ARCITE.
Yes, a matchles beauty.
PALAMON.
Might not a man well lose himselfe and love her?
ARCITE.
I cannot tell what you have done, I have;
Beshrew mine eyes for’t: now I feele my Shackles.
PALAMON.
You love her, then?
ARCITE.
Who would not?
PALAMON.
And desire her?
ARCITE.
Before my liberty.
PALAMON.
I saw her first.
ARCITE.
That’s nothing.
PALAMON.
But it shall be.