ARCITE.
Venison.
PALAMON.
’Tis a lusty meat.
Give me more wine. Here, Arcite, to the wenches
We have known in our days! The Lord Steward’s daughter,
Do you remember her?
ARCITE.
After you, coz.
PALAMON.
She loved a black-haired man.
ARCITE.
She did so; well, sir?
PALAMON.
And I have heard some call him Arcite, and—
ARCITE.
Out with’t, faith.
PALAMON.
She met him in an arbour.
What did she there, coz? Play o’ th’ virginals?
ARCITE.
Something she did, sir.
PALAMON.
Made her groan a month for ’t,
Or two, or three, or ten.