PALAMON.
Is’t but a rare one?
ARCITE.
Yes, a matchless beauty.
PALAMON.
Might not a man well lose himself, and love her?
ARCITE.
I cannot tell what you have done; I have,
Beshrew mine eyes for’t! Now I feel my shackles.
PALAMON.
You love her, then?
ARCITE.
Who would not?
PALAMON.
And desire her?
ARCITE.
Before my liberty.
PALAMON.
I saw her first.
ARCITE.
That’s nothing.