Agrip. Fear not his waking yet, I made him drink
That soporiferous juice which was composed
To make the queen,[393] my mother, relish sleep,
When her last sickness summoned her to Heaven.
He sleeps profoundly: when his amorous eyes
Had singed their wings in Cupid’s wanton flames,
I set him all on fire, and promised love,
In pride whereof, he drew me forth this purse,
And swore, by this he multiplied his gold.
I tried and found it true: and secretly
Commanded music with her silver tongue,
To chime soft lullabies into his soul,
And whilst my fingers wantoned with his hair,
T’entice the sleepy juice to charm his eyes,
In all points was there made a purse, like his,
Which counterfeit is hung in place of this.
Athelst. More than a second kingdom hast thou won.
Leave him, that when he wakes he may suspect,
Some else has robbed him; come, dear Agripyne,
If this strange purse his sacred virtues hold,
We’ll circle England with a wall of gold. [Exeunt.
Music still: Enter Shadow very gallant, reading a bill, with empty bags in his hand, singing.
Shad. These English occupiers are mad Trojans: let a man pay them never so much, they’ll give him nothing but the bag. Since my master created me steward over his fifty men, and his one-and-fifty horse, I have rid over much business, yet never was galled, I thank the destinies. Music? O delicate warble: O these courtiers are most sweet triumphant creatures! Seignior, sir, monsieur, sweet seignior: this is the language of the accomplishment. O delicious strings; these heavenly wire-drawers have stretched my master even out at length: yet at length he must wake. Master?
Andel. Wake me not yet, my gentle Agripyne.
Shad. One word, sir, for the billets, and I vanish.
Andel. There’s Heaven in these times: throw the musicians
A bounteous largesse of three hundred angels. [Andelocia starts up.
Shad. Why, sir, I have but ten pounds left.
Andel. Ha, Shadow? where’s the Princess Agripyne?
Shad. I am not Apollo, I cannot reveal.