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But this I know, was never woman nor Spirit half so fair before." "Spirit of Beauty," he cried, "if thou choosest to take the form of a radiant woman here before me in this garden, pity my wretchedness! Save us from this prison, and if that may not be, have pity on our country and help our fallen friends." Arcite pressed forward and leant over Palamon's shoulder.

Of the pestilent abuse and perversion to which Fletcher has put the perhaps already superfluous hints or sketches by Shakespeare for an episodical underplot, in his transmutation of Palamon's love-stricken and luckless deliverer into the disgusting burlesque of a mock Ophelia, I have happily no need as I should certainly have no patience to speak.

Therefore I appoint a tournament in this place a year hence. Come here then, ye Princes of Thebes, each of you, with a hundred knights of the bravest, and that one of you, who shall slay or capture the other, he shall wed Emelia." Whose face could be brighter than was Palamon's when he heard those words, and who could step more lightly than did Arcite?

The incident is precisely like Palamon's first sight of Emily in Chaucer's Knight's Tale, and almost in the very words of Palamon the poet addresses his lady: Ah, sweet, are ye a worldly crëatúre Or heavenly thing in likeness of natúre? Or are ye very Nature, the goddéss, That have depainted with your heavenly hand This garden full of flowrës as they stand?