Arc. You are mad.
Pal. I must be.
Till thou art worthy, Arcite, it concerns me,
And in this madness, if I hazard thee
And take thy life, I deal but truly.
Arc. Fie Sir.
You play the child extreamly: I will love her,
I must, I ought to do so, and I dare,
And all this justly.
Pal. Oh that now, that now
Thy false-self, and thy friend, had but this fortune
To be one hour at liberty, and graspe
Our good swords in our hands, I would quickly teach thee
What 'twere to filch affection from another:
Thou art baser in it than a Cutpurse;
Put but thy head out of this window more,
And as I have a soul, I'll nail thy life to't.
Arc. Thou dar'st not fool, thou canst not, thou art feeble.
Put my head out? I'll throw my Body out,
And leap the Garden, when I see her next.
Enter Keeper.
And pitch between her Arms to anger thee.
Pal. No more; the Keepers coming; I shall live
To knock thy brains out with my Shackles.
Arc. Doe.
Keep. By your leave, Gentlemen.