ARCITE.
Is’t not mad lodging here in the wild woods, Cosen?
PALAMON.
Yes, for them that have wilde Consciences.
ARCITE.
How tasts your vittails? your hunger needs no sawce, I see.
PALAMON.
Not much;
But if it did, yours is too tart, sweete Cosen: what is this?
ARCITE.
Venison.
PALAMON.
Tis a lusty meate:
Giue me more wine; here, Arcite, to the wenches
We have known in our daies. The Lord Stewards daughter,
Doe you remember her?
ARCITE.
After you, Cuz.
PALAMON.
She lov’d a black-haird man.
ARCITE.
She did so; well, Sir.
PALAMON.
And I have heard some call him Arcite, and—