ARCITE.
Are you not out?
Meete you no ruine but the Soldier in
The Cranckes and turnes of Thebs? you did begin
As if you met decaies of many kindes:
Perceive you none, that doe arowse your pitty
But th’un-considerd Soldier?
PALAMON.
Yes, I pitty
Decaies where ere I finde them, but such most
That, sweating in an honourable Toyle,
Are paide with yce to coole ’em.
ARCITE.
Tis not this
I did begin to speake of: This is vertue
Of no respect in Thebs; I spake of Thebs
How dangerous if we will keepe our Honours,
It is for our resyding, where every evill
Hath a good cullor; where eve’ry seeming good’s
A certaine evill, where not to be ev’n Iumpe
As they are, here were to be strangers, and
Such things to be, meere Monsters.
PALAMON.
Tis in our power,
(Vnlesse we feare that Apes can Tutor’s) to
Be Masters of our manners: what neede I
Affect anothers gate, which is not catching
Where there is faith, or to be fond upon
Anothers way of speech, when by mine owne
I may be reasonably conceiv’d; sav’d too,
Speaking it truly? why am I bound
By any generous bond to follow him
Followes his Taylor, haply so long untill
The follow’d make pursuit? or let me know,
Why mine owne Barber is unblest, with him
My poore Chinne too, for tis not Cizard iust
To such a Favorites glasse: What Cannon is there
That does command my Rapier from my hip
To dangle’t in my hand, or to go tip toe
Before the streete be foule? Either I am
The fore-horse in the Teame, or I am none
That draw i’th sequent trace: these poore sleight sores
Neede not a plantin; That which rips my bosome
Almost to’th heart’s—
ARCITE.
Our Vncle Creon.
PALAMON.
He,
A most unbounded Tyrant, whose successes
Makes heaven unfeard, and villany assured
Beyond its power there’s nothing, almost puts
Faith in a feavour, and deifies alone
Voluble chance; who onely attributes
The faculties of other Instruments
To his owne Nerves and act; Commands men service,
And what they winne in’t, boot and glory; on(e)
That feares not to do harm; good, dares not; Let
The blood of mine that’s sibbe to him be suckt
From me with Leeches; Let them breake and fall
Off me with that corruption.
ARCITE.
Cleere spirited Cozen,
Lets leave his Court, that we may nothing share
Of his lowd infamy: for our milke
Will relish of the pasture, and we must
Be vile or disobedient, not his kinesmen
In blood, unlesse in quality.
PALAMON.
Nothing truer:
I thinke the Ecchoes of his shames have dea’ft
The eares of heav’nly Iustice: widdows cryes
Descend againe into their throates, and have not
[enter Valerius.]
Due audience of the Gods.—Valerius!