PROLOGUE

Flourish. Enter Prologue.

PROLOGUE. New plays and maidenheads are near akin: Much followed both, for both much money gi’en, If they stand sound and well. And a good play, Whose modest scenes blush on his marriage day And shake to lose his honour, is like her That after holy tie and first night’s stir Yet still is Modesty, and still retains More of the maid, to sight, than husband’s pains. We pray our play may be so, for I am sure It has a noble breeder and a pure, A learned, and a poet never went More famous yet ’twixt Po and silver Trent. Chaucer, of all admired, the story gives; There, constant to eternity, it lives. If we let fall the nobleness of this, And the first sound this child hear be a hiss, How will it shake the bones of that good man And make him cry from underground, “O, fan From me the witless chaff of such a writer That blasts my bays and my famed works makes lighter Than Robin Hood!” This is the fear we bring; For, to say truth, it were an endless thing And too ambitious, to aspire to him, Weak as we are, and, almost breathless, swim In this deep water. Do but you hold out

Your helping hands, and we shall tack about And something do to save us. You shall hear Scenes, though below his art, may yet appear Worth two hours’ travel. To his bones sweet sleep; Content to you. If this play do not keep A little dull time from us, we perceive Our losses fall so thick, we must needs leave.

[Flourish. Exit.]

ACT I

SCENE I. Athens. Before a temple

Enter Hymen with a torch burning; a Boy, in a white robe before singing, and strewing flowers. After Hymen, a Nymph encompassed in her tresses, bearing a wheaten garland; then Theseus between two other Nymphs with wheaten chaplets on their heads. Then Hippolyta, the bride, led by Pirithous, and another holding a garland over her head, her tresses likewise hanging. After her, Emilia, holding up her train. Then Artesius and Attendants.

[Music.]

The Song

Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry springtime’s harbinger, With harebells dim, Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on deathbeds blowing, Lark’s-heels trim;

[Strews flowers.]

All dear Nature’s children sweet Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet, Blessing their sense. Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Is absent hence.

The crow, the sland’rous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chatt’ring ’pie, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly.

Enter three Queens in black, with veils stained, with imperial crowns. The first Queen falls down at the foot of Theseus; the second falls down at the foot of Hippolyta; the third before Emilia.

FIRST QUEEN. For pity’s sake and true gentility’s, Hear and respect me.

SECOND QUEEN. For your mother’s sake, And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones, Hear and respect me.

THIRD QUEEN. Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath marked The honour of your bed, and for the sake Of clear virginity, be advocate For us and our distresses. This good deed Shall raze you out o’ th’ book of trespasses All you are set down there.

THESEUS. Sad lady, rise.

HIPPOLYTA. Stand up.

EMILIA. No knees to me. What woman I may stead that is distressed, Does bind me to her.

THESEUS. What’s your request? Deliver you for all.

FIRST QUEEN. We are three queens whose sovereigns fell before The wrath of cruel Creon, who endure The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes. He will not suffer us to burn their bones, To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye Of holy Phœbus, but infects the winds With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, Duke! Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feared sword That does good turns to th’ world; give us the bones Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them; And of thy boundless goodness take some note That for our crowned heads we have no roof Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s, And vault to everything.

THESEUS. Pray you, kneel not. I was transported with your speech and suffered Your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em. King Capaneus was your lord. The day That he should marry you, at such a season As now it is with me, I met your groom By Mars’s altar. You were that time fair! Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses, Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath Was then nor threshed nor blasted. Fortune at you Dimpled her cheek with smiles. Hercules, our kinsman, Then weaker than your eyes, laid by his club; He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide And swore his sinews thawed. O grief and time, Fearful consumers, you will all devour!

FIRST QUEEN. O, I hope some god, Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood, Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth Our undertaker.

THESEUS. O, no knees, none, widow! Unto the helmeted Bellona use them, And pray for me, your soldier. Troubled I am.

[Turns away.]

SECOND QUEEN. Honoured Hippolyta, Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain The scythe-tusked boar; that with thy arm, as strong As it is white, wast near to make the male To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord, Born to uphold creation in that honour First nature styled it in, shrunk thee into The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing Thy force and thy affection; soldieress That equally canst poise sternness with pity, Whom now I know hast much more power on him Than ever he had on thee, who ow’st his strength And his love too, who is a servant for The tenor of thy speech, dear glass of ladies, Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch, Under the shadow of his sword may cool us; Require him he advance it o’er our heads; Speak ’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman As any of us three; weep ere you fail. Lend us a knee; But touch the ground for us no longer time Than a dove’s motion when the head’s plucked off. Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-sized field lay swollen, Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, What you would do.

