A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 1

by Unknown

THE MAYDES METAMORPHOSIS.

As it hath bene sundrie times Acted by the Children of Powles.

LONDON: Printed by Thomas Creede, for Richard Oliue, dwelling in long Lane. 1600.

_THE PROLOGUE.

The manifold, great favours we have found,
By you to us poore weaklings still extended;
Whereof your vertues have been only ground,
And no desert in us to be so friended;
Bindes us some way or other to expresse,
Though all our all be else defeated quite
Of any meanes save duteous thankefulnes,
Which is the utmost measure of our might:
Then, to the boundlesse ocean of your woorth
This little drop of water we present;
Where though it never can be singled foorth,
Let zeale be pleader for our good intent.
Drops not diminish but encrease great floods,
And mites impaire not but augment our goods_.

The Maydes Metamorphosis.

Actus Primus.

Enter Phylander, Orestes, Eurymine.

Eurymine. Phylander and Orestes, what conceyt
Troubles your silent mindes? Let me intreat,
Since we are come thus farre, as we do walke
You would deuise some prettie pleasant talke;
The aire is coole, the euening high and faire:
Why should your cloudie lookes then shew dispaire?

Phy. Beleeue me, faire Eurimine, my skill Is simple in discourse, and vtterance ill; Orestes, if he we were disposde to trie, Can better manage such affaires than I.

Eu. Why then, Orestes, let me crave of you
Some olde or late done story to renew:
Another time you shall request of me
As good, if not a greater, curtesie.

Or. Trust me, as now (nor can I shew a reason)
All mirth vnto my mind comes out of season;
For inward I am troubled in such sort
As all vnfit I am to make report
Of any thing may breed the least delight;
Rather in teares I wish the day were night,
For neither can myself be merry now
Nor treat of ought that may be likte of you.

Eu. Thats but your melancholike old disease, That neuer are disposde but when ye please.

Phy. Nay, mistresse, then, since he denies the taske,
My selfe will strait complish what ye aske;
And, though the pleasure of my tale be small,
Yet may it serue to passe the time withall.

Eu. Thanks, good Phylander; when you please, say on: Better I deeme a bad discourse then none.

Phy. Sometime there liu'd a Duke not far from hence,
Mightie in fame and vertues excellence;
Subiects he had as readie to obey
As he to rule, beloued eueryway;
But that which most of all he gloried in
(Hope of his age and comfort of his kin)
Was the fruition of one onely sonne,
A gallant youth, inferior vnto none
For vertue shape or excellence of wit,
That after him vpon his throne might sit.
This youth, when once he came to perfect age,
The Duke would faine have linckt in marriage
With diuers dames of honourable blood
But stil his fathers purpose he withstood.

Eu. How? was he not of mettal apt to loue?

Phy. Yes, apt enough as wil the sequel proue;
But so the streame of his affection lay
As he did leane a quite contrary way,
Disprouing still the choice his father made,
And oftentimes the matter had delaid;
Now giuing hope he would at length consent,
And then again excusing his intent.

Eu. What made him so repugnant in his deeds?

Phy. Another loue, which this disorder breeds;
For euen at home, within his father's Court,
The Saint was shrinde whom he did honor most;
A louely dame, a virgin pure and chaste,
And worthy of a Prince to be embrac'te,
Had but her birth (which was obscure, they said)
Answerd her beautie; this their opinion staid.
Yet did this wilful youth affect her still
And none but she was mistres of his will:
Full often did his father him disswade
From liking such a mean and low-born mayde;
The more his father stroue to change his minde
The more the sonne became with fancy blinde.

Eu. Alas, how sped the silly Louers then?

Phy. As might euen grieue the rude vnciuilst men:
When here vpon to weane his fixed heart
From such dishonour to his high desert
The Duke had labourd but in vaine did striue,
Thus he began his purpose to contriue:
Two of his seruants, of vndoubted trvth,
He bound by vertue of a solemne oath
To traine the silly damzel out of sight
And there in secret to bereaue her quite—

Eu. Of what? her life?

Phy. Yes, Madame, of her life, Which was the cause of all the former strife.

Eu. And did they kill her?

Phy. You shall heare anon;
The question first must be discided on
In your opinion: whats your iudgement? say.
Who were most cruell, those that did obay
Or he who gaue commandment for the fact?

Eu. In each of them it was a bloody act, Yet they deserue (to speake my minde of both) Most pardon that were bound thereto by oath.

Phy. It is enough; we do accept your doome To passe vnblam'd what ere of you become.

Eu. To passe vnblam'de what ere become of me! What may the meaning of these speeches be?

Phy. Eurymine, my trembling tongue doth faile,
My conscience yrkes, my fainting sences quaile,
My faltring speech bewraies my guiltie thought
And stammers at the message we haue brought.

Eu. Ay me! what horror doth inuade my brest!

Or. Nay then, Phylander, I will tell the rest:
Damzell, thus fares thy case; demand not why,
You must forthwith prepare your selfe to dye;
Therefore dispatch and set your mind at rest.

Eu. Phylander, is it true or doth he iest?

Phy. There is no remedie but you must dye:
By you I framde my tragicke history.
The Duke my maister is the man I meant,
His sonne the Prince, the mayde of meane discent
Your selfe, on whom Ascanio so doth doate
As for no reason may remoue his thought
Your death the Duke determines by vs two,
To end the loue betwixt his sonne and you;
And for this cause we trainde you to this wood,
Where you must sacrifice your dearest blood.

Eu. Respect my teares.

Orest. We must regard our oath.

Eu. My tender yeares.

Or. They are but trifles both.

Eu. Mine innocency.

Or. That would our promise breake; Dispatch forthwith, we may not heare you speake.

Eu. If neither teares nor innocency moue, Yet thinke there is a heavenly power aboue.

Orest. A done, and stand not preaching here all day.

Eu. Then, since there is no remedie, I pray
Yet, good my masters, do but stay so long
Till I haue tane my farewell with a song
Of him whom I shall neuer see againe.

Phy. We will affoord that respit to your paine.

Eu. But least the feare of death appall my mind,
Sweet gentlemen, let me this fauour find,
That you wil vale mine eyesight with this scarfe;
That, when the fatall stroke is aymde at me,
I may not start but suffer patiently.

Orest. Agreed, giue me; Ile shadow ye from feare, If this may do it.

Eu. Oh, I would it might, But shadowes want the power to do that right.

Shee sings.

Ye sacred Fyres and powers aboue,
Forge of desires, working loue,
Cast downe your eye, cast downe your eye,
Vpon a Mayde in miserie.
My sacrifice is louers blood,
And from eyes salt teares a flood;
All which I spend, all which I spend,
For thee, Ascanio, my deare friend:
And though this houre I must feele
The bitter power of pricking steele,
Yet ill or well, yet ill or well,
To thee, Ascanio, still farewell.

Orestes offers to strike her with his Rapier, and is stayed by Phylander.

Orest. What meanes, Phylander?

Phy. Oh, forbeare thy stroke; Her pitious mone and gesture might prouoke Hard flint to ruthe.

Orest. Hast thou forgot thy oath?

Phy. Forgot it? no!

Or. Then wherefore doest thou interrupt me so?

Phy. A sudden terror ouercomes my thought.

Or. Then suffer me that stands in feare of nought.

Phy. Oh, hold, Orestes; heare my reason first.

Or. Is all religion of thy vowe forgot? Do as thou wilt, but I forget it not.

Phy. Orestes, if thou standest vpon thine oath, Let me alone to answere for vs both.

Or. What answer canst thou giue? I wil not stay.

Phy. Nay, villain; then my sword shall make me way.

Or. Wilt thou in this against thy conscience striue?

Phy. I will defend a woman while I liue, A virgin and an innocent beside; Therefore put vp or else thy chaunce abide.

Or. Ile neuer sheath my sword vnles thou show, Our oath reserued, we may let her go.

Phy. That will I do, if truth may be of force.

Or. And then will I be pleasd to graunt remorse.

Eu. Litle thought I, when out of doore I went, That thus my life should stand on argument.

Phy. A lawfull oath in an vnlawfull cause
Is first dispenc't withall by reasons lawes;
Then, next, respect must to the end be had,
Because th'intent doth make it good or bad.
Now here th'intent is murder as thou seest,
Which to perform thou on thy oath reliest;
But, since the cause is wicked and vniust,
Th'effect must likewise be held odious:
We swore to kill, and God forbids to kill;
Shall we be rulde by him or by man's will?
Beside it is a woman is condemde;
And what is he, that is a man indeed,
That can endure to see a woman bleed?

Or. Thou hast preuaild; Eurymine, stand vp; I will not touch thee for a world of gold.

Phy. Why now thou seemst to be of humane mould;
But, on our graunt, faire mayd, that you shall liue,
Will you to vs your faithfull promise giue
Henceforth t'abandon this your Country quite,
And neuer more returne into the sight
Of fierce Telemachus, the angry Duke,
Where by we may be voyd of all rebuke?

Eur. Here do I plight my chaste vnspotted hand,
I will abiure this most accursed land:
And vow henceforth, what fortune ere betide,
Within these woods and desarts to abide.

Phy. Now wants there nothing but a fit excuse
To sooth the Duke in his concern'd abuse;
That he may be perswaded she is slaine,
And we our wonted fauour still maintaine.

Orest. It shall be thus: within a lawne hard by,
Obscure with bushes, where no humane eye
Can any way discouer our deceit,
There feeds a heard of Goates and country neate.
Some Kidde or other youngling will we take
And with our swords dispatch it for her sake;
And, hauing slaine it, rip his panting breast
And take the heart of the vnguiltie beast,
Which, to th'intent our counterfeit report
May seeme more likely, we will beare to court
And there protest, with bloody weapons drawne,
It was her heart.

Phy. Then likewise take this Lawne,
Which well Telemachus did know she wore,
And let it be all spotted too with gore.
How say you, mistresse? will you spare the vale?

Eur. That and what else, to verifie your tale. And thankes, Phylander and Orestes both, That you preserue me from a Tyrants wroth.

Phy. I would it were within my power, I wis,
To do you greater curtesie than this;
But what we cannot by our deeds expresse
In heart we wish, to ease your heauinesse.

Eur. A double debt: yet one word ere ye go,
Commend me to my deare Ascanio.
Whose loyall loue and presence to forgoe
Doth gall me more than all my other woe.

