PALAMON.
I must be,
Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me;
And in this madness, if I hazard thee
And take thy life, I deal but truely.
ARCITE.
Fie, sir!
You play the child extremely. I will love her;
I must, I ought to do so, and I dare,
And all this justly.
PALAMON.
O, that now, that now,
Thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune,
To be one hour at liberty, and grasp
Our good swords in our hands! I would quickly teach thee
What ’twere to filch affection from another!
Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse.
Put but thy head out of this window more
And, as I have a soul, I’ll nail thy life to ’t.
ARCITE.
Thou dar’st not, fool, thou canst not, thou art feeble.
Put my head out? I’ll throw my body out
And leap the garden, when I see her next
And pitch between her arms, to anger thee.
Enter Jailer.
PALAMON.
No more; the keeper’s coming. I shall live
To knock thy brains out with my shackles.
ARCITE.
Do!
JAILER.
By your leave, gentlemen.
PALAMON.
Now, honest keeper?
JAILER.
Lord Arcite, you must presently to th’ Duke;
The cause I know not yet.