Part 7

ARCITE. Will ye goe forward, Cosen?

EMILIA. Canst not thou worke such flowers in silke, wench?

WOMAN. Yes.

EMILIA. Ile have a gowne full of ’em, and of these; This is a pretty colour, wilt not doe Rarely upon a Skirt, wench?

WOMAN. Deinty, Madam.

ARCITE. Cosen, Cosen, how doe you, Sir? Why, Palamon?

PALAMON. Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.

ARCITE. Why whats the matter, Man?

PALAMON. Behold, and wonder. By heaven, shee is a Goddesse.

ARCITE. Ha.

PALAMON. Doe reverence. She is a Goddesse, Arcite.

EMILIA. Of all Flowres, me thinkes a Rose is best.

WOMAN. Why, gentle Madam?

EMILIA. It is the very Embleme of a Maide. For when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blowes, and paints the Sun, With her chaste blushes! When the North comes neere her, Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity, Shee lockes her beauties in her bud againe, And leaves him to base briers.

WOMAN. Yet, good Madam, Sometimes her modesty will blow so far She fals for’t: a Mayde, If shee have any honour, would be loth To take example by her.

EMILIA. Thou art wanton.

ARCITE. She is wondrous faire.

PALAMON. She is beauty extant.

EMILIA. The Sun grows high, lets walk in: keep these flowers; Weele see how neere Art can come neere their colours. I am wondrous merry hearted, I could laugh now.

WOMAN. I could lie downe, I am sure.

EMILIA. And take one with you?

WOMAN. That’s as we bargaine, Madam.

EMILIA. Well, agree then. [Exeunt Emilia and woman.]

PALAMON. What thinke you of this beauty?

ARCITE. Tis a rare one.

PALAMON. Is’t but a rare one?

ARCITE. Yes, a matchles beauty.

PALAMON. Might not a man well lose himselfe and love her?