Absalon, triumphant.
Absalon. First Absalon was by the trumpet’s sound
Proclaim’d thro’ Hebron King of Israel;
And now is set in fair Jerusalem
With complete state and glory of a crown.
Fifty fair footmen by my chariot run;
And to the air, whose rupture rings my fame,
Wheree’er I ride, they offer reverence.
Why should not Absalon, that in his face
Carries the final purpose of his God,
(That is, to work him grace in Israel),
Endeavour to achieve with all his strength
The state that most may satisfy his joy—
Keeping his statutes and his covenants sure?
His thunder is intangled in my hair,
And with my beauty is his lightning quench’d.
I am the man he made to glory in,
When by the errors of my father’s sin
He lost the path, that led into the Land
Wherewith our chosen ancestors were blest.
[From a “Looking Glass for England and London,” a Tragi-comedy, by Thomas Lodge and Robert Green, 1598.]
Alvida, Paramour to Rasni, the Great King of Assyria, courts a petty King of Cilicia.
Alvida. Ladies, go sit you down amidst this bower,
And let the Eunuchs play you all asleep:
Put garlands made of roses on your heads,
And play the wantons, whilst I talk awhile.
Ladies. Thou beautiful of all the world, we will.
(Exeunt.)
Alvida. King of Cilicia, kind and courteous;
Like to thyself, because a lovely King;
Come lay thee down upon thy Mistress’ knee,
And I will sing and talk of Love to thee.
Cilicia. Most gracious Paragon of excellence,
It fits not such an abject wretch as I
To talk with Rasni’s Paramour and Love.
Alvida. To talk, sweet friend! who would not talk with thee?
Oh be not coy: art thou not only fair?
Come twine thine arms about this snow-white neck,
A love-nest for the Great Assyrian King.
Blushing I tell thee, fair Cilician Prince,
None but thyself can merit such a grace.
Cilica. Madam, I hope you mean not for to mock me.
Alvida. No, King, fair King, my meaning is to yoke thee,
Hear me but sing of Love: then by my sighs,
My tears, my glancing looks, my changed cheer,
Thou shalt perceive how I do hold thee dear.
Cilicia. Sing, Madam, if you please; but love in jest.
Alvida. Nay, I will love, and sigh at every jest.
(She sings.)
Beauty, alas! where wast thou born,
Thus to hold thyself in scorn,
When as Beauty kiss’d to wooe thee?
Thou by Beauty dost undo me.
Heigho, despise me not.
I and thou in sooth are one,
Fairer thou, I fairer none:
Wanton thou; and wilt thou, wanton,
Yield a cruel heart to plant on?
Do me right, and do me reason;
Cruelty is cursed treason.
Heigho, I love; Heigho, I love;
Heigho, and yet he eyes me not.
Cilicia. Madam your Song is passing passionate.
Alvida. And wilt thou then not pity my estate?
Cilicia. Ask love of them who pity may impart.
Alvida. I ask of thee, sweet; thou hast stole my heart.
Cilicia. Your love is fixed on a greater King.
Alvida. Tut, women’s love—it is a fickle thing.
I love my Rasni for my dignity:
I love Cilician King for his sweet eye.
I love my Rasni, since he rules the world:
But more I love this Kingly little world.
How sweet he looks!—O were I Cynthia’s sphere,
And thou Endymion, I should hold thee dear:
Thus should mine arms be spread about thy neck,
Thus would I kiss my Love at every beck.
Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleep:
And if thou wak’st not soon, thus would I weep:
And thus, and thus, and thus: thus much I love thee.