HIPPOLYTA. Poor lady, say no more. I had as lief trace this good action with you As that whereto I am going, and never yet Went I so willing way. My lord is taken Heart-deep with your distress. Let him consider; I’ll speak anon.

THIRD QUEEN. O, my petition was Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form, Is pressed with deeper matter.

EMILIA. Pray, stand up; Your grief is written in your cheek.

THIRD QUEEN. O, woe! You cannot read it there. There through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream, You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack! He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth Must know the center too; he that will fish For my least minnow, let him lead his line To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me! Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits, Makes me a fool.

EMILIA. Pray you say nothing, pray you. Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in ’t, Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you T’ instruct me ’gainst a capital grief, indeed Such heart-pierced demonstration. But, alas, Being a natural sister of our sex, Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me That it shall make a counter-reflect ’gainst My brother’s heart and warm it to some pity, Though it were made of stone. Pray have good comfort.

THESEUS. Forward to th’ temple! Leave not out a jot O’ th’ sacred ceremony.

FIRST QUEEN. O, this celebration Will longer last and be more costly than Your suppliants’ war! Remember that your fame Knolls in the ear o’ th’ world; what you do quickly Is not done rashly; your first thought is more Than others’ laboured meditance, your premeditating More than their actions. But, O Jove, your actions, Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish, Subdue before they touch. Think, dear Duke, think What beds our slain kings have!

SECOND QUEEN. What griefs our beds, That our dear lords have none!

THIRD QUEEN. None fit for th’ dead. Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance, Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves Been death’s most horrid agents, human grace Affords them dust and shadow.

FIRST QUEEN. But our lords Lie blist’ring ’fore the visitating sun, And were good kings when living.

THESEUS. It is true, and I will give you comfort To give your dead lords graves; The which to do must make some work with Creon.

FIRST QUEEN. And that work presents itself to th’ doing. Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone tomorrow. Then, bootless toil must recompense itself With its own sweat. Now he’s secure, Not dreams we stand before your puissance, Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes To make petition clear.

SECOND QUEEN. Now you may take him, drunk with his victory.

THIRD QUEEN. And his army full of bread and sloth.

THESEUS. Artesius, that best knowest How to draw out fit to this enterprise The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business: forth and levy Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch This grand act of our life, this daring deed Of fate in wedlock.

FIRST QUEEN. Dowagers, take hands. Let us be widows to our woes; delay Commends us to a famishing hope.

ALL THE QUEENS. Farewell!

SECOND QUEEN. We come unseasonably; but when could grief Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fitt’st time For best solicitation?

THESEUS. Why, good ladies, This is a service, whereto I am going, Greater than any war; it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope.

FIRST QUEEN. The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected when her arms, Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall By warranting moonlight corselet thee. O, when Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care For what thou feel’st not, what thou feel’st being able To make Mars spurn his drum? O, if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in ’t will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shalt remember nothing more than what That banquet bids thee to.

HIPPOLYTA. Though much unlike You should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor, yet I think, Did I not, by th’ abstaining of my joy, Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit That craves a present med’cine, I should pluck All ladies’ scandal on me. Therefore, sir,

[She kneels.]

As I shall here make trial of my prayers, Either presuming them to have some force, Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb, Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang Your shield afore your heart, about that neck Which is my fee, and which I freely lend To do these poor queens service.

ALL QUEENS. [To Emilia.] O, help now! Our cause cries for your knee.

EMILIA. [To Theseus, kneeling.] If you grant not My sister her petition in that force, With that celerity and nature, which She makes it in, from henceforth I’ll not dare To ask you anything, nor be so hardy Ever to take a husband.

THESEUS. Pray stand up. I am entreating of myself to do

[They rise.]

That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous, Lead on the bride; get you and pray the gods For success and return; omit not anything In the pretended celebration.—Queens, Follow your soldier. [To Artesius.] As before, hence you, And at the banks of Aulis meet us with The forces you can raise, where we shall find The moiety of a number for a business More bigger looked.

[Exit Artesius.]

[To Hippolyta.] Since that our theme is haste, I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip; Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward, For I will see you gone.

[The wedding procession moves towards the temple.]

Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous, Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on ’t.

PIRITHOUS. Sir, I’ll follow you at heels. The feast’s solemnity Shall want till your return.

THESEUS. Cousin, I charge you, Budge not from Athens. We shall be returning Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all.

[Exeunt all but Theseus and the Queens.]

FIRST QUEEN. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o’ th’ world.