Orest. Our liues shall neuer want to do him good.

Phy. Nor yet our death if he in daunger stood:

Or. And, mistresse, so good fortune be your guide, And ought that may be fortunate beside.

[Exeunt.

Eu. The like I wish vnto your selues againe,
And many happy days deuoyd of paine.—
And now Eurymine record thy state,
So much deiected and opprest by fate.
What hope remaines? wherein hast thou to ioy?
Wherein to tryumph but thine owne annoy?
If euer wretch might tell of miserie
Then I, alas, poore I, am only she;
Vnknowne of parents, destitute of friends,
Hopefull of nought but what misfortune sends;
Banisht, to liue a fugitiue alone
In vncoth[98] paths and regions neuer knowne.
Behold, Ascanio, for thy only sake,
These tedious trauels I must undertake.
Nor do I grudge; the paine seemes lesse to mee
In that I suffer this distresse for thee.

Enter Siluio, a Raunger.

Sil. Well met, fair Nymph, or Goddesse if ye bee; Tis straunge, me thinkes, that one of your degree Should walke these solitary groues alone.

Eu. It were no maruel, if you knew my mone. But what are you that question me so far?

Sil. My habit telles you that, a Forrester; That, hauing lost a heard of skittish Deire, Was of good hope I should haue found them heere.

Eu. Trust me, I saw not any; so farewell.

Sil. Nay stay, and further of your fortunes tell; I am not one that meanes you any harme.

Enter Gemulo, the Shepheard.

Ge. I thinke my boy be fled away by charme. Raunger, well met; within thy walke, I pray, Sawst thou not Mopso my vnhappie boy.

Sil. Shepheard, not I: what meanst to seeke him heere?

Ge. Because the wagge, possest with doubtful feare
Least I would beate him for a fault he did,
Amongst those trees I do suspect hees hid.
But how now, Raunger? you mistake, I trowe;
This is a Lady and no barren Dowe.

Sil. It is indeede, and (as it seemes) distrest; Whose griefe to know I humbly made request, But she as yet will not reueale the same.

Ge. Perhaps to me she will: speak, gentle dame;
What daunger great hath driuen ye to this place?
Make knowne your state, and looke what slender grace
A Shepheards poore abilitee may yeeld
You shall be sure of ere I leaue the feeld.

Eur. Alas good Sir the cause may not be known That hath inforste me to be here alone.

Sil. Nay, feare not to discouer what you are; It may be we may remedie your care.

Eur. Since needs you will that I renew my griefe,
Whether it be my chance to finde reliefe
Or not, I wreake not: such my crosses are
As sooner I expect to meet despaire.
Then thus it is: not farre from hence do dwell
My parents, of the world esteemed well,
Who with their bitter threats my grant had won
This day to marrie with a neighbours son,
And such a one to whom I should be wife
As I could neuer fancie in my life:
And therefore, to auoid that endlesse thrall,
This morne I came away and left them all.

Sil. Now trust me, virgin, they were much vnkinde To seeke to match you so against your minde.

Ge. It was, besides, vnnatural constraint:
But, by the tenure of your just complaint,
It seems you are not minded to returne,
Nor any more to dwell where you were borne.

Eur. It is my purpose if I might obtaine A place of refuge where I might remain.

Sil. Why, go with me; my Lodge is not far off, Where you shall haue such hospitalitie As shall be for your health and safetie.

Ge. Soft, Raunger; you do raunge beyond your skill.
My house is nearer, and for my good will,
It shall exceed a woodmans woodden stuffe:
Then go with me, Ile keep you safe enough.

Sil. Ile bring her to a bower beset with greene.

Ge. And I an arbour may delight a Queene.

Sil. Her dyet shall be Venson at my boord.

Ge. Young Kid and Lambe we shepheards can affoord.

Sil. And nothing else?

Ge. Yes; raunging, now and then A Hog, a Goose, a Capon, or a Hen.

Sil. These walkes are mine amongst the shadie trees.

Ge. For that I haue a garden full of Bees, Whose buzing musick with the flowers sweet Each euen and morning shall her sences greet.

Sil. The nightingale is my continuall clocke.

Ge. And mine the watchfull sin-remembring cocke.

Sil. A Hunts vp[99] I can tune her with my hounds.

Ge. And I can shew her meads and fruitfull grounds.

Sil. Within these woods are many pleasant springs.

Ge. Betwixt yond dales the Eccho daily sings.

Sil. I maruell that a rusticke shepheard dare
With woodmen then audaciously compare.
Why, hunting is a pleasure for a King,
And Gods themselves sometime frequent the thing.
Diana with her bowe and arrows keene
Did often vse the chace in Forrests greene,
And so, alas, the good Athenian knight
And swifte Acteon herein tooke delight,
And Atalanta, the Arcadian dame,
Conceiu'd such wondrous pleasure in the game
That, with her traine of Nymphs attending on,
She came to hunt the Bore of Calydon.

Ge. So did Apollo walke with shepheards crooke,
And many Kings their sceptres haue forsooke
To lead the quiet life we shepheards tooke (?),
Accounting it a refuge for their woe.

Sil. But we take choice of many a pleasant walke,
And marke the Deare how they begin to stalke;
When each, according to his age and time,[100]
Pricks vp his head and bears a Princely minde.
The lustie Stag, conductor of the traine,
Leads all the heard in order downe the plaine;
The baser rascals[101] scatter here and there
As not presuming to approach so neere.

Ge. So shepheards sometimes sit vpon a hill
Or in the cooling shadow of a mill,
And as we sit vnto our pipes we sing
And therewith make the neighboring groues to ring;
And when the sun steales downward to the west
We leave our chat and whistle in the fist,
Which is a signall to our stragling flocke
As Trumpets sound to men in martiall shocke.

Sil. Shall I be thus outfaced by a swaine?
Ile haue a guard to wayt vpon her traine,
Of gallant woodmen clad in comely greene,
The like whereof hath seldome yet bene seene.

Ge. And I of shepheards such a lustie crew
As neuer Forrester the like yet knew,
Who for their persons and their neate aray
Shal be as fresh as is the moneth of May.
Where are ye there, ye merry noted swaines?
Draw neare a while, and whilst vpon the plaines
Your flocks do gently feed, lets see your skill
How you with chaunting can sad sorrow kill.

Enter shepheards singing.

Sil. Thinks Gemulo to beare the bell away
By singing of a simple Rundelay?
No, I have fellowes whose melodious throats
Shall euen as far exceed those homely notes
As doth the Nightingale in musicke passe
The most melodious bird that euer was:
And, for an instance, here they are at hand;
When they have done let our deserts be scand.

Enter woodmen and sing.

Eu. Thanks to you both; you both deserue so well
As I want skill your worthinesse to tell.
And both do I commend for your good will,
And both Ile honor, loue, and reuerence still;
For neuer virgin had such kindnes showne
Of straungers, yea, and men to her vnknowne.
But more, to end this sudden controuersie,
Since I am made an Vmpire in the plea,
This is my verdite: Ile intreate of you
A Cottage for my dwelling, and of you
A flocke to tend; and so, indifferent,
My gratefull paines on either shal be spent.

Sil. I am agreed, and, for the loue I beare, Ile boast I haue a Tenant is so faire.

Ge. And I will hold it as a rich possession That she vouchsafes to be of my profession.

Sil. Then, for a sign that no man here hath wrong, From hence lets all conduct her with a song.

The end of the First Act.

Actus Secundus.

Enter Ascanio, and Ioculo his Page.

Asca. Away, Ioculo.

Io. Here, sir, at hand.

Asca. Ioculo, where is she?

Io. I know not.

Asca. When went she?

Io. I know not.

Asca. Which way went she?

Io. I know not.

Asca. Where should I seeke her?

Io. I know not.

Asca. When shall I find her?

Io. I know not.

Asca. A vengeance take thee, slaue, what dost thou know?

Io. Marry, sir, that I doo know.

Asca. What, villiane?

Io. And[102] you be so testie, go looke. What a coyles here with you? If we knew where she were what need we seeke her? I think you are a lunaticke: where were you when you should haue lookt after her? now you go crying vp and downe after your wench like a boy that had lost his horne booke.

Asca. Ah, my sweet Boy!

Io. Ah, my sweet maister! nay, I can giue you as good words as you can giue me; alls one for that.

Asca. What canst thou giue me no reliefe?

Io. Faith, sir, there comes not one morsel of comfort from my lips to sustaine that hungry mawe of your miserie: there is such a dearth at this time. God amend it!

Asca. Ah, Ioculo, my brest is full of griefe, And yet my hope that only wants reliefe.

Io. Your brest and my belly are in two contrary kaies; you walke to get stomacke to your meate, and I walke to get meate to my stomacke; your brest's full and my belli's emptie. If they chance to part in this case, God send them merry meeting,—that my belly be ful and your brest empty.

Asca. Boy, for the loue that euer thou didst owe
To thy deare master, poore Ascanio.
Racke thy proou'd wits vnto the highest straine,
To bring me backe Eurymine againe.

Io. Nay, master, if wit could do it I could tell you more; but if it euer be done the very legeritie[103] of the feete must do it; these ten nimble bones must do the deed. Ile trot like a little dog; theres not a bush so big as my beard, but Ile be peeping in it; theres not a coate[104] but Ile search every corner; if she be aboue, or beneath, ouer the ground or vnder, Ile finde her out.

Asca. Stay, Ioculo; alas, it cannot be:
If we should parte I loose both her and thee.
The woods are wide; and, wandering thus about,
Thou maist be lost and not my loue found out.

Io. I pray thee let me goe.

Asca. I pray thee stay.

Io. I faith Ile runne.

Asca. And doest not know which way.

Io. Any way, alls one; Ile drawe drie foote;[105] if you send not to seeke her you may lye here long enough before she comes to seeke you. She little thinkes that you are hunting for her in these quarters.

Asca. Ah, Ioculo, before I leaue my Boy,
Of this worlds comfort now my only ioy.
Seest thou this place? vpon this grassie bed,
With summers gawdie dyaper bespred, (He lyes downe.)
Vnder these shadowes shall my dwelling be,
Till thou returne, sweet Ioculo, to me.

Io. And, if my conuoy be not cut off by the way, it shall not be long before I be with you. (He speakes to the people.) Well, I pray you looke to my maister, for here I leaue him amongst you; and if I chaunce to light vpon the wench, you shall heare of me by the next winde. [Exit Ioculo.

