DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Chorus of Shepherds.

The Scene, Arcady.

[THE PROLOGUE FOR THE STAGE.]

To this fair company I am to say,
You're welcome all to a well-meaning play;
For such our author made it, with intent
To defame none. His muse is innocent:
A virgin yet, that has not found the ways
Out of foul crimes to raise herself a praise;
And therefore she desires you would excuse
All bitter strains, that suit a satire muse:
And that which so much takes the vulgar ear—
Looseness of speech, which they for jests do hear.
She hopes none such are here, therefore she dares
Venture this story, purg'd from lighter airs:
A piece entire, without or patch or maim,
Round in itself, and everywhere the same.
And if there be not in't what they call wit,
There might have been, had it been thought so fit.
A shepherd's muse gently of love does sing,
And with it mingles no impurer thing.
Such she presents unto your ears and eyes,
And yet your Christian freedom not denies
Of liking or disliking what you will:
You may say this is well, or that is ill,
Without dispute; for why should you that pay
For what you have, be taught what you should say?
Or made to judge by any square or rule,
As if you came not to a stage, but school?
No, he that made it says, if you will eat,
He will not force your stomachs: there's your meat;
Which if you like, 'tis well; if not, all's one;
There must be difference in opinion.
Besides, he's sure, whatever he could wish,
Your taste, and not his art, must praise the dish.

The Shepherds' Holiday.

[ACTUS I., SCENA I.]

Thyrsis, Montanus.

Thyr. Here in this grove I left her, here amongst
These poplars, laurels, and these sycamores,
Guilty of her sad loss: and yet behold
They do appear as fresh and full of verdure,
As when my love, clothed in her clearest looks,
Did give them grace and lustre. Why do we,
Poor silly men, bred up in cares and fear,
The nurse of our religion, stoop to Nature,
That only knows to form, not to preserve
What she has made; since, careless of her work,
She leaves to giddy Fortune the whole power
Of ruling us? These senseless trees stand still,
And flourish too, and in their pride upbraid
My loss to me; but my dear Sylvia being
Nature's best piece, made to excuse the rest
Of all her vulgar forms, ah me! was left
To desolation, till some horrid satyr,
Bred in these woods, and furious in his lusts,
Made her his prey; and now has carried her
Into his dark retirings, or some cave,
Where her poor Thyrsis never more shall see her.
But I will be reveng'd: this wood, that now
Is so bedeck'd with leaves and fresh array,
I'll level with the ground, until it be
As desolate as I.

Mon. Alas, poor shepherd! [Aside.

Thyr. It shall afford no shade to anything,
That hither us'd to come for its relief;
But henceforth be for ever infamous:
That, when some gentle shepherd passes by,
And sees this ground rent with the crooked plough:
Here, he may say, here 'twas that Sylvia
Was lost, and then shall turn another way.

Mon. Good Thyrsis, do not make so much of grief,
Y' have fed it with too many tears already;
Take comfort now.

Thyr. What has my present state
To do with comfort? If you see the trees
Widow'd of leaves, the earth grown hard, and spoil'd
Of the green mantles which she wont to wear,
You wonder not if winter then appear.

Mon. By these we know that season.

Thyr. And must I,
When she is gone, whose sun-like eyes did cherish
An everlasting summer in my life,
Feel any spring of joy to comfort me?
No, father, grief with me is best in season.

Mon. But whilst you mourn thus, who looks to your flock?

Thyr. All as the shepherd is, such be his flocks,
So pine and languish they, as in despair
He pines and languishes; their fleecy locks
Let hang disorder'd, as their master's hair,
Since she is gone that deck'd both him and them.
And now what beauty can there be to live,
When she is lost that did all beauty give?

Mon. But yet, methinks, for one that is a stranger,
Scarce known to any here, but by her name,
These plaints are overmuch. Besides, there are
In fruitful Arcady as fair as she:
I'm sure more rich and wise: make out of them
A choice. Nerina is as fair as she,
Dorinda's flocks are more than Sylvia's,
And carry on their backs more wool than hers.

Thyr. Let such base peasants as the gods do hate
Admire their wealth and them for what they have,
Their bodies' and their souls material
Alike of drossy substance are compounded,
And can contemplate nothing but the earth.
No, Sylvia, whom some better god, perhaps
For the reward of my well-tuned pipe,
Sent down to me, made up of air and fire;
Though since, because I knew not how to use
With fair respect a gift so great as she,
Has justly reft her from me,—is so much,
So great a part of me, that in her absence
Amidst my grief I feel some little joy,
To see how much of me each minute wasteth,
And gives me hope, that when I shall dissolve
This earthly substance, and be pure as she
(For sure the gods have ta'en her undefil'd),
I may enjoy her looks, and though it be
Profane to touch a hallowed thing like her,
I may adore her yet, and recompense
With my religion the proud thoughts I had
Once to enjoy her.

Mon. See how fond you are
T'embrace a shadow, and to leave the substance!
The love of Hylas to Nerina has
More hopes than yours; though she be young and coy,
Yet whilst Nerina is and Hylas too,
One time or other they may both have joy.

Thyr. May they prove happy in each other's love,
And nothing please, but what each other do;
For so liv'd Thyrsis and his Sylvia:
Whilst Sylvia was, and Thyrsis was her love.
Whatever Thyrsis pip'd, pleas'd Sylvia;
Thyrsis admir'd whatever Sylvia sung,
And both their joys were equal or but one.
Well, I can now remember (and it is
Some comfort to remember what I moan)
That, when our loves began, how first I gaz'd
On her, and she was pleas'd that I should look,
Till greedily I had devour'd the hook.
Love gave me courage then to speak my thoughts,
And gave her pity to receive my words,
They link'd our hearts together: from that time,
Whene'er she saw me strike the furious boar,
Though then my case she ru'd, and sigh'd full oft,
Yet was she pleas'd to see my victory,
And I receiv'd my vigour from her eye.
Then would she make me chaplets of the best
And choicest flowers, to adorn my head:
Which when I wore, methought I did then grasp
The empire of the world. But what of that?
The more I then enjoy'd of heavenly bliss,
The more my present grief and passion is.

Mon. Well, Thyrsis, since my words do but renew
The story of your grief, I'll leave to use
Persuasions to you; for 'tis time, I see,
And not my words, must cure your malady. [Exit.

Thyr. That time must put a period to my life,
Or else it never will unto my grief:
Come, boy, and under this same hanging bough
The note, which thou attemper'st to my words,
Sing, and be happier than thy master, boy.

1.

Boy. Shall I, because my love is gone,
Accuse those golden darts,
Which to a blessed union
Struck our two loving hearts,
Since fortune, and not love, hath caus'd my moan?

2.

No, her pure image I shall prize,
Imprinted in my breast,
More than the fairest mistress' eyes,
That ever swain possessed,
Which in eternal bonds my fancy ties.

3.

Come then, you sharpest griefs, and try
If you can pierce my heart,
But use, if you would have me die,
The best you can of art,
To wound a breast so arm'd with constancy.

