PALAMON.
Small winds shake him.
But what’s the matter?
VALERIUS.
Theseus, who where he threats appalls, hath sent
Deadly defiance to him and pronounces
Ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal
The promise of his wrath.
ARCITE.
Let him approach.
But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not
A jot of terror to us. Yet what man
Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours—
When that his action’s dregged with mind assured
’Tis bad he goes about?
PALAMON.
Leave that unreasoned.
Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon.
Yet to be neutral to him were dishonour,
Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must
With him stand to the mercy of our fate,
Who hath bounded our last minute.
ARCITE.
So we must.
[To Valerius.] Is ’t said this war’s afoot? Or, it shall be,
On fail of some condition?
VALERIUS.
’Tis in motion;
The intelligence of state came in the instant
With the defier.
PALAMON.
Let’s to the King; who, were he
A quarter carrier of that honour which
His enemy come in, the blood we venture
Should be as for our health, which were not spent,
Rather laid out for purchase. But alas,
Our hands advanced before our hearts, what will
The fall o’ th’ stroke do damage?
ARCITE.
Let th’ event,
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves; and let us follow
The becking of our chance.
[Exeunt.]