Ascanio solus.

Asca. In vaine I feare, I beate my braines about,
Proouing by search to finde my mistresse out.
Eurymine, Eurymine, retorne,
And with thy presence guild the beautious morne!
And yet I feare to call vpon thy name:
The pratling Eccho, should she learne the same,
The last words accent shiele no more prolong
But beare that sound vpon her airie tong.
Adorned with the presence of my loue
The woods, I feare, such secret power shal proue
As they'll shut vp each path, hide euery way,
Because they still would haue her go astray,
And in that place would alwaies haue her seene
Only because they would be euer greene,
And keepe the wingged Quiristers still there
To banish winter cleane out of the yeare.
But why persist I to bemone my state,
When she is gone and my complaint too late?
A drowsie dulnes closeth vp my sight;
O powerfull sleepe, I yeeld vnto thy might.
(He falls asleepe.)

Enter Iuno and Iris.

Iuno. Come hither, Iris.

Iris. Iris is at hand, To attend Ioues wife, great Iunos hie command.

Iuno. Iris, I know I do thy seruice proue,
And euer since I was the wife of Ioue
Thou hast bene readie when I called still,
And alwayes most obedient to my will:
Thou seest how that imperiall Queene of loue
With all the Gods how she preuailes aboue,
And still against great Iunos hests doth stand
To haue all stoupe and bowe at her command;
Her Doues and Swannes and Sparrowes must be graced
And on Loues Aultar must be highly placed;
My starry Peacocks which doth beare my state,
Scaresly alowd within his pallace gate.
And since herselfe she doth preferd doth see,
Now the proud huswife will contend with mee,
And practiseth her wanton pranckes to play
With this Ascanio and Eurymine.
But Loue shall know, in spight of all his skill,
Iuno's a woman and will haue her will.

Iris. What is my Goddesse will? may Iris aske?

Iuno. Iris, on thee I do impose this taske
To crosse proud Venus and her purblind Lad
Vntill the mother and her brat be mad;
And with each other set them so at ods
Till to their teeth they curse and ban the Gods.

Iris. Goddes, the graunt consists alone in you.

Iuno. Then mark the course which now you must pursue.
Within this ore-growne Forrest there is found
A duskie Caue[106], thrust lowe into the ground,
So vgly darke, so dampie and [so] steepe
As, for his life, the sunne durst neuer peepe
Into the entrance; which doth so afright
The very day that halfe the world is night.
Where fennish fogges and vapours do abound
There Morpheus doth dwell within the ground;
No crowing Cocke or waking bell doth call,
Nor watchful dogge disturbeth sleepe at all;
No sound is heard in compasse of the hill;
But euery thing is quiet, whisht,[107] and still.
Amid the caue vpon the ground doth lie
A hollow plancher,[108] all of Ebonie,
Couer'd with blacke, whereon the drowsie God
Drowned in sleepe continually doth nod.
Go, Iris, go and my commandment take
And beate against the doores till sleepe awake:
Bid him from me in vision to appeare
Vnto Ascanio, that lieth slumbring heare,
And in that vision to reueale the way,
How he may finde the faire Eurymine.

Iris. Madam, my service is at your command.

Iuno. Dispatch it then, good Iris, out of hand, My Peacocks and my Charriot shall remaine About the shore till thou returne againe. [Exit Iuno.

Iris. About the businesse now that I am sent,
To sleepes black Caue I will incontinent;[109]
And his darke cabine boldly will I shake
Vntill the drowsie lumpish God awake,
And such a bounsing at his Caue Ile keepe
That if pale death seaz'd on the eyes of sleepe
Ile rowse him up; that when he shall me heare
He make his locks stand vp on end with feare.
Be silent, aire, whilst Iris in her pride
Swifter than thought vpon the windes doth ride.
What Somnus! what Somnus, Somnus!
(Strikes. Pauses a little)
What, wilt thou not awake? art thou still so fast?
Nay then, yfaith, Ile haue another cast.
What, Somnus! Somnus! I say.
(Strikes againe)

Som. Who calles at this time of the day? What a balling dost thou keepe! A vengeance take thee, let me sleepe.

Iris. Vp thou drowsie God I say
And come presently away,
Or I will beate vpon this doore
That after this thou sleep'st no more.

Som. Ile take a nap and come annon.

Iris. Out, you beast, you blocke, you stone! Come or at thy doore Ile thunder Til both heaven and hel do wonder. Somnus, I say!

Som. A vengeance split thy chaps asunder!

Enter Somnus.

Iris. What, Somnus!

Som. Iris, I thought it should be thee. How now, mad wench? what wouldst with me?

Iris. From mightie Iuno, Ioues immortall wife, Somnus, I come to charge thee on thy life That thou vnto this Gentleman appeere And in this place, thus as he lyeth heere, Present his mistres to his inward eies In as true manner as thou canst deuise.

Som. I would thou wert hangd for waking me. Three sonnes I haue; the eldest Morpheus hight, He shewes of man the shape or sight; The second, Icelor, whose beheasts Doth shewe the formes of birds and beasts; Phantasor for the third, things lifeles hee: Chuse which like thee of these three.

Iris. Morpheus; if he in humane shape appeare.

Som. Morpheus, come forth in perfect likenes heere Of—how call ye the Gentlewoman?

Iris. Eurymine.

Som. Of Eurymine; and shewe this Gentleman What of his mistres is become. (Kneeling downe by Ascanio.)

Enter Eurymine, to be supposed Morpheus.

Mor. My deare Ascanio, in this vision see
Eurymine doth thus appeare to thee.
As soone as sleepe hath left thy drowsie eies
Follow the path that on thy right hand lies:
An aged Hermit thou by chaunce shalt find
That there hath bene time almost out of mind,
This holy man, this aged reuerent Father,
There in the woods doth rootes and simples gather;
His wrinckled browe tells strenghts past long ago,
His beard as white as winters driuen snow.
He shall discourse the troubles I haue past,
And bring vs both together at the last
Thus she presents her shadow to thy sight
That would her person gladly if she might.

Iris. See how he catches to embrace the shade.

Mor. This vision fully doth his powers inuade; And, when the heate shall but a little slake, Thou then shalt see him presently awake.

Som. Hast thou ought else that I may stand in sted?

Iris. No, Somnus, no; go back unto thy bed; Iuno, she shall reward thee for thy paine.

Som. Then good night, Iris; Ile to rest againe.

Iris. Morpheus, farewell; to Iuno I will flie.

Mor. And I to sleepe as fast as I can hie.

[Exeunt.

Ascanio starting sayes.

Eurymine! Ah, my good Angell, stay!
O vanish not so suddenly away;
O stay, my Goddess; whither doest thou flie?
Returne, my sweet Eurymine, tis I.
Where art thou? speake; Let me behold thy face.
Did I not see thee in this very place,
Euen now? Here did I not see thee stand?
And heere thy feete did blesse the happie land?
Eurymine, Oh wilt thou not attend?
Flie from thy foe, Ascanio is thy friend:
The fearfull hare so shuns the labouring hound,
And so the Dear eschues the Huntsman wound;
The trembling Foule so flies the Falcons gripe,
The Bond-man so his angry maisters stripe.
I follow not as Phoebus Daphne did,
Nor as the Dog pursues the trembling Kid.
Thy shape it was; alas, I saw not thee!
That sight were fitter for the Gods then mee.
But, if in dreames there any truth be found,
Thou art within the compas of this ground.
Ile raunge the woods and all the groues about,
And neuer rest vntill I find thee out. [Exit.

Enter at one doore Mopso singing.

Mop. Terlitelo,[110] Terlitelo, tertitelee, terlo.
So merrily this sheapheards Boy
His home that he can blow,
Early in a morning, late, late in an euening;
And euer sat this little Boy
So merrily piping.

Enter at the other doore Frisco singing.

Fris. Can you blow the little home?
Weell, weell and very weell;
And can you blow the little home
Amongst the leaues greene?

Enter Ioculo in the midst singing.

Io. Fortune,[111] my foe, why doest thou frowne on mee?
And will my fortune neuer better bee?
Wilt thou, I say, for euer breed my paine,
And wilt thou not restore my Ioyes againe?

Frisco. Cannot a man be merry in his owne walke But a must be thus encombred?

Io. I am disposed to be melancholly, And I cannot be priuate for one villaine or other.

Mop. How the deuel stumbled this case of rope-ripes[112] into my way?

Fris. Sirrha what art thou? and thou?

Io. I am a page to a Courtier.

Mop. And I a Boy to a Shepheard.

Fris. Thou art the Apple-Squier[113] to an Eawe, And thou sworne brother to a bale[114] of false dice.

Io. What art thou?

Fris. I am Boy to a Raunger.

Io. An Out-lawe by authoritie, one that neuer sets marke of his own goods nor neuer knowes how he comes by other mens.

Mop. That neuer knowes his cattell but by their hornes.

Fris. Sirrha, so you might haue said of your maister sheep.

Io. I, marry, this takes fier like touch powder, and goes off with a huffe.

Fris. They come of crick-cracks, and shake their tayles like a squib.

Io. Ha, you Rogues, the very steele of my wit shall strike fier from the flint of your vnderstandings; haue you not heard of me?

Mop. Yes, if you be the Ioculo that I take you for, we haue heard of your exployts for cosoning of some seuen and thirtie Alewiues in the Villages here about.

Io. A wit as nimble as a Sempsters needle or a girles finger at her Buske poynt.

Mop. Your iest goes too low, sir.

Fris. O but tis a tickling iest.

Io. Who wold haue thought to haue found this in a plaine villaine that neuer woare better garment than a greene Ierkin?

Fris. O Sir, though you Courtiers haue all the honour you haue not all the wit.

Mop. Soft sir, tis not your witte can carry it away in this company.

Io. Sweet Rogues, your companie to me is like musick to a wench at midnight when she lies alone and could wish,—yea, marry could she.

Fris. And thou art as welcome to me as a new poking stick to a Chamber mayd.

Mop. But, soft; who comes here?

Enter the Faieries, singing and dauncing.

By the moone we sport and play,
With the night begins our day;
As we daunce, the deaw doth fall;
Trip it little vrchins all,
Lightly as the little Bee,
Two by two and three by three:
And about go wee, and about go wee.[115]

Io. What Mawmets[116] are these?

Fris. O they be the Fayries that haunt these woods.

Mop. O we shall be pincht most cruelly.