Thyr. Enough: I'll sigh the rest out. Go, my boy,
Be careful of thy tender lambs, whilst I
Seek out some hidden place to pine and die.

SCENA II.

Hylas, Mirtillus.

Believe, Mirtillus, never any love
Was bought with other price than love alone,
Since nothing is more precious than itself:
It being the purest abstract of that fire
Which wise Prometheus first indu'd us with;
And he must love that would be lov'd again.

Mir. Why, who can say Mirtillus does not love?
Mirtillus, he who has employ'd his youth
Ever in service of the fairest nymphs.

Hyl. Mirtillus cannot love.

Mir. No, gentle Hylas?
This riband and this hair you see me wear,
Are they not ensigns of a lover? Say,
What shepherdess whom ever swain thought fair,
Has not Mirtillus courted, and obtain'd
Some favour from. But you will think, because
I do not fold my arms, and sigh, and spend
The days, the gods have given me to rejoice,
In whining passion, walking still alone,
Now proud with hopes, then cast down with despair,
Unequal to myself in everything,
I cannot love. No, Hylas, know I love
Dorinda, Chloris, Amarillis, all
Whom ever love did to his altars call:
And when this mistress frowns, I am content
To take another; when that flame is spent
By time, or put out by a rival, straight
A third supplies her place, perhaps more worthy;
If less, because she loves, I'll think her so.

Hyl. Alas, Mirtillus! I do pity thee—
Pity the error which thou wander'st in,
That think'st thou lov'st, and know'st not what it is.

Mir. Why, what is love, say you, if mine be not?

Hyl. I know, Mirtillus, that no lover yet
Purchas'd a lasting pleasure without grief;
For love has gall in it as well as honey,
And so compounded that, whosoe'er will taste
The sweets of it, must take the bitter too,
Out of both which is made our constancy.
You, that embrace the false delights alone,
Are a feign'd lover or (more truly) none.

Mir. I know not what you mean by constancy:
I'm sure I love the fairest.

Hyl. Still you err;
For, if you lov'd the fairest, none had been
The object of your choice but my Nerina;
Nerina, she the glory of these woods,
The only subject of all shepherds' song.

Mir. She has her share of beauty with the rest,
And I confess she's fit for love as any;
But why she only should take up your breast,
And shut out all that have a right as good,
Whose equal or transcendent beauty pleads
As just a title to't as hers can do,
I cannot reach the reason, but admire
Your faith and (what you praise) your constancy.

Hyl. Mirtillus, though I know your stubborn heart
Could never entertain a lover's thought,
Yet did I think you would have been more tender
How you profan'd a name so sacred as
Nerina's is, whom never any swain,
Nor rural god, nor satyr, though he be
Of savage kind, would ever violate:
Nerina, in whose form love ever dwells,
Attended by the Graces, which do range
Themselves in order 'bout her comely face:
Whose breasts without are hills of whitest snow,
Within, the seat of blameless modesty,
Regard of honour and pure chastity;
Nor may a loose thought ever harbour there
To tempt such lovers as you seem to be:
Is it for that you slight her?

Mir. No, I love her
As I do others, with whom I compare her.
But you, that love with such intemperance,
Make of your love a glass, wherein you see
Each thing much greater than indeed it is:
My love's too cold, you say; but I am sure
Yours is too hot for any to endure:
A mean, perhaps, 'twixt these I might approve.

Hyl. You might, if there were any mean in love.

Mir. But whilst we talk thus, see, the flame has caught you;
Your beauteous flame, Nerina, is at hand,
Dorinda with her: dare you stay th' encounter?

Hyl. No, let's withdraw, and watch her, where she goes.

SCENA III.

Nerina, Dorinda.

Dorinda, I have miss'd the chase to-day,
Such is my chance, and he that lodg'd the deer
Told me it was the fairest in these woods.

Dor. The gods do love you, sure, that thus have left
Your thoughts so free for sport; mine are not so.

Ner. Thou art in love, I warrant, art thou not?

Dor. That angry god pursues me in his fury,
And forces me to love where I am scorn'd.
Hapless Dorinda, why should he despise thee?
Many a swain and many a rural god
Have sought thy favours, and have sought in vain:
Now thou art justly punish'd with disdain.

Ner. Trust me, sweetheart, I cannot choose but wonder,
To think that one of such a comely grace—
I do not flatter you—could sue to any
For love, who are much fitter to be lov'd:
Scorn him as much as he does thee; for men
Love us no more! when we love them again.

Dor. Ah, good Nerina, you have spoken truth:
It may warn other nymphs by my example,
How they profess their loves to any man:
I am past cure, for[248] he that wounded me
Has left me quite disarm'd, and robb'd me of
All those defensive arts which men will say
Are natural and proper to our sex.
I cannot change a face or weep one tear,
Or laugh against my will, so violently
My fate hath thrust me to this love, that all
My faculties confess their weakness; and
My flame is got so much above my reach,
I cannot put it out, nor smother it.

Ner. Alas, poor wench! tell me, who is the man
Made up of so much rigid cruelty,
That I may shun him wheresoe'er I go.

Dor. Do not you know him?

Ner. No.

Dor. I hear he boasts
To every shepherd and to every nymph
How much I love him.

Ner. Then it must be Daphnis.

Dor. Venus forgive me if I do disclose him,
But he will do't himself: 'tis he, Nerina.

Ner. Daphnis, that wooes my father to win me;
He is my daily suitor; now I know
How much he owes to pity and to thee;
Until he pay that debt, I shall despise him.

Dor. Why, do not you love him as much as I?

Ner. Love him! I know no greater misery,
Than to love one that's not of human race—
A tiger rather; but a tiger is more mild
Than he.

Dor. For love's sake, say not so!
He has a manly feature, and does show
As much of grace in his comportment as
The best of shepherds can; him Titan made
Of better clay than he did other men,
Although his heart be flint and hardest rock.
Yet is his heart so hard, or are my parts
Rather unequal to his high deserts?
For he can love, I see, since you he loves,
And you deserve it. Had he thought me worthy,
He would have lov'd me too; but as I am
Worthless Dorinda, I am made his scorn,
And I had rather be so, than Nerina
Should want a servant such as Daphnis is.

Ner. Prythee, no more of him: I hate his name
As much as I would do the loss of honour,
Which he injuriously would rob me of.
No, no, Dorinda, if by love I be
Enthrall'd to any, Daphnis is not he.

Dor. Why, is there any can deserve you more?

Ner. Yes, many, that I could tell how to love
Rather than him: for why should I love him,
Whilst Hylas lives, and languishes for me?
Hylas, who lov'd me in my infancy,
And being then a boy, was never well
If I was absent; nor indeed was I
Content with any but his company.
Our flocks still fed together: I on him,
And he on me did feed his greedy eyes.
Since, though his years have styled him man, he has
Continu'd that first love with such respects,
So full of innocence and simple truth,
That howsoe'er my outward coyness is,
My heart within tells me 'tis only his.
Ah me! my father! prythee, let's away.

