Hark how yon spurs to spirit do incite
The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me
And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to
The spoiling of his figure. O, what pity
Enough for such a chance? If I were by,
I might do hurt, for they would glance their eyes
Towards my seat, and in that motion might
Omit a ward or forfeit an offence
Which craved that very time. It is much better
I am not there.
[Cornets. A great cry and noise within crying “À Palamon!”]
Oh better never born
Than minister to such harm.
Enter Servant.
What is the chance?
SERVANT.
The cry’s “À Palamon.”
EMILIA.
Then he has won. ’Twas ever likely.
He looked all grace and success, and he is
Doubtless the prim’st of men. I prithee run
And tell me how it goes.
[Shout and cornets, crying “À Palamon!”]
SERVANT.
Still “Palamon.”
EMILIA.
Run and enquire.