1 Fay. Will you haue any musick sir?

2 Fay. Will you haue any fine musicke?

3 Fay. Most daintie musicke?

Mop. We must set a face on't now; there's no flying; no, Sir, we are very merrie, I thanke you.

1 Fay. O but you shall, Sir.

Fris. No, I pray you, saue your labour.

2 Fay. O, Sir, it shall not cost you a penny.

Io. Where be your Fiddles?

3 Fay. You shall haue most daintie Instruments, Sir.

Mop. I pray you, what might I call you?

1 Fay. My name is Penny.

Mop. I am sorry I cannot purse you.

Fris. I pray you sir what might I call you?

2 Fay. My name is Cricket.[117]

Fris. I would I were a chimney for your sake.

Io. I pray you, you prettie little fellow, whats your name?

3 Fay. My name is little, little Pricke.

Io. Little, little Pricke? ô you are a daungerous Fayrie, and fright all little wenches in the country out of their beds. I care not whose hand I were in, so I were out of yours.

1 Fay. I do come about the coppes
Leaping vpon flowers toppes;
Then I get vpon a Flie,
Shee carries me aboue the skie,
And trip and goe.

2 Fay. When a deaw drop falleth downe
And doth light vpon my crowne,
Then I shake my head and skip
And about I trip.

3 Fay. When I feele a girle a sleepe
Vnderneath her frock I peepe.
There to sport, and there I play,
Then I byte her like a flea;
And about I skip.

Io. I, I thought where I should haue you.

1 Fay. Wilt please you daunce, sir.

Io. Indeed, sir, I cannot handle my legges.

2 Fay. O you must needs daunce and sing,
Which if you refuse to doe
We will pinch you blacke and blew;
And about we goe.

They all daunce in a ring and sing, as followeth.

Round about, round about, in a fine ring a,
Thus we daunce, thus we daunce, and thus we sing a:
Trip and go, too and fro, ouer this Greene a,
All about, in and out, for our braue Queene a.

Round about, round about, in a fine Ring a,
Thus we daunce, thus we daunce, and thus we sing a:
Trip and go, too and fro, ouer this Greene a,
All about, in and out, for our braue Queene a.

We haue daunc't round about in a fine Ring a,
We haue daunc't lustily and thus we sing a;
All about, in and out, ouer this Greene a,
Too and fro, trip and go, to our braue Queene a.

Actus Tertius.

(SCENE I.)

Enter Appollo and three Charites.

1 Cha. No, No, great Phoebus; this your silence tends
To hide your griefe from knowledge of your friends,
Who, if they knew the cause in each respect,
Would shewe their utmost skill to cure th'effect:

Ap. Good Ladyes, your conceites in iudgement erre:
Because you see me dumpish, you referre
The reason to some secret griefe of mine:
But you haue seene me melancholy many a time:
Perhaps it is the glowing weather now
That makes me seeme so ill at ease to you.

1 Cha. Fine shifts to cover that you cannot hide!
No, Phoebus; by your looks may be discride
Some hid conceit that harbors in your thought
Which hath therein some straunge impression wrought,
That by the course thereof you seeme to mee
An other man then you were wont to bee.

Ap. No, Ladies; you deceiue yourselues in mee: What likelihood or token do ye see That may perswade it true that you suppose?

2 Cha. Appollo hence a great suspition growes:—
Yeare not so pleasaunt now as earst in companie;
Ye walke alone and wander solitarie;
The pleasaunt toyes we did frequent sometime
Are worne away and growne out of prime;
Your Instrument hath lost his siluer sound,
That rang of late through all this grouie ground;
Your bowe, wherwith the chace you did frequent,
Is closde in case and long hath been unbent.
How differ you from that Appollo now
That whilom sat in shade of Lawrell bowe,
And with the warbling of your Iuorie Lute
T'alure the Fairies for to daunce about!
Or from th'Appollo that with bended bowe
Did many a sharp and wounding shaft bestowe
Amidst the Dragon Pithons scalie wings,
And forc't his dying blood to spout in springs!
Beleeue me, Phebus, who sawe you then and now
Would thinke there were a wondrous change in you.

Ap. Alas, faire dames, to make my sorows plain
Would but reuiue an auncient wound again,
Which grating presently vpon my minde
Doth leaue a fear of former woes behinde.

3 Cha. Phoebus, if you account vs for the same
That tender thee and loue Appollo's name,
Poure forth to vs the fountaine of your woe
Fro whence the spring of these your sorows flowe;
If we may any way redresse your mone
Commaund our best, harme we will do you none.

Ap. Good Ladies, though I hope for no reliefe
He shewe the ground of this my present griefe:
This time of yeare, or there about it was,
(Accursed be the time, tenne times, alas!)
When I from Delphos tooke my iourney downe
To see the games in noble Sparta Towne.
There saw I that wherein I gan to ioy,
Amilchars sonne, a gallant comely boy
(Hight Hiacinth), full fifteene yeares of age,
Whom I intended to haue made my Page;
And bare as great affection to the boy
As euer Ioue in Ganimede did ioy.
Among the games my selfe put in a pledge,
To trie my strength in throwing of the sledge;
Which, poysing with my strained arme, I threw
So farre that it beyond the other flew:
My Hiacinth, delighting in the game,
Desierd to proue his manhood in the same,
And, catching ere the sledge lay still on ground,
With violent force aloft it did rebound
Against his head and battered out his braine;
And so alas my louely boy was slaine.

1 Cha. Hard hap, O Phoebus; but, sieth it's past & gone, We wish ye to forbeare this frustrate mone.

Ap. Ladies, I knowe my sorrowes are in vaine, And yet from mourning can I not refraine.

1 Cha. Eurania some pleasant song shall sing To put ye from your dumps.

Ap. Alas, no song will bring The least reliefe to my perplexed minde.

2 Cha. No, Phoebus? what other pastime shall we finde To make ye merry with?

Ap. Faire dames, I thanke you all;
No sport nor pastime can release my thrall.
My grief's of course; when it the course hath had,
I shall be merrie and no longer sad.

1 Cha. What will ye then we doo?

Ap. And please ye, you may goe, And leaue me here to feed vpon my woe.

2 Cha. Then, _Phoebus, we can but wish ye wel againe.

[Exeunt Charites.

Ap. I thanke ye, gentle Ladies, for your paine.—
O Phoebus, wretched thou, thus art thou faine
With forg'de excuses to conceale thy paine.
O, Hyacinth, I suffer not these fits
For thee, my Boy; no, no, another sits
Deeper then thou in closet of my brest,
Whose sight so late hath wrought me this unrest.
And yet no Goddesse nor of heauenly kinde
She is, whose beautie thus torments my minde;
No Fayrie Nymph that haunts these pleasaunt woods,
No Goddesse of the flowres, the fields, nor floods:
Yet such an one whom iustly I may call
A Nymph as well as any of them all.
Eurymine, what heauen affoords thee heere?
So may I say, because thou com'st so neere,
And neerer far vnto a heauenly shape
Than she of whom Ioue triumph't in the Rape.
Ile sit me downe and wake my griefe againe
To sing a while in honour of thy name.

THE SONG.

Amidst the mountaine Ida groues,
Where Paris kept his Heard,
Before the other Ladies all
He would haue thee prefer'd.
Pallas, for all her painting, than
Her face would seeme but pale,
Then Iuno would haue blush't for shame
And Venus looked stale.
Eurymine, thy selfe alone
Shouldst beare the golden ball;
So far would thy most heauenly forme
Excell the others all;
O happie Phoebus! happie then,
Most happie should I bee
If faire Eurymine would please
To ioyne in loue with mee.

Enter Eurymine.

Eu. Although there be such difference in the chaunge
To Hue in Court and desart woods to raunge,
Yet in extremes, wherein we cannot chuse,
An extreame refuge is not to refuse.
Good gentlemen, did any see my heard?
I shall not finde them out I am afeard;
And yet my maister wayteth with his bowe
Within a standeing, for to strike a Doe.
You saw them not, your silence makes me doubt;
I must goe further till I finde them out.

Ap. What seeke you, prettie mayde?

Eu. Forsooth, my heard of Deere.

Ap. I sawe them lately, but they are not heere.

Eu. I pray, sir, where?

Ap. An houre agoe, or twaine, I sawe them feeding all aboue the plaine.

Eu. So much the more the toile to fetch them in. I thanke you, sir.

Ap. Nay, stay, sweet Nymph, with mee.

Eu. My busines cannot so dispatched bee.

Ap. But pray ye, Maide, it will be verie good
To take the shade in this vnhaunted wood.
This flouring bay, with branches large and great,
Will shrowd ye safely from the parching heat.

Eu. Good sir, my busines calls me hence in haste.

Ap. O stay with him who conquered thou hast,
With him whose restles thoughts do beat on thee,
With him that ioyes thy wished face to see,
With him whose ioyes surmount all ioyes aboue
If thou wouldst thinke him worthie of thy loue.

Eu. Why, Sir, would you desire another make, And weare that garland for your mistres sake?

Ap. No, Nymph; although I loue this laurel tree,
My fancy ten times more affecteth thee:
And, as the bay is alwaies fresh and greene,
So shall my loue as fresh to thee be seene.

Eu. Now truly, sir, you offer me great wrong To hold me from my busines here so long.

Ap. O stay, sweet Nymph; with more aduisement view
What one he is that for thy grace doth sue.
I am not one that haunts on hills or Rocks,
I am no shepheard wayting on my flocks,
I am no boystrous Satyre, no nor Faune,
That am with pleasure of thy beautie drawne:
Thou dost not know, God wot, thou dost not know
The wight whose presence thou disdainest so.

Eu. But I may know, if you wold please to tell.

Ap. My father in the highest heauen doth dwell
And I am knowne the sonne of Ioue to bee,
Whereon the folke of Delphos honor mee.
By me is knowne what is, what was, and what shall bee;
By me are learnde the Rules of harmonie;
By me the depth of Phisicks lore is found,
And power of Hearbes that grow vpon the ground;
And thus, by circumstances maist thou see
That I am Phoebus who doth fancie thee.

Eu. No, sir; by these discourses may I see
You mock me with a forged pedegree.
If sonne you bee to Ioue, as erst ye said,
In making loue vnto a mortall maide
You work dishonour to your deitie.
I must be gonne; I thanke ye for your curtesie.

Ap. Alas, abandon not thy Louer so!