Dor. But Daphnis comes with him: for love's sake, stay!

SCENA IV.

Hylas, Mirtillus, Charinus, Daphnis.

Pan be as cruel to his flocks and him
As he has been to me!

Mir. Go, leave your cursing,
And follow her; let me alone with him.

Char. Ha! have I found you? Ho! Nerina, stay!
Your father calls you; was not that my daughter
That made away so fast?

Mir. Who, she that's gone?
Believe your eyes no more, they are false to you.
Could you take one for her that's nothing like her?
'Twas Chloris went from us.

Char. Is't possible?

Mir. 'Tis true.

Daph. I thought that it had been my love.

Char. I durst have sworn that she had been my daughter.
What made she here? 'Twill ne'er be otherwise;
Young women will be chatting with young men,
Whate'er their fathers say. It was not so
When I was young—a boy, as you are, shepherds.

Mir. We are not men with him till after fifty.

Char. We never durst keep company with women,
Nor they with us: each one did carefully
Attend his charge. And when the time was come,
That we grew ripe in years, and were staid youths,
Our fathers would provide us wives: we did not
Carve for ourselves, as nowadays they do.
But now our children think themselves as wise,
Nay, wiser than their fathers, and will rule 'em:
They can no sooner peep out of the shell,
But they must love, forsooth. I would fain know,
Whether 'twere fit a maid should be in love—
I speak now of that skittish girl, my daughter—
Before she ask her father's leave and liking?

Daph. Tis true, Charinus, 'twere not fit indeed.
Who should bestow the daughter but the father?

Mir. But, shepherds, did you never hear that once
There was an age, the nearest to the gods:
An age we rather praise than imitate;
When no man's will nor woman's was enforc'd
To any bent but its own motion?
Each follow'd nature's laws, and by instinct
Did love the fairest, and enjoy their wishes:
Love then, not tied to any interest
Of blood or fortune, hasten'd to his end
Without control, nor did the shepherd number
Her sheep that was his choice, but every grace
That did adorn her beauteous mind or face.
Riches with love then were not valued—
Pure, uncompounded love—that could despise
The whole world's riches for a mistress' eyes.
Pray tell me, Daphnis—you are young and handsome,
The lover of our fairest nymph Nerina—
Would you, for all that fruitful Sicily
Can yield, or all the wealth of Persia,
Change one poor lock of your fair mistress' hair,
Whilst she is yours, and you her shepherd are?

Daph. Would she were mine, I'd ask no portion.

Mir. Spoke like a lover of the ancient stamp!

Char. Son, son, she shall be yours: why, am not I
Her father, she my daughter? May not I
Bestow her where I please?

Mir. Yes, if she like
The man, she will bestow herself, ne'er fear it.

Char. What! she bestow herself without my leave?
No, no, Mirtillus, you mistake my daughter.
I cannot get her once to think of marriage,
And truly I do muse to see a wench,
That in all other things (although I say it)
Has wit at will: can pin her sheep in fold
As well as any: knows when to drive them home;
And there she can do twenty things as well:
Yet when I speak to her of marriage,
She turns the head: she'll be a Dryad, she,
Or one of those fond nymphs of Dian's train.

Mir. Old man, believe her not, she means not so;
She loves to keep the thing for which she is
So much belov'd—I mean her maidenhead—
Which, whilst she has, she knows to play the tyrant,
And make us slaves unto her scornful looks:
For beauty then itself most justifies,
When it is courted; if not lov'd, it dies.

Char. Well, we will think of this. Come, Daphnis, come,
I see you love my daughter, and you only
Shall have her; it is I that tell you so,
That am her father.

Daph. Thank you, good Charinus;
But I had rather she had told me so. [Aside.

FOOTNOTES:

[248] [Old copy, the cure, he.]

[ACTUS II., SCÆNA 1.]

Thyrsis, Montanus. To them Mirtillus.

[Thyr.] This day the sun shot forth his beams as fair
As e'er he did, and through the trembling air
Cool Zephyrus with gentle murmuring
Breath'd a new freshness on each tree and plant:
My kids are gamesome too, as e'er they were;
All show a face of gladness but myself.

Mon. And why not you as well by their example?

Thyr. Not in this life: here joy would be untimely:
The gods reserve for me their comforts in
Th' Elysian fields, or else they mock my sorrows.

Mon. O, say not so, they're just and pitiful.

Thyr. They are, but, father—so I still must call you—
When in the sadness of my soul I ask'd
Before the altar of our great Apollo,
What should become of me, or where my love,
Bright Sylvia, was, whether alive or dead,
Why should the oracle reply: Go home,
Thou shall enjoy thy Sylvia?

Mon. What more could you
Desire to hear?

Thyr. Ay, but when greedily
I ask'd the time, the answer was, That day
Thou art not Thyrsis, nor she Sylvia.
Then in this life I'm sure it must not be,
For I was Thyrsis ever call'd, and she
Known by no other name than Sylvia.

Mon. It may be, for your importunity
You might deserve this answer, or else is it
Because the gods speak not their mysteries
To be conceiv'd by every vulgar sense?
I now remember what Acrisius,
The wise and virtuous Acrisius,
Was wont to say.

Thyr. Why, what said he?
Does it concern me aught?

Mon. It may do, son;
He bid us fly all curiosity,
Seeking to know what future time may bring
To us, which only gods above do know;
And if at any time they do impart
This knowledge unto us, it is enwrapp'd
In such a mist, as we shall ne'er see through it:
Because, said he, we have enough to do
With what is present; the celestial powers
Would not cut off our hopes, nor multiply
Our cares, by showing us our destiny.

Thyr. O, this discourse to a despairing lover
What comfort does it bring? for heaven's sake, leave it
And me; for I am best, I find, alone.
Yet stay, there's something that I fain would ask you:
You said this circle here about my neck
Has so continued from my infancy,
When first you took me up.

Mon. 'Tis true, that circle
Hung loosely then about your neck, which since
Is fill'd with it. I left it there, because
I saw some letters that were wrought about it.

Thyr. And may they not be read?

Mon. I think they may:
But I could never find so great a clerk
As could tell how t' expound the meaning of them.

Thyr. My life is nothing but a mystery;
That which I was, and that which I shall be,
Is equally unknown. Now, if you'll leave me
Unto my thoughts, they'll keep me company.

Mon. I will; but here is one come to supply me.

Enter to him Mirtillus.

Mir. Ay, let me alone.

Sings.

He that mourns for a mistress,
When he knows not where she is,
Let him kiss her shadow fair,,
Or engender with the air;
Or see, if with his tears he can
Swell at an ebb the ocean:
Then, if he had not rather die,
Let him love none, or all, as I.

This is the doctrine that I ever taught you,
And yet you profit not: these scurvy passions
Hang on you still. You that are young and active,
That may have all our nymphs at your devotion,
To live a whining kind of life as this,
How ill it does become you!

Thyr. True, Mirtillus;
And yet I do not envy thee the pleasure
Thou hast in thy dispers'd affections.

