Act IV - Act IV, Scene 1
Scaena 1. (Athens. A room in the prison.)
[Enter Iailor and his friend.]
Heare you no more? was nothing saide of me
Concerning the escape of Palamon?
Good Sir, remember.
Nothing that I heard,
For I came home before the busines
Was fully ended: Yet I might perceive,
Ere I departed, a great likelihood
Of both their pardons: For Hipolita,
And faire-eyd Emilie, upon their knees
Begd with such hansom pitty, that the Duke
Me thought stood staggering, whether he should follow
His rash oth, or the sweet compassion
Of those two Ladies; and to second them,
That truely noble Prince Perithous,
Halfe his owne heart, set in too, that I hope
All shall be well: Neither heard I one question
Of your name or his scape.
[Enter 2. Friend.]
Pray heaven it hold so.
Be of good comfort, man; I bring you newes,
They are welcome,
Palamon has cleerd you,
And got your pardon, and discoverd how
And by whose meanes he escapt, which was your Daughters,
Whose pardon is procurd too; and the Prisoner,
Not to be held ungratefull to her goodnes,
Has given a summe of money to her Marriage,
A large one, ile assure you.
Ye are a good man
And ever bring good newes.
How was it ended?
Why, as it should be; they that nev'r begd
But they prevaild, had their suites fairely granted,
The prisoners have their lives.
I knew t'would be so.
But there be new conditions, which you'l heare of
At better time.
I hope they are good.
They are honourable,
How good they'l prove, I know not.
T'will be knowne.
Alas, Sir, wher's your Daughter?
Why doe you aske?
O, Sir, when did you see her?
How he lookes?
Was she well? was she in health, Sir?
When did she sleepe?
These are strange Questions.
I doe not thinke she was very well, for now
You make me minde her, but this very day
I ask'd her questions, and she answered me
So farre from what she was, so childishly,
So sillily, as if she were a foole,
An Inocent, and I was very angry.
But what of her, Sir?
Nothing but my pitty;
But you must know it, and as good by me
As by an other that lesse loves her--
No, Sir, not well.
Tis too true, she is mad.
It cannot be.
Beleeve, you'l finde it so.
I halfe suspected
What you (have) told me: the gods comfort her:
Either this was her love to Palamon,
Or feare of my miscarrying on his scape,
But why all this haste, Sir?
Ile tell you quickly. As I late was angling
In the great Lake that lies behind the Pallace,
From the far shore, thicke set with reedes and Sedges,
As patiently I was attending sport,
I heard a voyce, a shrill one, and attentive
I gave my eare, when I might well perceive
T'was one that sung, and by the smallnesse of it
A boy or woman. I then left my angle
To his owne skill, came neere, but yet perceivd not
Who made the sound, the rushes and the Reeds
Had so encompast it: I laide me downe
And listned to the words she sung, for then,
Through a small glade cut by the Fisher men,
I saw it was your Daughter.
Pray, goe on, Sir?
She sung much, but no sence; onely I heard her
Repeat this often: 'Palamon is gone,
Is gone to'th wood to gather Mulberies;
Ile finde him out to morrow.'
'His shackles will betray him, hee'l be taken,
And what shall I doe then? Ile bring a beavy,
A hundred blacke eyd Maides, that love as I doe,
With Chaplets on their heads of Daffadillies,
With cherry-lips, and cheekes of Damaske Roses,
And all wee'l daunce an Antique fore the Duke,
And beg his pardon.' Then she talk'd of you, Sir;
That you must loose your head to morrow morning,
And she must gather flowers to bury you,
And see the house made handsome: then she sung
Nothing but 'Willow, willow, willow,' and betweene
Ever was, 'Palamon, faire Palamon,'
And 'Palamon was a tall yong man.' The place
Was knee deepe where she sat; her careles Tresses
A wreathe of bull-rush rounded; about her stucke
Thousand fresh water flowers of severall cullors,
That me thought she appeard like the faire Nimph
That feedes the lake with waters, or as Iris
Newly dropt downe from heaven; Rings she made
Of rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke
The prettiest posies: 'Thus our true love's tide,'
'This you may loose, not me,' and many a one:
And then she wept, and sung againe, and sigh'd,
And with the same breath smil'd, and kist her hand.
Alas, what pitty it is!
I made in to her.
She saw me, and straight sought the flood; I sav'd her,
And set her safe to land: when presently
She slipt away, and to the Citty made,
With such a cry and swiftnes, that, beleeve me,
Shee left me farre behinde her; three or foure
I saw from farre off crosse her, one of 'em
I knew to be your brother; where she staid,
And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her, [Enter
Brother, Daughter, and others.]
And hether came to tell you. Here they are.
May you never more enjoy the light, &c.
Is not this a fine Song?
O, a very fine one.
I can sing twenty more.
I thinke you can.
Yes, truely, can I; I can sing the Broome,
And Bony Robin. Are not you a tailour?
Wher's my wedding Gowne?
Ile bring it to morrow.
Doe, very rarely; I must be abroad else
To call the Maides, and pay the Minstrels,
For I must loose my Maydenhead by cock-light;
Twill never thrive else.
[Singes.] O faire, oh sweete, &c.
You must ev'n take it patiently.
Good ev'n, good men; pray, did you ever heare
Of one yong Palamon?
Yes, wench, we know him.
Is't not a fine yong Gentleman?
By no meane crosse her; she is then distemperd
Far worse then now she showes.
Yes, he's a fine man.
O, is he so? you have a Sister?
But she shall never have him, tell her so,
For a tricke that I know; y'had best looke to her,
For if she see him once, she's gone, she's done,
And undon in an howre. All the young Maydes
Of our Towne are in love with him, but I laugh at 'em
And let 'em all alone; Is't not a wise course?
There is at least two hundred now with child by him--
There must be fowre; yet I keepe close for all this,
Close as a Cockle; and all these must be Boyes,
He has the tricke on't, and at ten yeares old
They must be all gelt for Musitians,
And sing the wars of Theseus.
This is strange.
As ever you heard, but say nothing.
They come from all parts of the Dukedome to him;
Ile warrant ye, he had not so few last night
As twenty to dispatch: hee'l tickl't up
In two howres, if his hand be in.
Past all cure.
Heaven forbid, man.
Come hither, you are a wise man.
Do's she know him?
No, would she did.
You are master of a Ship?
Wher's your Compasse?
Set it too'th North.
And now direct your course to'th wood, wher Palamon
Lyes longing for me; For the Tackling
Let me alone; Come, waygh, my hearts, cheerely!
Owgh, owgh, owgh, tis up, the wind's faire,
Top the Bowling, out with the maine saile;
Wher's your Whistle, Master?
Lets get her in.
Vp to the top, Boy.
Wher's the Pilot?
What ken'st thou?
A faire wood.
Beare for it, master: take about! [Singes.]
When Cinthia with her borrowed light, &c. [Exeunt.]