[engraved title page]


To this is added ARIADNE'S Com­plaint in imitation of ANGVILLARA; Written by the Translater of TASSO'S AMINTA.

Meglio è il poco terreno ben coltuiare, che'l molto lasciar per mal gouerno miseramente imboschire. (Sannazo.)Sannazaro

LONDON, Printed by AVG: MATHEWES for WILLIAM LEE, and are to bee sold at the Signe of the Turkes Head in Fleetstreet. 1628.

The Speakers are

  • CVPID, in Shepherds weedes.
  • DAPHNE, companion of SILVIA.
  • SILVIA, beloued of AMINTA.
  • AMINTA, louer of SILVIA.
  • THIRSIS, companion of AMINTA.
  • SATYR, in loue with SILVIA.
  • NERINA, Nymphe.
  • ERGASTVS, Shepherd.
  • ELPINE, Shepherd.
  • CHORVS, of Shepherds.

The Prologue.

in habit of a Shepheard.
WHo would beleeue that in this human forme,
And vnder these meane Shepherds weedes,
A god head? nor yet of the lower ranke,
But the most mighty 'mong the gods; whose powre were hid
Makes oft the bloudy Sword of angry Mars
Fall from his hand; sterne Neptune hurle away
His powerfull trident; and great Ioue lay by
His thunderbolt: and thus attyr'de, I hope
My mother Venus shall haue much adoe
To find her Cupid. For the troth to tell,
Sh'has made me play the run-away with her:
Because (forsooth) shee will sole mistresse bee,
And to her pleasure binde my shafts and mee;
And (vaine ambitious woman as shee is)
Would tye me to liue stil 'mongst Crownes, & Scep­ters,
And to high Courts confine my power and me;
And to my vnder-followers graunts to liue
Here in these woods; and to aduance their powres,
Ore silly Shepherds brests; but I that am
No childe, (though childish be my gate and lookes)
Will for this once, doe as shall please me best:
For not to her, but me allotted were
The euer awfull brande, and goulden bowe:
Therefore I purpose to conceale my selfe,
And runne from her entreates; (for other powre
Then to intreate, shee shall not haue ore me:)
I heare shee haunts these groues, and promiseth
Vnto the Nymphes and Shepherds, which of them
Will bring me to her, kisses for their paines,
And more then kisses too; and cannot I
To them shall hide me from her, liberall be
Of kisses, and more too as well as shee?
The Nymphes I know will like my kisses best,
When I shall woe them that am god of loue:
Therefore my mother doth but looze her paine,
Here's none will bring her home her sonne againe.
But to be surer, that she may not know
Or finde me out by the vsd'e markes I beare,
I'ue layd my quiuer, bowe, and wings from me;
Yet come I not hither vnarm'de; this rodd
I carry is my brand transformed thus,
And breathes out vnseene flame at eu'ry pore;
And this dart (though it haue no goulden head)
Of heu'nly temper is; and where it lytes
Inforceth loue; and eu'ne this day shall make
A deepe and curelesse wound in the hard brest
Of the most cruell Nymph, that euer yet
Hath bin a follower of Dianas traine;
Nor will I pitty Siluia more, (for so
Th'obdurate stony-brested Nymph is call'd)
Then erst I did the gentle-hearted Swaine
Aminta, many winters since, when he
(Poore wretch) then young, follow'd her younger stepps
From wood to wood in eu'ry game and sport:
And for more sure effecting my intent,
I'le pause a while till some remorse and pitty
Of the poore Shephedrs sufferings, haue a little
Thawde the hard yce congeal'd about her brest
With mayden peeuishnesse; and when I finde
She growes more plyant, will I launch her brest:
And this to doe with better ease and arte,
Amongst the feasting troopes of the crown'd Shep­herds
That hither come to sport o'hollydayes,
I'le put my selfe; and heere, euen in this place
I'le giue the speeding blow vnseene, vnknowne.
To day these Woods shall heare another voyce
Of loue then ere before, and more refin'de;
My god head heere shall in it selfe appeare
Present no longer in my Ministers:
I'le breath soft thoughts into their courser brests,
And make their tungs in smoothest nūbers moue;
For wheresoere I am, still am I Loue;
No lesse in Shepherds then in greatest Peeres;
And inequallity in people, I
Can temper as I please, such is my power.
The Rurall sound of homely Shepherds reede
I can make equall with the learned'st lyre,
And if my mother (which disdaines forsooth
To see me heere) be ignorant of this,
Shee's blinde, not I
Whom the blind world reputes blinde wrongfully.

To the Reader.

ERe thou readest farther, let mee intreat thee Reader (in fauour of Tasso, the great Author of this small Poeme) to correct these fol­lowing faults escaped in the Printing.

In Act. Pri: Scen: Pri for theenes, read theeues. In the next line for whice, r. which. In Act. Prim. Sce. secund. for giddy Bees, read greedy Bees. In the first Chorus, for Was then, read, Was not then. And in the same Chorus, for Liue wee while, read Loue wee while. In Act. secund. Scen. prim. for eyelids fault, read eyelids foult. In the second Chorus, for read'st thine, read readest thy. In Act. Ter. Scen. Pri. for foft best, r. soft brest. In the next page for he went, r. he wont. In the end of the Scene for they it may, r. that it may. In the third Chorus for Lone no price, read Loue no price. In Act. Quint. Scen. Pri. for tenter lap, r. tender lapp. In VE­NVSSES Search, for your hears keyes, r. your hearts keyes.

Actus Primus.

Scen: Prima.

Daphne. Siluia.
I'st possible (Siluia) thou canst resolue
To spend the faire houres of thy flowring youth
With such contempt of Venus, and her Sonne;
And hast no more desire to be a mother,
And leaue a part of thee (when thou art dead)
Liuing behinde thee? Change (young fondling) change
Thy minde; and do not leade a life so strange.
Daphne, let others pleasure take in loue,
(If in such thraledome any pleasure bee;)
The life I leade contents me well enough;
To chase the flying Deere ouer the lawne
With Hounde, or well-aym'de Flight, and while I finde
[...]hafts in my quiuer, and beasts for my pray,
Ile want no sport to passe the time away.
Fine sports no doubt, and sure a goodly life
For silly mindes that neuer tasted other,
And for that cause alone it pleases thee:
[...]o duller ages heretofore could thinke
[...]cornes and water the best meate and drinke,
[...]efore the vse of corne and wine was founde,
[...]ut now th'are onely eate and drunke by beastes:
And hadst thou but once proou'd the thousand part
Of the deare joyes those happy louers feele,
That truely loue, and are belou'd againe,
Thou wouldst with sighes repent thy time mispent,
And onely call a louers life Content.
And say, O my past springtyde, how in vaine
Spent I thy widowy nights? how many dayes
In fruitlesse lonenesse, which I now be waile?
Why knew I not loues sweetes haue this condition
To bring new ioyes with eu'ry repetition?
Change, change thy minde (young silly one) and knowe
Too late repentance is a double woe.
When I repent the thoughts I carry now,
Or say such words as these thou fayning framest
To sport thy selfe withall; the Floulds shall runne
Backe to their Springs, the Wolfe shall fearing flye
The silly Lambe, and the young Leurett shall
Pursue the speedy Grayhound ore the playne,
The Beare shall in the toyling Ocean breede,
And finny Dolphine on the mountaines feede.
I so, iust such another peeuish thing
Like thee was I, when I was of thy yeares;
So look'd, so pac'de, so goulden trest', so ruddy
My tysing lipp, so in my rising cheeke
The damaske rose was blowne; and I remember
Iust such as thine is now, my minde was then,
And eu'ne such silly pastimes as thine be
I likewise vsd'e; as with lim'd twiggs to catch
Vnwares the fethred singers in the wood,
Track the Deeres footing, till I had intrapt them
And such like; when a gentle louer woode me,
With such a peeuish grace hang downe the head
And blush for scorne I would, as oft thou doe'st;
And that vnseemely forme me thought became mee,
Nay eu'ne dislik'd what others lik'de in me,
So much I counted it a fault, and shame
To be desir'de or lou'de of any one;
But what cannot time bring to passe? and what
Cannot a true and faithfull louer do
With importunity, desert and loue?
And I confesse plainely the troth to thee
So was I vanquisht; nor with other armes
Then humble suff'rance, sighes, and pitty crauing:
But then I soone found in one short nights shade,
What the broade light of many hundred dayes
Could neuer teach me; then I could recall
My selfe, shake off my blinde simplicitie,
And sighing say, here Cinthia take thy bowe,
Quiuer, and horne, for I renounce thy life.
And I hope yet to see another day
Thy wilde thoughts bridled too, and thy hard brest
Yeeld, and growe softer at Aminta's plaints.
Is he not young and fresh, and louely too?
Does he not loue thee dearely', and thee alone?
For though belou'de of many Nymphes, he neuer
For others loue, or thy hate, leaues to loue thee.
Nor canst thou thinke him to meane borne for thee;
For (be thou daughter of Cidippe faire,
Whose sire was god of this our noble floud)
Yet is Aminta ould Siluanus heire,
Of the high seed of Pan the Shepherds god.
The sleeke-browd' Amarillis (if ere yet
In any fountaines glasse thou saw'st thy selfe)
Is not a whit lesse louely then thou art;
Yet all her sweet alurements he reiects,
And madly dotes on thy dispightfull loathings.
Well, but suppose now, (and the heau'ns forbid
It come to more then supposition)
That he falling from thee, his minde remooue,
And cleaue to her, that so deserues his loue;
What will become of thee then? with what eye
Wilt thou behould him in an others armes
Happily twyn'de, and thy selfe laught to scorne?
Be it to' Aminta and his loues, as best
Shall like himselfe; I'me at a point for one;
And so he be not mine, be' he whose he list.
But mine he cannot be against my will,
Nor yet though he were mine, would I be his.
Fye, whence grows this thy hate?
Why from his loue.
Too soft a syre to breed so rough a Sonne;
But who ere sawe Tygars of milde Lambes bred,
Or the blacke Rau'ne hatcht of a siluer Doue?
Thou dost but mocke me Siluia, dost thou not?
I hate his loue, that doth my honour hate;
And lou'de him, whilst he sought what I could graunt.
Tis thou offend'st thy selfe; he doth but crane
The same for thee, that he desires to haue.
I pre'thee Daphne either speake no more,
Or somwhat else that I may answer to.
See fondling see
How ill this peeuishnesse of youth becomes thee;
Tell me but this yet, if some other lou'de thee,
Is this the welcome thou wouldst giue his loue?
Such and worse welcome they deserue, that ar
These theenes of silly maydes virginities,
Whice you call louers, and I enimies.
Is the ramme then to th'ewe an enimy,
The bull to th' bayfer, is the turtle too,
An enemy to' his mate that loues him so?
And is the Spring the season of debate,
That (sweetly smiling) leades to coupling bands
The beast, the fish, the fowle, women and men?
And see'st thou not that e'ury thing that is,
Breathes now a soueraign ayre of loue, and sweetnesse,
Pleasure, and health? behold that Turtle there
With what a wooing murmur he sighes loue
To his belou'de; harke of yon Nitingall
That hops from bough to bough,
Singing I loue I loue; nay more then these,
The speckled Serpent layes his venim by,
And greedy runnes to' imbrace his loued one;
The Tygar loues, and the proud Lion too;
Thou onely sauadge more then sauadge beasts
Barr'st against loue thy more-then-yron brest.
But what speake I of Lions, Tygars, Snakes,
That sensible ar? why all these trees doe loue;
See with what amorous and redoubled twinings
The louing Vine her husband faire intangles;
The Beech tree loues the Beech, the Pine the Pine,
The Elme the Elme loues, and the Willows too
A mutuall languish for each other feele.
That Oake that seemes so rough and so impenitrable,
Doth no lesse feele the force of amorous flame;
And hadst thou but the spirit and sence of loue,
His hidden language thou wouldst vnderstand.
Wilt thou be lesse and worse then trees and plants,
In being thus an enimy to Loue?
Fye silli'one fie; these idle thoughts remooue.
When I heare trees sighe (as belike they do)
I'le be content to bee a louer too.
Well, mock my words, laugh my aduice to scorne,
(Deaffe to Loues sound, and simple as thou art)
But goe thy wayes; be sure the time will come
When thou shalt flye from the now-loued fount
Where thou behold'st and so admyr'st thy selfe;
Fearing to view thy selfe so wrinkled fowle
[...]s age will make thee; but I note not this
[...]o thee aboue the rest, for though age be
[...]uill, 'tis so to all as well as thee.
Heard'st thou what Elpine spake this other day,
The reu'rend Elpine to the faire Licoris,
Licoris whose eyes wrought vpon him that
Which his songs should haue wrought vpon her heart,
[...]f Loue could learne but to giue each his due)
He tould it (Batto' and Thirsis being by,
[...]hose two learn'd louers) in Auroras denne,
[...]er whose doore is writt—hence yee prophane,
[...]ye yee farre hence, which words he writt (sayd he)
[...]hat in that high pitch sang of loues and armes,
[...]nd when he dyed bequeath'd his pipe to him;
[...]here was (he said) lowe in th'infernall lake
A dungeon darke, aye fill'd with noysom fumes
[...]reath'd from the furnaces of Acaron,
[...]nd there all cruell and ingratefull women
[...]ue in eternall horror, and ar fedd
With onely their owne bootelesse plaints and cryes.
[...]ooke to't betimes, or I am sore afraide
[...]here must a roome be taken vp for you,
[...] quite this cruelty to others vsd'e.
[...]nd 'twere but iustice, that those fumes should drawe
[...] sea of sorrow from those eyes of thine,
[...]hat pitty could ne're make to shed a teare:
Well, runne on thine owne course, and marke the ende.
But what did then Licoris (pre'thee tell me)
What reply did shee make to Elpine's words?
How curious th' art in other folkes affaires,
And carelesse quite in what concernes thy selfe?
Why, with her eyes Licoris answer'd him.
How could shee answer only with her eyes?
Yes; her faire eyes wrapt in a sunny smile,
Tould Elpine this; Her heart and we are thine;
More cannot she giue, nor must thou desire.
This were alone enough to satis sie
And serue for full reward to a chast louer,
That held her eyes as true as they were faire,
And put entire and harty trust in them.
But wherfore does not he then trust her eyes?
I'le tell thee; know'st thou not what Thirsis wri [...]
When hurryed so with loue, and loues disdaine
He wont to wander all about the woods,
In such a sort, as pitty moou'de, and langhter
Mong'st the young Swaines and Nymphes that gaz'de o [...] him?
Yet writ he nought that laughter did deserue,
Though many things he did, deseru'd no lesse.
He writ it on the barkes of sundry trees,
And as the trees, so grew his verse. 'Twas this—
Deluding eyes, false mirhors of the heart,
Full well I finde how well yee can deceiue:
But what auailes, if loue inforce my will
To'imbrace your harmes, and dote vpon you still?
Well thus we wast the time in ydle chatt,
And I had halfe forgot, that 'tis to day
We did appoint to meet in th'Oaken groue,
To hunt an houre; I pre'thee if thou wilt,
Stay for me till I haue in yon fresh fount
[...]ayd off the sweat and dust that yesterday
[...]soyld me with, in chase of a swift Doe,
That at the length I ouertooke, and kill'de.
I'le stay for thee, and perhaps wash me too,
But first I'le home a while, and come againe,
[...]or the daye's younger then it seemes to be.
Goe then, and stay there for me till I come;
[...]nd in the meane time, thinke on my aduice,
[...]hat more imports thee, then the chase, or fount;
[...]nd if thou dost not thinke so, thou must know
Thou little know'st; and ought'st thy iudgement bowe
To their direction that know more then thou.