Mir. You would, if your head were right once; but love—
Your love does make an ass of all your reason.

Thyr. Sure, a true lover is more rational
Than you, that love at random everywhere.

Mir. I do not think so; all the reason love
Has left you to employ in this discourse
Will hardly bring me to confess it to you.

Thyr. Why, all men's actions have some proper end,
Whereto their means and strict endeavours tend:
Else there would be nought but perplexity
In human life, and all uncertainty.

Mir. Well, what will you infer on this?

Thyr. That you,
Who know no end at all of wild desire,
Must in your wand'ring fancy see this way
Leads unto madness, when too late you find
That nothing satisfies a boundless mind.

Mir. Ay, but I do confine myself to two
Or three at most; in this variety
I please myself; for what is wanting in
One, I may find it in another.

Thyr. No.
Not in another; one is the only centre
The line of love is drawn to, must have all
Perfections in her, all that's good and fair,
Or else her lover must believe her so.

Mir. Ay, there's your error, that's the ground of all
Your tears and sighs, your fruitless hopes and fears,
When she perhaps has not so much t' adorn her
As the least grace your thoughts bestow upon her.

Thyr. Well, be it so; and yet this fair idea,
Which I have fram'd unto myself, does argue
Virtue in me; so that, if she be lost,
Or dead—ah me! the sad remembrance of
My Sylvia causes this—yet I must love,
Because the character is indelibly
Writ in my heart, and heaven is witness to it.

Mir. Well, I'll no more of this, I'll be converted
Rather than call this grief to your remembrance.

Thyr. Why, dost thou think I ever shall forget her?
Or that where'er I set my careful foot,
As in this place, will it not tell me that
Here Sylvia and I walk'd hand in hand,
And here she pluck'd a flower, and anon
She gave it me; and then we kiss'd, and here
We mutually did vow each other's love?

Mir. Nay leave, good Thyrsis: I did come to tell you
This holiday our royal Prince Euarchus,
Being remov'd to his house here near adjoining,
Sent to command us to attend his person,
With all our sports and wonted merriment,
Wherein you always bore the chiefest part.
And I have heard ('tis not to make you blush)
The princess has commended your rare art
And handsome graces, which you gave your music.
Come, you must go with us, for Hylas is
So far engag'd in love, and near his hopes,
He will not stir unless his mistress go.

Thyr. Alas, Mirtillus! I have broke my pipe,
My sighs are all the music which I now
Can make, and how unfit I am t' attend
So great an expectation, you may see.
Yet give me leave to think on it; at night
Perhaps I'll go with you.

Mir. Till then farewell. [Exit Thyrsis.
The gentlest youth that ever play'd on pipe,
But see, who's here? O, 'tis my other lover,
His mistress with him; I will not disturb him.

SCENA II.

Nerina, Hylas, Mirtillus.

Ner. Shepherd, I would you'd leave to follow me.

Hyl. How can I, sweetest, when my heart is with you?

Ner. With me? Then tell me where, and see how soon
I shall restore it you.

Mir. O, this is fine! [Aside.

Hyl. It hangs upon your eyes where, being scorch'd
With their disdain, and dazzl'd with their lustre,
It flies for ease unto your rosy lips.
But, beaten thence with many a harsh denial,
Fain would it come for better harbour here;
But here for ever it must be an exile.
For pity then, fair nymph, receive it you;
And if you can, teach it the hardness of
Your own, and make it marble, as yours is.

Mir. I see he is not such a novice as
I took him for; he can tell how to speak. [Aside.

Ner. Well, if my heart be such as you will make it,
I am so much the gladder that it is
Of strength to be a fence unto my honour.

Hyl. In vain a fence is made to guard the sheep,
Where no wolf ever came.

Ner. What, if within
It keep a dog of prey, would they be safe?
For my part, I'll not cherish in my breast
The man that would undo my chastity.

Hyl. Then cherish me, for you best know I never
Attempted anything to cast a spot
On that white innocence, to which I am
A most religious votary.

Mir. More fool you!
It may be, if you had, it needed not
Ha' come to this. [Aside.

Ner. Yes, yes, you may remember,
I blush to tell it you, when first my thoughts
Were pure and simple—as I hope they are
Still, and will so continue, whilst I fly
Such company as you—- I thought you one
Whom never any flame impure had touch'd:
Then we convers'd without suspect together.

Hyl. And am I not so still? why do you now
Fly from me thus?

Ner. The cause I shall tell you,
Since you will not remember; though it be
Unfit for me to speak, yet you shall know
How just my anger is.

Hyl. Ah me most wretched!
What have I done?

Ner. When tending of my flocks
Under the shade of yonder myrtle-tree.
Which bears the guilt of your foul misdemeanour,
My maid Corisca cried out for my help,
Because a bee had stung her in the face:
You heard me speak in pity of her smart,
A charm my mother taught me, that, being said
Close to the place affected, takes away
The pain: which gave her ease. But you, uncivil,
Turning my courtesy to your vile ends,
Feign'd you were stung too, and cried out your lips
Had from the same sharp point receiv'd a wound:
Pray'd me to say the same charm over there.
I charitably lent my help to you,
Mistrusting nothing of your purposes,
When with ungentle hands you held me fast,
And for my thanks gave me a lustful kiss.
Canst thou remember this, and yet not blush?
O impudence!

Hyl. You will excuse the heat
Of my desires; still I feel that sting,
But dare not ask the cure, nor did I then
Do any hurt: but since you think it was
A fault, I do repent it, and am sorry
I did offend you so.

Mir. Better and better!
He'll cry anon, he has already ask'd
Forgiveness of her. [Aside.

Ner. Well, shepherd, look
You never see me more: I cannot love
At all, or if at all, not you: let this
Settle your thoughts.

Hyl. O, it distracts them more:
But since my presence is offensive to you,
I must obey, yet, if I thought you would,
When I am dead—the martyr of your beauty,
Shed one poor tear on my untimely grave,
And say that Hylas was unfortunate,
To love where he might not be lov'd again,
My ashes would find rest. And so farewell:
The fairest, but the cruel'st nymph alive!

Mir. What, will you leave her thus?

Hyl. I prythee, come,
The sentence of my banishment is pass'd,
Never to be recall'd.

Mir. Are these the hopes
You fed upon? O, what a thing in nature
Is a coy woman! or how great a fool
The man is that will give her leave to rule! [Exit Hylas.

SCENA III.

Nerina.

Ner. Alas! my Hylas, my beloved soul,
Durst she whom thou hast call'd cruel Nerina
But speak her thoughts, thou wouldst not think her so;
To thee she is not cruel, but to herself:
That law, which nature hath writ in my heart,
Taught me to love thee, Hylas, and obey
My father too, who says I must not love thee.
O disproportion'd love and duty, how
Do you distract me? If I love my choice,
I must be disobedient; if obedient,
I must be link'd to one I cannot love.
Then either, Love, give me my liberty,
Or, Nature, from my duty set me free. [Exit.

SCENA IV.

Daphnis.

