The Two Noble Kinsmen

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 spring-time’s harbinger
With her bells dim.
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on deathbeds blowing,
Larks’-heels trim.

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

The crow, the slanderous 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!

For pity’s sake and true gentility’s,
Hear, and respect me!

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

Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath mark’d
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’ the book of trespasses
All you are set down there.

No knees to me:
What woman I may stead that is distress’d,
Does bind me to her.

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 Phoebus, but infects the winds
With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, duke!
Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear’d sword
That does good turns to the 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!

Pray you, kneel not:
I was transported with your speech, and suffer’d
Your knees to wrong themselves. I’ve 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 thrash’d 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 thaw’d. O, grief and time,
Fearful consumers, you will all devour!

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!

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

Honour’d Hippolyta,
Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain
The scythe-tusk’d 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 styl’d 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;
Who now, I know, hast much more power on him
Than e’er 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 pluck’d off;
Tell him, if he i’ the blood-siz’d field lay swoln,
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,
What you would do!

Poor lady, say no more:
I had as lief trace this good action with you
As that whereto I’m going, and nev’r yet
Went I so willing, way. My lord is taken
Heart-deep with your distress: let him consider;
I’ll speak anon.

To Emilia. O, my petition was
Set down in ice, which, by hot grief uncandied,
Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form,
Is press’d with deeper matter.

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

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 centre 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.

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-pierc’d 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.

Forward to th’ temple! leave not out a jot
O’ the sacred ceremony.

O, this celebration
Will longer last, and be more costly, than
Your suppliant’s war! Remember that your fame
Knolls in th’ ear o’ the world: what you do quickly
Is not done rashly; your first thought is more
Than others’ labour’d meditance; your premeditating
More than their actions; but—O Jove!—your actions,
Soon as they move, as asprayes do the fish,
Subdue before they touch: think, dear duke, think
What beds our slain kings have!

What griefs our beds,
That our dear lords have none!

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

But our lords
Lie blistering ’fore the visitating sun,
And were good kings when living.

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.

And that work
Presents itself to the doing:
Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone to-morrow;
Then bootless toil must recompense itself
With its own sweat; now he is secure,
Not dreams we stand before your puissance,
Wrinching our holy begging in our eyes,
To make petition clear.

Now you may take him
Drunk with his victory.

And his army full
Of bread and sloth.

Artesius, that best know’st
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 despatch
This grand act of our life, this daring deed
Of fate in wedlock.

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

We come unseasonably; but when could grief
Cull forth, as unpang’d judgment can, fitt’st time
For best solicitation?

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.

The more proclaiming
Our suit shall be neglected: when her arms,
Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall
By warranting moonlight corslet thee, O, when
Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall
Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think
Of rotten kings or blubber’d 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!

Though much unlike kneeling
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 medicine, I should pluck
All ladies’ scandal on me: therefore, sir,
As I shall here make trial of my prayers,
Either presuming them to have some force,
Or sentencing for aye their vigour 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.

To Emilia. O, help now!
Our cause cries for your knee.

If you grant not kneeling
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.

Pray, stand up:
I am entreating of myself to do
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 look’d.—Since that our theme is haste,
I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip; Kisses Hippolyta.
Sweet, keep it as my token.—Set you forward;
For I will see you gone.—Exit Artesius.
Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous,
Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on’t.

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

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.

Thus dost thou still make good
The tongue o’ the world.

And earn’st a deity
Equal with Mars.

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

As we are men,
Thus should we do; being sensually subdu’d,
We lose our humane title. Good cheer, ladies!
Now turn we towards your comforts. Flourish. Exeunt.

Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood,
And our prime cousin, yet unharden’d 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’ aide o’ the 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.

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’ the martialist, who did propound
To his bold ends honour and golden ingots,
Which, though he won, he had not; and now flurted
By peace, for whom he fought! Who, then, shall offer
To Mars’s so-scorn’d 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.

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 the unconsider’d soldier?

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.

’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 even jump
As they are here, were to be strangers, and
Such things to be, mere monsters.

’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 conceiv’d, sav’d too,
Speaking it truly? why am I bound
By any generous bond to follow him
Follows his tailor, haply so long until
The follow’d make pursuit? or let me know
Why mine own barber is unblest, with him
My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissar’d 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 tip-toe
Before the street be foul? Either I am
The fore-horse in the team, or I am none
That draw i’ the sequent trace. These poor slight sores
Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom,
Almost to th’ heart, ’s—

He,
A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes
Makes heaven unfear’d, and villainy assur’d
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 sibbe to him be suck’d
From me with leeches; let them break and fall
Off me with that corruption!

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.

Nothing truer:
I think the echoes of his shames have deaf’d
The ears of heavenly justice: widdows’ cries
Descend again into their throats, and have not
Due audience of the gods.—Valerius!

The king calls for you; yet be leaden-footed,
Till his great rage be off him: Phoebus when
He broke his whipstock, and exclaim’d against
The horses of the sun, but whisper’d, to
The loudness of his fury.

Small winds shake him!
But what’s the matter?

Theseus—who where he threats appals—hath sent
Deadly defiance to him, and pronounces
Ruin to Thebes; who is at hand to seal
The promise of his wrath.

