Hymen's Triumph

HYMENS TRIVMPH. A paſtorall tragicomædie. Preſented at the Queenes court in the Strand at her Maieſties magnificent entertainement of the Kings moſt excellent Maieſtie, being at the nuptials of the Lord Roxborough.

By Samvel Daniel.

London Imprinted for Francis Conſtable, and are to bee ſold at his ſhop in Pauls Church-yard at the ſigne of the white Lyon. 1615.

TO THE MOST EXCELLENT MAIESTIE OF THE HIGHEST borne-Princeſſe, Anne of Denmark, Queene of England, Scotland, France and Ireland

HEre, what your ſacred influence begat

(Moſt lou’d, and moſt reſpected Maieſtie)

With humble heart, and hand, I conſecrate

Vnto the glory of your memorie:

As being a piece of that ſolemnitie,

Which your Magnificence did celebrate

In hallowing of thoſe roofes (you rear’d of late)

With fires and chearefull hoſpitalitie

Whereby, and by your ſplendent Worthines

Your name ſhal longer liue then ſhal your walles,

For, that faire ſtructure goodneſſe finiſhes,

Beares off all change of times, and neuer falles.

And that is it hath let you in ſo farre

Into the heart of England as you are.

And worthily, for, neuer yet was Queene

That more a peoples loue hath merited

By all good graces, and by hauing been

The meanes our State ſtands faſt eſtabliſhed

And bleſt by your bleſt wombe, who are this day

The higheſt borne Queene of Europe, and alone

Haue brought this land more bleſſings euery way,

Then all the daughters of ſtrange Kings haue done.

For, we by you no claimes, no quarrels haue,

No factions, no betraying of affaires:

You doe not ſpend our blood, nor ſtates, but ſaue:

You ſtrength vs by alliance, and your haires.

Not like thoſe fatall marriages of France,

For whom this kingdome hath ſo dearely paid,

Which onely our afflictions did aduance:

And brought vs farre more miſeries, then aid.

Renowned Denmark, that haſt furniſhed

The world with Princes, how much doe we owe

To thee for this great good thou diſt beſtow,

Whereby we are both bleſt, and honoured?

Thou didſt not ſo much hurt vs heretofore

But now thou haſt rewarded vs farre more.

But what doe I on this high ſubiect fall

Here, in the front of this low Paſtorall?

This a more graue, and ſpacious roome requires

To ſhew your glorie, and my deepe deſires.

Your Maieſties moſt humble ſeruant

Samvel Daniel.

The Prologue.

Hymen oppoſed by Auarice, Enuie, and Iealouſie the diſturbers of quiet marriage, firſt enters.

Hym. IN this diſguiſe and Paſtorall attire,

Without my ſaffron robe, without my torch,

Or other enſignes of my duty:

I Hymen am come hither ſecretly,

To make Arcadia ſee a worke of glorie,

That ſhall deſerue an euerlaſting ſtorie.

  Here, ſhall I bring you two the moſt entire

And conſtant louers that were euer ſeene,

From out the greateſt ſuffrings of anoy

That fortune could inflict, to their full ioy:

Wherein no wilde, no rude, no antique ſport,

But tender paſſions, motions ſoft, and graue,

The ſtill ſpectators maſt expect to haue.

  For, theſe are onely Cynthias recreatiues

Made vnto Phoebus, and are feminine;

And therefore muſt be gentle like to her,

Whoſe ſweet affections mildely mooue and ſtir.

  And here, with this white wand, will I effect

As much, as with my flaming torch of Loue:

And with the power thereof, affections mooue

In theſe faire nymphes, and ſhepheards round about.

Enuie. Stay Hymen, ſtay; you ſhall not haue the day

Of this great glorie, as you make account:

We will herein, as we were euer wont,

Oppoſe you in the matches you addreſſe,

And vndermine them with diſturbances.

Hym. Now, doe thy worſt, baſe Enuie, thou canſt doe,

Thou ſhalt not diſappoint my purpoſes.

Auarice. Then will I, Hymen, in deſpite of thee,

I will make Parents croſſe deſires of loue,

With thoſe reſpects of wealth, as ſhall diſſolue

The ſtrongeſt knots of kindeſt faithfulneſſe.

Hym. Hence, greedy Auarice; I know thou art

A hagge, that do’ſt bewitch the mindes of men:

Yet ſhalt thou haue no powre at all herein.

Iealouſie. Then will I, Hymen, doe thou what thou canſt;

I will ſteale cloſely into linked hearts;

And ſhake their veines with colde diſtruſtfulneſſe;

And euer keepe them waking in their feares,

With ſpirits, which their imagination reares.

Hym. Diſquiet Iealouſie, vile furie, thou

That art the ougly monſter of the minde,

Auant, be gone, thou ſhalt haue nought to doe

In this faire worke of ours, nor euermore

Canſt enter there, where honour keepes the doore.

  And therefore hideous furies, get you hence,

This place is ſacred to integritie,

And cleane deſires: your ſight moſt loathſome is

Vnto ſowell diſpos’d a companie.