Eu. I pray, sir, hartily giue me leaue to goe.

Ap. The way ore growne with shrubs and bushes thick,
The sharpened thornes your tender feete will pricke,
The brambles round about your traine will lappe,
The burs and briers about your skirts will wrappe.

Eu. If, Phoebus, thou of Ioue the ofspring be,
Dishonor not thy deitie so much
With profered force a silly mayd to touch;
For doing so, although a god thou bee,
The earth and men on earth shall ring thy infamie.

Ap. Hard speech to him that loueth thee so well.

Eu. What know I that?

Ap. I know it and can tell, And feel it, too.

Eu. If that your loue be such As you pretend, so feruent and so much, For proofe thereof graunt me but one request.

Ap. I will, by Ioue my father, I protest,
Provided first that thy petition bee
Not hurtfull to thy selfe, nor harme to mee.
For so sometimes did Phaeton my sonne
Request a thing whereby he was vndone;
He lost his life through craving it, and I
Through graunting it lost him, my sonne, thereby.

Eu. Thus, Phoebus, thus it is; if thou be hee
That art pretended in thy pedegree,
If sonne thou be to Iove, as thou doest fame,
And chalengest that tytle not in vaine,
Now heer bewray some signe of godhead than,
And chaunge me straight from shape of mayd to man.

Ap. Alas! what fond desire doth moue thy minde
To wish thee altered from thy native kinde,
If thou in this thy womans form canst move
Not men but gods to sue and seeke thy love?
Content thyselfe with natures bountie than,
And covet not to beare the shape of man.
And this moreover will I say to thee:
Fairer man then mayde thou shalt neuer bee.

Eu. These vaine excuses manifestly showe
Whether you usurp Appollos name or no.
Sith my demaund so far surmounts your art,
Ye ioyne exceptions on the other part.

Ap. Nay, then, my doubtles Deitie to prove,
Although thereby for ever I loose my Love,
I graunt thy wish: thou art become a man,
I speake no more then well perform I can.
And, though thou walke in chaunged bodie now,
This penance shall be added to thy vowe:
Thyself a man shalt love a man in vaine,
And, loving, wish to be a maide againe.

Eu. Appollo, whether I love a man or not, I thanke ye: now I will accept my lot; And, sith my chaunge hath disappointed you, Ye are at libertie to love anew. [Exit.

Ap. If ever I love, sith now I am forsaken, Where next I love it shall be better taken. But, what so ere my fate in loving bee, Yet thou maist vaunt that Phoebus loved thee. [Exit Appollo.

Enter Ioculo, Frisco, and Mopso, at three severall doores.

Mop. Ioculo, whither iettest thou? Hast thou found thy maister?

Io. Mopso, wel met; hast thou found thy mistresse?

Mop. Not I, by Pan.

Io. Nor I, by Pot.

Mop. Pot? what god's that?

Io. The next god to Pan; and such a pot it may be as he shall haue more servants then all the Pannes in a Tinker's shop.

Mop. Frisco, where hast thou beene frisking? hast thou found—

Fris. I haue found,—

Io. What hast thou found, Frisco?

Fris. A couple of crack-roapes.

Io. And I.

Mop. And I.

Fris. I meane you two.

Io. I you two.

Mop. And I you two.

Fris. Come, a trebble conjunction: all three, all three.

(They all imbrace each other)

Mop. But Frisco, hast not found the faire shepheardesse, thy maister's mistresse?

Fris. Not I, by God,—Priapus, I meane.

Io. Priapus, quoth a? Whatt'in[118] a God might that bee?

Fris. A plaine God, with a good peg to hang a shepheardesse bottle vpon.

Io. Thou, being a Forrester's Boy, shouldst sweare by the God of the woods.

Fris. My Maister sweares by Siluanus; I must sweare by his poore neighbour.

Io. And heer's a shepheard's swaine sweares by a Kitchen God, Pan.

Mop. Pan's the shepheardes God; but thou swearest by Pot: what God's that?

Io. The God of good-fellowship. Well, you haue wicked maisters, that teach such little Boyes to sweare so young.

Fris. Alas, good old great man, wil not your maister swear?

Io. I neuer heard him sweare six sound oaths in all my life.

Mop. May hap he cannot because hee's diseas'd.

Fris. Peace, Mopso. I will stand too't hee's neither brave Courtier, bouncing Cavalier, nor boone Companion if he sweare not some time; for they will sweare, forsweare, and sweare.

Io. How sweare, forsweare, and sweare? how is that?

Fris. They'll sweare at dyce, forsweare their debts, and sweare when they loose their labour in love.

Io. Well, your maisters have much to answer for that bring ye up so wickedly.

Fris. Nay, my maister is damn'd, I'll be sworne, for his verie soule burnes in the firie eye of his faire mistresse.

Io. My maister is neither damnde nor dead, and yet is in the case of both your maisters, like a woodden shepheard and a sheepish woodman; for he is lost in seeking of a lost sheepe and spent in hunting a Doe that hee would faine strike.

Fris. Faith, and I am founderd with slinging to and fro with Chesnuts, Hazel-nuts, Bullaze and wildings[119] for presents from my maister to the faire shepheardesse.

Mop. And I am tierd like a Calf with carrying a Kidde every weeke to the cottage of my maister's sweet Lambkin.

Io. I am not tierd, but so wearie I cannot goe with following a maister that followes his mistresse, that followes her shadow, that followes the sunne, that followes his course.

Fris. That follows the colt, that followed the mare the man rode on to Midleton. Shall I speake a wise word?

Mop. Do, and wee will burne our caps.

Fris. Are not we fooles?

Io. Is that a wise word?

Fris. Giue me leave; are not we fooles to weare our young feete to old stumps, when there dwells a cunning man in a Cave hereby who for a bunch of rootes, a bagge of nuts, or a bushell of crabs will tell us where thou shalt find thy maister, and which of our maisters shall win the wenche's favour?

Io. Bring me to him, Frisco: I'll give him all the poynts at my hose to poynt me right to my maister.

Mop. A bottle of whey shall be his meed if he save me labour for posting with presents.

Enter Aramanthus with his Globe, &c.

Fris. Here he comes: offend him not, Ioculo, for feare he turne thee to a Iacke an apes.

Mop. And thee to an Owle.

Io. And thee to a wood-cocke.

Fris. A wood-cocke an Owle and an Ape.

Mop. A long bill a broade face and no tayle.

Io. Kisse it, Mopso, and be quiet: Ile salute him civilly. Good speed, good man.

Aram. Welcome, bad boy.

Fris. He speakes to thee, Ioculo.

Io. Meaning thee, Frisco.

Aram. I speake and meane not him, nor him, nor thee; But speaking so, I speake and meane all three.

Io. If ye be good at Rimes and Riddles, old man, expound me this:—

These two serve two, those two serve one;
Assoyle[120] me this and I am gone.

Aram. You three serve three; those three do seeke to one; One shall her finde; he comes, and she is gone.

Io. This is a wise answer: her going caused his comming; For if she had nere gone he had nere come.

Mop. Good maister wizard, leave these murlemewes and tel Mopso plainly whether Gemulo my maister, that gentle shepheard, shall win the love of the faire shepheardesse, his flocke-keeper, or not; and Ile give ye a bottle of as good whey as ere ye laid lips to.

Fris. And good father Fortune-teller, let Frisco knowe whether Siluio my maister, that lustie Forrester, shall gaine that same gay shepheardesse or no. Ile promise ye nothing for your paines but a bag full of nuts, and if I bring a crab or two in my pocket take them for advantage.

Io. And gentle maister wise-man, tell Ioculo if his noble maister Ascanio, that gallant courtier, shal be found by me, and she found by him for whom he hath lost his father's favour and his owne libertie and I my labour; and Ile give ye thankes, for we courtiers neither giue nor take bribes.

Aram. I take your meaning better then your speech,
And I will graunt the thing you doo beseech.
But, for the teares of Lovers be no toyes,
He tell their chaunce in parables to boyes.

Fris. In what ye will lets heare our maisters' luck.

Aram. Thy maister's Doe shall turne unto a Buck; (To Frisco.)
Thy maister's Eawe be chaunged to a Ram; (To Mopso.)
Thy maister seeks a maide and findes a man, (To Ioculo.)
Yet for his labor shall he gaine his meede;
The other two shall sigh to see him speede.

Mop. Then my maister shall not win the shepheardesse?

Aram. No, hast thee home and bid him right his wrong, The shepheardesse will leave his flock ere long.

Mop. Ile run to warne my master of that.
[Exit.

Fris. My maister wood-man takes but woodden paines to no purpose, I thinke: what say ye, shall he speed?

Aram. No, tell him so, and bid him tend his Deare And cease to woe: he shall not wed this yeare.

Fris. I am not sorie for it; farewell, Ioculo.
[Exit.

Io. I may goe with thee, for I shall speed even so too by staying behinde.

Aram. Better, my Boy, thou shalt thy maister finde
And he shall finde the partie he requires,
And yet not find the summe of his desires.
Keep on that way; thy maister walkes before,
Whom, when thou findst, loose him good Boy no more.

[Exit ambo.

Actus Quartus.

Enter Ascanio and Ioculo.

Asca. Shall then my travell ever endles prove,
That I can heare no tydings of my Love?
In neither desart, grove, nor shadie wood
Nor obscure thicket where my foote hath trod?
But every plough-man and rude shepheard swain
Doth still reply unto my greater paine?
Some Satyre, then, or Godesse of this place,
Some water Nymph vouchsafed me so much grace
As by some view, some signe, or other sho,
I may haue knowledge if she lives or no.

Eccho. No.

Asca. Then my poore hart is buried too in wo: Record it once more if the truth be so.

Eccho. So.

Asca. How? that Eurymine is dead, or lives?

Eccho. Lives.

Asca. Now, gentle Goddesse, thou redeem'st my soule From death to life: Oh tell me quickly, where?

Eccho. Where?

Asca. In some remote far region or else neere?

Eccho. Neere.

Asca. Oh, what conceales her from my thirstie eyes? Is it restraint or some unknown disguise?

Eccho. Disguise.

Io. Let me be hang'd my Lord, but all is lyes.

Eccho. Lyes.

Io. True we are both perswaded thou doest lye.

Eccho. Thou doest lye.

Io. Who? I?

Eccho. Who? I?

Io. I, thou.

Eccho. I, thou.

