ARCITE.
Yes, but all
Was vainly laboured in me; you outwent me,
Nor could my wishes reach you. Yet a little
I did by imitation.
PALAMON.
More by virtue;
You are modest, cousin.
ARCITE.
When I saw you charge first,
Me thought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder
Break from the troop.
PALAMON.
But still before that flew
The lightning of your valour. Stay a little;
Is not this piece too strait?
ARCITE.
No, no, ’tis well.
PALAMON.
I would have nothing hurt thee but my sword.
A bruise would be dishonour.
ARCITE.
Now I am perfect.
PALAMON.
Stand off, then.
ARCITE.
Take my sword; I hold it better.
PALAMON.
I thank ye, no; keep it; your life lies on it.
Here’s one; if it but hold, I ask no more
For all my hopes. My cause and honour guard me!