Daph. Nerina, since nor tears nor prayers can move
Thy stubborn heart, I'll see what gifts can do:
They of my rank, whom most do deem unworthy
Of any virgin's love, being rough, and bred
To manage the estates our fathers left us,
Unskill'd in those hid mysteries, which Love's
Professors only know, have yet a way
To gain our wishes. First we get the father:
He knows our pleasure, and gives his consent.
The daughter's eyes being blinded with our gifts,
Cannot so soon spy our deformities,
But we may catch her too. This Alcon says,
A man whom age and observation taught
What I must learn; yet though most women be
Such as he has deliver'd, my Nerina
Seems not to have regard to what I give,
But holds me and my gifts both at one rate.
What can I hope, then, out of this poor present:
A looking-glass which, though within our plains
'Tis seldom seen, yet I have heard in cities
They are as common as a lock of wool.
However, if she take it, I am happy,
So Alcon tells me; and he knows full well
(He gave it me) that, whose'er shall look
Her face in it, shall be at my dispose.
In confidence of this, I will present it,
And see my fortune; sure, I must needs speed:
My friend, her father, comes along with her.
But, O my fate! is not that nymph Dorinda
Which keeps them company? Yes, sure, 'tis she;
A curse light on her importunity!
Her father urges something, and I hope
On my behalf; let me observe a little.

SCENA V.

Charinus, Nerina, Dorinda, Daphnis.

Char. And as I oft have told you, I do wish
To see you wise.

Dor. Is she not so, Charinus?
Does she say anything that's out of reason?

Char. Do not tell me of reason; I would hear
Of her obedience: therefore I say, be wise,
And do as I would have you.

Dor. What would you
Have her to do? you see she answers not
To contradict you.

Char. I will have her answer
To what I now demand, that is, to marry
Daphnis, and I will have her love him too.

Dor. Love him, Charinus! that you cannot do:
Her body you may link i' th' rites of Hymen;
Her will she must bestow herself, not you.

Daph. O, she was born to be a plague unto me. [Aside.

Char. Why should she wish or hope for anything,
But what I'd have her wish or hope for only?
Come, to be short, answer me, and directly;
Are you content to marry Daphnis, say?

Ner. What is your pleasure, father?

Char. You do not hear,
It seems, but what you list; I ask you once
Again, if you will marry Daphnis? speak.

Ner. Sir, I would marry whom you please to give me;
I neither can nor ought to make my choice,
I would refer that to you: but you know
My inclination never lay to marry.

Char. I know you shall do that which I command.

Ner. Now heaven forbid that I, who have thus long
Vow'd to Diana my virginity,
To follow her a huntress in these woods,
Should yield myself to the impure delights
Of Hymen, and so violate my faith.

Char. A fine devotion, is it not? to make
A vow, and never ask your father leave!
The laws will not permit it to be so.

Dor. The vow, Charinus, is not made to men:
The laws have not to do with that which is
Seal'd and recorded in the court of heaven.

Char. Do not tell me of vows: I'll have her marry,
And marry Daphnis: is he not rich and handsome?

Dor. Ah me! I would he were not rich nor handsome:
It may be then he would regard my sufferings. [Aside.

Char. No, daughter, do not you believe you can
Catch me with shifts and tricks: I see, I tell you,
Into your heart.

Ner. Alas! I would you did;
Then your discourse would tend another way.

Char. Yes, you have made a vow, I know, which is,
Whilst you are young, you will have all the youth
To follow you with lies and flatteries.
Fool, they'll deceive you; when this colour fades,
Which will not always last, and you go crooked,
As if you sought your beauty lost i' th' ground;
Then they will laugh at you, and find some other
Fit for their love; where, if you do as I
Command you, I have one will make you happy.

Ner. Ah me most miserable!

Daph. Now I'll come in,
And see what I can do with this my gift.

Char. Look now, as if the Fates would have it so,
He comes just in the nick of my discourse:
Come, use him kindly now, and then you shall
Redeem what you have lost—my good opinion.

Ner. O most ungrateful chance! how I do hate
The sight of him!

Dor. Were it to me he came,
How happy would this fair encounter be!

Char. Daphnis, you're welcome, very welcome to me,
And to my daughter: what is that you have there?

Daph. A present, which I mean to give my love.

Char. See but how true a lover Daphnis is;
His hand is never empty when he comes.
Welcome him, daughter: look what he has for you.

Daph. O good Charinus! none must look in it,
But she herself to whom it is presented.

Char. I am an old man, I, and therefore care not
To see my wither'd face and hoary hair:
Give it that young thing, she knows what to do with it.
Daughter, come hither; use him courteously
And kindly too: be sure you take his gift. [Aside.
Daphnis, I'll leave you both together here;
My sheep are shearing, I can stay no longer. [Exit.

Daph. Farewell, old man; health to my dearest mistress.

Ner. And to you, shepherd.

Dor. Daphnis, am not I
Worthy to have a share in your salute?

Daph. How can I give thee part of that, whereof
I have no share myself?

Dor. If you would love
There where you are belov'd again, you might
Make your content such as you would yourself.

Daph. If you, Nerina, would vouchsafe to love
Him that loves you, and ever will, you might
Make your content such as you would yourself.

Ner. Shepherd, I oft have wish'd you not to trouble
Me and yourself with words: I cannot love you.

Daph. As oft, Dorinda, have I spoke to you,
To leave to trouble me: I cannot love you.

Dor. Will you then slight my love because 'tis offer'd?

Daph. Will you then slight my love because 'tis offer'd?

Ner. Somebody else may love you, I cannot.

Daph. Somebody else may love you, I cannot.

Dor. O cruel words, how they do pierce my heart!

Daph. O cruel words, how they do pierce my heart!

Ner. How can I help it, if your destiny
Lead you to love where you may not obtain?

Daph. How can I help it, if your destiny
Lead you to love where you may not obtain?

Dor. It is not destiny that injures me;
It is thy cruel will and marble heart.

Daph. It is not destiny that injures me;
It is thy cruel will and marble heart.

Ner. No, Daphnis; 'tis not hardness of my heart,
Nor any cruelty that causes this.

Daph. Then 'tis disdain of me.

Ner. Nor is it that:
I do not see in Daphnis anything
To cause disdain.

Dor. Why do you not reply
In those same words to me, malicious Echo?

Daph. I pray, leave me; I have other business now
To trouble me; if you disdain me not,
Fair nymph, as you pretend, receive my offer.

Ner. What's that?

Daph. My heart.

Dor. I will, gentle Daphnis.

Daph. O importunity!

Ner. Give her thy heart.
She has deserv'd it, for she loves thee Daphnis.

Daph. First, I would tear it piecemeal here before you.

Dor. O me unfortunate! O cruel man!

Ner. Stay, good Dorinda, I'll go with thee; stay.

Daph. Let her go where she will; behold, sweet saint,
This mirror here, the faithful representer
Of that which I adore, your beauteous form;
When you do see in that how lovely are
Your looks, you will not blame my love.