Io. Thou dar'st not come and say so to my face.

Eccho. Thy face.

Io. He make you then for ever prating more.

Eccho. More.

Io. Will ye prate more? Ile see that presently.

Asca. Stay, Ioculo, it is the Eccho, Boy,
That mocks our griefe and laughes at our annoy.
Hard by this grove there is a goodly plaine
Betwixt two hils, still fresh with drops of raine,
Where never spreading Oake nor Poplar grew
Might hinder the prospect or other view,
But all the country that about it lyes
Presents it selfe vnto our mortall eyes;
Save that vpon each hill, by leavie trees,
The Sun at highest his scorching heat may leese:
There, languishing, my selfe I will betake
As heaven shal please and only for her sake.

Io. Stay, maister; I have spied the fellow that mocks vs all this while: see where he sits.

Aramanthus sitting.

Asca. The very shape my vision told me off, That I should meet with as I strayed this way.

Io. What lynes he drawes? best go not over farre.

Asca. Let me alone; thou doest but trouble mee.

Io. Youle trouble vs all annon, ye shall see.

Asca. God speed, faire Sir.

Io. My Lord, do ye not mark How the skie thickens and begins to darke?

Asca. Health to ye, Sir.

Io. Nay, then, God be our speed.

Ara. Forgive me, Sir; I sawe ye not indeed.

Asca. Pardon me rather for molesting you.

Io. Such another face I never knew.

Ara. Thus, studious, I am wont to passe the time By true proportion of each line from line.

Io. Oh now I see he was learning to spell: Theres A. B. C. in midst of his table.

Asca. Tell me, I pray ye, sir, may I be bold to crave. The cause of your abode within this cave?

Ara. To tell you that, in this extreme distresse,
Were but a tale of Fortunes ficklenesse.
Sometime I was a Prince of Lesbos Ile
And liv'd beloved, whilst my good stars did smile;
But clowded once with this world's bitter crosse
My joy to grife, my gaine converts to losse.

Asca. Forward, I pray ye; faint not in your tale.

Io. It will not all be worth a cup of Ale.

Ara. A short discourse of that which is too long,
How ever pleasing, can never seeme but wrong;
Yet would my tragicke story fit the stage:
Pleasaunt in youth but wretched in mine age,
Blinde fortune setting vp and pulling downe,
Abusde by those my selfe raisde to renowne:
But that which wrings me neer and wounds my hart,
Is a false brothers base vnthankfull part.

Asca. A smal offence comparde with my disease;
No doubt ingratitude in time may cease
And be forgot: my grief out lives all howres,
Raining on my head continual, haplesse showers.

Ara. You sing of yours and I of mine relate,
To every one seemes worst his owne estate.
But to proceed: exiled thus by spight,
Both country I forgoe and brothers sight,
And comming hither, where I thought to live,
Yet here I cannot but lament and greeve.

Asca. Some comfort yet in this there doth remaine, That you have found a partner in your paine.

Ara. How are your sorrowes subiect? let me heare.

Asca. More overthrowne and deeper in dispaire
Than is the manner of your heavie smart,
My carelesse griefe doth ranckle at my hart;
And, in a word to heare the summe of all,
I love and am beloved, but there-withall
The sweetnesse of that banquet must forgo,
Whose pleasant tast is chaungde with bitter wo.

Ara. A conflict but to try your noble minde; As common vnto youth as raine to winde.

Asca. But hence it is that doth me treble wrong, Expected good that is forborne so long Doth loose the vertue which the vse would prove.

Ara. Are you then, sir, despised of your Love?

Asca. No; but deprived of her company,
And for my careles negligence therein
Am bound to doo this penaunce for my sin;
That, if I never finde where she remaines,
I vowe a yeare shal be my end of paines.

Ara. Was she then lost within this forrest here?

Asca. Lost or forlorn, to me she was right deere:
And this is certaine; vnto him that could
The place where she abides to me vnfold
For ever I would vow my selfe his friend,
Never revolting till my life did end.
And there fore, sir (as well I know your skill)
If you will give me physicke for this ill
And shewe me if Eurymine do live,
It were a recompence for all my paine,
And I should thinke my ioyes were full againe.

Ara. They know the want of health that have bene sick:
My selfe, sometimes acquainted with the like,
Do learne in dutie of a kinde regard
To pittie him whose hap hath bene so hard,
How long, I pray ye, hath she absent bene?

Asca. Three days it is since that my Love was seene.

Io. Heer's learning for the nonce that stands on ioynts; For all his cunning Ile scarse give two poynts.

Ara. Mercurio regnante virum, sub-sequente Luna Faeminum designat.

Io. Nay, and you go to Latin, then tis sure my maister shall finde her if he could tell where.

Ara. I cannot tell what reason it should bee,
But love and reason here doo disagree:
By proofe of learned principles I finde
The manner of your love's against all kinde;
And, not to feede ye with uncertaine ioy,
Whom you affect so much is but a Boy.

Io. A Riddle for my life, some antick Iest? Did I not tell ye what his cunning was?

Asca. I love a Boy?

Ara. Mine art doth tell me so.

Asca. Adde not a fresh increase vnto my woe.

Ara. I dare avouch, what lately I have saide, The love that troubles you is for no maide.

Asca. As well I might be said to touch the skie,
Or darke the horizon with tapestrie,
Or walke upon the waters of the sea,
As to be haunted with such lunacie.

Ara. If it be false mine Art I will defie.

Asca. Amazed with grief my love is then transform'd.

Io. Maister, be contented; this is leape yeare: Women weare breetches, petticoats are deare; And thats his meaning, on my life it is.

Asca. Oh God, and shal my torments never cease?

Ara. Represse the fury of your troubled minde; Walke here a while, your Lady you may finde.

Io. A Lady and a Boy, this hangs wel together, Like snow in harvest, sun-shine and foule weather.

Enter Eurymine singing.

Eu. Since[121] hope of helpe my froward starres denie,
Come, sweetest death, and end my miserie;
He left his countrie, I my shape have lost;
Deare is the love that hath so dearly cost.

Yet can I boast, though Phoebus were uniust,
This shift did serve to barre him from his lust.
But who are these alone? I cannot chuse
But blush for shame that anyone should see
Eurymine in this disguise to bee.

Asca. It is (is't[122] not?) my love Eurymine.

Eury. Hark, some one hallows: gentlemen, adieu; In this attire I dare not stay their view. [Exit.

Asca. My love, my ioy, my life! By eye, by face, by tongue it should be shee: Oh I, it was my love; Ile after her, And though she passe the eagle in her flight Ile never rest till I have gain'd her sight. [Exit.

Ara. Love carries him and so retains his minde That he forgets how I am left behind. Yet will I follow softly, as I can, In hope to see the fortune of the man. [Exit.

Io. Nay let them go, a Gods name, one by one; With all my heart I am glad to be alone. Here's old[123] transforming! would with all his art He could transform this tree into a tart: See then if I would flinch from hence or no; But, for it is not so, I needs must go. [Exit.

Enter Silvio and Gemulo.

Sil. Is it a bargaine Gemulo or not?

Ge. Thou never knew'st me breake my word, I wot, Nor will I now, betide me bale or blis.

Sil. Nor I breake mine: and here her cottage is, Ile call her forth.

Ge. Will Silvio be so rude?

Sil. Never shall we betwixt ourselves conclude Our controversie, for we overweene.

Ge. Not I but thou; for though thou iet'st in greene,
As fresh as meadow in a morne of May,
And scorn'st the shepheard for he goes in gray.
But, Forrester, beleeve it as thy creede,
My mistresse mindes my person not my weede.

Sil. So 'twas I thought: because she tends thy sheepe
Thou thinkst in love of thee she taketh keepe;
That is as townish damzels, lend the hand
But send the heart to him aloofe doth stande:
So deales Eurymine with Silvio.

Ge. Al be she looke more blithe on Gemulo Her heart is in the dyall of her eye, That poynts me hers.

Sil. That shall we quickly trye. Eurymine!

Ge. Erynnis, stop thy throte;
Unto thy hound thou hallowst such a note.
I thought that shepheards had bene mannerlesse,
But wood-men are the ruder groomes I guesse.

Sil. How shall I call her swaine but by her name?

Ge. So Hobinoll the plowman calls his dame. Call her in Carroll from her quiet coate.

Sil. Agreed; but whether shall begin his note?

Ge. Draw cuttes.

Sil. Content; the longest shall begin.

Ge. Tis mine.

Sil. Sing loude, for she is farre within.

Ge. Instruct thy singing in thy forrest waies, Shepheards know how to chant their roundelaies.

Sil. Repeat our bargain ere we sing our song,
Least after wrangling should our mistresse wrong:
If me she chuse thou must be well content,
If thee she chuse I give the like consent.

Ge. Tis done: now, Pan pipe, on thy sweetest reede, And as I love so let thy servaunt speede.—

_As little Lambes lift up their snowie sides
When mounting Lark salutes the gray eyed morne—

Sil. As from the Oaken leaves the honie glides
Where nightingales record upon the thorne—

Ge. So rise my thoughts—

Sil. So all my sences cheere—

Ge. When she surveyes my flocks

Sil. And she my Deare.

Ge. Eurymine!

Sil. Eurymine!

Ge. Come foorth—

Sil. Come foorth—

Ge. Come foorth and cheere these plaines—

(And both sing this together when they have sung it single.)

Sil. The wood-mans Love

Ge. And Lady of the Swaynes.

Enter Eurymine_.

Faire Forester and lovely shepheard Swaine,
Your Carrolls call Eurymine in vaine,
For she is gone: her Cottage and her sheepe
With me, her brother, hath she left to keepe,
And made me sweare by Pan, ere she did go,
To see them safely kept for Gemulo.

(They both looke straungely upon her, apart each from other.)

Ge. What, hath my Love a new come Lover than?

Sil. What, hath my mistresse got another man?

Ge. This Swayne will rob me of Eurymine.

Sil. This youth hath power to win Eurymine.

Ge. This straungers beautie beares away my prize.

Sil. This straunger will bewitch her with his eies.

Ge. It is Adonis.

Sil. It is Ganymede.

Ge. My blood is chill.

Sil. My hearte is colde as Leade.

Eu. Faire youthes, you have forgot for what ye came: You seeke your Love, shee's gone.

Ge. The more to blame.

Eu. Not so; my sister had no will to go But that our parents dread commaund was so.