Actus Primus. Scen: Secunda.

Aminta. Thirsis.
AT my laments I'ue heard the rocks, the waters
For pitty answer; and at my complaint
[...]he leau'de boughes murmur, as they grieu'd for me;
[...]t neuer saw, nor euer hope to see
Pitty in the faire and cruell (shall I say
Woman or) tygar? for a woman shee
Denyes to be, in thus denying me
The pitty this my miserable state
Drawes from things sencelesse, and inanimate.
Lambes on the grasse, the Wolfe feedes on th [...] Lambe [...]
Loue (cruellest of things) with teares is fedd.
And though he euer feedes, is neuer full.
Alas alas, loue hath bin with my teares
Long since full fedd, and now thirsts onely for
My bloud; and long it shall not be, ere he
And the faire Cruell drinke it with their eyes.
Ay me, what sayst thou' Aminta? Fye no more
Of this strange dotage; be of comfort man
And seeke some other; others thou mayest finde
As true, as this is cruell, and vnkinde.
Alas how weary'a worke were it for me
Other to seeke, that cannot finde my selfe;
And hauing lost my selfe, what can I gaine
With busie'st search that shall requite the paine?
Dispaire not yet, vnhappy though thou bee,
Shee may in time relent, and pitty thee:
Time makes the Tygar and the Lion tame.
O but so long to hope and be delaid,
Is worse then death to one in miserie.
Perhaps thy suffrance shall not long endure;
For mayds so' inconstant ar of disposition,
That as th'ar soone at odds, th'ar as soone wonne;
Vncertaine as the leafe Howne with each winde,
And flexible as is the bladed grasse.
But gentle Shepherd, let me craue to know
More throughly thy loues hard condition;
For though I'ue often heard thee say thou lou'st,
Thou neuer tould'st me yet, who 'twas thou lou'st;
And well it fitts the nearenesse of our liues,
And frendship, that such counsayls should be none
Betweene vs two, but free to both, as one.
Thirsis, I am content to ope to thee
What the woods, hills, and flouds ar priuy to,
But no man knowes: so neere alas I finde
Th'approaching period of this loathed breath,
That reason 'tis I leaue some one behinde,
That may relate th'occasion of my death,
And leaue it written on some Beech-tree barke,
Neere where my bloudlesse carkasse shall be lay'd;
That as the cruell Faire shall passe along,
She may at pleasure spurne with her proud foote
The vnhappy bones,
And smiling say; loe here, loe where he lyes;
The triumph and the trophey of mine eyes;
And (to encrease her fame,) reioyce to see
In my sad ende her beauties victory
Knowne to the Nimphes, and Shepherds farr and neere,
Whom the report may thither guide: perhaps
(Ab hopes too high) shee may bestow a sigh,
And though too late, with some compassion rue
The losse of him dead, whom shee liuing slue,
And wish he liu'd againe. But I digresse.
On with thy story, for I long to heare't;
Perhaps to better ende then thou supposest.
Being but a Lad, so young as yet scarse able
To reach the fruit from the low-hanging boughes
Of new growne trees; Inward I grew to bee
With a young mayde, fullest of loue and sweetnesse,
That ere display'd pure gold tresse to the winde;
Thou know'st her mother hight Cidippe; no?
Montano the rich Goteheard is her father:
Siluia, faire Siluia 'tis I meane, the glory
Of all these woods, and flame of euery heart;
'Tis shee, 'tis she I speake of; long alas
Liu'd I soneare her, and then lou'de of her,
As like two turtles each in other joy'de;
Neere our abodes, and neerer were our bearts;
Well did our yeares agree, better our thoughts;
Together woue we netts t'intrapp the fish
In flouds and sedgy fleetes; together sett
Pitfalls for birds; together the pye'd Buck
And flying Doe ouer the plaines we chac'de;
And in the quarry', as in the pleasure shar'de:
But as I made the beasts my pray, I found
My heart was lost, and made a pray to other.
By little' and little in my breast beganne
To spring, I know not from what hidden roote
(Like th'her be that of it selfe is seene to growe)
A strange desire, and loue still to be neere
And hourely drinke from the faire Siluias eyes
A sweetnesse past all thought, but it had still
(Me thought) a bitter farewell; oft I sigh'd,
Yet knew no cause I had to sigh; and so
Became betimes a louer, ere I knewe
What loue meant; but alas I knewe too soone;
And in what sort, marke, and I'le tell thee
All in the shade of a broad Beech-tree sitting,
Siluia, Phillis, and my selfe together;
A Bee, that all about the flowry mede
Had hunny gathred; flow to Phillis cheeke;
The rosie cheeke mistaking for a rose,
And there (belike) his little needle left:
Phillis cryes out, impatient of the paine
Of her sharp sting; but th' euerlouely Siluia
Bad her be patient; Phillis (said shee) peace,
And with a word or two I'le heale thy hurt,
And take the sting, and soone the griefe away;
This secret erst the graue Aretia taught mee,
And her I gaue (in recompence) the horne
Of Yuory tipt with gould I wont to were;
This said, the libs of her faire sweetest mouth
Vpon th' offended cheeke shee laid; and straite,
(O strange effect) whether with the sound it were
Of her soft murmur'd verse of Magick powre,
Or rather (as I rather doe beleeue)
The vertue of her mouth,
That what it toucheth, cures, Phillis was cur'de;
And with the paine soone was the swelling gone.
I, that till then ne're dream't of more delight,
Then on the shine of her bright eyes to gaze,
And ioy to heare her speake, (musique more sweete,
Then makes the murmur of a slow pac'de brooke,
When tis with thousand little pebbles crost;
Or the winde pratling' mongst the wanton leaues)
Gan then, eu'n then to feele a new desire
Possesse me, of touching those deare lips with mine;
And growne more suttle then I was before,
(So loue perhaps th'imagination whets,)
I found this new deceipt, whereby to 'aspire
With greater ease to th'end of my desire;
I faynde my selfe stung on the nether lip,
In like sort with a Bee as Phillis was;
And in such manner gan to moane myselfe,
As th'helpe my tongue crau'd not, my lookes implored;
The harmlesse Siluia, pittying stratt my case,
Offred her ready cure to my fayn'd hurt;
But th' vnfayn'd wound I bleede of, deeper made,
And farre more deadly, when those corall twinnes
On mine shee layd. Nor do the giddy Bees
Gather from any flowre honey so sweete,
As I did from those freshest roses gather;
Though bashfull shame, and feare had taught to barre,
Hot kisses from desire to presse too farre,
T'imbathe themselues; and did their heate withholde
And kill, or made them slower and lesse bolde.
But while downe to my beart that sweetnesse glided,
Mixt with a secret poyson, such delight
I inly felt, that faigning still the griefe
Of the sting had not left me yet; so dealt,
That shee the charme repeated sundry times:
Since when till now, still more and more I finde,
For all her charme, she'has left the sting behinde.
Whose paine ere since hath so increas'd vpon me,
As my loue-labouring breast could hold no longer,
But that vpon a time, when diuers Nymphes
And Shepherds of vs in a ring were sitting,
Whilst the play was, each one should softly whisper
Some word in th'eare of her that next him sat;
Siluia (quoth I soft in her eare) for thee
I pine, and dye, vnlesse thou pitty mee.
No sooner heard she this, but downe she hangs
The faire looke, whence I might perceiue to breake
A suddaine and vnwonted ruddinesse,
That seem'd to breat he forth anger mixt with shame;
Nor would shee' in other language answer mee,
Then such a troubled silence, as appear'd
Threatning and deadly; nor since then would euer
Willingly see, or heare me: Thrise the Sunne
His yearly course hath runne, thrise the greene fields
Hath the nak'd Sythman barb'd; and three times hath
The Winter rob'd the trees of their greene lockes;
That I haue tryde all meanes I could, t'appease her,
And nought remaines, but that I dye to please her;
And gladly would I dye, were I but sure
'Twould either please, or but drawe pitty from her;
Each were a blessing to mee, though no doubt
Her pitty were of both the greater meede,
And worthyer recompense for all my loue,
And for my death; yet I were loth to wish
Ought, that too rudely might those eyes molest,
Or do the least offence to that deare brest.
Did she but heare thus much from thee, beleeu'st thou
It would not make her loue, or pitty thee?
I neither knowe, nor can I hope so much:
Shee flyes my speech, as th' Adder doth the charme,
Well be of comfort; my minde giues mee yet,
Wee'll finde a meane that she shall heare thee speak
'Twill come to nought; to begg such grace were vaine,
For mee to speake, where speech no grace will gaine.
For shame dispaire not thus.
Alas iust cause
Bids mee dispaire; my cruell destinie
Was read by the graue Mopso long agon,
Mopso that knowes the hid language of birds,
And vnderstands the force of herbes and founts.
What Mopo's this thou speak'st on? is't not he
That carryes honey in his supple tongue,
And friendly smiles for all he lookes vpon,
But in his heart deceipt, and hidden beares
Vnder his coate a rasor? shame befall him;
The vilde vnlucky doomes he lewdly sells
To silly fooles with that graue looke, and grace,
Ar farr from trueth; take't of my word, and triall.
I'le rather hope (and sure my hope will thriue)
That from this fellowes ydle auguryes
Much happyer fate will to thy loue arise.
If ought by proofe thou know'st of him, good swayne
Hyde it not from me?
Ile tell thee willingly.
When first my hap led mee to know these woods,
I knew this fellow, and esteemed him
As thou do'st: So it fortun'd once, I had
Desire and bus'nesse to go see that great
Wonder of Citties, at whose ancient feete
The broad-fam'd riuer runnes; and him I made
Acquainted with my purpose: he replyes,
And thus began to preach; My sonne beware
Now thou art going to that seate of fame,
Where those deceiptfull crafty Cittizens,
And euill minded Courtiers liue, and wont
To scoffe at vs, and hould in such a scorne
Our plaine distrnstlesse homely carriage;
Be well aduiz'd (my sonne) and presse not there
Where the fresh colour'd robes with gould ar wrought,
Gay plumes, and dayly-varied dressings shine;
But aboue all, beware accursed Fate,
Or thy youths iollity conduct thee not
Vnto that magazine of restlesse chatt,
But flye that cursed and inchaunted place.
What place is that (quoth I?) 'tis there (said he)
Where dwell th'inchantresses that haue the powre
And arte to make men, and their minds transparent;
And what so Diamonds seeme, and finest gold,
But glasse and copper ar; those siluer chestes
That seeme full of rich treasor, ar no more
Then kennells full of filth, and cozen men;
The walles ar built too with that wondrous arte,
That they will speake, and answer them that speake;
Nor in halfe words, and such imperfect sounds,
As wont the Eccos that heere haunt our grounds,
But eu'ry word whole, and entyre repeating:
Nay more then this, the tables, chaires, and stooles,
Hangings, and all that to each roome belongs,
Haue toung and voice, and neuer silent ar;
False lyes there, formde into the shape of babes,
Ar hopping all about; and be he dumbe
That enters there, findes straite a tongue to prate
And lye with; but there is yet worse then this,
May happen thee; thou mayst perhaps be turn'd
Into a beast, a tree, a floud, a flame,
Into a floud of teares, a fire of sighes.
All this he tould mee; and I forward went
To see the Cittie with this false beliefe;
And (as good happ would haue it,) chaunc'd to passe
Along the place where stands that blessed dwelling,
Whence I might heare breath out such melody,
By Swans, and Nimphes, and heau'nly Syrens made,
With voyce so shrill, so sweet and full of pleasure,
That all amaz'd, I stay'd to gaze, and listen:
Before the doore there stood (mee seem'd) as guard
Of the faire showes within, a man in showe
And of proportion stout, and knightly hue;
Such as (for what he seem'd me) made me doubt
Whether for Armes he were, or counsaile fitter:
With a benigne, and milde, though graue aspect,
He highly-faire bespake, and led me in;
He great in place, mee poore and homely man:
But then, what did I see? what did I heare?
Celestiall goddesses, and louely Nimphes,
New lights, new Orpheusses; and others too
Vnuayl'd vnclouded, as the virgin-morne,
When siluer dewes her golden rayes adorne.
There Phaebus shone, inlightning all about,
With all his sister Muses; among whom
Satt Elpine; at which sight, all in a trice
I felt my selfe growe greater then my selfe,
Full of new powre, full of new diety?
And sang of warres, and Knightly deedes in Armes,
Scorning the rurall Songs I wont to make;
And though I after did (for others pleasure)
Turne to these woods againe, yet I retaynde
Part of that Spirit; nor yet sounds my pipe
So lowly as before, but shriller farr.
And through the woods rings with a trumpets voyce.
Afterward Mopso heard me'; and with so vilde,
And sowre a count'nance greeted mee, that I
Became straite hoarce, and was a long time mute;
When all the Shepherds said, sure I had bin
Scar'd with the Wolfe; but Mopso was the Wolfe.
This I haue tould thee, that thou mayst beleeue
How little this mans words deserue beliefe;
And out of doubt, th'hast the more cause to hope,
For that this fellow bids thee not to hope.
I'me glad to heare this troth of him; but now
I leaue my life, and my liues care to you.
Feare not 'tis all my care to cure thy paine:
Within this boure see thou be here againe.
O Happy Age of Gould; happy' houres;
Not for with milke the riuers ranne,
And hunny dropt from eu'ry tree;
Nor that the Earth bore fruits, and flowres,
Without the toyle or care of Man,
And Serpents were from poyson free;
Nor for th' Ayre (euer calme to see)
Had quite exil'de the lowring Night;
Whilst clad in an eternall Spring
(Now fiery hott, or else freezing)
The cheekes of heau'n smil'de with cleare light;
Nor that the wandring Pine of yore
Brought neither warres, nor wares from forraine shore;
But therefore only happy Dayes,
Because that vaine and ydle name,
That couz'ning I doll of vnrest,
(Whom the madd vulgar first did raize,
And call'd it Honour, whence it came
To tyrannize or'e eu'ry brest,)
Was then suffred to molest
Poore louers hearts with new debate;
More happy they, by these his hard
And cruell lawes, were not debar'd
Their innate freedome; happy state;
The goulden lawes of Nature, they
Found in their brests; and then they did obey.
Amidd the siluer streames and floures,
The winged Genii then would daunce,
Without their bowe, without their brande;
The Nymphes sate by their Paramours,
Whispring loue-sports, and dalliance,
And ioyning lips, and hand to hand;
The fairest Virgin in the land.
Nor scorn'de, nor glor'yed to displaye
Her cheekes fresh roses to the eye,
Or ope her faire brests to the day,
(Which now adayes so vailed lye,)
But men and maydens spent free houres
In running Riuers, Lakes, or shady Bowres.
Thou Honour, thou didst first deuize
To maske the face of Pleasure thus;
Barr water to the thirst of Loue,
And lewdly didst instruct faire eyes
They should be nyce, and scrupulous,
And from the gazing world remooue
Their beauties; thy hands new netts woue
T'intrap the wilde curles, faire dispred
To th'open ayre; thou mad'st the sweet
Delights of Loue seeme thus vnmeete;
And (teaching how to looke, speake, tread,)
By thy ill lawes this ill hast left,
That what was first Loues gift, is now our theft.
Nor ought thy mighty working brings,
But more annoyes, and woe to vs;
But thou (of Nature and of Loue
The Lord, and scourge of mighty Kings,)
Why do'st thou shrowde thy greatnesse thus
In our poore cells? hence, and remooue
Thy powre; and it display aboue.
Disturbing great ones in their sleepe;
And let vs meaner men alone
T'inioye againe, (when thou art gone)
And lawes of our Forefathers keepe.
Liue we in loue, for our liues houres
Hast on to death, that all at length deuoures.
Liue we while we may; the wayne
Of Heau'n can set, and rise againe;
But we (when once we looze this light)
Must yeeld vs to a neuer ending Night.