Therefore be gone, I charge you by my powre,

We muſt haue nothing in Arcadia, ſowre.

Enuie. Hymen, thou canſt not chaſe vs ſo away,

For, looke how long as thou mak’ſt marriages,

ſo long will we produce incumbrances.

And we will in the ſame diſguiſe, as thou,

Mixe vs among theſe ſhepheards, that we may

Effect our worke the better, being vnknowne;

For, ills ſhew other faces then their owne.

The Speakers.

Thyrſis.

Palaemon, friend to Thyrſis.

Clarindo, Siluia diſguiſed, the beloued of Thyrſis, ſuppoſed to be ſlaine by wild beaſts.

Cloris, a Nymph whom Clarindo ſerued, and in loue with Thyrſis.

Phillis, in loue with Clarindo.

Montanus, in loue with Phillis.

Lidia, Nurſe to Phillis.

Dorcas. Siluanns.       Forreſters.

Medorus, father to Siluia.

Charinus, father to Thyrſis.

Chorus of Shepheards.

ACT. I. SCEN. I.

Thirſis. Palaemon.

SO to be reft of all the ioyes of life,

How is it poſſible Palaemon, I

Should euer more a thought retaine

Of the leaſt comfort vpon earth againe?

No, I would hate this heart, that hath receiu’d

So deepe a wound, if it ſhould euer come

To be recur’d, or would permit a roome

To let in any other thing then griefe.

Pal. But Thirſis you muſt tel me what is the cauſe?

Thi. Think but what cauſe I haue; whē hauing paſs’d

The heates, the colds, the trem bling agonieſ

Of feares, and hopes, and all the ſtrange aſſaultſ

Of paſſion, that a tender heart could feele

In the attempt, and purſuite of his loue.

And then to be vndone, when all was done,

To periſh in the hauen, after all

Thoſe Ocean ſuffrings, and euen then to haue

My hopefull Nuptiall bed, turn’d to a graue.

Pal. Good Thirſis by what meanes, I pray thee tell

Thi. Tell thee? alas Palaemon, how can I tell

And liue? doeſt thou not ſee theſe fields haue loſt

Their glory, ſince that time Siluia was loſt?

Siluia, that onely deckt, that onely made

Arcadia ſhine; Siluia who was (ah woe the while)

So miſerablierent from off the world.

So rapt away, as that no ſigne of her,

No peece was left to tell vs by what meanes:

Safe onely this poore remnant of her vaile,

Alltorne, and this deere locke of her rent haire;

Which holy reliques here I keepe with me,

The ſad memorials of her diſmall fate.

Who ſure deuoured was vpon the ſhore

By ravenous beaſts, as ſhe was walking there

Alone, it ſeemes; perhaps in ſeeking me

Or els retir’d to meditate apart

The ſtorie of our loues, and heauie ſmart.

Pal. This is no newes, you tell, of Siluias death.

That was long ſince: why ſhold you waile her now?

Thi. Long ſince Palaemon? thinke you any length

Of time can euer haue a powre to make

A heart of fleſh not mourne, not grieue, not pine?

That knows, that feels, that thinks as much as mine

Pal. But Thirſis, you know how her father meant

To match her with Alexis, and a day

To celebrate the nuptials was prefixt.

Thi. True, he had ſuch a purpoſe, but in vaine,

As oh it was beſt knowne vnto vs twaine.

And hence it grew that gaue vs both our feares,

That made our meeting ſtealth, our parting teares.

Hence was it, that with many a ſecret wile,

Wee rob’d our lookes th’onlookers to beguile

This was the cauſe, oh miſerable cauſe,

That made her by her ſelfe to ſtray alone,

Which els God knowes, ſhe neuer ſhold haue done.

For had our libertie as open beene,

As was our loues, Siluia had not beene ſeene

Without her Thirſis, neuer had we gone

But hand in hand, nor euer had miſchance

Tooke vs aſunder; ſhee had alwaies had

My bodie interpoſ’d betwixt all harmeſ

And her. But ah we had our libertie

Laid faſt in priſon when our loues were free.

Pa. But how knowſt thou her loue was ſuch to thee?

Thi. How do I know the ſun, the day from night?

Pal. Womens affections doe like flaſhes proue,

They oft ſhew paſſion when they feele ſmall loue.

Thir. Ah do not ſo prophane that precious ſexe,

Which I muſt euer reuerence for her ſake,

Who was the glorie of her kinde; whoſe heart

In all her actions ſo tranſparant waſ

As I might ſee it cleere and wholly myne,

Alwayes obſeruing truth in one right line.

How oft hath ſhe bene vrg’d by fathers threats,

By friends perſwaſions, and Alexis ſighs,

And teares and prayers, to admit his loue,

Yet neuer could be wonne? how oft haue I

Beheld the braueſt heardſmen of theſe plaines,

(As what braue heardſman was there in the plaines

Of all Arcadia, that had not his heart

Warm’d with her beames) to ſeek to win her loue.

Ah I remember well (and how can I

But euer more remember well) when firſt

Our flame began, when ſcarce we knew what waſ

The flame we felt, when as we ſate and ſigh’d

And lookd’vpon each other, and conceiu’d

Not what we ayld, yet ſomething we did ayle.