Sil. It is thy sense: thou art not of her kin, But as my Ryvall com'ste my Love to win.

Eu. By great Appollos sacred Deitie,
That shepheardesse so neare is Sib[124] to me
As I ne may (for all the world) her wed;
For she and I in one selfe wombe were bred.
But she is gone, her flocke is left to mee.

Ge. The shepcoat's mine and I will in and see.

Sil. And I.

[Exeunt Silvio and Gemulo.

Eu. Go both, cold comfort shall you finde:
My manly shape hath yet a womans minde,
Prone to reveale what secret she doth know.
God pardon me, I was about to show
My transformation: peace, they come againe.

Enter Silvio and Gemulo.

Sil. Have ye found her?

Ge. No, we looke in vaine.

Eu. I told ye so.

Ge. Yet heare me, new come Swayne.
Albe thy seemly feature set no sale
But honest truth vpon thy novell tale,
Yet (for this world is full of subtiltee)
We wish ye go with vs for companie
Unto a wise man wonning[125] in this wood,
Hight Aramanth, whose wit and skill is good,
That he may certifie our mazing doubt
How this straunge chaunce and chaunge hath fallen out.

Eu. I am content; have with ye when ye will.

Sil. Even now.

Eu. Hee'le make ye muse if he have any skill.

[Exeunt.

Actus Quintus.

Enter Ascanio and Eurymine.

Asca. Eurymine, I pray, if thou be shee,
Refraine thy haste and doo not flie from mee.
The time hath bene my words thou would'st allow
And am I growne so loathsome to thee now?

Eu. Ascanio, time hath bene, I must confesse,
When in thy presence was my happinesse,
But now the manner of my miserie
Hath chaung'd that course that so it cannot be.

Asca. What wrong have I contrived, what iniurie
To alienate thy liking so from mee?
If thou be she whom sometime thou didst faine,
And bearest not the name of friend in vaine,
Let not thy borrowed guise of altred kinde
Alter the wonted liking of thy minde,
But though in habit of a man thou goest
Yet be the same Eurymine thou wast.

Eu. How gladly would I be thy Lady still, If earnest vowes might answere to my will.

Asca. And is thy fancie alterd with thy guise?

Eu. My kinde, but not my minde in any wise.

Asca. What though thy habit differ from thy kinde, Thou maiest retain thy wonted loving minde.

Eu. And so I doo.

Asca. Then why art thou so straunge, Or wherefore doth thy plighted fancie chaunge?

Eu. Ascanio, my heart doth honor thee.

Asca. And yet continuest stil so strange to me?

Eu. Not strange, so far as kind will give me leave.

Asca. Unkind that kind that kindnesse doth bereave: Thou saist thou lovest me?

Eu. As a friend his friend, And so I vowe to love thee to the end.

Asca. I wreake not of such love; love me but so As faire Eurymine loved Ascanio.

Eu. That love's denide vnto my present kinde.

Asca. In kindely shewes vnkinde I doo thee finde: I see thou art as constant as the winde.

Eu. Doth kinde allow a man to love a man?

Asca. Why, art thou not Eurymine?

Eu. I am.

Asca. Eurymine my love?

Eu. The very same.

Asca. And wast thou not a woman then?

Eu. Most true.

Asca. And art thou changed from a woman now?

Eu. Too true.

Asca. These tales my minde perplex. Thou art Eurymine?

Eu. In name, but not in sexe.

Asca. What then?

Eu. A man.

Asca. In guise thou art, I see.

Eu. The guise thou seest doth with my kinde agree.

Asca. Before thy flight thou wast a woman tho?

Eu. True, Ascanio.

Asca. And since thou art a man?

Eu. Too true, deare friend.

Asca. Then I have lost a wife.

Eu. But found a friend whose dearest blood and life Shal be as readie as thine owne for thee; In place of wife such friend thou hast of mee.

Enter Ioculo and Aramanthus.

Io. There they are: maister, well overtane,
I thought we two should never meete againe:
You went so fast that I to follow thee
Slipt over hedge and ditch and many a tall tree.

Ara. Well said, my Boy: thou knowest not how to lie.

Io. To lye, Sir? how say you, was it not so?
You were at my heeles, though farre off, ye know.
For, maister, not to counterfayt with ye now,
Hee's as good a footeman as a shackeld sow.

Asca. Good, Sir, y'are welcome: sirrha, hold your prate.

Ara. What speed in that I told to you of late?

Asca. Both good and bad, as doth the sequel prove: For (wretched) I have found and lost my love, If that be lost which I can nere enjoy.

Io. Faith, mistresse, y'are too blame to be so coy The day hath bene—but what is that to mee!— When more familiar with a man you'ld bee.

Ara. I told ye you should finde a man of her, Or else my rule did very strangely erre.

Asca. Father, the triall of your skill I finde: My Love's transformde into another kinde: And so I finde and yet have lost my love.

Io. Ye cannot tell, take her aside and prove.

Asca. But, sweet Eurymine, make some report
Why thou departedst from my father's court,
And how this straunge mishap to thee befell:
Let me entreat thou wouldst the processe tell.

Eu. To shew how I arrived in this ground
Were but renewing of an auncient wound,—
Another time that office Ile fulfill;
Let it suffice, I came against my will,
And wand'ring here, about this forrest side,
It was my chaunce of Phoebus to be spide;
Whose love, because I chastly did withstand,
He thought to offer me a violent hand;
But for a present shift, to shun his rape,
I wisht myself transformde into this shape,
Which he perform'd (God knowes) against his will:
And I since then have wayld my fortune still,
Not for misliking ought I finde in mee,
But for thy sake whose wife I meant to bee.

Asca. Thus have you heard our woful destenie, Which I in heart lament and so doth shee.

Ara. The fittest remedie that I can finde
Is this, to ease the torment of your minde:
Perswade yourselves the great Apollo can
As easily make a woman of a man
As contrariwise he made a man of her.

Asca. I think no lesse.

Ara. Then humble suite preferre To him; perhaps our prayers may attaine To have her turn'd into her forme againe.

Eu. But Phoebus such disdain to me doth beare As hardly we shal win his graunt I feare.

Ara. Then in these verdant fields, al richly dide
With natures gifts and Floras painted pride,
There is a goodly spring whose crystall streames,
Beset with myrtles, keepe backe Phoebus beames:
There in rich seates all wrought of Ivory
The Graces sit, listening the melodye,
The warbling Birds doo from their prettie billes
Vnite in concord as the brooke distilles,[126]
Whose gentle murmure with his buzzing noates
Is as a base unto their hollow throates:
Garlands beside they weare upon their browes,
Made of all sorts of flowers earth allowes,
From whence such fragrant sweet perfumes arise
As you would sweare that place is Paradise.
To them let us repaire with humble hart,
And meekly show the manner of your smart:
So gratious are they in Apollos eies
As their intreatie quickly may suffice
In your behalfe. Ile tell them of your states
And crave their aides to stand your advocates.

Asca. For ever you shall bind us to you than.

Ara. Come, go with me; Ile doo the best I can.

Io. Is not this hard luck, to wander so long And in the end to finde his wife markt wrong!

Enter Phylander.

Phy. A proper iest as ever I heard tell!
In sooth me thinkes the breech becomes her well;
And might it not make their husbands feare them[127]
Wold all the wives in our town might weare them.
Tell me, youth, art a straunger here or no?

Io. Is your commission, sir, to examine me so?

Phy. What, is it thou? now, by my troth, wel met.

Io. By your leave it's well overtaken yet.

Phy. I litle thought I should a found thee here.

Io. Perhaps so, sir.

Phy. I prethee speake: what cheere?

Io. What cheere can here be hopte for in these woods, Except trees, stones, bryars, bushes or buddes?

Phy. My meaning is, I fane would heare thee say How thou doest, man: why, thou tak'st this another way.

Io. Why, then, sir, I doo as well as I may: And, to perswade ye that welcome ye bee, Wilt please ye sir to eate a crab with mee?

Phy. Beleeve me, Ioculo, reasonable hard cheere.

Io. Phylander, tis the best we can get here. But when returne ye to the court againe?

Phy. Shortly, now I have found thee.

Io. To requite your paine Shall I intreat you beare a present from me?

Phy. To whom?

Io. To the Duke.

Phy. What shall it be?

Io. Because Venson so convenient doth not fall, A pecke of Acornes to make merry withal.

Phy. What meanst thou by that?

Io. By my troth, sir, as ye see,
Acornes are good enough for such as hee.
I wish his honour well, and to doo him good,
Would he had eaten all the acorns in the wood.

Phy. Good word, Ioculo, of your Lord and mine.

Io. As may agree with such a churlish swine. How dooes his honor?

Phy. Indifferently well.

Io. I wish him better.

Phy. How?

Io. Vice-gerent in Hell.

Phy. Doest thou wish so for ought that he hath done?

Io. I, for the love he beares unto his sonne.

Phy. Hees growne of late as fatherly and milde
As ever father was unto his childe,
And sent me forth to search the coast about
If so my hap might be to finde him out;
And if Eurymine alive remaine
To bring them both vnto the Court againe.
Where is thy maister?

Io. Walking about the ground.

Phy. Oh that his Love Eurymine were found.

Io. Why, so she is; come follow me and see; He bring ye strait where they remaining bee.

[Exeunt.

Enter three or foure Muses, Aramanthus, Ascanio,
Silvio, and Gemulo.

Asca. Cease your contention for Eurymine,
Nor word nor vowes can helpe her miserie;
But he it is, that did her first transform,
Must calme the gloomy rigor of this storme,
Great Phoebus whose pallace we are neere.
Salute him, then, in his celestiall sphere,
That with the notes of cheerful harmonie
He may be mov'd to shewe his Deitie.

Sil. But wheres Eurymine? have we lost her sight?

As. Poore soule! within a cave, with feare affright,
She sits to shun Appollos angry view
Until she sees what of our prayers ensue,
If we can reconcile his love or no,
Or that she must continue in her woe.

1 Mu. Once have we tried, Ascanio, for thy sake,
And once againe we will his power awake,
Not doubting but, as he is of heavenly race,
At length he will take pitie on her case.
Sing therefore, and each partie, from his heart,
In this our musicke beare a chearfull part.

SONG.

All haile, faire Phoebus, in thy purple throne!
Vouchsafe the regarding of our deep mone;
Hide not, oh hide not, thy comfortable face,
But pittie, but pittie, a virgins poore case.