Ner. If I refuse it,
My father will be angry. [Aside.] Let me see it.
Here, take thy glass again: what ails my head?
I know not where I am, it is so giddy:
And something like a drowsiness has seiz'd
My vital spirits.

Daph. How do you, love?

Ner. Heavy o' th' sudden; I'll go home and sleep.

Daph. So, let her go, and let this work awhile.
She cast an eye upon me as she went,
That by its languishing did seem to say,
Daphnis, I'm thine; thou hast o'ercome at last.
Alcon, th' hast made me happy by thy art [Exeunt.

[ACTUS III, SCENA I.]

Sylvia, Delia.

Q. Tell me what you think on earth
The greatest bliss?
A. Riches, honour, and high birth.
Q. Ah! what is this?
If love be banished the heart,
The joy of Nature, not of Art?

2.

What's honour worth or high descent?
Or ample wealth,
If cares do breed us discontent,
Or want of health?
A. It is the order of the Fates,
That these should wait on highest states.

3.

Chorus. Love only does our souls refine,
And by his skill
Turns human things into divine,
And guides our will.
Then let us of his praises sing:
Of love, that sweetens everything.

Del. Madam, you're overheard.

Syl. I care not, Delia.
Although my liberty and free discourse
Be here denied me, yet the air is common:
To it, then, will I utter my complaints,
Or to thee, friend, to whom my love will dare
To show the secrets of my heart; for others
I do not care nor fear, so thou be faithful.

Del. Madam, I have no life, but what I wish
May be employ'd to do your beauty's service;
My tongue is rul'd by yours: what you would have
It speak, it shall; else further than my thoughts
Nothing shall venture that you leave to me:
And those my thoughts I'll keep to such restraint,
As they shall never come within my dreams,
Lest they betray your counsels. This I vow
Religiously by——

Syl. Hold, I will not
Have thee to swear, nor would I thou shouldst think
That I so much suspect thee, as to urge
An oath; I know thou hast too much of goodness,
That's bred within thee, to betray a trust:
And therefore, without further circumstance,
I'll let thee know my fortunes, part of which
I'm sure th' hast heard already.

Del. Madam, I have,
And wish'd that they had sorted to your wishes.

Syl. I thank thee, Delia; but my evil genius,
That has pursu'd my innocence with hate,
Brought me from thence, where I had set my heart,
Unto this cursed Court which, though it be
My place of birth and breeding, I do find
Nothing but torment and affliction in it.

Del. I guess the cause, sweet madam, but that's pass'd
And now forgotten: if you clear your looks,
Your father will enlarge you, and ne'er think
On what you did, but that you are his daughter.

Syl. Alas, my Delia! thou dost mistake,
My liberty is of no worth to me,
Since that my love, I fear, will ne'er be free:
Nor do I care what idle ladies talk
Of my departure or my strange disguise,
To colour my intents; I am above
Their envy or their malice:
But for th' unlucky chance that sent to me
The over-curious eyes of him I hate—
Thou know'st the man.

Del. Yes, you mean Cleander,
Son to Eubulus, who is now your keeper:
What star directed him to find you out?

Syl. His love, forsooth; for so he colour'd his
Unseason'd boldness: told me he was not able
To want my sight: and so, when every one
Had given o'er their strict inquiry of me,
He only, with too much officiousness,
Observ'd me in the woods, walking alone:
And when I would have shunn'd him, which perhaps
Had I not done, he had not so well known me:
He came and utter'd, as his manner was,
His tedious complaints; until at length
He brought me with him, making no resistance:
And to ingratiate himself the more,
He said he would convey me where my father
Should have no knowledge of me. I refused it;
Willing, however, to be rid of him.
And now, you know, it is a full month since
I did return to Court, but left my heart
Behind me in those fields wherein I joy'd.

Del. Madam, has not the Court more pleasure in it
Than the dull country, which can represent
Nothing but what does taste of solitude?
'Twas something else that carried you away.

Syl. 'Tis true, my Delia; for though thou wert
Privy to my departure, yet the cause
Thou couldst not tell, which I will now unfold;
And think I trust my honour in thy hands,
And maiden modesty: 'twas love that did it.

Del. Love, madam! Sure, it is impossible
You should find anything there worth your love.

Syl. Thou know'st the shepherds that do dwell about
This place which, for their entertainments only,
The king my father built, did use to come,
As now they do, being sent for unto Court:
I ever lik'd their sports, their harmless mirth,
And their contentions, which were void of malice,
And wish'd I had been born just such an one.

Del. Your state is better, madam, as you are.

Syl. But I confess the rather, 'cause there was
One amongst them of a more comely grace
(Though none of them did seem uncomely to me)
Call'd Thyrsis; and with him methought I could
Draw out my life rather than any other,
Such things my fancy then suggested to me:
So well he sung, so passionate his love
Show'd in his verse, thereto so well express'd,
As any one would judge it natural:
Yet never felt he flame, till this of me:
Often he came, and oft'ner was desir'd
Of me; nor did I shame in public there
Before my father to commend his graces;
Which when I did, the whole Court, as they use,
Consented with me, and did strive to make them
Greater than I or any else could think them:
At last I was surpris'd, I could not help it;
My fate with love consenting, so would have it:
Then did I leave the Court—I've told thee all.

Del. 'Tis strange! but, madam, though in that disguise,
How could you hope (a stranger) to be lov'd
Of him you held so dear?

Syl. I feign'd myself
Of Smyrna, and from thence some goats I had
And sheep, with them a rich commodity.
Near him I bought me land to feed them; he
Seem'd glad of it, and thinking me a stranger,
Us'd me with such civility and friendship,
As one would little look for of a shepherd;
And did defend me from the avarice
Of the old shepherds, which did think to make
A prey of what I had. At length I saw
He did address himself with fear to me,
Still gazing on me. Knowing my love to him,
I easily believ'd he lov'd me too—
For love, alas! is ever credulous—
And though I was resolv'd (having my end,
Which was no more than to discourse with him)
Never to let him know what flame I felt;
Yet when I saw his tears, and heard his vows—
Persuasive speakers for affection—
I could not choose but open to his view
My loving heart; yet with this caution,
That he should ever bear respect unto
My honour and my virgin chastity:
Which then he vow'd, and his ambition
Never was more than to attain a kiss,
Which yet he hardly got. Thou seest, sweet Delia,
How willingly I dwell upon this theme.
But can'st thou help me, now that I have open'd
My wound unto thee?

Del. Alas! I would I could
Invent the way to cure you; I should soon
Apply my help: yet, stay, this day it is
The shepherds come to Court.

Syl. 'Tis true, they come;
But what is that to me, if Thyrsis come not?
Or if he come, how shall he know me his,
Or I enjoy his company?

Del. Let me alone to work out that.

Syl. Thou dream'st: thou can'st not do it.

Del. I'll undertake it; but how shall I know him
Without inquiring, which must breed suspicion?

