Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses,
Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now
(Better the red-eyed God of war ne’er wore)
Ravish’d our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those Gods that hate us:
These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning,
To blast whole armies more.
Arc. No, Palamon,
Those hopes are prisoners with us: here we are,
And here the graces of our youth must wither,