Phoebus appeares.

1 Mu. Illustrate bewtie, Chrystall heavens eye,
Once more we do entreat thy clemencie
That, as thou art the power of us all,
Thou wouldst redeeme Eurymine from thrall.
Graunt, gentle God, graunt this our small request,
And, if abilitie in us do rest,
Whereby we ever may deserve the same,
It shall be seene we reverence Phoebus name.

Phoe. You sacred sisters of faire Helli[c]on,
On whom my favours evermore have shone,
In this you must have patience with my vow:
I cannot graunt what you aspire unto,
Nor wast my fault she was transformed so,
But her own fond desire, as ye well know.
We told her, too, before her vow was past
That cold repentance would ensue at last;
And, sith herselfe did wish the shape of man,
She causde the abuse, digest it how she can.

2 Mu. Alas, if unto her you be so hard,
Yet of Ascanio have some more regard,
And let him not endure such endlesse wrong
That hath pursude her constant love so long.

Asca. Great God, the greevous travells I have past
In restlesse search to finde her out at last;
My plaints, my toiles, in lieu of my annoy
Have well deserv'd my Lady to enjoy.
Penance too much I have sustaind before;
Oh Phoebus, plague me not with any more,
Nor be thou so extreame now at the worst
To make my torments greater than at the first.
My father's late displeasure is forgot,
And there's no let nor any churlish blot
To interrupt our ioyes from being compleat,
But only thy good favour to intreat.
In thy great grace it lyes to make my state
Most happie now or most infortunate.

1 Mu. Heavenly Apollo, on our knees I pray
Vouchsafe thy great displeasure to allay.
What honor to thy Godhead will arise
To plague a silly Lady in this wise?
Beside it is a staine unto thy Deitie
To yeeld thine owne desires the soveraigntie:
Then shew some grace vnto a wofull Dame,
And in these groves our tongues shall sound thy fame.

Phoe. Arise, deare Nourses of divinest skill, You sacred Muses of Pernassus hill; Phoebus is conquerd by your deare respect And will no longer clemency neglect. You have not sude nor praide to me in vaine; I graunt your willes: she is a mayde againe.

Asca. Thy praise shal never die whilst I do live.

2 Mu. Nor will we slack perpetual thankes to give.

Phoe. Thalia, neare the cave where she remaines
The Fayries keepe: request them of their paines,
And in my name bid them forthwith provide
From that darke place to be the Ladies guide;
And in the bountie of their liberall minde
To give her cloathes according to her kinde.

1 Mu. I goe, divine Apollo.
[Exit.

Phoe. Haste againe: No time too swift to ease a Lovers paine.

Asca. Most sacred Phoebus, endles thankes to thee
That doest vouchsafe so much to pittie mee;
And, aged father, for your kindnesse showne
Imagine not your friendship ill bestowne:
The earth shall sooner vanish and decay
Than I will prove unthankfull any way.

Ara. It is sufficient recompence to me
If that my silly helpe have pleasurde thee;
If you enioy your Love and hearts desire
It is enough, nor doo I more require.

Phoe. Grave Aramanthus, now I see thy face,
I call to minde how tedious a long space
Thou hast frequented these sad desarts here;
Thy time imployed in heedful minde I bear,
The patient sufferance of thy former wrong,
Thy poore estate and sharpe exile so long,
The honourable port thou bor'st some time
Till wrongd thou wast with undeserved crime
By them whom thou to honour didst advaunce:
The memory of which thy heavy chaunce
Provokes my minde to take remorse on thee.
Father, henceforth my clyent shalt thou bee
And passe the remnant of thy fleeting time
With Lawrell wreath among the Muses nine;
And, when thy age hath given place to fate,
Thou shalt exchange thy former mortall state
And after death a palme of fame shalt weare,
Amongst the rest that live in honor here.
And, lastly, know that faire Eurymine,
Redeemed now from former miserie,
Thy daughter is, whom I for that intent
Did hide from thee in this thy banishment
That so she might the greater scourge sustaine
In putting Phoebus to so great a paine.
But freely now enioy each others sight:
No more Eurymine: abandon quite
That borrowed name, as Atlanta she is calde.—
And here's the[128] woman, in her right shape instalde.

Asca. Is then my Love deriv'de of noble race?

Phoe. No more of that; but mutually imbrace.

Ara. Lives my Atlanta whom the rough seas wave I thought had brought unto a timelesse grave?

Phoe. Looke not so straunge; it is thy father's voyce, And this thy Love; Atlanta, now rejoice.

Eu. As in another world of greater blis
My daunted spirits doo stand amazde at this.
So great a tyde of comfort overflowes
As what to say my faltering tongue scarse knowes,
But only this, vnperfect though it bee;—
Immortall thankes, great Phoebus, unto thee.

Phoe. Well, Lady, you are retransformed now, But I am sure you did repent your vow.

Eury. Bright Lampe of glory, pardon my rashenesse past.

Phoe. The penance was your owne though I did fast.

Enter Phylander and Ioculo.

Asca. Behold, deare Love, to make your ioyes abound, Yonder Phylander comes.

Io. Oh, sir, well found; But most especially it glads my minde To see my mistresse restorde to kinde.

Phy. My Lord & Madame, to requite your pain, Telemachus hath sent for you againe: All former quarrels now are trodden doune, And he doth smile that heretofore did frowne.

Asca. Thankes, kinde Phylander, for thy friendly newes, Like Junos balme that our lifes blood renewes.

Phoe. But, Lady, first ere you your iourney take, Vouchsafe at my request one grant to make.

Eu. Most willingly.

Phoe. The matter is but small:
To wear a bunch of Lawrell in your Caull[129]
For Phoebus sake, least else I be forgot;
And thinke vpon me when you see me not.

Eu. Here while I live a solemn oath I make To Love the Lawrell for Appollo's sake.

Ge. Our suite is dasht; we may depart, I see.

Phoe. Nay Gemulo and Silvio, contented bee:
This night let me intreate ye you will take
Such cheare as I and these poore Dames can make:
To morrow morne weele bring you on your way.

Sil. Your Godhead shall commaund vs all to stay.

Phoe. Then, Ladies, gratulate this happie chaunce With some delightful tune and pleasaunt daunce, Meane-space upon his Harpe will Phoebus play; So both of them may boast another day And make report that, when their wedding chaunc'te, Phoebus gave musicke and the Muses daunc'te.

THE SONG.

Since painfull sorrowes date hath end
And time hath coupled friend with friend,
Reioyce we all, reioyce and sing,
Let all these groaves of Phoebus ring:
Hope having wonne, dispaire is vanisht,
Pleasure revives and care is banisht:
Then trip we all this Roundelay,
And still be mindful of the bay.

[Exeunt.

FINIS.

INTRODUCTION TO THE MARTYR'D SOULDIER.

Anthony A. Wood, in his Athenae Oxonienses (ed. Bliss, III., 740), after giving an account of James Shirley, adds:—"I find one Henry Shirley, gent., author of a play called the Martyr'd Souldier, London, 1638, 4to.; which Henry I take to be brother or near kinsman to James." Possibly a minute investigation might discover some connection between Henry Shirley and the admirable writer who closes with dignity the long line of our Old Dramatists; but hitherto Wood's conjecture remains unsupported. On Sept. 9, 1653, four plays of Henry Shirley's were entered on the Stationers' Lists, but they were never published: the names of these are,—

1. The Spanish Duke of Lerma. 2. The Duke of Guise. 3. The Dumb Bawd. 4. Giraldo the Constant Lover.

Among the Ashmolean MSS. (Vol. 38. No. 88) are preserved forty-six lines[130] signed with the name of "Henrye Sherley." They begin thus:—

"Loe, Amorous style, affect my pen:
For why? I wright of fighting men;
The bloody storye of a fight
Betwixt a Bayliffe and a Knight," &c.

My good friend Mr. S.L. Lee, of Balliol, kindly took the trouble to transcribe the forty-six lines; but he agrees with me that they are not worth printing.

The Martyr'd Souldier, then, being his sole extant production, it must be confessed that Henry Shirley's claim to attention is not a very pressing one. Yet there is a certain dignity of language in this old play that should redeem it from utter oblivion. It was unfortunate for Henry Shirley that one of the same name should have been writing at the same time; for in such cases the weakest must go to the wall. Mr. Frederick Tennyson's fame has been eclipsed by the Laureate's; and there was little chance of a hearing for the author of the Martyr'd Souldier when James Shirley was at work. From the address To the Courteous Reader, it would seem that Henry Shirley did not seek for popularity: "his Muse," we are told, was "seldome seene abroad." Evidently he was not a professional playwright. In his attempts to gain the ear of the groundlings he is often coarse without being comic; and sometimes (a less pardonable fault) he is tedious. But in the person of Hubert we have an attractive portrait of an impetuous soldier, buoyed up with self-confidence and hugging perils with a frolic gaiety; yet with springs of tenderness and pity ready to leap to light. The writer exhibits some skill in showing how this fiery spirit is tamed by the gentle maiden, Bellina. When the news comes that Hubert has been made commander of the King's forces against the Christians, we feel no surprise to see that in the ecstacy of the moment he has forgotten his former vows. It is quite a touch of nature to represent him hastening to acquaint Bellina with his newly-conferred honour and expecting her to share his exultation. But the maiden's entreaties quickly wake his slumbering conscience; and, indeed, such earnestness is in her words that a heart more stubborn than Hubert's might well have been moved:—

"You courted me to love you; now I woe thee
To love thy selfe, to love a thing within thee
More curious than the frame of all this world,
More lasting than this Engine o're our heads
Whose wheeles have mov'd so many thousand yeeres:
This thing is thy soule for which I woe thee!"

Henceforward his resolution is fixed: he is no longer a soldier of fortune, "seeking the bubble reputation," but the champion of the weak against the strong, the lively image of a Christian Hero warring steadfastly against the powers of evil.

Though the chief interest of the play is centred in Hubert the other characters, also, are fairly well drawn. There is ample matter for cogitation in watching the peaceful end of Genzerick, who spends his dying moments in steeling his son's heart against the Christians. The consultation between the physicians, in Act 3, amusingly ridicules the pomposity of by-gone medical professors. Eugenius, the good bishop, is a model of patience and piety; and all respect is due to the Saintly Victoria and her heroic husband. The songs, too, are smoothly written.