Syl. True, and beware thou ask; the majesty
Which sits upon his brow will say 'tis he—
Thyrsis my love. But yet, perhaps, at this time,
If I myself not flatter, thou shalt know him
By his eyes cast down and folding of his arms,
And often sighs that interrupt his words.
For if his sorrow wears the liveries
Which mine does for his absence, by these signs
Thou shalt descry him.

Del. These are silent marks:
Yet will I not despair to find him out.

Syl. But when thou hast, what wilt thou say to him?

Del. Give me but leave to use my mother-wit.
You would be gone together, would you not?

Syl. Thou speak'st my thoughts: do this, and I will crown
Thy faith: thou shalt be queen instead of me.

Del. If you could crown me with your virtues, madam,
I should be a queen indeed; in the meantime,
As I am Delia, I'll do this business.

Syl. Do it, and when th' hast done, the god of love
Reward thee with thine own desires for this.

Del. Madam, withdraw; I hear your keepers coming. [Exeunt.

SCENA II.

Cleander, Eubulus.

Sir, you have put a bridle on my passions,
And given my soul the liberty it wish'd:
I now entreat your pardon for beginning
A thing of so great consequence without
Leave and advice from you.

Eub. 'Tis well, Cleander,
It will behove you then to be reserv'd,
And lock this secret up: for 'tis no jesting
With kings, that may command our lives and fortunes:
You now perceive her, whom we call the princess,
To be your sister, and the love you bear her
Must be a brother's friendship, not a lover's
Passionate heat; but yet she must not know,
That I her father am, and you her brother:
And trust me, son, had I not seen despair
Of life in you, which this love brought you to,
I should not have reveal'd what now you know.

Cle. It was a comfort, sir, I do confess,
That came in time to rescue me from death,
So great her scorn was, and my love so violent.

Eub. Now you're at peace, I hope?

Cle. I am: but if
I be too curious in asking where
The king's son is, I shall desire your pardon:
For, sure, it were injustice to deprive
So great a prince of that which he was born to.

Eub. You are too far inquisitive; yet because
I have engag'd you in a secret of
As great importance, this I will not hide.
The king, I told you, when his wife grew near
The time of her delivery, sent to know
Of our great oracle whether the child should be
Female or male, and what should be its fortune.

Cle. What said the oracle? have you the answer?

Eub. It only was imparted unto me,
And this it is, which I have never shown
To any but the queen. Here take and read it.

If e'er thy issue male thou live to see,
The child thou think'st is thine, thine shall not be;
His life shall be obscure: twice shall thy hate
Doom him to death. Yet shall he 'scape that fate:
And thou shalt live to see, that not long after
Thy only son shall wed thy only daughter.

This oracle is full of mystery.

Eub. It is; and yet the king would needs interpret
That, should it prove a man-child, 'twas a bastard:
And being loth that one not of his blood,
As he conceived by this, should be his heir,
Told me in private that, if it were male,
He would not have it live; yet, fearing most
To publish his dishonour and his wife's,
He charg'd me not reveal it unto any,
But take the child and see it made away,
And make the world believe it was still-born.

Cle. And did you so?

Eub. No, for indeed I durst not
For anything become a murderer.

Cle. How did you then?

Eub. I went unto the queen,
Show'd her the state she was in, and besought her
To be as careful of me as I was
Of her, and we would work a better end
Than she expected. So we both agreed
That, if the child she then did labour with
Proved to be a male, I should with care conceal
The birth of it, and put a female child
Instead of it, which I was to look out.
It fortun'd that your mother then was ready
To be deliver'd of your sister, and
Time and good fortune did conspire to save
The king's child and to make my daughter princess.

Cle. But what did then become of the young prince?

Eub. The queen protesting to me that it was
The king's own child, conjur'd me to preserve it,
Which as mine own I could not; for already
Many took notice that my child was female,
And therefore I was fain to publish her
As dead, and buried an empty coffin.
I rode forth with the child a full night's journey,
With purpose to deliver it to some
Plain honest man, that would be careful of it,
And not inquisitive to know whose child
It was, but give it breeding as his own:
When, being frighted with the noise of arms
Of some outlawed thieves, that did infest
The place, I made all haste I could to 'scape 'em,
Considering my charge; for that I knew,
If I were taken, though they spar'd my life,
The charge I had must needs betray me to
The king, and then I could not hope for mercy
I laid it down there, cover'd closely o'er,
A circle 'bout his neck, wherein was writ—

Archigenes, son of Euarchus and Eudora

In characters known only to myself
And to the king, in which I us'd to clothe
Secret despatches when I writ to him
From foreign states, and within the circle
I grav'd the king's less seal, which then I kept.
Some gold besides and jewels there I left,
That, whosoe'er should find him might with that
Defray the charge of his education;
Howe'er, next day I purposed to return
With speed, and carry it to some abode.

Cle. But did the queen know this?

Eub. She did not,
Till my return next day: then, when I told her,
The child was thence remov'd where I had left him.

Cle. Belike those thieves had carried him away.

Eub. 'Tis probable.

Cle. How could the queen take this
So sad a story?

Eub. With such impatience
That, being weak before, she shortly died.

Cle. But yet, sir, with your favour, might you not
Have made inquiry after him?

Eub. I durst not,
For fear of being discover'd. On your life,
Take heed how you reveal this.

Cle. I am charm'd.

Eub. Then let us watch my daughter, for I fear
The flight she made was for some other end
Than for retirement, which she does pretend.

Cle. Henceforth I shall obey her as my princess,
And love her as my sister, not my mistress.

Eub. You shall do well: come, let us to the king.

SCENA III.

Hylas, Mirtillus, Chorus of shepherds and shepherdesses, representing Paris, [OE]none, Venus, and the Graces.

Hyl. It was my dream, and I will send it to her;
Though I myself by her too cruel sentence
Must never see her face.

Mir. What paper's that?
Love verses, as I live! What's here? a dream!
Nay, I will read 'em: therefore stand aside.

Mirtillus reads.

Sleep, thou becalmer of a troubled sprite,
Which lead'st my fancy to that sweet delight
Wherein my soul found rest when thou didst show
Her shadow mine whose substance is not so,
Wrap up mine eyes in an eternal night:
For since my day springs only from that light,
Which she denies me, I account the best
Part of my life is that which gives me rest.
And thou, more hard to be entreated than
Sleep to the heated eyes of frantic men;
That thou canst make my joys essential
Which are but shadows now, be liberal,
And outdo sleep; let me not dream in vain,
Unless thou mean'st I ne'er shall sleep again.

Alas, poor soul! will she not let thee sleep?

Hyl. I knew I should be mock'd, but I'll divert him. [Aside.
What are those thou hast brought along with thee?

Mir. The masquers, Hylas; these are they must trip it
Before the king: dost like their properties?

Hyl. What, Paris and [OE]none—the old story?