And yet were well, and yet we were not well,

And what was our diſeaſe we could not tell.

Then would we kiſſe, then ſigh, then looke: & thuſ

In that firſt garden of our ſimpleneſſe

Wee ſpent our childhood: but when yeeres began

To reape the fruite of knowledge; ah how then

Wold ſhe with grauer looks, with ſweet ſtern brow,

Check my preſumption and my forwardnes,

Yet ſtill would giue me flowers, ſtillwould me ſhew

What ſhe would haue me, yet not haue me know.

Pal. Alas with what poore Coyne are louers paid,

And taken with the ſmalleſt bayte is laid?

Thi. And when in ſports with other company,

Of Nimphes and ſhepherds we haue met abroade

How would ſhe ſteale a looke: and watch mine eye

Which way it went? and when at Barley breake

It came vnto my turne to reſcue her,

With what an earneſt, ſwift, and nimble pace

Would her affection make her feet to run

And farther run then to my hand? her race

Had no ſtop but my boſome where to end.

And when we were to breake againe, how late

And loath her trēbling hand wold part with mine,

And with how ſlow a pace would ſhee ſet forth

To meet the’ncountring party, who contends

T’attaine her, ſcarce affording him her fingers ends?

Pal. Fie Thirſis, with what fond remembrances

Doeſt thou theſe idle paſſions entertaine?

For ſhame leaue off to waſte your youth in vaine,

And feede on ſhadowes: make your choice anew.

You other Nimphes ſhall find, no doubt will be

As louely, and as faire: and ſweete as ſhe.

Thi. As faire and ſweete as ſhe? Palaemon peace:

Ah what can pictures be vnto the life,

What ſweetnes can be found in Images?

Which all Nimphes els beſides her ſeemes to me.

She onely was a reall creaturee, ſhee,

Whoſe memory muſt take vp all of mee.

Should I another loue, then muſt I haue,

Another heart, for this is full of her,

And euermore ſhall be: here is ſhee drawne

At length, and whole, and more, this table is

A ſtorie, and is all of her; and all

Wrought in the liuelieſt colours of my bloud;

And can there be a roome for others heere?

Should I diſfigure ſuch a peece, and blot

The perfectſt workmanſhip loue euer wrought.

Palaemon no, ah no, it coſt too deere,

It muſt remaine intire whilſt life remaines,

The monument of her and of my paines.

Pal. Thou maieſt be ſuch a fond I dolater

To die for loue; though that were very ſtrange.

Loue hath few ſaints, but many confeſſors.

And time no doubt will raze out all theſe notes,

And leaue a roome at length for other thoughts.

Thi. Yes when there is no ſpring, no tree, no groue

In all Arcadia to record our loue:

And tell me where we were (the time we were)

How we did meete together, what we ſaid;

Where we did ioy, and where we ſate diſmai’d.

And then I may forget her, not before.

Till then I muſt remember one ſo deere,

When euery thing I ſee tells me of her.

And you deere Reliques of that martred Saint,

My heart adores, you the perpetuall bookes

Whereon when teares permit, mine eye ſtill looks:

Ah you were with her laſt, and till my laſt

You muſt remaine with me; you were reſeru’d

To tell me ſhee was loſt, but yet alas,

You cannot tell me how: I wold you could.

White ſpotleſſe vaile, cleane, like her womanhood,

Which whilome covredſt the moſt louely face

That euer eye beheld. Was there no meſſage ſent

From her by thee? Ah yes, there ſeemes it was;

Here is a T made with her blood, as if

ſhee would haue written, Thirſis, I am ſlaine

In ſeeking thee; ſure ſo it ſhould haue beene,

And ſo I reade it, and ſhall euer ſo.

And thou ſweet remnant of the faireſt haire,

That euer wau’d with winde. Ah thee I found

When her I hop’d to finde, wrapt in a round,

Like to an O, the character of woe;

As if to ſay, O Thirſis, I die thine.

This much you tell me yet, dumbe meſſengers,

Of her laſt minde; and what you cannot tell

That I muſt thinke, which is the moſt extreame

Of wofulneſſe, that any heart can thinke.

Pal. There is no dealing with this man, I ſee,

This humour muſt be let to ſpend it ſelfe

Vnto a leſſer ſubſtance, ere that we

Can any way apply a remedy.

But I lament his caſe, and ſo I know

Do all that ſee him in this wofull plight:

And therefore will I leaue him to himſelfe,

For ſorrow that is full, hates others ſight.

Thir. Come boy, whilſt I contemplate theſe remaines

Of my loſt loue, vnder this myrtle tree,

Record the dolefull’ſt ſong, the ſighingſt notes,

That muſicke hath to entertaine bad thoughts.

Let it be all at flats my boy, all graue,

The tone that beſt befits the griefe I haue.

The Song.

Had ſorrow euer fitter place

To act his part,

Then is my heart,

Where it takes vp all the ſpace?

Where is no veine

To entertaine

 A thought that weares another face.

