ARCITE.
Take my Sword, I hold it better.
PALAMON.
I thanke ye: No, keepe it; your life lyes on it.
Here’s one; if it but hold, I aske no more
For all my hopes: My Cause and honour guard me! [They bow severall wayes: then advance and stand.]
ARCITE.
And me my love! Is there ought else to say?
PALAMON.
This onely, and no more: Thou art mine Aunts Son,
And that blood we desire to shed is mutuall;
In me, thine, and in thee, mine. My Sword
Is in my hand, and if thou killst me,
The gods and I forgive thee; If there be
A place prepar’d for those that sleepe in honour,
I wish his wearie soule that falls may win it:
Fight bravely, Cosen; give me thy noble hand.
ARCITE.
Here, Palamon: This hand shall never more
Come neare thee with such friendship.
PALAMON.
I commend thee.
ARCITE.
If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward,
For none but such dare die in these just Tryalls.
Once more farewell, my Cosen.
PALAMON.
Farewell, Arcite. [Fight.]
[Hornes within: they stand.]
ARCITE.
Loe, Cosen, loe, our Folly has undon us.