Mir. But newly made, and fashion'd to my purpose;
Brought hither to make good my own positions
Against the company of puling lovers;
Which if I do not, and with good effect,
Let me be one myself; and that's a torture
Worse than Apollo laid upon the satyr,
When the rude villain durst contend with him.
Look this way, Hylas; see [OE]none here—
The fairest nymph that ever Ida bless'd,
Court her departing shepherd, who is now
Turning his love unto a fairer object;
And for his judgment in variety.
See how the sea-born goddess and the Graces
Present their darling Helena to him!
Be happy in thy choice, and draw a war
On thee and thine, rather than set thy heart
Upon a stale delight. Do, let her weep,
And say thou art inconstant. Be so still;
The queen of love commands it: you, that are
The old companions of your Paris here,
Move in a well-pac'd measure, that may show
The goddess how you are content for her
Fair sake to leave the honour of your woods;
But first let her and all the Graces sing
The invitation to your offering.

Venus and the Graces sing.

Come, lovely boy, unto my court,
And leave these uncouth woods, and all
That feed thy fancy with love's gall;
But keep away the honey and the sport.
Chorus. Come unto me,
And with variety
Thou shalt be fed, which nature loves and I.

2.

There is no music in a voice
That is but one, and still the same:
Inconstancy is but a name
To fright poor lovers from a better choice.
Chorus. Come then to me, &c.

3.

Orpheus, that on Eurydice
Spent all his love, on others scorn,
Now on the banks of Hebrus torn,
Finds the reward of foolish constancy.
Chorus. Come then to me, &c.

4.

And sigh no more for one love lost:
I have a thousand Cupids here,
Shall recompense with better cheer
Thy misspent labours and thy bitter cost.
Chorus. Come then to me, &c.

The dance ended, enter a Messenger.

Nun. Shepherds, if you have any pity, come
And see a woful spectacle.

Mir. What is't,
That can be worth the breaking of our sports?

Nun. The gentle nymph Nerina—

Hyl. What of her?

Nun. The last of her: I think see lies a-dying,
And calls to speak with you.

Hyl. Curse of your follies!
Do I live here whilst she is dying there?

Mir. But, shepherd, what disease is't that so soon
Could spend his force upon her? she was well
This morning, when she made poor Hylas sick.

Mon. I know not; I am sent unto the well
Of Esculapius to fetch some water
For her recovery. I must be gone. [Exit.

Mir. Shepherds, here let us end. I think we are
Perfect in all the rest. This night the king
Must see't, resolve on that.

Chorus. We are all ready.

Mir. Then let's away, and see what will betide
This gentle nymph Nerina.

Chorus. We'll go with you.

SCENA IV.

Charinus, Nerina, Dorinda, Hylas, Mirtillus, Nuntius.

Hold up thy head, good child: see, he is come.
Bring me the water quickly, whilst there is
Some life in her. Now chafe her, good Dorinda.

Ner. All is in vain, I cannot live; dear father,
Farewell. What shepherd's that lies on the ground?
Is it not Hylas?

Dor. Yes, it is he, Nerina.

Ner. Alas, poor shepherd! 'tis my greatest grief,
That I have grieved him; I would beg life
For nothing but to make him satisfaction.

Mir. Hylas, what, on the ground! look up and speak:
Alas, he's dead!

Ner. It cannot be: good father,
Let me go to him, and but touch his ear,
It may be that my voice may have more virtue.

Char. Do what thou wilt, sweetheart: see, my poor child,
How charitable she is: being half-dead
Herself, she pities others.

Mir. Mark her finesse,
How at the brink of death she kisses him,
And took this way to mock her simple father:
O fine invention! sure, a woman's wit
Does never fail her. [Aside.

Ner. Hylas, Hylas, speak,
Nerina calls thee! speak to thy Nerina!

Mir. What cannot love do? It revives the dead,
He's come to himself again!

Hyl. What god is it
That has the power to return my soul
From the Elysian fields?

Mir. It is no god:
A goddess rather, Hylas. 'Tis Nerina,
Look where she is!

Hyl. Ah! then I do not wonder
I cannot die, when my best soul comes to me:
Shall we live ever thus?

Ner. How fain I would
For thy sake, Hylas; but it cannot be:
I feel a heavy sleep sit on my head,
And my strength fails me; help me, sweet Dorinda,
Farewell for ever! O, I die, I die!

Hyl. And must I then be call'd to life again,
To see my life expire before my face?
You Fates, if you will take a ransom for her,
Then take my life: but you are sure of that,
You'll say, already; for in her one death
Two lives are forfeit. Nerina, gentle nymph,
The cause why now I live, open these eyes
Once more, and I shall flourish like those plants
The sun gives life to: else I fall and wither,
Leaving behind nought but a worthless stem.
Speak to thy Hylas, sweet Nerina, speak.

Char. Ah me! my daughter, hadst thou liv'd, perhaps
I might have seen thee married to Daphnis,
Now we must see thee buried. Ah me!

Ner. Hylas!

Hyl. She lives! give me some more of that——
That water there, see now she comes again!
O gentle Destinies, but spare this thread,
And cut a thousand coarser! Speak, Nerina;
Give me some comfort, give thy father some,
Or else behold three lives fall in thy death.

Ner. Ye Fates, that keep th' account of all our days,
Add but one minute to my life, that I
May quit my soul of those two heavy burthens,
Which now oppress it: dry your eyes, good father,
Remember that the gods do send us nothing
But for our good; and if my journey be
Shorter than yours, the less will be my trouble.
Will you forgive me, father, that I have not
Paid so much duty to you as I ow'd you?
Take my good-will, I pray, instead of it.

Char. See her good nature. Ay, child, 'tis enough,
Thou always wert obedient.

Ner. Shall I dare
To speak my thoughts, and so discharge my soul
Of one load yet?

Char. Ay, do, my child; speak freely.

Ner. I've heard you say that no sin was so heavy
As is ingratitude.

Char. Tis true, Nerina.
How she remembers what her father said!

Ner. Then be not angry, if I now must tell you,
That this poor shepherd, whose swoll'n eyes you see
Cover'd with tears, for many years now pass'd
Has courted me: but still with such a love,
So full of truth and gentle services,
That should I not requite him with my love,
I should be guilty of ingratitude.
Therefore, before I die, I pray give leave
That he may have my dying heart, which living
I still debarr'd him of. Hylas, thy hand!
O, stay a little, death: here, take thou mine,
And since I cannot live the wife of Hylas,
Yet let me die so. Sir, are you content?

Char. I am with anything that pleaseth thee.

Ner. Tell me, are you so, Hylas?

Hyl. O my love,
Ask me if I would live amongst the gods,
But ask not this. Sir, have we your consent?

Char. You have: it is in vain now to deny it.
You see, Dorinda, what her vow's come to!

Ner. Then let me die, take me into thy arms,
Sweet love, you'll see my coffin strew'd with flowers,
And you, Dorinda, will you make a garland?
I die a virgin, though I die his wife.

Dor. Alas, she's gone!

Hyl. She's dead, and do I live?

Char. Look to the shepherd there! O my Nerina!

Dor. Vex not her soul, I pray, with often calling;
You see she's dead.

Char. Then there is no hope left:
Pray help us, shepherds, now to bear her hence;
You'll come, I hope, to see her in her grave. [Exeunt.