Nor will I ſorrow euer haue,

Therein to be,

But onely thee,

  To whome I full poſſeſſion gaue:

Thou in thy name

Muſt holde the ſame,

Vntill thou bring it to the graue.

So boy, now leaue me to my ſelfe, that I

May be alone to griefe, entire to miſery.

SCEN. II.

Cloris. Clarindo.

Now gentle boy Clarindo, haſt thou brought

My flockes into the field?

Cla. Miſtris I haue.

Clo. And haſt thou told them?

Cla. Yes.

Clo. And are there all?

Cla. All.

Clo. And haſt thou left them ſafe my boy?

Cla. Safe.

Clo. Then whilſt they feede, Clarindo, I muſt vſe

Thy ſeruice in a ſerious buſineſſe.

But thou muſt do it well my boy.

Cla. The beſt I can.

Clo. Do’ſt thou know Thirſis?

Cla. Yes.

Clo. But know’ſt him well?

Cla. I haue good reaſon to know Thirſis well.

Clo. What reaſon boy?

Cla. I oft haue ſeene the man.

Clo. Why then he knowes thee too?

Cla. Yes I ſuppoſe, vnles he hath forgotten me of late.

Clo. But hath he heard thee ſing my boy?

Cla. He hath.

Clo. Then doubtles he doth well remember thee.

Well, vnto him thou muſt a meſſage do

From thy ſad miſtres Cloris; but thou muſt

Doeit exactly well, with thy beſt grace,

Beſt choice of language, and beſt countenance.

I know thou canſt doe well, and haſt a ſpeech

And faſhion pleaſing to performe the ſame.

Nor can I haue a fitter meſſenger

In this imployment then thy ſelfe my boy.

For ſure me thinkes, noting thy forme and grace,

That thou haſt much of Siluia in thy face:

Which if he ſhall perceiue as well as I,

ſure, he will giue thee audience willinglie.

And for her ſake, if not for mine, heare out

Thy meſſage; for he ſtill (though ſhe be dead)

Holdes ſparkles of her vnextinguiſhed.

And that is death to me: for though ſometimes

Siluia and I moſt deere companions were,

Yet when I ſaw he did ſo much preferre

Her before me, I deadly hated her;

And was not ſorie for her death, and yet

Was ſorie ſhee ſhould come to ſuch a death.

But to the purpoſe, goe to Thirſis, boy:

Say, thou art Cloris ſeruant, ſent to be

The meſſenger of her diſtreſſed teares:

Who languiſhes for him and neuer ſhall

Haue comfort more, vnleſſe he giue it her.

Cla. I will.

Clo. Nay but ſtay boy, ther’s ſomething elſe.

Tell him, his cruelty makes me vndoe

My modeſty, and to put on that part

Which appertaines to him, that is to wooe:

And to diſgrace my Sexe, to ſhew my heart,

Which no man elſe could haue had powre to doe.

And that vnleſſe he doe reſtore me backe

Vnto my ſelfe, by his like loue to me,

I cannot liue.

Cla. All this I’le tell him too.

Clo. Nay but ſtay boy, there is yet more:

Tell him, it will no honour be to him,

When euer it ſhall come to be made knowne,

That he hath beene her death that was his owne.

And how his loue hath fatall beene to two

Diſtreſſed nymphes.

Cla. This will I tell him too.

Clo. Nay but ſtay boy, wilt thou ſay nothing elſe,

As of thy ſelfe, to waken vp his loue?

Thou mayſt ſay ſomething which I may not ſay,

And tell him how thou holdſt me full as faire,

Yea and more faire, more louely, more compleate

Then euer Siluia was. More wiſe, more ſtai’d,

How ſhee was but a light and wauering maid.

Cla. Nay there I leaue you, that I cannot ſay.

Clo. What ſayſt thou boy?

Cla. Nothing, but that I will

Endeauour all I can to worke his loue.

Clo. Doe good my boy: but thou muſt yet adde more,

As from thy ſelfe, & ſay, what an vnkinde

And barbarous part it is to ſuffer thus

So beauteous and ſo rare a nymph to pine

And periſh for his loue; and ſuch a one,

As if ſhee would haue ſtoop’d to others flame,

Hath had the gallantſt heardſmen of theſe fields

Fall at her feete: all which ſhe hath deſpis’d,

Hauing her heart before by thee ſurpriz’d.

And now doth nothing elſe, but ſit and mourne:

Speake Thirſis, weepe Thirſis, ſigh Thirſis, and

Sleepe Thirſis when ſhe ſleepes, which is but rare

Beſides, good boy thou muſt not ſticke to ſweare,

Thou oft haſt ſeene me ſowne, & ſinke to ground

In theſe deep paſſions, wherein I abound.

For ſomething thou maiſt ſay beyond the truth,

By reaſon of my loue, and of thy youth.

Doe, good Clarindo ſweare, and vow thus much.

But do’ſt thou now remember all I ſay,

Do’ſt thou forget no parcell of my ſpeech,

ſhall I repeate the ſame againe to thee?