Actus Secundus.

Scena Prima.

Satyr solus.
SMall is the Bee; but yet with his small sting
Does greater mischiefe, then a greater thing.
But what of all things can be lesse then Loue,
That through so narrow passages can pierce,
And in so narrow roome lye hid? sometime
Vnder the shaddow of an eye-lids fault,
Now in the small curle of a shining tresse,
Now in the little pitts which forme sweet smiles
In an inamo'ring checke; yet makes so deepe,
So deadly and immedicable wounds.
Ay me my brest is all one bleeding wound;
A thousand armed darts alas are lodg'd
By that fell tyrant Loue in Siluia's eyes;
Cruell Loue, cruell Siluia, sauadger
Then the wilde desarts; O how well thy name
Sutes with thy nature (Siluan as thou art)
The woods vnder their greene roofes hide the Snake,
The Beare, the Lyon; and thou in thy brest
Hydest disdaine, hate, and impietie,
More balefull then the Lion, Beare, or Snake;
For they will someway be reclaim'de; thou neither
With prayers or gifts; Alas when I present thee
Fresh floures, thou frowardly refusest them;
Perhaps because th'hast in thy louely face,
Fairer then those; Alas when I present thee
Faire Apples, thou do'st scornfully reiect them;
Perhaps because thy bosome beares a paire
Fairer then those; Ay mee when I present thee
Sweet honey, thou disdainfully deny'st it,
Perhaps because thy lips breathe sweeter honey
Then the Bee makes; but if my pouerty
Can giue thee nought that thou hast not more faire,
And louely in thy selfe, my selfe I giue thee;
But thou vniust scorn'st, and abhorr'st the gift.
Yet I'me not so fowle, to be so dispiz'de,
If well I mark'd my selfe, when th'other day
I view'd my shadowe in the watry mayne,
When the winde blew not, and the sea lay still.
The manly tincture of my sanguine brow,
These muscled armes, and shoulders large enough;
This hairy brest of mine, and hory thyes
Proclaime my able force, and manly hood;
Make triall of mee if thou doubt'st of it.
What wilt thou do with these same tenderlings,
On whose bare cheeke the young downe scarsely springs?
With what an art they place their haire in order?
Women in shew, and women in their strength.
Tell mee, who wilt thou haue to follow thee
O're the bald hills, and through the leauy woods,
And fight for thee with Beare, and armed Bore?
No no, my shape's not it thou hat'st mee for,
But 'tis my pouerty thou dost abhorre.
Ah that poore Cottages will follow still
Great Townes example in what ere is ill;
This may be truely call'd the Golden age,
For gould alone preuailes, gould only raynes.
O thou (who ere thou wert) that first didst teach
To sell loue thus, accursed be thy dust.
And thy colde buried bones; nor euer may
Shepherd or Nimphe say to them, rest in peace;
But be they washt with raines, and tost with windes,
And may the passers by, and all the rout
Of beasts with fowle feete spurne them all about.
Base mercinary loue, thou hast deflour'd
Loues noblenesse; and turn'd his happy ioyes
Into such bitternesse, and sharpe annoyes.
Loue to be slaue to golde? O miracle
More odious, and abominable farre
Then the large earth produces, or the Mayne.
But why alas, why do I vexe my selfe
Thus all in vaine? no, let each creature vse
Those armes that Nature for his ayde hath giu'n him,
The Hart his speede, the Lyon his strong pawe,
The foaming Bore his tuske; the womans armes
And powre lye in her beauty', and gracefull shape;
I, since my strength is the best helpe I haue,
And am by nature fit for deedes of force,
Will for reward of all my loue mispent,
Force this proud cruell to my owne content.
And by so much as I can vnderstand,
(As yon Goteherd that hath obseru'd her wayes
Hath lately tolde me) she doth oft repaire
To'a water-fount to wash her selfe; the place
He made me knowe, and there I meane to lye
Close in a thickett neere, t'attend her comming,
And as occasion fits, I'le make her myne,
What can she do then, what auayle alas
Can her hands giue her, or her leggs to flye
(Poore wretch) from me so forcible, and swift?
Let her a good yeere weepe, and sigh, and rayle,
And put on all the powre her beauty hath;
If once I catch her by the snary curles,
We will not part in hast, till I haue bath'd
(For my reuenge) my armes in her warme bloud.

Actus Secundus. Scen: Secunda.

