. I will. Let's get her in. Come, sweet, we'll go to dinner, and then we'll play at cards. Xient Scene 3 A part of the forest near the place of combat Enterthesius, Hippolyta, Amelia, Perithous, and Attendants I'll step no further.

Will you lose this sight? I had rather see a Wrenhawk get a fly than this decision. Every blow that falls threats a brave life. Each stroke laments the place whereon it falls, and sounds more like a bell than blade. I will stay here. It is enough my hearing shall be punished, with what shall happen,

against the which there is no deafing but to hear, not taint mine eye with dread sights it may shun. Sir, my good lord, your sister will no further. Oh, she must, she shall see deeds of honour in their kind, which sometimes show well penciled, nature now shall make and act the story, the belief both sealed with eye and ear, You must be present. You are the victor's mead, the price, and garland to crown the question's title.

Pardon me. If I were there, I'd wink. You must be there. This trial is, as it were, in the night, and you, the only star to shine. I am extinct. There is but envy in that light which shoes the one the other. Darkness, whichever was the dam of horror, who does stand a curse of many mortal millions, may even now, by casting her black mantle over both, that neither could find other, get herself some part of a good name, and many a Mirtha set off where to she's guilty. You must go. In faith I will not.

Sir, pardon me. The title of a kingdom may be tried out of itself. Well, well, then, at your pleasure, those that remain with you could wish their office to any of their enemies. Farewell, sister. I am like to know your husband for yourself. by some small smart of time. He whom the gods do of the two know best, I pray them he be made your lot."

Exeant all except Amelia and some of the attendants. Arquite is gently visaged, yet his eye is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon in a soft sheath. Mercy and manly courage are bedfellows in his visage. Palaman has a most menacing aspect. His brow is graved, and seems to bury what it frowns on. Yet sometimes tis not so, but alters to the quality of his thoughts. Long time his eye will dwell upon his object.

Melancholy becomes him nobly. So does Arkite's mirth. But Palin's sadness is a kind of mirth, so mingled as if mirth did make him sad, and sadness marry. Those darker humours that stick misbecomingly on others, on him live in fair dwelling. Cornets.

Trumpet sound as to a charge. Huck! how yon spurs to spirit do incite the princes to their proof. Archite may win me, and yet Palaman wound Archite to the spoiling of his figure. Oh, what pity enough for such a chance! If I will buy, I might do hurt, for they would glance their eyes toward my seat, and in that motion might omit a ward, or forfeit an offence, which craved that very time. It is much better. I am not there.

Cornets. Cry within. A palamon. O better never born than minister to such harm. What is the chance? The cries a Palaman. Then he has won. T'was ever likely.

He looked all grace and success, and he is doubtless the primest of men. I pray thee run, and tell me how it goes. Still, Palaman! Run and inquire. Exit, servant. Poor servant, thou hast lost. Upon my right side still I wore thy picture.

Palaman's on the left. Why so I know not. I had no end in else. Chance would have it so. Another cry and shout within and cornets. On the sinister side the heart lies. Palaman had the best boating chance. This burst of clamor is sure the end of the combat. Re-enter servant.

They said that Palamon had Arkite's body within an inch of the pyramid, that the cry was general, a Palamon. But anon, the assistants made a brave redemption, and the two bold tilters at this instant are hand-earned. to hand at it. Were they metamorphosed both into one? Oh, why, there were no woman worth so composed a man. Their single share, their nobleness peculiar to them,

gives the prejudice of disparity, value shortness, to any lady breathing. Cornets. Cry within. Archite, archite. More exulting. Palaman still. Nay, now the sound is Archite. I prithee lay attention to the cry.

Cornets. Great shout and cry, Arkite Victory. Set both on ears to the business. The cry is, Archite and victory. Hark! Arkite, victory! The combat's consummation is proclaimed by the wind instruments. Half-sight saw that Archite was no babe. God's lid, his richness and costliness of spirit looked through him.