Or els wilt thou rehearſe it vnto mee?

That I may know thou haſt it perfect, boy.

Cla. It ſhall not need: be ſure I will report,

What you enioyne me, in moſt earneſt ſort.

Clo. Ah doe good boy. Although I feare it will,

Auaile me little: for I doubt his heart

Is repoſſeſſed with another loue.

Cla. Another loue? Who may that be, I pray?

Clo. With Amarillis, I haue heard: for they

Are thought, will in the end make vp a match.

Cla. With Amarillis? Well, yet will I goe,

And try his humour whether it be ſo?

Clo. Goe good Clarindo, but thou muſt not faile

To worke effectually for my auaile.

And doe not ſtay, returne with ſpeed good boy,

My paſſions are to great t’indure delay.

ACT. I. SCEN. III.

Clarindo ſol.

Thirſis in loue with Amarillis? then

In what a caſe am I? what doth availe,

This altred habite, that belies my Sexe?

What boots it t’haue eſcap’d from pirats hands

And with ſuch wiles to haue deceiu’d their wills,

If I returne to fall on worſer ills?

In loue with Amarillis? is that ſo?

Is Siluia then forgot? that hath endur’d

So much for him? doe all theſe miſeries

(Caus’d by his meanes) deſerue no better hire?

Was it the greateſt comfort of my life,

To haue return’d that I might comfort him?

And am I welcom’d thus? ah did mine eies

Take neuer reſt, after I was arriu’d

Till I had ſeene him, though vnknowne to him?

Being hidden thus, and couer’d with diſguiſe

And maſculine attire, to temporize

Vntill Alexis mariage day be paſt,

Which ſhortly as I heare will be: and which

Would free me wholly from my fathers feare:

Who if he knew I were return’d, would yet

Vndoe I doubt that match, to match me there.

Which would be more then all my ſuffrings were.

Indeed me thought when I beheld the face

Of my deere Thirſis, I beheld a face

Confounded all with paſſion, which did much

Afflict my hart: but yet I litle thought

It could haue beene for any others loue.

I did ſuppoſe the memorie of me,

And of my rapture, had poſſeſt him ſo,

As made him ſhew that countenance of woe.

And much adoe had I then to forbeare

From caſting me into his armes, and yeild

What comfort my poore ſelfe could yeild, but that

I thought our ioyes would not haue bin complete,

But might haue yeilded vs anoyes as great,

Vnleſſe I could come wholly his, and cleer’d

From all thoſe former dangers which we fear’d:

Which now a little ſtay (though any ſtay

Be death to me) would wholly take away.

And therefore I reſolu’d my ſelfe to beare

This burthen of our ſufferings yet a while,

And to become a ſeruant in this guiſe,

To her I would haue ſkorned otherwiſe:

And be at all commands, to goe, and come,

To trudge into the fields, early, and late.

Which though I know, it miſbecomes my ſtate:

Yet it becomes my fortune, which is that,

Not Phillis whom I ſerue: but ſince I ſerue,

I will doe what I doe moſt faithfully.

But Thirſis, is it poſſible that thou

ſhouldſt ſo forget me, and forgo thy vowe;

Or is it but a flying vaine report,

That ſlanders thine affection in this ſort?

It may be ſo, and God grant it may be ſo:

I ſhall ſoone finde if thou be falſe or no:

But ah here comes my Fury, I muſt flie.

ACT. I. SCEN. IIII.

Phillis. Clarindo.

Ah cruell youth, whither away ſo faſt?

Cla. Good Phillis do not ſtay me, I haue haſte.

Phi. What haſte ſhouldſt thou haue but to comfort me,

Who hath no other comfort but in thee?

Cla. Alas thou do’ſt but trouble mein vaine,

I cannot helpe thee: t’is not in my powre.

Phi. Not in thy powre Clarindo? ah ifthou

Hadſt any thing of manlines, thou would’ſt.

Cla. But if I haue not, what doth it auaile

In this ſort to torment thy ſelfe and me?

And therefore pre thee Phillis let me goe.

Phi. Ah whither canſt thou go, where thou ſhalt be

More deerely lou’d and cheriſht then with me?

Cla. But that my purpoſe cannot ſatiſfie,

I muſt be gone, there is no remedie.

Phi. O cruell youth, will thy hart nothing moue?

Shew me yet pitie, if thou ſhew not loue.

Cla. Beleeue me Phillis I do pitie thee;

And more, lament thy error, ſo farewell.

Phi. And art thou gone hard-hearted youth? haſt thou

Thus diſappointed my deſires, and Ieft

My ſhame t’afflict me worſer then my loue?

Now in what caſe am I, that neither can

Recall my modeſtie, nor thee againe?

Ah were it now to do againe, my paſſions ſhould

Haue ſmothred me to death, before I would

Haue ſhew’d the ſmalleſt ſparkle of my flame.

But it is done, and I am now vndone.

Ah hadſt thou bene a man, and had that part

Of vnderſtanding of a womans hart,

My words had bene vnborne, onely mine eieſ

Had bene a tongue ynough to one were wiſe.