Daphne. Thirsis.
THirsis (as I haue tolde thee) well I knowe
How well, Aminta Siluia loues; heau'n knowes
How many friendly offices I haue,
And will do for him; and so much the rather
For that thou do'st intreate in his behalfe;
But I would sooner take in hand to tame
A Beare, or Tygar then a fond young wench;
The silly thing (simple as faire) sees not
How sharpe and burning be her beauties rayes,
But smiles or cries; yet wounds where ere shee goe,
And fondly knowes not if shee hurt or no.
Tush there's no wench so simple but shee knowes
Soone as shee leaues the cradle, how to seeme
Spruce, and delightfull; and what armes to vse
To hurte, or kill outright, and what to heale
A wounded heart, and giue it life withall.
What Master is't that shewes 'hem all these arts?
He that instructs the birds to sing and flye;
The Fish to swimme, the Ramme to butt, the Bull
To vse his horne, the Peacocke to display
His many-ey'ed-plumes beautie to the day.
How name you this same teacher?
H'has a name.
Go trifler.
Why I pre'thee art not thou
Fitt enough to teach twenty girles their lessons?
I'le warrant thee, I; and yet to speake the troth
They neede no teacher; Nature teacheth them
Although the nurse and mother haue a part.
Come y'ar vnhappy; but in earnest now
I'me not resolu'd Siluia so simple is
As by her words shee seemes; for th'other day
One deede of hers put me in doubt of her:
I found her in those broad fields neere the towne,
Where amongst drown'de grounds, lies a little Isle,
And round about, a water cleare, and calme;
There o're shee hung her head; and seem'd (me thought)
Full proud to see her selfe, and tooke aduice
O'th'water, in what order best to lay
Her locks, and them about her brow display,
And ouer them her vaile, and ouer that
The flowres shee carried in her lapp; now heere
Shee hung a Lilly, there shee stuck a Rose;
Then layd them to her neck, and to her cheeke,
As to try whethers hew the other past;
At last, (as ioyfull of the victory)
Shee smiling seem'd to say, the day is mine;
Nor do I weare you for my ornament,
But for your owne disgrace (counterfait floures)
To shew how much my beauty passeth yours.
But while shee thus stood decking of her selfe,
Shee turn'd her eye by chance, and soone had found
That I had noted her, and blusht a mayne,
Downe fell her flowres; I laught to see her blush;
And she blusht more, perceiuing that I laught;
But, (for of one side of her face, the haire
Was hung abroad, and th'other not,) shee turnes
To th'water once on twice, to mend the fault,
And gaz'd as 'twere by stealth, (fearfull belike
That I too neerly ey'd her,) where she sawe
Her haire (though orderlesse, yet) hanging so,
As grac'd her well; I saw, and saw her not.
All this I will beleeue: guest I not well?
Thou didst: but yet I will be bolde to say
That I haue seldome seene a Shepherdesse
Or Nimph what euer of her yeares discreeter;
Nor was I such when I was of her yeares:
The world growes olde, and of a troth I thinke
It growes as ill as olde.
True; heretofore
Those of the Cittie were not wont so much
To haunt these woods as now adayes they do,
Nor meaner people in the village bredd,
To come so much among the cittizens;
Their blouds are now more mingled, and their cu­stomes.
But leaue we this discourse; and tell me now
Could'st thou not finde a time Aminta might
Either alone, or in thy presence come
To speake to Siluia?
I cannot tell;
Siluia is nyce and strange beyond all measure.
And he nicely respest full beyond measure.
He's i'the wrong then, fye on such a louer;
Nice (quoth you?) counsel him to leaue that vice,
If he will learne to loue; he must be bould,
And vrge with speeding importunitie;
Let him a little filtch; if that be vaine,
Then rauish: tush know'st thou what women ar?
They flye; but eu'ry step wish to be tane;
What they denie, they wish were snatcht frō them;
They fight, but still wish to be ouercome.
I tell thee this Thirsis, but in thine eare:
Blabb not what I' say to thee', I cannot speake
Inrime (thou know'st) but if I could, I'de say
Somewhat more worth then rime to beare away.
Feare not, I will not speake
Ought from thy lips what ere they ope to me.
But gentle Daphne, for the deare dayes sake
Of thy past youth, helpe me to helpe Aminte
Poore wretch that dyes.
Ah what a propper stile
Of coniuration (foole) hast thou deuiz'd
To mooue me with; bringing my youth to minde,
The pleasure I haue lost, and paine I finde.
But what would'st haue me doe?
Th'art not to seeke of wit, nor yet of powre,
Do but dispose thy will, I'le aske no more.
Well then, I'le tell thee: wee ar going now
Siluia and I together all alone
Vnto Diana's fount, to wash our selues;
There where the planetree with his safer shade
Ore-spreds the coole streame, and is wont t'inuite
The weary huntresses to rest, and coole them:
There shee'll vncase her so-beloued limbs.
And what of that?
What of that? silly th'art
Or else thou would'st not aske me what of that.
Suppose I hit thy meaning, who knowes yet
If he will dare to meete her there or no?
No? Why then truely let him stay till shee
Come to woee him; and when will that be trow yee?
Do shee or not, he does deserue shee did.
But now let's leaue this theame; and talk a word
Or two of thee; say Thirsis, wilt not thou
Resolue at last to be a louer too?
Th'art not yet olde; fewe more then thirty yeeres
Haue ouer-slipt thee, and I well remember
Thy infancie; wilt thou liue ioylesse still?
For only 'a louers is the happy life.
The ioyes of Venus he inioyes as well,
That shunning louers painfull miseries,
Tastes of the sweet, and lets the sowre alone.
O but that sweet growes dull, and gluts betime,
That is not seas'ned with a little sowre.
Better 'tis to be glutted (of the two)
Then pine before one feedes, and after two.
But if the foode be pleasing, and possest,
'Tis good before; and in the tasting best.
No man can so possesse what he desires,
As iust t'inioy it then when's hunger craues it.
Who hopes to finde, that neuer meanes to seeke?
'Tis dangerous to seeke that which once found,
Pleases a little, but not found, torments
Much more; no, no, I'le go no more a wooing;
Cupid shall triumph ouer me no more;
I know a little what those suffrings be,
Let others prooue them if they list for me.
Belike th'hast not inioy'd loues pleasure yet:
Nor do I wish to buy the plague so deare.
You may perhaps be forc'd against your will;
Who keepes himselfe farr off, cannot be forc'd.
Who can be far frō loue?
Who feares & flies.
But what auayles to flye from him hath wings?
Loue but new borne, hath wings but short & small,
And hardly strong enough to flye with all.
Be'ing young, we know him not; but after, long;
And when we feele him once, he's growne too strong.
Not if we neuer felt him grow before.
Well; yee shall hau't; wee'll see how well you will
Bridle your eye and heart; but I protest
Since thou canst play both Hound and Hare so well,
If ere I heare thee call and cry for helpe,
I will not mooue a foote, nor yet a finger,
Nor stirr an eye, nor speake a word for thee.
Would'st haue the heart (cruell) to see me dye?
If thou wouldst haue me loue, why loue thou mee,
And lett's now make a louing bargaine on't.
Away you mock me now; well well, perhaps
You do not merit such a loue as mine.
I'ue seene many a ladd as fine as you
Deceiu'd with a faire seeming painted face.
I doe not jest nor mock thee; this is but
A couler now to barr me louing thee,
As 'tis the custome of you all to do:
But if you will not loue me, I'm content,
To liue still as I do.
I, liue so still,
Happyer then twenty others; liue in ease;
Perhaps vnwares ease may ingender loue.
O Daphne, a God this ease hath bred mee; he
That hath appear'd a second god to mee
By whom so many heards and flocks ar fedd
From th'one to th'other Sea, vpon the faire
And fruitfull Plaines, and on the craggy backs
Of the steepe Apenines: he said to mee,
When as he made me his; Thirsis (quoth he)
Let others chase the Wolfe, and Thiefe, and keepe
A watchfull eye ouer my walled sheepe;
Let others care be to reward, or punish
My Ministers; let others feede and tende
My flocks, and keep the accoumpt of milke & wooll;
And take, and pay: take thou thine ease, and sing,
Wherefore 'tis reason good, I let goe by
All looser straines, and vainer carrolings;
And sing his Auncesters, and their high praise,
Who is to me Ioue, and Apollo both;
Since in his lookes and deeds he both resembles
Issue of Saturne and of Heau'ne. Poore Muse
To meane for such a taske; and yet how e're
Horce voic'd, or clere she sings, he not contemns her.
I sing not him, too high for my lowe rimes,
Whom silent adoration onely can
Worthily honour; but still shall his altars
Be sprinckled with my floures, and ne're without
My humble Incense fuming all about.
Which simple (yet deuoute) religion in me
When it shall leaue my heart, the Harts shal feede
[...]n th'ayre on ayre; and so the flouds shall change
[...]heir bedd, and course; that Sone shall Persia greete,
[...]nd the large Tigris beat the French-Alpes feete.
O thou fly'st high; pre'thee descend a little,
And to our purpose.
Then heere lyes the poynt;
That as thou go'st with her vnto the fount,
Thou vse thy best cunning to make her comming,
And heare Aminta speake; meane time my care
Shall be to make Aminta meete you there.
I feare my taske will be the hard'st of both.
Onn then o' Gods name.
Yes, I goe; but Thirsis,
Wee were discoursing of an other matter.
If mine eye faile me not, yon same should be
Aminta, that comes hitherward; 'tis he.

Actus Secundus. Scena Tertia.

Aminta. Thirsis.
NOw shall I see what Thirsi' has done for me;
And if he haue done nothing, ere my woes
Melt me'into nothing, I'le go kill my selfe
Before the proud face of that cruell mayde,
That so delights to see my hearts deepe wound
Made by her murth'ring eyes, as sure it can
Please her no lesse, to see her sad command
Fulfill'd on my owne brest with my owne hand.
Newes, newes Aminta, happy newes I bring thee;
Cleare then thy browe, and cast thy griefes away.
What is't thou sayst Thirsis, what bringst thou me,
Life, or death? new ioy, or new miserie?
I bring thee life and ioy, if thou but dare
To goe and meet them; but I tell thee true
Thou must not faint but play the man Aminta.
Why against whom should I aduance my force?
Suppose the Nymphe thou lou'st were in a wood
That (wal'de about with mountaines of sharpe briars)
Were full of Tygars, and of greedy Lyons,
Wouldst thou go thither?
Yes, more cheerefully,
Then village-lasse to the daunce o'holly dayes.
Were she ingag'd 'mongst troopes of armed theeues,
VVould'st thou goe thither?
Yes more greedily,
Then runnes the thirstie Hart to the coole streeme.
O but a harder taske askes greater labour.
Why I would passe through the deuouring torrēts,
VVhen the dissolu'de snowes downe the mountaines raine:
And headlong runne t'ingulph them in the mayne:
Or through the fire; or indeed downe to hell;
If any place a hell may termed bee,
That shall containe so heau'nly a thing as shee.
But pre'thee tell me all.
Here then.
Say on.
Siluia' at a Fount, starnak'd, and all alone
Attends thy comming; dare'st thou now goe thither?
Siluia? and all alone? and staies for me?
Yes all alone, vnlesse haply there bee
Daphne', who thou know'st is all in all for thee. (ah do not
I, naked, but.
But what?
Mangle me thus.
Why but she does not knowe
That you should meete her there; though (as I say)
Shee'll there attend you, do but hast away.
Bitter conclusion; that infects, and poysons
What euer sweet thy former speeches promis'd,
Why with such art
Do'st thou delude me, cruell as thou art?
Is't not enough
Think'st thou for me thus full of griefe to be,
But thou must come to mock my misery?
Be rul'd by me Aminta, and be happy;
What should I doe?
Why not let slip that good
That fortune (much thy friend) presents thee with.
The beau'ns forbid that euer I should do
Ought to displease her; nor yet euer did I
The thing that iustly merited her frowne;
Vulesse it were my louing her so much;
Which yet if'twere a fault, was none of mine;
It was her beauties; and by beau'n I vowe
I meane not to begin to'offend her now.
Why but yet tell me, if'twere in thy powre
To leaue to loue her, wouldst thou do't to please her?
No sure; loue will not let me say, or thinke
That ere I should desist from louing her,
Though'twere in my owne powre.
Why an't be so,
In her dispight whether she will or no,
Youl'd loue her,
No, no, not in spight of her,
But I would loue her.
Yet against her will?
Why yes, against her will.
And wherefore then
Dare you not take of her against her will,
That which (although't erkes thee at first to doo)
In th'end will quite thy paines and please her too.
Thirsis, let loue that speakes within my brest
Make answer for me; thou, (through thy long vse
Of reas'ning much of loue) too suttle art
For me; loue tyes my tongue, who tyed my heart.
Why then thou wilt not goe?
Yes, yes, I'le goe;
But not where you would haue me:
Whether then?
To death; if this be all y'haue done for me.
Is this that I haue done then nothing worth?
And do'st thou thinke Daphne would counsaile thee
To goe, vnlesse shee saw a little more
Into thy Siluias heart, then thou and I?
Suppose shee has reueal'd her minde to her;
Thinke you shee would abide that any else
Should know't? or know she knew it ere the more?
So that to couet an expresse consent
On her part, thinke you not it were to seeke
What in all reason must offend her most?
VVhere's this your care then, and desire to please her?
Perhaps shee would that your delight should bee
Your owne theft, not her gift; what skil't I pray.
VVhether you haue it this, or th'other way?
VVhat certainty' haue I that her minde is such?
See still how sillily you seeke to haue
That certainty which must of force displease her;
And which 'boue all things else you should not craue:
But who assures you to the contrary
But that she may meane so as well as not?
Now if shee did, and that you would not goe;
(Since both the doubts and dangers equall be)
Is not a valiant then a base death better?
Th'art mute; th'art ouerthrowne;
Confesse it then;
Nor doubt but this thy ouerehrow will bee
Th'occasion of a greater victorie.
VVhy stay?
Know'st not how swiftly the time runnes away?
Pre'thee lett's thinke first what, and how to doe.
Wee'll thinke of all things as we goe; but he
That thinkes too much, does little, commonly.
O Loue, of whom, and where is taught
This thy so doubtfull Arte, and long
Of louing, that instructs the tounge
At ease to vtter eu'ry thought.
That the wilde fant' sie doth deuize?
Whilst with thy wings aboue the heau'n it flyes.
The learned Athens taught it not;
Nor was it to Liceus knowne;
Apollo, god of Helicon
For all his knowledge knew it not.
Faint and colde is what he speakes,
Nor from his voice such a fire breakes
As doth thy greatnesse (Loue) befitt:
Nor can his witt,
Or thoughts vnto the height arise
Of thy profounder misteries:
Thou readst thine owne lesson best
(Great Loue) and onely'art by thy selfe exprest.
Thou of thy grace and bounty daynest
T'instruct th' vnlearnedest, and plainest
Men of thousands, how to see
And reade those wondrous things that be
Writ with thine owne hand in an others eyes.
Thou teachest those thou louest best,
A purer language then the rest,
And with smoth ease to breath their fantasies.
Nay often times, such is thy rare
And most misterious eloquence,
That in a confusd'e broken sence
And halfe words that imperfect are,
The heart is best reueal'd and seene;
And such perhaps mooue more by farr
Then many words that better pollisht beene.
Yea eu'ne Loues silence oft doth more expresse
Then words could doe, the mindes vnhappinesse.
(Loue) let others if they please
Turne ore the workes of Socrates,
And those great volumes of the wise;
While I but reade what's writ in two faire eyes.
Perhaps the penn that higher climes,
Will but halt after the rimes,
That in the rough and vncooth tree
With my rude artlesse hand ingrauen bee.

Actus Tertius.

Scena Prima.