SECOND QUEEN. And earn’st a deity equal with Mars.

THIRD QUEEN. If not above him, for Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend To godlike honours; they themselves, some say, Groan under such a mast’ry.

THESEUS. As we are men, Thus should we do; being sensually subdued, We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies. Now turn we towards your comforts.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace

Enter Palamon and Arcite.

ARCITE. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in The crimes of nature, let us leave the city Thebes, and the temptings in ’t, before we further Sully our gloss of youth And here to keep in abstinence we shame As in incontinence; for not to swim I’ th’ aid o’ th’ current, were almost to sink, At least to frustrate striving; and to follow The common stream, ’twould bring us to an eddy Where we should turn or drown; if labour through, Our gain but life and weakness.

PALAMON. Your advice Is cried up with example. What strange ruins, Since first we went to school, may we perceive Walking in Thebes! Scars and bare weeds The gain o’ th’ martialist, who did propound To his bold ends honour and golden ingots, Which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted By peace for whom he fought! Who then shall offer To Mars’s so-scorned altar? I do bleed When such I meet, and wish great Juno would Resume her ancient fit of jealousy To get the soldier work, that peace might purge For her repletion, and retain anew Her charitable heart, now hard and harsher Than strife or war could be.

ARCITE. Are you not out? Meet you no ruin but the soldier in The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin As if you met decays of many kinds. Perceive you none that do arouse your pity But th’ unconsidered soldier?

PALAMON. Yes, I pity Decays where’er I find them, but such most That, sweating in an honourable toil, Are paid with ice to cool ’em.

ARCITE. ’Tis not this I did begin to speak of. This is virtue Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes, How dangerous, if we will keep our honours, It is for our residing, where every evil Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s A certain evil; where not to be e’en jump As they are here were to be strangers, and, Such things to be, mere monsters.

PALAMON. ’Tis in our power— Unless we fear that apes can tutor ’s—to Be masters of our manners. What need I Affect another’s gait, which is not catching Where there is faith? Or to be fond upon Another’s way of speech, when by mine own I may be reasonably conceived, saved too, Speaking it truly? Why am I bound By any generous bond to follow him Follows his tailor, haply so long until The followed make pursuit? Or let me know Why mine own barber is unblessed, with him My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissored just To such a favourite’s glass? What canon is there That does command my rapier from my hip To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tiptoe Before the street be foul? Either I am The fore-horse in the team, or I am none That draw i’ th’ sequent trace. These poor slight sores Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom Almost to th’ heart’s—

ARCITE. Our uncle Creon.

PALAMON. He. A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes Makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured Beyond its power there’s nothing; almost puts Faith in a fever, and deifies alone Voluble chance; who only attributes The faculties of other instruments To his own nerves and act; commands men service, And what they win in ’t, boot and glory; one That fears not to do harm; good, dares not. Let The blood of mine that’s sib to him be sucked From me with leeches; let them break and fall Off me with that corruption.

ARCITE. Clear-spirited cousin, Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share Of his loud infamy; for our milk Will relish of the pasture, and we must Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen In blood unless in quality.

PALAMON. Nothing truer. I think the echoes of his shames have deafed The ears of heavenly justice. Widows’ cries Descend again into their throats and have not Due audience of the gods.

Enter Valerius.

Valerius!

VALERIUS. The King calls for you; yet be leaden-footed Till his great rage be off him. Phœbus, when He broke his whipstock and exclaimed against The horses of the sun, but whispered to The loudness of his fury.

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.]

SCENE III. Before the gates of Athens

Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta and Emilia.

PIRITHOUS. No further.

HIPPOLYTA. Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes To our great lord, of whose success I dare not Make any timorous question; yet I wish him Excess and overflow of power, an ’t might be, To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him! Store never hurts good governors.

PIRITHOUS. Though I know His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid, Those best affections that the heavens infuse In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned In your dear heart!

EMILIA. Thanks, sir. Remember me To our all-royal brother, for whose speed The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and Since in our terrene state petitions are not Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts Are in his army, in his tent.

HIPPOLYTA. In ’s bosom. We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep When our friends don their helms, or put to sea, Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women That have sod their infants in—and after eat them— The brine they wept at killing ’em. Then if You stay to see of us such spinsters, we Should hold you here for ever.

PIRITHOUS. Peace be to you As I pursue this war, which shall be then Beyond further requiring.

[Exit Pirithous.]

EMILIA. How his longing Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports, Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly His careless execution, where nor gain Made him regard, or loss consider, but Playing one business in his hand, another Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal To these so differing twins. Have you observed him Since our great lord departed?