But this it is, to loue a boy, whoſe yeareſ

Conceiues not his owne good, nor weighes my teares:

But this diſgrace I iuſtly haue deſeru’d

SCEN. V.

Lidia. Phillis.

So Phillis haue you, and y’are rightly ſeru’d.

Haue you diſdain’d the gallanſt Forreſters,

And braueſt heardſmen all Arcadia hath,

And now in loue with one is not a man?

Aſſure your ſelfe this is a iuſt reuenge

Loue takes, for your miſpriſion of his powre.

I told you often there would come a time,

When you would ſure be plagu’d for ſuch a crime:

But you would laugh at me, as one you thought

Conceiu’d not of what mettall you were wrought.

Is this you, who would wonder any nympheſ

Could euer be ſo fooliſh as to loue?

Who is ſo fooliſh now?  Phil. Peace Lidia, peace,

Adde not more griefe t’a hart that hath too much,

Do not inſult vpon her miſery,

Whoſe flame, God wot, needs water, and not oyle.

Thou ſeeſt I am vndone, caught in the Toyle

Of an intangling miſchiefe: tell me how

I may recouer, and vnwinde me now.

Lid. That doth require more time, we will apart

Conſult thereof, be you but rul’d by me,

And you ſhall finde, I, yet, will ſet you free.

Exeunt.

The ſong of the firſt Chorus.

Loue is a ſickneſſe full of woes,

All remedies refuſing:

A plant that with moſt cutting growes,

Moſt barren with beſt vſing.

Why ſo?

More we enioy it, more it dyes,

If not enioy’d, it ſighing cries,

Hey ho.

Loue is a torment of the minde,

A tempeſt euerlaſting;

And Ioue hath made it of a kinde,

Not well, nor full nor faſting.

Why ſo?

More we enioy it, more it dies,

If not enioyd, it ſighing cries,

Hey ho.

ACT. II. SCEN. I.

Siluanus. Dorcas. Montanus.

In what a meane regard are we now held,

We actiue and laborious forreſters?

Who though our liuing rurall be and rough,

Yet heretofore were we for valour priz’d,

And well eſteem’d in all good companies:

Nor would the daintieſt nymphes that valleyes haunt

Or fields inhabite, euer haue deſpis’d

Our ſiluane ſongs, nor yet our plaine diſcourſe;

But gracefully accepted of our ſkill,

And often of our loues, when they haue ſeene

How faithfull and how conſtant we haue beene.

Dor. It’s true Siluanus, but you ſee the timeſ

Are altred now, and they ſo dainty growne,

By being ador’d, and woo’d, and followed ſo

Of thoſe vnſinowed amorous heardſmen, who

By reaſon of their rich and mighty flockes,

Supply their pleaſures with that plenteouſneſſe,

As they diſdaine our plainneſſe, and do ſcorne

Our company, as men rude and ill borne.

Sil. Well, ſo they doe; but Dorcas if you marke

How oft they doe miſcarie in their loue,

Aud how diſloyall theſe fine heardſmen prooue;

You ſhall perceiue how their aboundaut ſtore

Payes not their expectation, nor deſires.

Witneſſe theſe groues wherein they oft deplore

The miſerable paſſions they ſuſtaine:

And how perfidious, wayward, and vnkinde,

They finde their loues to be; which we, who are

The eyes, and eares of woods, oft ſee and heare.

For hither to theſe groues they much reſort,

And here one wayles apart the vſage hard

Of her diſordred, wilde, and wilfull mate:

There mournes another her vnhappy ſtate,

Held euer in reſtraint, and in ſuſpect:

Another to her truſty confident,

Laments how ſhee is matcht to ſuch a one

As cannot giue a woman her content.

Another grieues how ſhee hath got a foole,

Whoſe bed although ſhee loath, ſhee muſt endure.

And thus they all vnhappy by that meaneſ

Which they accompt would bring all happineſſe;

Moſt wealthely are plagu’d, with rich diſtreſſe.

Dor. And ſo they are, but yet this was not wont

To be the faſhion here; there was a time

Before Arcadia came to be diſeas’d

With theſ corrupted humors reigning now,

That choiſe was made of vertue and deſert,

Without reſpect of any other endes:

When loue was onely maſter of their hearts,

And rul’d alone: when ſimple thoughts produc’d

Plaine honeſt deedes, and euery one contendſ

To haue his fame to follow his deſerts,

And not his ſhewes; to be the ſame he was,

Not ſeem’d to be: and then were no ſuch partſ

Of falſe deceiuings plaid, as now weſee.

But after that accurſed greedineſſe

Of wealth began to enter and poſſeſſe

The hearts of men, integrity was loſt,

And with it they themſelues, for neuer more;

Came they to be in their owne powre againe.

That Tyrant vanquiſht them, made them all ſlaues,

That brought baſe ſeruitude into the world,

Which elſe had neuer bin; that only made

Them to endure all whatſoeuer weightſ

Powre could deuiſe to lay vpon their necke.