Thirsis. Chorus.
O Sauadge cruelty'; O th'ungratefull minde
Of a most most vngratefull Mayde; O Sexe
Full of ingratitude: and thou lewd Nature,
Nigligent mistresse, and maker of things,
Wherefore, ah wherefore mad'st thou womankinde
So faire, and sweet, and milde ouely without;
And didst forget to make their insides good?
Poore youth, I feare 'has made away himselfe
Ere this; alas I cannot finde him out:
Three houres from place to place, & wher I left him
Haue I bin seeking him; but cannot finde
Or him, or any print of his strai'd foot:
Sure sure hee's dead.
I will goe aske yon Swaines I see, if they
Can tell me any tydings of him. Friends
Did you not see Aminta, or happly heare
Newes of him lately?
Thou dost seeme to me
Full of distraction, what is't troubles thee?
How cam'st thou so'out of breath, and to sweat so?
What ayl'st thou? say what is't thou fear'st or wantest;
I feare Amintas harmes; tell me I pray'
Saw yee him not?
Not since he went with you
A while agon, but what d'yee feare in him.
Alas I feare
Lest he haue slaine himselfe with his owne hand.
Slaine with his owne hand? how so? what might cause
Such vengeance on himselfe?
VVhy loue, and hate.
Two powerfull enemies:
VVhat cannot they doe, when they meet together?
But speake yet clearer.
His too much loue, and her too much disdaine
VVhom he lou'd so.
Ah tell thy story out;
This is a way of passage, and ere long
Perhaps some one will bring vs newes of him,
Or himselfe come.
I'le tell it willingly;
For 'tis not iust that such ingratitude
Should rest without the due deserued blame.
Aminta heard (and I had told it him,
And was his conduct too, the gods forgiue mee)
That Siluia was with Daphne gone to'a Founte
To wash themselues; thither then (not without
A thousand doubts and feares in him) we went;
And twenty times we turn'd againe, (his heart
Being all against it,) but that I was faine
Almost against his will to force him onn;
But drawing neere vnto the Fount, we heard
A sadd lamenting voice; and all at once
Daphne wee spy'de wringing her hands, and straite
Seeing vs comming, ah runne, runne (shee cryes)
Siluia's deflowr'd. Th'inamoured Aminta
No sooner heard it, but swift as a Pard
He flung away; and I made after him:
Nor farre we went, when loe before our eyes
We saw the young mayde nak'd as at her birth,
Fast fettr'd by the faire haire to a tree;
About whose branches in a thousand knotts
The curles were link'd, and entertwin'de, the girdle
That wont to decke, and guard her mayden loynes,
Seru'd as an actor in her rauishment;
Binding her armes about the trees hard trunke,
The tree it selfe became a helper too,
For by her feete a branch or two grew out,
Which (easie bending) both her tender leggs
Had fastned to the tree; and face to face
A beastly Satyr stood; who but eu'ne then
Had newly made an ende of binding her,
All the defence shee could (poore soule) shee made;
But sure'twould haue but little steeded her,
Had not we come. Aminta with his dart
Flue like a Lyon
Vpon the Satyr; and I gathered stones;
VVhereat he fledd; and gaue Aminta leasure
To feast his greedy eyes with her faire limbes,
VVhich trembling seem'd as tender, white, & soft,
As vnprest curds new from the whay diuided.
Full was her face of anger, griefe, and spight;
He gently accosting her with modest lookes,
Spake thus; O louely Siluia pardon me;
Fardon my hands for daring to approache
So neere these beauteous limbes of thine; alas
It is necessity inforceth them,
Necessitie t'unloose these bands of thine;
And let it (I beseech thee) not displease thee,
That Fate has rais'd them to this happinesse.
VVords that would mollifie a heart of flint;
But what reply made shee?
VVhy none at all.
But with a looke full of disdaine, hung downe
The head, and hidd her faire lapp all shee could;
He stood vnbrayding her intangled' tresses,
And sighing said (the whiles,) O how vnworthy
Is this rude trunke of so faire knots as these?
See what aduantage haue Loues votaries,
That (like this tree) haue with so pretious bands
Their hearts entwin'd: Cruell plant, couldst thouse
This haire thus iniur'd, that thus honours thee?
Then with his hands her hands he faire vnlooz'd,
In such a sort, as that he seem'd affraide
To touch them, yet desir'd to touch them still:
Then stoop'd he downe t'untye her feet; when shee
Finding her late bound hands at libertie,
Said with a scornefull, and disdayning looke;
Shepherd, I am Diana's; touch me not;
Leaue me, I shall vnbinde my feete my selfe.
Ah that the soft best of a mayde should harbor
Such pride; O Curtesie full ill repayde.
Straite he with reuerence withdrew himselfe,
Not lifting once his eyes to looke on her;
Barring himselfe of his delight; that shee
Might lay no blame on his immodestie.
I that was hid neere hand, and saw all this,
And heard it all, was eu'ne exclaiming on her,
But that I curb'd my selfe; see the strange creature;
After she was with much adoe got loose,
Away shee hurryed strait, swift as a Doe,
Without so much as 'Thanke yee, or farewell;
And yet knew well, shee had no cause to feare;
So modest and respectfull was Aminta.
Why fled she then?
Perhaps she thought it shew'd
Better; and argued more her modestie.
Her foule ingratitude: but what did then,
VVhat said the poore Aminta?
I cannot tell.
For (angry) after her I ranne amaine
To haue oretane, and staid her; but in vaine;
For soone I lost her; and againe returning
Vnto the Fountaine where I left Aminta,
I found him not; and my heart much misgiues me
Of some selfe ill befalne him; for I knowe
He was resolu'd (before this hapned him)
To ende his life and miseries together.
It is the common vse and art of Louers
To threaten their owne deaths; but rarely shall
Wee see th'effect in any of them all.
Pray heau'ne he be not of those rare ones then.
Tush feare him not.
Well I'le downe to the Caue
Of the sage Elpine; thither he perhaps
Will be retyr'de, if he be yet aliue;
For there he went full oft to'allay and ease
The rage of his bitter calamities,
With the sweet sound of Elpines Reeds; that winn
And draw with their alluring voice, to heare them,
The hard stones from the craggy mountaine topps;
Make flouds and waterfounts runne with pure milke;
And oft the rough bark'd trees against their kindes
Distill sweet honny from their bitter rindes.

Actus Tertius. Scen: Secunda.

Aminta, Daphne, Nerina.
PIttilesse (Daphne) was that Pitty of thine,
When thou held'st backe the dart; because my death
Will but more painefull be, the more delay'de:
And now, why doest thou stay me trifling thus,
And hold me' in vaine with these thy long discourses?
If thou beest fearefull of my death, thou fear'st
My happinesse.
Leaue leaue Aminta
This thy vniust despaire: I know her well;
And 'twas her bashfulnesse, not cruelty,
That made her runne away so fast from thee.
Ah that my onely friend must be Dispaire,
Seeing that onely Hope hath bredd my ruyne:
And yet it would be breeding in my brest
Againe, and bid me liue; when, what can bee
A greater ill to so great misery,
Then still to liue, but to be still vnhappy?
Why liue yet, liue with thy vnhappines;
And beare it for thy greater happines
When the time comes; think what thou lately saw'st
In the faire naked one, and let that serue thee
For a reward sufficient for thy hope,
And make thee in loue with life.
'Twas not enough
For loue, and fortune, that I was before,
So wretched, as I scarsly could be more;
But that I must be shew'd (t'augment my ill)
Part of my blisse, yet go without it still.
Must I be then the Rauen, and sinister
Relater of so bitter newes? O wretched,
Wretched Montano; ah what wilt thou do,
When thou shalt heare the sad, and killing story
Of thy owne only Siluia? poore olde man,
Most haplesse father of a hapless childe;
Ah now no father.
I doe heare a sad
Lamenting voyce.
I heare the name of Siluia,
That strikes mine eare, and my heart through at once;
But who is't names her?
'Tis I thinke the Nimphe
Nerina, shee whom Dian loues so well,
That has so liuely eyes, and louely hands,
And so becomming a behauiour.
Yet he shall know it; and go gather vp
Th'vnhappy reliques, (if yet any be;)
Ah Siluia Siluia, O accursed fate.
Ay mee, what meanes this Nimph? what say's shee?
Nerina? what's the matter that thou nam'st
Siluia so oft, and sigh'st at eu'ry word?
There's cause enough Daphne; ah too too much.
Ay mee I feele, I feele my brest so full
Of yce, my breath halfe stopt; liues shee, or no?
Tell vs all, tell the worst Nerina.
O heau'n,
Must I be then th'vnhappy' historian?
And yet it's fit I tell my sad tale out.
Silu'ia starnak'd (whereof yee know perhaps
The cause) came to our house, where being clad,
Shee afterward desir'd me I would goe
A hunting with her, as it was before
Appointed, to the Groue of Okes, (for so
The place yee know is call'd;) I did agree;
And onn we went, and found there many Nimphes
Gath'red together; not farr off, behold
Rusheth a huge Wolfe foorth, whose yawning iawes
Foam'd with a bloudy froth; Siluia then neare him
Let flie a shaft at him; and in his head
The arrow light; he tooke the wood againe,
And shee at heeles persu'd him with a Dart
Into the wood.—
Ah sorrowfull beginning,
I feare, I feare a sad conclusion.
I with an other Dart follow'd their footing;
But setting out too late, was cast farr off;
And hauing gain'd the wood, I lost the sight
Of them; yet kept their track, and ranne so farr,
Till I was got into the desertest
And thickest of the wood; at length I found
(And tooke vp) Siluias Dart vpon the ground;
And not farr off a white vaile, which (ere while)
I did my selfe binde vp her haire withall;
And whilst I look'd about me', Ispi'de seu'n Wolues
Licking bloud off the ground, that scatt'red lay
About a few bare bones; and 'twas my hap
To scape vnseene, while they so earnestly
Minded their pray.
I full of feare turn'd back, and came my way.
And this is all that I can say of Siluia;
And heere's the vaile.
Th'hast sayd, th'hast sayd enough;
O bloud, O vayle, O Siluia, 'dead dead —
Poore youth he dyes; he's dead; ay me he's dead
With griefe.
He breath's yet, he's but in a traunce;
Tarry he comes againe t'himselfe.
O griefe,
Why do'st, why do'st thou thus torment me?
And wilt not end me? th'art vniust. Perhaps
Thou leau'st the worke to my owne hand: I am,
I am content it shall be my owne care;
Since thou wilt not, or canst not doe't; Ay mee,
Ay mee if nothing want to make this cleere,
And nothing want to make my miseries
Now brimfull; why do' I linger? why do I stay?
O Daphne Daphne, was it to this end,
This bitter, bitter end thou didst reserue me?
My death had then bin sweet, and pleasing to me,
When thou and heau'n held back my Dart, and sau'd me;
Heau'n that was lothe (belike) I should preuent
With death, the woes it has prepar'd for me;
But now't has done the very worst it can,
I hope both heau'n, and you may suffer me
To dye in peace.
Stay yet, stay wretch, and learne
The trueth yet better.
Ah the trueth is such,
'Iue stay'd too long, alas I'ue heard too much.
Ay mee, wretch that I am, why did I speake?
Gentle Nimphe, let me craue that vayle of thee,
The poore remaynder of her; they it may
Accompanie me for these fewe sad houres
Of way, and life yet left me; and increase
That martirdom, that were no martirdom
Were it not much more then enough to kill me.
Shall I denie't, or shall I giue it him?
The cause he askes it for, bids me retaine it.
Cruell Nimphe, to deny me' a grace so small
In my extremity; and eu'n I see
How in each trifle fortune crosseth mee.
I yeeld, I yeeld; long may it bide with thee:
Long liue yee; my way to my death must bee.
Aminta stay, Aminta', a word Aminta,
Harke, stay; alas how swift he flyes away.
He runnes so fast, t'will be in vaine for vs
To follow him; 'twere best I onward went
Vpon my way; and yet perhaps 'twere better
I stay'd, and held my peace, then my selfe be
Author of poore Montano's misery.
DEath, there is no neede of thee:
Loue alone, and Constancie
Ar enough (without thy Dart)
To tyre vpon an honest heart.
Yet so hard is not the way
To Loues fame, as many say;
For Lone no price but loue regards;
And with it selfe, it selfe rewards.
And oft in seeking it, is found
Glory that liues, when we are vnder ground.

Actus Quartus.

Scena Prima.

