Lyr. Tremblinge, Tyresias, I pray you cease to travell,
And rest a little on the groundy gravell.
Tyr. Who ist calls? Speake, for I cannot see. 200
Cep. Poore frends, sir, to the number of some three.
Tyr. What would you have?
Cep. Why, sir, this is the matter,
To bee plaine with you & not to flatter;
I am the stately river hight Cephise,
Smoother then glasse & softer farre then ice;F. 78r rev.
This nimphe before you heere whom you doe see
Is my owne wife, yclipt Lyriope.
Though with the dawbe of prayse I am loath to lome her,
This Ile assure you, the blind poett Homer 210
Saw not the like amongst his nimphes and goddesses,
Nor in his Iliads, no, nor in his Odysses.
Thinke not, I pray, that wee are come for nought;
Our lovely infant have wee to you brought.
The purple hew of this our iolly striplynge
I would not have you thinke was gott with tiplinge;
Hee is our sonne Narcisse, no common varlett,
Nature in graine hath died his face in skarlett.
Speak then, I pray you, speake, for wee you portune
That you would tell our sunnfac't sonne his fortune. 220
Lyr. Doe not shrink backe, Narcissus, come & stand,
Hold vpp & lett the blind man see thy hand.
Tyr. Come, my young sonne, hold vp & catch audacitye;
I see thy hand with the eyes of my capacitye.
Though I speake riddles, thinke not I am typsye,
For what I speake I learnde it of a gipsye,
And though I speak hard woords of curromanstike,
Doe not, I pray, suppose that I am franticke.
The table of thy hand is somewhat ragged,
Thy mensall line is too direct and cragged, 230
Thy line of life, my sonne, is to, to breife,
And crosseth Venus girdle heere in cheife,
And heere (O dolefull signe) is overthwarte
In Venus mount a little pricke or warte. F. 77v rev.
Besides heere, in the hillocke of great Jupiter,
Monnsieur la mors lyes lurking like a sheppbiter;
What can I make out of this hard construction
But dolefull dumpes, decay, death, & destruction?
Cep. O furious fates, O three thread-thrumming sisters,
O fickle fortune, thou, thou art the mistres 240
Of this mishapp; why am I longer liver?
Runne river, runne, & drowne thee in the river.
Tyr. Then sith to thee, my sonne, I doe pronounce ill,
It shall behove thee for to take good counsell,
And that eft soone; wisdoome they say is good,
Your parents ambo have done what they coode,
They can but bringe horse to the water brinke,
But horse may choose whether that horse will drinke.
Lyr. Oh say, thou holy preist of high Apollo,
What harme, what hurt, what chaunge, what chaunce, will followe, 250
That if wee can wee may provide a plaster
Of holsome hearbes to cure this dire disaster.