For rather thē they would not haue, they would not be

But miſerable. So that no deuice

Needes elſe to keepe them vnder, they themſelueſ

Will beare farre more then they are made, thēſelueſ

Will adde vnto their fetters, rather then

They would not be, or held to be great men.

Sil. Then Dorcas, how much more are we to prize

Our meane eſtate, which they ſo much deſpiſe?

Conſidering that we doe enioy thereby,

The deareſt thing in nature, Liberty.

And are not tortur’d with thoſe hopes and feares,

Th’afflction laid on ſuperfluities,

Which make them to obſcure, and ſerue the times:

But are content with what the earth, the woodſ

And riuers neere doe readily afforde

And therewithall furniſh our homly borde.

Thoſe vnbought cates pleaſe our vnlearned throatſ

That vnderſtand not dainties, euen as well

As all their delicates, which doe but ſtuffe

And not ſuſtaine the ſtomacke: and indeede

A well obſeruing belly doth make much

For libertie; for he that can but liue,

Although with rootes, and haue no hopes, is free

Without the verge of any ſou’raintie.

And is a Lord at home, commands the day

As his till night, and then repoſes him

At his owne houres. thinkes on no ſtratagem

But how to take his game, hath no deſeigne

To croſſe next day: no plots to vndermine.

Dor. But why Montanus doe you looke ſo ſad?

What is the cauſe your minde is not as free

As your eſtate? what, haue you had of late

Some coy repulſe of your diſdainfull nymph,

To whome loue hath ſubdu’d you? who indeede

Our only maſter is, and no Lord elſe

But he, hath any power to vexe vs here;

Which had he not, we too too happy were.

Mon. In troth I muſt confeſſe, when now you two

Found me in yonder thicket, I had loſt

My ſelfe, by hauing ſeene that which I would

I had not had theſe eyes to ſee; and iudge

If I great reaſon haue not to complaine:

You ſee I am a man, though not ſo gay

And delicately clad, as are your fine

And amorous dainty heardſmen; yet a man,

And that not baſe, not vn-allyde to Pan;

And of a ſpirit doth not degenerate

From my robuſtious manly anceſtours,

Being neuer foild in any wraſtling game,

But ſtill haue borne away the chiefeſt prize

In euery braue and actiue exerciſe.

Yet notwithſtanding that diſdainfull maid,

Prowd Phillis, doth deſpiſe me and my loue,

And will not daigne ſo much as here me ſpeake,

But doth abiure, forſooth, the thought of loue.

Yet ſhall I tell you (yet aſham’d to tell;)

This coy vnlouing ſoule, I ſaw ere while

ſoliciting a youth, a ſmooth fac’d boy,

Whom in her armes ſhee held (as ſeem’d to me,

Being cloſely buſht a prety diſtance off,)

Againſt his will; and with ſtrange paſſion vrg’d

His ſtay, who ſeem’d, ſtruggled to get away,

And yet ſhee ſtaid him, yet intreats his ſtay.

At which ſtrange ſight, imagine I that ſtood

ſpectatour, how confoundedly I ſtood,

And hardly could forbeare from running in

To claime for mine, if euer loue had right,

Thoſe her imbraces caſt away in ſight:

But ſtaying to behold the end, I ſtaid

Too long; the boy gets looſe, her ſelfe retyres,

And you came in; but if I liue, that boy

ſhall dearely pay for his miſfortune, that

He was beloued of her, of whom I would

Haue none on earth beloued, but my ſelfe.

Dor. That were to bite the ſtone, a thing vniuſt,

To puniſh him for her conceiued luſt.

Mon. Tuſh, many in this world we ſee are caught,

And ſuffer for miſforrnne, not their fault.

Sil. But that would not become your manlines,

Montanus, it were ſhame for valiant men

To doe vnworthily.

Mon. Speake not of that, Siluanus, if my rage

Irregular be made, it muſt worke like effects.

Dor. Theſe are but billowes, tumbling after ſtorms,

They laſt not long, come let ſome exerciſe

Diuert that humour, and conuert your thoughtſ

To know your ſelfe; ſcorne her who ſcorneth you;

Idolatrize not ſo that ſexe, but hold

A man of ſtrawe, more then a wife of gold.

Exeunt.

ACT. II. SCEN. II.

Lidia. Phillis.

You muſt not, Phillis, be ſo ſenſible

Of theſe ſmall touches which your paſſion makes.

Phi. ſmall touches Lidia, do you count the ſmall?

Can there vnto a woman worſe befall

Then hath to mee? what? haue not I loſt all

That is moſt deare to vs, loue and my fame?

Is there a third thing Lidia you can name

That is ſo precious as to match with theſe?

Lid. Now fily girle, how fondly doe you talke?

How haue you loſt your fame; what for a few

Ill-fauour’d louing words, vttred in ieaſt

Vnto a fooliſh youth? Cannot you ſay

You did but to make triall how you could,

If ſuch a peeuiſh qualme of paſſion ſhould

(As neuer ſhall) oppreſſe your tender heart,

Frame your conceit to ſpeake, to looke, to ſigh

Like to a heart-ſtrooke louer; and that you

Perceiuing him to be a baſhfull youth,

Thought to put ſpirit in him, and make you ſport.