Daphne. Siluia. Chorus.
NOw may the winde vpon his wings beare hence
All ill may happen thee; together with
Th'accursed newes so lately spread of thee.
Thou art aliue (the gods be thanked fort't)
And eu'n but now I did beleeue thee dead;
So had Nerina painted to the life
Thy late hap; but I would shee had bin dumbe,
Or some that heard her deafe.
Indeede I scap'd
So narrowly, as I beleeue shee might
Full well suppose me dead.
Suppose she might
Yet not haue tolde it with such certainty.
But tell me pre'thee how thou didst escape
The danger so.
Why I in following
A Wolfe into the wood, had thickt with him
So farr, till I at length had lost his track;
And as I stood thinking to turne againe
Back as I went, I spide him, and I knew him
By' a shaft that stuck in's head neere to his eare,
Which I not long before had shot at him:
He was accompany'd with many more,
About the body of some beast new slaine;
But what beast 'twas I knew not; the same Wolfe
I thinke knew me so well, that on he made
Towards me with his head besmear'd with bloud.
I bouldly stood, and bent a Dart at him,
And when I thought his distance fit for me,
I threw, but (whether it was fortunes fault
Or mine) I mist him, as thou know'st I vse
Not oft to do; he fiercer then before
Rusheth vpon me; and was come so neere,
That I, (my shafts now spent) found it too late
To trust my bowe, and tooke me to my heeles:
Away Tranne; he follow'd me as fast.
See now my hap; a vaile that I had ty'de
My haire withall, was halfe vndone, and flew
At the windes pleasure loosely, that at length
'Thad wound it selfe about a bough; I felt
That somewhat stay'd me; but the feare I had,
Redoubled so my strength, that though the bough
Did all it could to hold me, I broke loose;
And as I left my vaile behinde, I left
Part of my haire withall; and so had feare
Lent my feete wings, that I out-went the Wolfe,
And came safe from the wood; when turning home
I met thee thus amaz'd, and am no lesse
Amaz'd my selfe to see thee so.
Ay mee
Thou liu'st, 'tis well, would all were well besides.
What ayl'st thou? pre'thee art thou sory then
That I'm aliue?
No; that thou liu'st I'm glad;
But for an others death I must be sad.
How's this? for whose death?
Why Aminta's death.
Aminta dead? alas how may that be?
Nay how I cannot tell; nor yet am sure
Of the deede done; but I beleeue it firmly.
What's this thou tell'st me? alas what might be
Th'occasion of Aminta's death?
Thy death.
Make mee conceiue thee.
Eu'n the heauy newes
Of thy death, which he heard, and credited,
Hath brought him to his end, some-way or other.
Fye, th'art deceiu'd; and this thy thought will be
As vaine as was the newes thou heardst of me;
For surely no man will dye willingly.
O Silu'ia Siluia, thou dost not feele
Nor know what 'loues flame can do, in a brest
That is a brest of flesh, and not of flint
As thine is; for didst thou but know't, I know
Thou wouldst haue loued him that lou'd thee more
Then both his eyes; more then his breath and life;
I do beleeue it, nay I'ue seene, and know it.
I saw, I saw him when thou fledst from him
(Vnkinde and cruell as thou wert) when he,
Eu'n then when thou shouldst rather haue imbrac'd
Then scorn'd him so, against his brest had bent
His Dart, with full intent to kill himselfe:
Nor any whit repented of the deede,
When (stay'd by me from farther wounding him)
The sharpe steele had his garment and his skinne
Dyed in his bloud, and had pierc'd through that heart
That loyall heart of his, that thou before
Hadst wounded worse, had not I held his hand,
And sau'd him all I could: but O alas
That slight wound seru'd but as a triall only
And small proofe of his desp'rate constancie;
And but to teach the fatall steele, to do
The black deede it was preappointed to.
Ay mee what's this thou tell'st me?
But at last
When the newes came that thou wert dead, I saw him
Sound at the hearing on't, and dye away;
And came no sooner to himselfe againe,
But furiously he flings away amayne;
And sure I feare, alas, too sure 'twill prooue
Has kill'd himselfe;
Such was his too much griefe, and too much loue.
But hold'st thou this for certaine?
Tis too true.
Ay me why didst thou not straite follow him?
And stay him? ah let's seeke, let's finde him out;
Since from my death, his deaths desire is bredd,
He must liue still because I am not dead.
Alas I follow'd him, but he had soone
So farre outrunne me, as I now despaire
That we shall finde him hauing lost his footing.
We must alas we must inquire him out
Some way or other speedily, least he
Thorough our slownesse his owne murdrer be.
Belike then (Cruell) th'art but grieu'd he should
Take from thee th'honour of this goodly deede?
And would'st thy selfe be the braue murdresse?
Must no hand else but thine, an Actor be
In th' execution of this Tragedy?
Well, set thy heart at rest; for howso're
He dyes, thou art his onely murderer.
Ah thou dost wound me; and thy eu'ry word
Addes to the agony'e of my bleeding brest,
Strooke through with feare of him; and with the bitter
Remembrance of the sauadge cruelty
In me, which I call'd honesty', and so 'twas,
But too seuereit was, and rigorous;
I finde it now, alas I now repent it.
VVhat's this? what do I heare?
Why thou art pittifull then, and thy heart
Seemes to haue feeling of anothers harmes;
VVhat doe I see?
Why thou do'st weepe too; I'm amaz'd at this?
Whence ar these teares? Is't loue that causes them?
'Tis pitty, 'tis compassion causes them.
Compassion is the messenger of loue,
As is the lightning of the thunder clap.
'Tis often times the property of loue
When he would creepe vnseene into young hearts
Which austere Chastity hath long time shut
And barr'd against him, to assume the habit
And semblance of his handmayd Pitty', and so
Deceiues them ere they be aware, and gets
Into their brests vnknowne and vndiscry'de.
These ar loue-teares (Siluia) they flow so fast;
Do'st thou not loue indeede? ha? not a word?
Yes, 'tis too true, but alas 'tis too late.
Behold the strange wayes of Loues chastisement;
Wretched Aminta, thou that (like the Bee,
Which hurting dyes, and in an others wound
Leaues his owne life,) hast with thy death, at last
Pierc'd that hard heart, which liuing felt thee not.
But if, O erring Spirit, (as I feare
Thou art, and seuer'd from thy empty corse)
Thou wandrest here abouts; behold her playnts;
Liuing thou lou'dst her, see shee loues thee dead.
And if thy cruell fate would haue it so,
That thy loue could not be repay'd till now,
And that her loue was onely to be purchas'd
By thee at this deare price; let it suffice thee
(Where more thou canst not haue) that thou hast bought it
As dearely now, as shee could rate it thee;
Euen with thy death.
Deare bargaine for the buyer;
And all vnprofitable, and infamous
Vnto the cruell seller.
O that I
Could with my loue redeeme his life againe,
Or with my life his life, if he liue not.
O pitty, O discretion, too late bredd;
Little auaile they to reuiue the dead.

Actus Quartus. Scen: Secunda.

Nuntius, Chorus, Siluia. Daphne.
I Am so full of woe, so full of borror
As all I heare and whatsoere I looke on
Me thinks afflicts, disquiets, and affrights me.
What strange newes brings this man, that seemes to me
So troubled in his lookes, and in his speech?
I bring the sad newes of Aminta's death.
Ay me what sayes he?
Aminta noblest Shepherd of these woods;
That was so comely and so gratious;
So deare vnto the Nymphes, and to the Muses;
And dead but eu'ne a ladd.
Ah of what death?
Tell vs, ah tell all; that we may in one
Lament with thee his mischiefe, and our owne.
Ay me my heart failes me'; I dare not approach
Th'unwelcome newes which I of force must heare.
Vilde breast of mine, ohdurate heart of mine,
What fear'fl thou now? go hard'ly, presse vpon
The murth'ring kniues that are in yon mans tongue;
And there display thy fiercenes? freind, I come
To beare my part of all the woe thou bringest;
Perhaps it does concerne me more by much
Then th'art aware of; It belongs to me;
Grutch me not on't then.
Nimphe I doe beleeue thee;
For eu'ne vpon his death, I heard the wretch
Call still vpon thy name to his last breath.
Now, now beginnes, the heauy history.
I was vpon the middes of yon high hill,
Where I had spred abroad some netts of mine
To drie them, when not far off from me, came
Aminta by, with a sad clowdy looke,
And altred much from what he wont to bee
Both in his face and fashion; which I spying
Ranne after him; and staying him, quoth hee
Ergastus thou must doe a curtesie
For me of much importance and auaile;
'Tis to goe with me but a little hence,
For witnesse of a deede I haue to doo;
But first I'le haue thee binde thy faith to me
By a strict oath to stand aloofe from mee
And not approach to lett or hinder that
That I shall do: I (that could nere haue dream't
Of such a furious madnesse in him) yeelded
To's will; and made desperate inuocations
Calling to witness Pan, and Priapus:
Pales, Pomona', and nightly Hecate,
Which done, he led me higher vp the hill:
Where, clambring through wilde rocky passages,
(By wayes nere found, and neuer trode before)
VVee gayn'd the top, that ouer-hung a valley,
'Twixt which and vs was a steepe precipice,
And there we stay'd; I casting downe mine eye,
Began for feare to tremble, and shrunke back.
After a little pause, he smil'de me thought,
And seem'd more cheerefull then he was before;
And that made me misdoubt him lesse then euer:
After that; (quoth he to me) see thou tell
The Nimphes and Shepherds what thou shalt behold;
Then looking downe, Ah that I had (sayd he)
So ready at my will, the throat and teeth
Of those same greedy VVolues, as these rocks be;
I would not dye of other death, then she
VVho was my life; nor haue my carkass torne
But by those teeth that tore those delicate
And beautious limbs of hers; but since that heau'n
Denies so great a blessing to me, I
Must be content some other way to dye;
And though a worse way, yet a speedier.
Siluia I follow thee, Siluia I come
To beare thee comapny,
If thou disdaine me not; O I should dye
Much more contentedly; were I but sure
My follow'ing thee would not disquiet thee,
And that thy hate had ending with thy life:
Siluia I follow thee, I come. Which sayd,
Downe from the place he headlong threw himselfe,
And I turn'd yee to see't.
VVretched Aminta.
Ay mee, ay mee.
Why didst not hinder him?
Perhaps the oath thou took'st barr'd thee to doo't?
Not so; for setting all such oathes at nought,
(Vaine doubtlesse in such cases) when I saw
VVhither his fond and headdy madnesse tended,
I reacht at him; and (as ill hap would haue it)
Layd hold but of this thinne scarfe, wherewithall
He girt himselfe; which (all too weake to beare
His bodies weight, that rested all vpon't)
Remayn'd broke in my hand.
And what became
Of the vnhappy carkass?
I know not;
For I was so dead strucken at the sight,
As my heart would not suffer me, to looke
And see him dasht to peeces.
O strange fate.
Ay mee, were I not made of stone indeede,
This newes would kill me. Ah if the false death
Of me that car'd no more for him, was cause
Enough to end his life;
Much more cause is there that the certaine death
Of him that lou'd me so, should be enough
To end my life; and it shall end my life;
And if griefe cannot do't, the sharpe steele shall;
Or else this girdle heere, which iustly stayes
As loath to follow his sweet Masters ruines,
Till it haue done on me the due reuenge
Of his sad death, and my ingratitude.
Vnhappy girdle (relique of a more
Vnhappy Master) ah do not disdaine
T'abide a while with one so odious;
For thou shalt stay but to be th'instrument
Of his reuenge, and of my punishment.
I might haue bin, alas I should haue bin
Yoke-fellow with Aminta heere on earth;
But since that cannot be, by thy helpe now
I'le finde him out among th'infernall shades,
And there goe beare him better company.
Content thee (thou sad soule) 'tis Fortunes fault,
And not by thy meane, that this ill is wrought.
Shepherds why plaine yee? if yee moane my woes,
I do deserue no pitty; that haue bin
My selfe so pittilesse; if yee wayle the death
Of the poore Innocent, ab tis too small;
Griefe is too poore to pay his deede withall.
And Daphne thou I prethee dry thy teares;
If for my sake thou weep'st; for my sake cease.
And for his sake that was a thousand times
More worth then I; and go along and helpe me
To finde th'vnhappy bones; and bury them;
'Tis that alone that keepes me still aliue,
And that I do not eu'n now kill my selfe.
It is the least and last duty is left
For me to do him, for the loue he bore me;
And though this vile hand of mine, might perhaps
Blemish the pi'ety of so iust a deede;
Yet he I know will like the deede the better,
For being done by it; for I am sure
He loues me still; his death assures it me.
I am content to'assist thee'in seeking him,
But talke (for heau'ns sake) of this death no more.
Alas wee'ue had too much of that before.
Till now I'ue liu'd only vnto my selfe,
And my owne wayward humor: for the rest,
I vowe it all to'Aminta; and if to him
I may not, I'le liue yet to his colde carkass,
Till I haue done it the last obsequies:
So long I may; longer I will not liue.
But Shepherd set me in the way (I pray')
Vnto the valley at the high hills foote.
There O'that hand 'tis, and not far from hence.
I'le goe along and guide thee, for I well Remember't.
Farwell Shepherds, Nimphes farwell;
Farwell woods, fields, and flocks; farwell, farwell.
This mayden speakes me thinkes in such a straine,
As if shee went nere to returne againe.
LOue; thou reioyn'st what Death vnbinds?
(Thou freind of Peace but shee of Bloud;)
Yet thou her Triumphes ouer raignest;
And in vniting gentle mindes,
Mak'st Earth so heau'nly an abode,
As thou to dwell among vs daynest:
Thou smooth'st the rugged hearts of men;
And inward rancors driu'st away
(Great prince of happy peace;) and when
Milde breasts are troubled, do'st allay
Their woes; and by thy working strange,
Framst of things mortall, an eternall change.

