Page 1351 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

You hear the horns;
Enter your muset, lest this match between’s
Be crossed ere met. Give me your hand; farewell.
I’ll bring you every needful thing; I pray you

Take comfort and be strong.

PALAMON
Pray hold your promise; [100]
And do the deed with a bent brow. Most certain
You love me not; be rough with me, and pour

This oil out of your language; by this air,
I could for each word give a cuff, my stomach
Not reconciled by reason.

ARCITE
Plainly spoken. [105]
Yet pardon me hard language; when I spur

My horse, I chide him not; content and anger
In me have but one face.
They wind horns.
Hark, sir, they call

The scattered to the banquet; you must guess
I have an office there.

PALAMON
Sir, your attendance [110]
Cannot please heaven, and I know your office
Unjustly is achieved.

ARCITE
I’ve a good title.
I am persuaded this question, sick between’s,
By bleeding must be cured. I am a suitor
That to your sword you will bequeath this plea, [115]

And talk of it no more.

PALAMON