It could no more be hidden him than fire and flax, then humble banks can go to law with waters that drift winds forced raging. I did think good Palaman would miscarry, yet I knew not why I did think so. Our reasons are not prophets, when oft our fancies are. They're coming off, unless poor Palaman. Cornets Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Perithous, Archite as Victor, attendants, etc. Lo where our sister is in expectation, yet quaking and unsettled.

Fairst Emily, the gods by their divine arbitrament, have given you this night. He is a good one as ever struck at head. Give me your hands. Receive you her, you, him. Be plighted with a love that grows as you decay. Emily, to buy you I have lost what's dearest to me, save what is bought, and yet I purchase cheaply as I do rate your value. Oh, loved sister, he speaks now of as brave a knight as air did spur a noble steed. Surely the gods would have him die a bachelor, lest his race should show the world too godlike. His behavior so charmed me that methought Alcides was to him a sow of lead. If I could praise each part of him to the all I've spoke, your archite did not lose by it,

for he that was thus good encountered yet his better. I have heard two emulous filomels beat the ear the night with their contentious throats, now one the higher, anon the other, than again the first, and by and by outbreasted that the sense could not be judge between them. So it fared good space between these kinsmen till heavens did make hardly one the winner. Wear the garland with joy that you have won. For the subdued give them our present justice, since I know their lives but pinch him, let it here be done. The scene's not for our seeing, go we hence write joyful with some sorrow. Arm your prize, I know you will not lose her. Hippolyta, I see one eye of yours conceives a tear the which it will deliver. Flourish. Is this winning? Oh, all you heavenly

powers, where is your mercy? But that your wills have said it must be so, in charge me live to comfort this unfriended, this miserable prince, that cuts away a life more worthy from him than all women, I should and would die too. Infinite pity that four such eyes should be so fixed on one, that two must needs be blind for it. So it is. Axiant Scene 4

The same part of the forest as in Act 3, Scene 6. Enter Palaman and his knights pinioned, jailer, executioner, and guard. There's many a man alive that have outlived the love of the people. Yea, the self-same state stands many a father with his child. Some comfort we have by so considering. We expire, and not without men's pity, to live still have their good wishes.

We prevent the loathsome misery of age, beguile the gout and room that in lag hours attend for grey approaches. We come towards the gods, young and unwappered, not halting under crimes young and stale. That, sure, shall please the gods sooner than such, to give us nexus with them, for we are more clear spirits. My dear kinsman, whose lives for this poor comfort are laid down, you've sold them too, too cheap. What ending could be of more content? Or as the victors have fortune, whose title is as momentary as to us, death is certain.

A grain of honour they not O'Oereus. Let us bid farewell, and with our patience anger-tottering fortune, Who, at her certainest, reels. Come, who begins? Even he that led you to this banquet shall taste to you all. Aha, my friend, my friend! Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once. You'll see it done now, forever.

Pray, how does she? I heard she was not well. Her kind of ill gave me some sorrow. Sir, she's well restored, and be married shortly. By my short life I am most glad aunt. It is the latest thing I shall be glad of. Prithee tell her so, commend me to her, and, to piece her portion, tender her this.

Gives a purse. Nay, let's be offerers all. Is it a maid? Verily I think so. Her right good creature, more to me, deserving that I can quit or speak of. Commend us to her. Give their purses.

The gods requite you all and make her thankful. Adieu. And let my life be now as short as my leave-taking. Lays his head on the block. Lead, courageous cousin. We'll follow cheerfully.

A great noise within crying, Run, save, hold. Enter in haste a messenger. Hold, hold, hold, hold. Enter Perithous in haste. Hold, ho! It is a cursed haste you made, if you have done so quickly. Noble Palamon, the gods will show their glory in a life that thou art yet to lead.