Actus Quintus.

Scena Prima.

Elpine, Chorus.
DOubtlesse the lawes where with Loue gouerneth
His Empire euermore, are neither hard
To follow, nor vniust; and those his workes
Which many men do condemne wrongfully,
Are full of prouidence, and mistery,
Lo with what art,
And by how many vnknowne waies, he leades
His votaries vnto their happinesse;
And placeth them among the highest ioyes
And pleasures of his amorous Paradise,
When oftentimes they feele themselues sunk downe
Eu'ne to the very bottome of all ills.
Behold Aminta with his headlong fall,
Aspires vnto the top of all delight;
O happy' Aminta; and so much the more
Happy now, as vnfortunate before.
This thy example makes me hope no lesse,
That once at last my louelesse faire (that couers
Vnder those freindly smiles, such cruelty)
Will with true pitty heale the wounds, that shee
Hath with her fained pittie made in me.
Yon is the reu'rend Elpine; and me thinkes
Speakes of Aminta' as if he were aliue,
Calling him happy, blest, and fortunate,
Ah hard condition of vnhappy louers;
He belike counts him fortunate, that dyes
For loue, and is belou'd (when he is dead)
Of her he lou'de so well; and this he calls
The paradise of loue; O with how light
And poore rewards the wing'd Loue-god contents
His seruants. Art thou (Elpine) then indeed
In such a pittifull estate, as that
Thou canst terme fortunate, the miserable
Death of the poore Aminta? and wouldst thou
So farr thy life to loues subiection bowe,
And vndergoe the like fate?
Freinds be merry
What of his death perhaps ye haue heard, is false.
That were a welcome newes.
Did he not throw himselfe downe headlong then
From yon high Mountaines topp?
Tis true he did.
But 'twas a fortunate and happy fall;
That look'd so like death, and is proou'd to him
Not life alone, but a most ioyfull life;
For now he lyes lull'd in the tenter lapp.
Of his beloued one that seemes much more
Fonde of him now, then she was coy before;
Drying each teare he lets fall, with a sighe,
Or with the like, freindly requiting it.
But I am going to finde out Montane
Her Father, and conduct him where they bee;
For there wants nothing else but his consent,
To both their boundlesse ioyes accomplishment.
Their age, their bloud and birth, their mutuall loues,
And all agree; and the good oulde Montano
Will he glad doubtlesse of posteritie,
And to' arme his gray haires with so sweet a guard,
So that his will no doubt shall second theirs.
But thou (good Elpine) tell what god, what fate
In that so dangerous, and deadly fall
Prescru'd Aminta.
I am well content;
Heare then, heare that which with these eyes I saw;
I was before my Caues mouth, which ye knowe
Lyes at the hills foote, on the valleyes brimme;
There Thirsi' and I were reasoning together
Of the faire shee that in the selfe same nett
Had first insnar'd him, and me afterward;
When I preferring my lou'de seruitude
Before his free state; all at once we heard
A shreeke; and saw a man fall frbm aboue,
Vpon a bushy knowle; for on the side
Of the steepe hill, there growes (all of a heape,
And as 'twere woue tog ther,) a round masse
Of brambles, thornes, and certaine weedes among;
There first he light before he lower fell;
And though hee made way through them with his weight,
And fell downe to the ground before our feete;
Yet so that stop abated the falls force,
As 'twas not mortall; though so dangerous
As that he lay a while deuoyd of sense,
And as a dead man without show of motion.
We with amazement, and compassion were
Dumbe-strucken at the sudden spectacle:
And knowing him, and knowing soone (with all)
He was not dead, nor perhas like to die,
Appeaz'd his woe, and eas'd him all we could;
Then Thirsis made me throughly' acquainted with
Th'whole passage of his loues. but while we sought
To bring him to himselfe againe, and sent
To fetch Alphesibeo (t'whom Appollo
Tanght th'art of Phisicke, when he gaue his Harp
And Lute to me) came Daphne, and Siluia,
Who (as I heard) had bin to seeke him out
Whom they suppos'd dead. But when Siluia
Had found and knew him, and beheld his cheekes
And lips so bloudlesse, and discoloured,
As the wanne Violet's hue their paleness past;
And saw him languish, as if then he had
Bin drawing his last breath; shee gaue her sorrowes
A liberall passage through her earnest cryes;
And beating her faire brest, falls downe vpon him,
Laying her face on his, and on his lipps
Her lipps.
And did not bashfull shame restraine
Her more, who is so strict and so seuere?
Bashfulnes oft barrs weak loues of their longings,
But is too weake a curbe for a strong loue.
But then, as if her eyes had bin two fountaines,
She drown'd his colde face with her powring teares;
Whose water was of so great force, and vertue,
That he reuiu'd; and op'ning his dimme eyes,
He sighes foorth a hollow' Ay mee, from the bottome
Of his sad brest; shee caught the heauy sound
Of that same bitter breath; and mingled it
With her sweet breath; and so restor'd, and heal'd him.
Then; who can say? who can imagine what
Both of them thought, and at that instant felt?
Each now assur'd of others life? and he
Assur'd of her loue, and to finde himselfe
Intangled in so lou'd, and louing armes?
He that loues firmly may imagine it,
Yet hardly too; but no tongue sure can tell it.
Is then Aminta safe belike, and well,
And so cleare from all danger of his death?
He's safe, and well; saue that he has a little
Battred his flesh, and somwhat scratcht his face;
But 'twill be nothing; and he wayes it not.
Thrise happy he, t'haue giu'n so great and high
A signe, and earnest of his Constancie;
And now inioyes the fruit of his firme loue;
To which his sad indurings, and paines past,
Prooue pleasing and sweet sawces at the last.
But peace be wi'yee'; I must goe seeke about
Till I haue found the good Montano out.
I Know not whether the much sowre
This (now blest) Louer (seruing, burning,
Now dispairing, and still mourning)
Hath felt; may in one happy' houre
Be thoroughly repay'd againe
With pleasure equall to his paine.
But if the good more pleasing be,
And come more welcome, after wee
Haue felt the ill; I doe not craue
(O Loue) this happiness to haue.
Let others be so blest by thee,
And graunt the Nimph I loue, may bee
Wonne with a little lesse adooe;
Less pray'rs, less seruice when I wooe;
And let the sawce to our loues, be
Not so much paine, and misery:
But sweet disdaines, repulses sweet;
Fall off a little, and straite meete.
That after a short frowne or twayne,
New peace, or truce may knit our hearts againe.

Th'end of Tasso's Aminta.


DOwne from the third heau'n, I (that am
His queene, goddesse, & mother) come
To seeke my sonne, (the run-away
Cupid.) I lost him yesterday.
As he lay playing in my lapp
(Whether of purpose, or by happ
I cannot say,) but his golde shaft
Fell with the point on my left side,
And prickt me'; and when my hurt he spide,
(As erst h'has seru'd me') he flew away, and laught.
But though somtime I angry seem,
A tender care I haue of him;
And now (my anger layd aside)
Haue bin to seeke him farr and wide;
As well my heau'ns each part about
As Mars his orbe, and thoroughout
All th'other wheeles that mooue, and stand;
The shining heau'n has not a Sphere,
But I haue bin to seeke him there,
Yet cannot finde this little vagabond.
Wherefore now amongst you (meeke
Mortalls) I am come to seeke
My childe, who of entim s I knowe,
Takes delight to liue with you;
But I more then halfe dispaire
To finde him 'mongst you (Ladyes faire)
For though oftentimes he flyes
About your face, and by your eyes,
And would faine enter your brest,
And in your bosomes make his nest;
Yet they'r so bard against him with disdaine,
That there I feare he does but knock in vain.
But amongst you Men more kinde
I may hope my sonne to finde;
Your milder brests will not disdaine
This fugitiue to entertaine;
Therefore to you my sute must be;
Tell mee' (I pray') then, where is he?
He that can but giue me tyding
Where the Wag has his abiding;
Shall for his rewarding, sipp
A paire of kisses from my lipp,
Soone as he will wish to take them,
Full as sweet as I can make them:
But he that shall the kindnesse do mee
To bring my little wandrer to mee,
Shall expect a greater meede
Wherwith to recompence his friendly deed;
And such as all the wealth I haue
Cannot exceede; no though I gaue
All Loues Kingdome; and I take
To witnesse the blacke Stigian lake,
That I will truely pay my vowe.
Tell mee therefore, tell mee now
Where's my Sonne? who graunts my suite?
But no man answeres; all are mute.
Perhaps yee haue not seene the Elfe,
Or he hath so disguiz'de himselfe
Yee know him not; perhaps h'has left
His brand, and from his shoulders reft
His painted wings; and throwne them by,
With th'rest of his Artillerie.
But I'le giue y'other markes of him, wherby
Yee shall diserne, and finde him easily.
This Loue (thus masked) although he be
Olde both in yeares, and subtiltie;
Seemes but a boye in shape, and face,
And (like a boye in gate, and pace)
Is neuer constant to one place.
Such sports and pastimes vseth hee,
As common vnto children be;
But all his sports he tempers so,
Th'ar dangerous, and full of woe
To those he playes withall; displeas'd
He will be soone, and soone appeaz'd;
And in his face at once appeares
An enterchange of smiles and teares.
His haire is gould, & curl'd, & growes
(As Fortune often painted showes)
Hanging long before; but short
And thinne on his heads hinderpart.
His face cleare-colour'd, & delightful,
Like to fire is quicke and sprightfull;
And doth easily expresse
His mindes audacious wantonnesse.
His inflam'd eyes are full of guile,
Which still he sugars with a smile.
Vnder the brow vnhappily
He vses oft to throw his eye,
That rowles vnsteedy heere and there,
And ne're is firmely fixed any where.
His toung is sweet; and when he speakes
A pleasing ayre from his lipps breakes,
In many' a peec'd imperfect word,
Which yet a winning sound affoord.
His voice is shrill, and cleare, and small,
Which vttering, still he smiles withall;
And those his fleering smiles doth baiyt
With hidden treason, and deceipt,
Which (like the Snake) surke in the bed
Of those flowres vndiscouered.
And first with these he doth beginne
To'vnlocke your breasts, and enter in.
When hauing seem'd all courtesie,
All meekenesse, and humilitie,
And that (as a poore pligrim) yee
Haue harber'd him in charitie,
Then 'ginnes he by degrees, t'expresse
Himselfe, and wrong your easinesse,
Growes proud and wondrous insolent.
And neuer rests, is nere content
Vntill he be (Ingratefull Elfe).
Possest of your heats keyes himselfe;
And straite turnes all those out of dore
That there inhabited before;
And placeth others in their roome,
A troope of newer guests; to whom
He makes your reason thrall; and findes
New Lawes wherwith to rule your minds;
And thus becomes of a milde guest,
A cruell Tyrant ore the brest;
And so his new plac'd Powres assist him
He kills or conquers all that ere resist him,
Now by these markes (both of his face,
His hauiour, quallities, and grace)
Which I haue giu'n yee', I hope yee may
Know this disguized run-away.
Tell me' I pray' then, where is he?
But not a man will answer mee.
Yee'll conceale him from me then?
Ah foolish vnaduised men,
Yee cannot Loue so closely hyde,
But that at length he will be spy'de;
And in your words & looks appeare,
By tokens euident and cleare;
And then such happ will you betide,
As vnto him that seekes to hide
A Snake in's bosome, till his cryes
And bloud discouer where he lyes.
But since I cannot find him heere,
(Ere I returne vp to my Sphere,)
I'le seek for him on Earth some other wher.
VEnus, I heare thou roam'st about
To finde thy wandring Cupid out,
Who (hauing play'd the wag last day)
For feare of britching flue away;
And promisest to giue a kisse
To him can tell thee where he is;
Come then, and thriue in thy request;
Kisse me, and take him in my brest.


