WOMAN.
Why, madam?
EMILIA.
Men are mad things.
ARCITE.
Will ye go forward, cousin?
EMILIA.
Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench?
WOMAN.
Yes.
EMILIA.
I’ll have a gown full of ’em, and of these.
This is a pretty colour; will ’t not do
Rarely upon a skirt, wench?
WOMAN.
Dainty, madam.
ARCITE.
Cousin, cousin! How do you, sir? Why, Palamon!
PALAMON.
Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.
ARCITE.
Why, what’s the matter, man?