Song, within.
What a dainty life the Milkmaid leads!
When over the flowery meads
She dabbles in the dew,
And sings to her cow;
And feels not the pain
Of Love or Disdain.
She sleeps in the night, tho’ she toils in the day
And merrily passeth her time away.
Bell. Oh, might I change my misery
For such a shape of quiet!
[From the “Duchess of Suffolk,” an Historical Play, by T. Heywood, 1631.]
A Tragic Pursuit.
The Duchess, with her little child, preparing to escape by night from the relentless persecution of the Romanists.
Duch. (to the Nurse) Give me my child, and mantle;—now Heaven’s pleasure:
Farewell;—come life or death, I’ll hug my treasure.
Nay, chide not, pretty babe; our enemies come:
Thy crying will pronounce thy mother’s doom.
Be thou but still;
This gate may shade us from their envious will.
(Exit.)
(A noise of Pursuers. She re-enters.)
Duch. Oh fear, what art thou? lend me wings to fly;
Direct me in this plunge of misery.
Nature has taught the Child obedience;
Thou hast been humble to thy mother’s wish.
O let me kiss these duteous lips of thine,
That would not kill thy mother with a cry.
Now forward, whither heav’n directs; for I
Can guide no better than thine infancy.
Here are two Pilgrims bound for Lyon Quay,[175]
And neither knows one footstep of the way.