NOw were the lesser tapers of the Night
Burnt out; the Moone to' her blazing Brothers ray
Yeelding the faint streames of her frailer light;
And now the rosie Messenger of Day
Her purple doores vnbarring, restores sight
To the blinde world; fannes the soft mistes away
From sleeping eyes; and to the dayes behest
Rowses vp eu'ry bird, and eu'ry beast.
When haplesse Ariadne, with the day
Opes her (yet drowzie) eyes; and first her head
Turnes on that side, where shee supposed lay
The treche'rous man that from her side is fled.
Her louing hand first this, then th'other way
She vaine extendes; in vaine about the bed
Her legg, and arme mooues; whence a colde feare takes her,
That startles eu'ry limbe, and broad awakes her.
Shee risen vp; about her shoulders throwes
Her garment, and her widdowed bed forsakes;
With haire vnbound, and robe that loosely flowes,
(Led by the rage wherewith her swolne brest akes)
Shrieking as one distraught, shee frantick throwes
Her wilde eyes heere and there; then (speedy) makes
Tow'rd the still shore; and that shee findes bereft
Of the false barke shee late at anchor left.
Now on the wharfe shee pores, now on the Mayne;
But more then shore, and waters cannot see.
A thousand times and more shee calls in vaiue,
And the lou'd name repeates incessantly.
Her voyce the rocks receiue, and back againe
The sound returne, calling as well as shee.
Theseus she calls; the rocks do Theseus cry;
Yet neither voyce can purchase a reply.
Along the sandy beache a steepe cliffe stands,
Whose vaster limbes th'aspiring for head straine
To height so aerye', as it the sight expands
Farr ore the broad blue bosome of the Mayne.
To this she runnes; clambers with legs and hands,
Nor weary rests till she the top attaine.
Hard is th'ascent of the rough craggy stone,
Yet her will makes the difficulty none.
Thence she discouers (for by this the day
His broader light had opte) the swoln sailes spred,
And by the wilde winde now browne farre away.
From her discolour'd cheekes the warme bloud fled,
Within her vaynes freezes; in her dismay
Shee faints; and falls to th'carth colder then lead;
Yet the same griefe that doth of sence depriue her,
Wakes her againe, and doth anew reuiue her.
'Twixt griefe, disdaine, and rage deuided, thus
She lowde exclaimes; whither (false man) O whither
Fly'st thou disloyall? looke, looke Theseus,
Looke if that barke that brought vs both together,
(And should hold both, and holdes but one of vs)
Carry the full freight hence it came with hither.
Cruell! if th'hast with thee my soule, and minde,
Why leau'st thou th'other halfe of me behinde?
Ah canst tho' abide my loyall Spirit to range
So farr (to follow and attend on thee)
From her owne home; and this knowne brest exchange,
For one so willing to be rid of mee?
Thus shee complaines; shreekes, weepes; to'her passions strange
Strange gestures suting of calamity.
But th'heedlesse winde, what ere shee sighing say,
Blowes the vaine breath, and the wing'd barke away.
Feeling her voyce with shriekes growne faint, and hoarce,
Shee waues her ceaselesse armes about her head,
And oft her garment; th'imbark'd eyes to force
Back to the shore; but all was vaine she did.
The farr-sayl'd pine beares on his steady course
So fast, as wholly' almost to blue ayre sled.
Shee waues, and beckons still, till from her sight
Shee findes th'vngratefull sayle is vanisht quite.
Yet still shee gazes; and at length anue
Mournes, and such clowdes of woe her Powres benight,
As, though her eyes redouble could their viewe,
Her swelling teares would scarse alowe them sight.
More weake, her sence the more impatient grue;
Whence with new thought shee leaues the craggy height,
And to the Tent breathlesse her selfe withdrue.
Shee sayes, perhaps yet I may finde him there;
So striues to cozen, and delay her feare.
But there her busiest search can nothing finde,
But death-like silence, and an empty bed;
Whereat (fresh passion tyring on her minde)
With cheekes paler then roses pluckt, and dead,
Downe on that side the Cabane where th'vnkinde
And false Athenian late layd his head,
Her head shee layes; and with eyes showring still,
Cross'd armes, and sad groanes, thus repeates her ill.
O faithless man, what haue I done alas,
Or wherein euer ill deseru'd of thee,
That in this vncouth solitary place
Thou thus inhumanly abandon'st mee?
Ah whither in this miserable case
Shall I repaire? what can my refuge bee
But death (for end of a state so distrest)
By famine, or by some deuowring beast.
In this inhospitable Isle, vntrode
By humane foote, accompany'de with none
But such as farr from man haue their abode,
(Wilde beasts, and wandring fowles,) thus all a­lone,
Thus to be left? and vnder such a loade
Of woe, and none to pitty', or heare my moane?
O falsest man, must I that from the graue
Sau'de thee, for meede this sad requit all haue?
When through those errors of the maze I led thee,
T' auoid th'undoubted forfeit of thy life;
And with so timely' aduice, and ayde bestedd thee,
As ridde thy land of tribute, thee of strife,
Exchang'd my natiue shores for those that bredd thee,
Kingdome, and freinds, and all to dye thy wife;
Haue I for this, for this (false Theseus)
Haue I deseru'd to be requited thus?
If through the doubtfull Laborinth I gaue
Thee th'easie meane t'escape, and set thee free,
(Whom from the Minotaure no arte could saue
But mine that purchast thy deliuery,)
Why dost thou not (an easier boone I craue)
Why dost thou not from hence deliuer me?
If from that rauenous beast I saude thee, why
Leau'st thou me heere by rauenous beasts to dye?
Or shall I tell my selfe, this Isle may bee
By men (though barb'rous sure) inhabited,
That may perhaps releeue, and succour mee;
Ere with beasts iawes, or hunger I be dead?
Oh sillyest hope! when all this miserie
By trusting Man is falne vpon my head,
Is't possible I can ere be so vaine,
Ere be so madd to trust to Man againe?
Ah false smoth lookes, fain'd vizar of deceipt;
Lewde brest, fowle harbour of impiety;
Bitter-sweete, tounge, balefull alluring bayte
Of my ore-credulous simplicity.
Ah Theseus lay'dst thou all these foes in waite
To circumuent so much Integrity?
A great exploit no doubt th'haue done: betray'de
The loyall bosome of a silly mayde.
Trecherous sleep; why charmd'st thou so mine eyes,
And in thy soft chaine held'st them fetter'd still,
While the false fugitiue did from me rise?
Yee windes too, accessaries to my yll,
Oh how officious (like corrupted spies
Sett to betray me) did y'obey his will?
First th'one surpriz'd, and bound me where I lay;
Th'other then stole, and bore my wealth away.
And thou deceitfull Tent, and faithlesse bedd;
O how vngratfull, how vniust yee bee?
When my Soules treasure I deposited,
And safe intrusted to your custodie,
Was't not your dues t'haue redeliu'red
Into my hands what I deliuered yee?
But Theseus, why do' I blame, bed, sleepe, or wind,
Poore vnder-agents of thy treas'nous minde?
Thou, onely thou'tis reau'st me of my life;
Thou that so late coupled'st my hand with thine,
In signe thou took'st me for thy wedded wife;
And to the Rite summond'st the Powers diuine
For records; vowing till Deaths fatall Knife
Thy breath diuided, to be euer myne.
Then pluckd'st my Virgin flowre; Thou, onely thou
False Man, hast thus abus'de, and left me now.
Thou (my hearts first, next honours, now liues theef)
Thou thou hast thus amidd these frights, and feares
Left me'on this desolate shore, voyde of reliefe.
A pray for howling Wolues, and greedy Beares.
Farre from the care of a Paternall griefe;
Farr from the comfort of a Mothers teares;
Whom I must neuer more behold; but dye
Without a freind neere me to close my eye.
Ah Theseus, thou now to thy natiue shore
Return'st with honour, and immortall praise;
Where (as a god) each one will thee adore,
And circle thy victorious head with Bayse;
When thou shalt tell how to the fatall dore,
(Through th' intricacy of so many wayes)
Thou gott'st; and then hauing the Monster slaine,
So easy' a meane, found'st to get out againe.
The father to his childe will pointing crye,
Loe yon is Theseus that aduentured
His life, to gaine his Countries libertie;
And hath the Land from thrall deliuered.
When I that help't thee to the victory,
Shall here lye dead; perhaps vnburied.
Annexe this stratageme to th'other past,
How thou here left'st thy loyall wife at last.
So foule a deede will all the rest deface,
T'haue paid such faith with such impiety.
Ah neuermore (for shame) steale for thy grace
From auncient Kings thy fained Pedegree;
Thy mother neuer was of Pitheus race;
Nor could Egeus ere thy father bee.
Rather the brests of some wilde Panthar fed thee,
Or sauadge Tigar in the desert bred thee.
This sigh'd; she leaues the Tent; and the steep cliffe
Againe ascendes: diuersifies her woes
With fresh plaints; now weepes, now shrieks out her griefe.
Ecco (that from the depths at her cry rose)
Lends (in compassion) all the poore reliefe
She can; meeting her plaints at eu'ry close.
And when her tender hand each th'other beates,
She imitates, and the sad noise repeates.
Ah (sayes she) could I'in space of a short groane
From hence to thy Ships prowe trensported bee,
That from the hatches thou wight'st heare my moane,
And these sad pangs of my affliction see;
Were not thy heart harder then is the stone
I tread vpon, sure thou wouldst pitty me.
But though grosse ayre doth from thine eyes withhold me,
With some remorse yet in thy thought behould mee.
Behould yet in thy thought my bitter plaint:
Behould these teares, that with a frequent raine
Drench my torne haire: o' could thy fant'sie paint
To life but the least part of my vast paine,
Knew'st thou how oft this voice (now hoarce and faint)
Hath call'de thee' already, and still calls in vaine;
Thou'ldst restore all, to me of all bereft;
T'whom scarse so much as eu'ne to hope is left.
Ah Theseus, yet returne: do not forget
Thy selfe so much, to be so merciless;
For my desert of thee, relieue me yet,
Before I fall into so great distress.
Ah no! for my desert I'll not intreate;
Since thou neglect'st it, and my faithfulness.
Yet be 'it thy owne sword sau'd thy life, not I;
It followes not that I should therefore dye.
O if ere humane pitty one soft beame shed
Into thy bosome, let me not in vaine
Thus still implore thee; but (though far hence fled)
Steare hither that so long'd-for Barke againe.
And if at thy returne thou finde me dead,
Let yet thy haplesse wiues colde bones obtaine
This mercy; to be gath'red vp by thee,
And in thy natiue Athens buried be.
While thus th'afflicted one (her shining haire
And faire flesh tearing) desperately mournes;
And in her restless fit of rage, and feare
(Mixt Feauer-like) freezes at once, and burnes;
Th'euer-young god, that late was conquerer
Of Inde, and now thence vnder sayle returnes,
In happy houre espyes her; and his sayles
Directs toward the rock whereon she wayles.
Soone as the Ioue-borne Bacchus his gaze bent
On her sheene forhead, and aluring eyes;
And (with the shrill sighes that her bosome rent)
Obseru'd the sweet sad tenor of her cryes;
And vnderstood her linage and descent
Deriu'd from two so supreame dietyes
As Ioue himselfe by Sires; by mothers side
From the bright God that doth the wing'd Day guide;
He burnes in amorous fire; prayes, perswades, tryes
From their sad moode her sorrowing thoughts to wooe
With all the softest words he can deuise:
But findes all vaine that he can say, or doo.
She heedes him not; but still on Theseus cryes.
Yet he, resolu'd to winne, and wed her too,
Summons the Paphian queene; and to her care
Commits the menage of his loues affaire.
Venus, that euer was god Bacchus friend,
(And whom his absence faint, & mirthless makes [...])
Doth at his call, her best assistance lend;
And to accomplish what she vndertakes,
With carefull hand doth to the cure attend
Of th'olde wound (first,) whereof her bosome akes.
Which heald; she' inspires Liaeus eyes, that dart
New fires, which through her eyes inflame her heart.
And for his sake, to do her grace, whom he
Hath chosen for companion of his bed;
Though from Apollo she descended be,
(Whom since her stolne loues he discouered,
She hates;) yet as from her sires forfait free,
She'imbraces her; and from her owne faire head
A bright crowne takes, (for mortall browes vnfit,
So rich it was;) and crownes her browes with it.
This Crowne had Vulcan forg'd: Earth's richest myne
The matter gaue; which to imbellish more,
He taught the curious hoope all o're to shine
With brightest gemmes the wealthy Orient bore.
So rich a diadem scarse Powre diuine,
Much lesse inferiour Mortall euer wore.
No maruaile; since the great Artificer
Made it of purpose for his wife to weare.
The Cyprian goddesse with her faire hand dries
The wayling mayds drown'd cheekes Liaeus wooes;
She shuns; but faintly. Faintly' a while denies.
At last yeelds For alas how can she choose,
Assayl'd by two so powrefull dyeties?
Her minde doth now all thought of Theseus loose.
Bacchus she loues. He marries her. And (night
Once come) both taste the nuptiall beds delight.
And that her fame (although she mortall were)
Might to ensuing times be euer new;
The pleas'd god takes the crowne from her faire haire;
Which as to th'Artick ycie Pole he threw,
The diadem through thinne and yeelding ayre
In an vninterrupted circle flew
Vp tow'rds Bootes, and the slowe Teeme; where
Arcturus guards the great, and lesser Beare.
As it ascends, each pretious gemme thereon
Redoubled luster by the motion gaines.
A seu'erall Starre is now each seu'erall stone.
Yet so the former shape entyre remaynes,
As still in eu'ry eye that lookes thereon,
The Constellation a crownes forme retaynes.
And when the sullen night on th'earth doth frowne,
Who see's it, calls it Ariadnes Crowne.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this EEBO-TCP Phase II text, in whole or in part.