Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them,
That though I know them false, as were my hopes,
I cannot urge thee further: but thou wert
To blame to injure me, for I must love
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon
Thy tender youth: a love from me to thee
Is firm, whate'er thou dost: it troubles me
That I have called the blood out of thy cheeks,
That did so well become thee: but, good boy,
Let me not see thee more; something is done
That will distract me, that will make me mad,
If I behold thee; if thou tender'st me,
Let me not see thee.
Bell. I will fly as far
As there is morning, ere I give distaste
To that most honoured mind. But through these tears, Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see
A world of treason practised upon you,
And her, and me. Farewell for evermore!
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead,
And after find me loyal, let there be
A tear shed from you in my memory,
And I shall rest at peace.
BELLARIO, discovered to be a Woman, confesses the motive for her disguise to have been love for Prince PHILASTER.
My father would oft speak
Your worth and virtue, and as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found, till sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god
I thought (but it was you) enter our gates:
My blood flew out, and back again, as fast
As I had puffed it forth, and sucked it in
Like breath; then was I called away in haste
To entertain you. Never was a man
Heaved from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I; you left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you forever; I did hear you talk
Far above singing. After you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so. Alas! I found it love,
Yet far from lust, for could I have but lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself
In habit of a boy,-and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you. And understanding well,
That when I made discovery of my sex,
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes
For other than I seemed; that I might ever
Abide with you: then sate I by the fount
Where first you took me up....
HIPPOLITA and EMILIA discoursing of the Friendship between PERITHOUS and THESEUS, EMILIA relates a parallel instance of the Love between herself and FLAVIA, being Girls.
Once with a time, when I enjoyed a playfellow;
You were at wars when she the grave enriched,
Who made too proud the bed, took leave o' th' moon (Which then looked pale at parting) when our count Was each eleven.
Hip. 'Twas Flavia.
Emil. Yes.
You talk of Perithous and Theseus' love;
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned,
More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs
The one of th' other may be said to water
Their intertangled roots of love; but I
And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent,
Loved for we did, and like the elements,
That know not what, nor why, yet do effect
Rare issues by their operance; our souls
Did so to one another: what she liked,
Was then of me approved; what not condemned,
No more arraignment; the flower that I would pluck,
And put between my breasts (oh, then but beginning
To swell about the bosom), she would long
Till she had such another, and commit it
To the like innocent cradle, where phoenix-like
They died in perfume: on my head no toy
But was her pattern; her affections pretty,
Though happily hers careless were, I followed
For my most serious decking; had mine ear
Stolen some new air, or at adventure hummed on
From musical coinage, why, it was a note
Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell on),
And sing it in her slumbers; this rehearsal
(Which every innocent wots well) comes in
Like old Importment's bastard, has this end:
That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be
More than in sex dividual. . . .
PALAMON and ARCITE, repining at their hard condition, in being made Captives for life in Athens, derive consolation from the enjoyment of each other's company in Prison.
Pal. How do you, noble cousin?
Arc. How do you, sir?
Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,
And bear the chance of war yet; we are prisoners
I fear, forever, cousin.
And to that destiny have patiently
Laid up my hour to come.
Pal. O cousin Arcite!
Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?
Where are our friends and kindreds?
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst them,
And as an east wind leave them all behind us
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Outstripped the people's praises, won the garlands
Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, neve,
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses,
Like proud seas under us, our good swords now
(Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore)
Ravished our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us;
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning
To blast whole armies more.
Arc. No, Palamon,
Those hopes are prisoners with us;
And here the graces of our youths must wither,
Like a too timely spring: here age must find us,
And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried;
The sweet embraces of a loving wife,
Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks; no issue know us;
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see,
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,
"Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!"
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune,
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done
To youth and Nature. This is all our world:
We shall know nothing here, but one another;
Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes.
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it:
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead-cold Winter must inhabit here still.
|