PALAMON.
I doe embrace you and your offer,—for
Your offer doo’t I onely, Sir; your person,
Without hipocrisy I may not wish [Winde hornes of Cornets.]
More then my Swords edge ont.
ARCITE.
You heare the Hornes;
Enter your Musite least this match between’s
Be crost, er met: give me your hand; farewell.
Ile bring you every needfull thing: I pray you,
Take comfort and be strong.
PALAMON.
Pray hold your promise;
And doe the deede with a bent brow: most certaine
You love me not, be rough with me, and powre
This oile out of your language; by this ayre,
I could for each word give a Cuffe, my stomach
Not reconcild by reason.
ARCITE.
Plainely spoken,
Yet pardon me hard language: when I spur [Winde hornes.]
My horse, I chide him not; content and anger
In me have but one face. Harke, Sir, they call
The scatterd to the Banket; you must guesse
I have an office there.
PALAMON.
Sir, your attendance
Cannot please heaven, and I know your office
Vnjustly is atcheev’d.
ARCITE.
If a good title,
I am perswaded this question sicke between’s
By bleeding must be cur’d. I am a Suitour,
That to your Sword you will bequeath this plea
And talke of it no more.
PALAMON.
But this one word:
You are going now to gaze upon my Mistris,
For note you, mine she is—
ARCITE.
Nay, then.
PALAMON.
Nay, pray you,
You talke of feeding me to breed me strength:
You are going now to looke upon a Sun
That strengthens what it lookes on; there
You have a vantage ore me, but enjoy’t till
I may enforce my remedy. Farewell. [Exeunt.]