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 dregg’d with mind assur’d
’Tis bad he goes about?

Leave that unreason’d;
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.

So we must.—
Is’t said this war’s afoot? or it shall be,
On fail of some condition?

’Tis in motion;
Th’ intelligence of state came in the instant
With the defier.

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 advanc’d before our hearts, what will
The fall o’ the stroke do damage?

Let th’ event
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves; and let us follow
The becking of our chance. Exeunt.

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 dare ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him;
Store never hurts good governors.

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-temper’d pieces, keep enthron’d
In your dear heart!

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 advis’d she likes. Our hearts
Are in his army, in his tent.

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 broach’d 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.

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

How his longing
Follows his friend! since his depart, his sports,
Though craving seriousness and skill, pass’d 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 observ’d him
Since our great lord departed?

With much labour;
And I did love him for’t. They two have cabin’d
In many as dangerous as poor a corner,
Peril and want contending; they have skiff’d
Torrents, whose roaring tyranny and power
I’ the least of these was dreadful; and they have
Fought out together, where death’s self was lodg’d;
Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love
Tied, weav’d, entangled, with so true, so long,
And with a finger of so deep a cunning,
May be out-worn, never undone. I think
Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,
Cleaving his conscience into twain, and doing
Each side like justice, which he loves best.

Doubtless
There is a best, and reason has no manners
To say it is not you. I was acquainted
Once with a time, when I enjoy’d a play-fellow;
You were at wars when she the grave enrich’d,
Who made too proud the bed, took leave of the moon—
Which then look’d pale at parting—when our count
Was each eleven.

Yes.
You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love:
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season’d,
More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs
The one or th’ other may be said to water
Their intertangled roots of love; but I,
And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent,
Lov’d 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 lik’d
Was then of me approv’d; what not, condemn’d,
No more arraignment; the flower that I would pluck
And put between my breasts, O—then but beginning
To swell about the blossom—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 her careless wear—I follow’d
For my most serious decking; had mine ear
Stol’n some new air, or at adventure humm’d one
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 importments bastard—has this end,
That the true love ’tween maid, and maid may be
More than in sex dividual.

You’re out of breath;
And this high-speeded pace is but to say,
That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,
Love any that’s call’d man.

Now, alack, weak sister,
I must no more believe thee in this point—
Though in’t I know thou dost believe thyself—
Than I will trust a sickly appetite,
That loathes even as it longs. But, sure, my sister,
If I were ripe for your persuasion, you
Have said enough to shake me from the arm
Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes
I will now in and kneel, with great assurance
That we, more than his Pirithous, possess
The high throne in his heart.

I am not
Against your faith; yet I continue mine. Cornets. Exeunt.

Both heaven and earth
Friend thee for ever!

All the good that may
Be wish’d upon thy head, I cry Amen to’t!

Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens
View us their mortal herd, behold who err,
And in their time chastise. Go, and find out
The bones of your dead lords, and honour them
With treble ceremony: rather than a gap
Should be in their dear rites, we would supply’t.
But those we will depute which shall invest
You in your dignities, and even each thing
Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu,
And heaven’s good eyes look on you! Exeunt Queens.

Men of great quality, as may be judg’d
By their appointment; some of Thebes have told’s
They’re sisters’ children, nephews to the king.

By th’ helm of Mars, I saw them in the war—
Like to a pair of lions smear’d with prey—
Make lanes in troops aghast: I fix’d my note
Constantly on them; for they were a mark
Worth a god’s view. What was’t that prisoner told me
When I enquir’d their names?

We ’lieve, they’re called
Arcite and Palamon.

’Tis right; those, those.
They are not dead?

Nor in a state of life: had they been taken
When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible
They might have been recover’d; yet they breathe,
And have the name of men.

Then like men use ’em:
The very lees of such, millions of rates
Exceed the wine of others: all our surgeons
Convent in their behoof; our richest balms,
Rather than niggard, waste: their lives concern us
Much more than Thebes is worth: rather than have ’em
Freed of this plight, and in their morning state,
Sound and at liberty, I would ’em dead;
But, forty thousand fold, we had rather have ’em
Prisoners to us than death. Bear ’em speedily
From our kind air—to them unkind—and minister
What man to man may do; for our sake, more:
Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests,
Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task,
Desire of liberty, a fever, madness,
Hath set a mark—which nature could not reach to
Without some imposition—sickness in will,
Or wrestling strength in reason. For our love,
And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best
Their best skill tender!—Lead into the city;
Where, having bound things scatter’d, we will post
To Athens ’for our army. Flourish. Exeunt; Attendants carrying Palamon and Arcite.

Urns and odours bring away!
Vapours, sighs, darken the day!

Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
Balms, and gums, and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials fill’d with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying!

Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-ey’d pleasure’s foes!
We convent naught else but woes:
We convent, etc.

This funeral path brings to your household’s grave:
Joy seize on you again! Peace sleep with him!

Yours this way. Heavens lend
A thousand differing ways to one sure end.

This world’s a city full of straying streets,
And death’s the market-place, where each one meets. Exeunt severally.