Can that be when Venus I've said is false? How do things fare? Arise, great, sir, and give the tidings ear that are most dearly sweet and bitter. What hath waked us from our dream? Pelhamon rises. List then, your cousin, mounted upon a steed that Emily did first bestow on him. A black one, owing not a hair worth of white, which some will say weakens his price, and many will not buy his goodness with this note, which superstition here finds allowance. On this horse is archaed, trotting the stones of Athens, which the Calkins did rather tell than trample,

for the horse would make his length a mile if it pleased his rider to put pride in him. as he thus went counting the flinty pavement dancing as twirred to do the music his own hoofs made for as they say from iron came music's origin what envious flint cold as old saturn and like him possessed with fire malevolent darted a spark or what fierce silver else to this end made i comment not the hot horse hot as fire took toy at this and fell to what disorder his power could give his will bounds comes on end for forget school doing being there entrained and of a kind manage pig-like he whines at the sharp roll which he frets at rather than any jot obeys seeks all foul means of boisterous and rough jittery to deceit his lord who kept it bravely when not served when neither curb would crack girth break nor differing plunges disroot his rider whence he grew but that he kept him between his legs on his hind hoofs on end he stands that archite's legs being higher than his head seemed with strange art to Hang! His victor's wreath even then fell off his head, and presently, backward, the jade comes oar, and his full poise becomes the rider's load. Yet is he living. But such a vessel is that floats but for the surge that next approaches. He much desires to have some speech with you.

Lo! He appears. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Amelia, and Archite, born in a chair. Oh, miserable end of our alliance! God's are mighty. Archite, if thy heart, thy worthy, manly heart be yet unbroken, give me thy last words. I am Palamon, one that yet loves thee dying. Take Amelia, and with her all the world's joy,

reached thy hand. Farewell, I've told my last hour. I was false, yet never treacherous. Forgive me, cousin. One kiss from fair Amelia. Tis done. Take her. I die.

Thy brave souls seek Elysium. I'll close thine eyes, Prince. Blessed souls be with thee. Thou art a right, good man. And while I live, this day I give to tears. And I to honour. In this place first you fought, Even very here I sundered you.

Acknowledge to the gods your thanks that you are living. His part is played, and though it were too short, he did it well. Your day is lengthened, and the blissful dew of heaven does arose you. The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar and given you your love. Our master Mars has vouched his oracle, and to Archite gave the grace of the contention. So the deities have showed due justice. Bear this hence. O cousin, that we should things desire which do cost us the loss of our desire,

that naught could buy dear love but loss of dear love. Never fortune did play a subtler game. The conquered triumphs, the victor has the loss. Yet in the passage the gods have been most equal. your kinsman, your kinsman hath confessed the right of the lady did lie in you, for you first saw her and even then proclaimed your fancy. He restored her as your stolen jewel, and desired your spirit to send him hence forgiven. The gods my justice take from my hand, and they themselves become the executioners. Lead your lady off and call your lovers from the stage of death whom I adopt my friends.

A day or two let us look sadly and give grace unto the funeral of Archite, in whose end the visages of bridegrooms will put on and smile with Palamon, for whom an hour but one hour since I was as dearly sorry as glad of Archite, and am now as glad as for him sorry. Oh, you heavenly charmers, what things you make of us! For what we lack, we laugh, for what we have are sorry. still are children in some kind. Let us be thankful for that which is,

and with you leave dispute that are above our question. Let's go off and bear us like the time. Flourish, exeant. Epilogue I would now ask ye how ye like the play, but, as it is with schoolboys, cannot say, I am cruel fearful. Pray, yet stay a while, And let me look upon ye.

No man's smile? Then it goes hard, I see. He that has loved a young handsome wench then show his face, Tis strange if none be here. And, if he will against his conscience, Let him hiss and kill our market. Tis in vain, I see, to stay ye. Have at the worst can come then.

Now what say ye? And yet mistake me not, I am not bold, We've no such cause, if the tale we have told, For it is no other, any way content ye, For to that honest purpose it was meant ye. We have our end, And ye shall have ere long, I dare say many a better,

To prolong your old loves to us. We and all our might, rest at your service. gentlemen good night end of act five end of the two noble kinsman by william shakespeare and john fletcher