CHURMS. I would thou couldst scare him out of his wits, then should I ha' the wench, cocksure. I doubt nobody but him.
ROBIN GOODFELLOW.
Well, let's go drink together,
And then I'll go put on my devilish robes—
I mean, my Christmas calf-skin suit,
And then walk to the woods.
O, I'll terrify him, I warrant ye.
[Exeunt.
A Wood.
Enter SOPHOS solus.
SOPHOS.
Will heavens still smile at Sophos' miseries,
And give no end to my incessant moans?
These cypress shades are witness of my woes;
The senseless trees do grieve at my laments;
The leafy branches drop sweet Myrrha's tears:
For love did scorn me in my mother's womb,
And sullen Saturn, pregnant at my birth,
With all the fatal stars conspir'd in one
To frame a hapless constellation,
Presaging Sophos' luckless destiny.
Here, here doth Sophos turn Ixion's restless wheel,
And here lies wrapp'd in labyrinths of love—
Of his sweet Lelia's love, whose sole idea still
Prolongs the hapless date of Sophos' hopeless life.
Ah! said I life? a life far worse than death—
Than death? ay, than ten thousand deaths.
I daily die, in that I live love's thrall;
They die thrice happy that once die for all.
Here will I stay my weary wand'ring steps,
And lay me down upon this solid earth, [He lies down.
The mother of despair and baleful thoughts.
Ay, this befits my melancholy moods.
Now, now, methinks I hear the pretty birds
With warbling tunes record Fair Lelia's name,
Whose absence makes warm blood drop from my heart,
And forceth wat'ry tears from these my weeping eyes.
Methinks I hear the silver-sounding stream
With gentle murmur summon me to sleep,
Singing a sweet, melodious lullaby.
Here will I take a nap, and drown my hapless hopes
In the ocean seas of Never like to speed.
[He falls in a slumber, and music sounds.
Enter SYLVANUS.
SYLVANUS.
Thus hath Sylvanus left his leafy bowers,
Drawn by the sound of Echo's sad reports,
That with shrill notes and high resounding voice
Doth pierce the very caverns of the earth,
And rings through hills and dales the sad laments
Of virtue's loss and Sophos' mournful plaints.
Now, Morpheus, rouse thee from thy sable den,
Charm all his senses with a slumb'ring trance;
Whilst old Sylvanus send a lovely train
Of satyrs, dryades, and water[149] nymphs
Out of their bowers to tune their silver strings,
And with sweet-sounding music sing
Some pleasing madrigals and roundelays,
To comfort Sophos in his deep distress.
[Exit SYLVANUS.
Enter the Nymphs and Satyrs singing.