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.
ARCITE.
I am ready, keeper.
JAILER.
Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you
Of your fair cousin’s company.