Phi. Ah Lidia, but he ſaw I did not ſport,

He ſaw my teares, and more, what ſhall I ſay?

He ſaw too much, and that which neuer man

ſhall euer ſee againe whil’ſt I haue breath.

Lid. Are you ſo ſimple as you make your ſelfe?

What did he ſee? a counterfeited ſhew

Of paſſion, which you may, if you were wiſe,

Make him as eaſily to vnbeleeue,

As what he neuer ſaw; and thinke his eyes

Conſpir’d his vnderſtanding to deceiue.

How many women, thinke you, being eſpide

In neerer-touching caſes by miſchance,

Haue yet not onely fac’d their louers downe

For what they ſaw, but brought them to beleeue

They had not ſeene the thing which they had ſeen,

Yea and to ſweare it too; and to condemne

Themſelues? ſuch meanes can wit deuiſe

To make mens mindes vncredit their owne eyes.

And therefore let not ſuch a toy as this

Diſeaſe your thoughts: and for your loſſe of loue,

It is as much as nothing. I would turne

A paſſion vpon that ſhould ouerturne

It cleane, and that is wrath; one heate

Expels another. I would make my thoughts of skorne

To be in height ſo much aboue my loue,

As they ſhould eaſe and pleaſe me more by farre.

I would diſdaine to caſt a looke that way

Where he ſhould ſtand, vnleſſe it were in ſkorne,

Or thinke a thought of him, but how to worke

Him all diſgrace that poſſibly I could.

Phi. That Lidia can I neuer doe, let him

Do what he will to me: report my ſhame,

And vaunt his fortune, and my weakneſſe blame.

Lid. Nay as for that he ſhall be ſo well charmd

Ere I haue done, as you ſhall feare no tales.

Phi. Ah Lidia, could that be without his harme,

How bleſſed ſhould I be? But ſee where comeſ

My great tormentour, hat rude Forreſter.

Good Lidia let vs flie, I hate his ſight

Next to the ill I ſuffer: let vs flie,

We ſhall be troubled with him wofully.

Lid. Content you Phillis, ſtay & heare him ſpeake:

We may make vſe of him more then you thinke.

Phil. What vſe can of ſo groſſe a peece be made?

Lid. The better vſe be ſure, for beeing groſſe,

Your ſubtler ſpirits full of their fineſſes,

ſerue their owne turnes in others buſineſſes.

ACT. II. SCEN. III.

Montanus. Lidia. Phillis.

What pleaſure can I take to chaſe wild beaſts,

When I my ſelfe am chac’d more egarly

By mine owne paſſions, and can finde no reſt?

Let them who haue their heart at libertie,

Attend thoſe ſports. I cannot be from hence,

Where I receiu’d my hurt, here muſt I tread

The maze of my perplexed miſerie.

And here ſee where ſhee is the cauſe of all?

And now, what ſhall I doe? what ſhall I ſay?

How ſhall I looke? how ſtand? which vtter firſt?

My loue or wrath? Alas I know not which.

Now were it not as good haue beene away,

As thus to come, and not tell what to ſay?

Phil. See Lidia ſee, how ſauagely hee lookes,

Good let vs goe, I neuer ſhall endure

To heare him bellow.  Lid. Prethee Phillis ſtay

And giue him yet the hearing, in reſpect

Hee loues you, otherwiſe you ſhew your ſelfe

A ſauage more then hee.  Phil. Well, it I heare,

I will not anſwere him a word, you ſhall reply,

And prethee Lidia doe, reply for mee.

Lid. For that wee ſhall, Phillis, doe well enough

When he begins, who ſeemes is very long

To giue the onſet, ſure the man is much

Perplexed, or he ſtudies what to ſay.

Phil. Good Lidia ſee how he hath trickt himſelfe,

Now ſure this gay freſh ſuite as ſeemes to mee

Hangs like green Iuy on a rotten tree.

Lid. ſome beaſts doe weare gray beards beſide your goates:

And bear with him, this ſuit bewraies yong thoghts

Mon. Ah was it not enough to be oppreſt

With that confounding paſſion of my loue

And her diſdaine, but that I muſt be torne

With wrath and enuie too, and haue no veine

Free from the racke of ſuffrings, that I can

Nor ſpeake nor thinke but moſt diſtractedly?

How ſhall I now begin, that haue no way

To let out any paſſion by it ſelfe,

But that they all will thruſt together ſo

As none will be expreſſed as they ought?

But ſomething I muſt ſay now I am here.

And be it what it will, loue, enuie wrath,

Or all together in a comberment,

My words muſt be like me, perplext and rent,

And ſo I’le to her.  Phi. Lidia, ſee he comes.

Lid. He comes indeed, and as me thinkes doth

More trouble in his face by farre, then loue.

Mon. Faire Phillis, and too faire for ſuch a one, ſhew

Vnleſſe you kinder were, or better then

I know you are: how much I haue endur’d

For you, although you skorne to know, I feele,

And did imagine, that in being a man

Who might deſerue regard, I ſhould haue bin

Prefer’d before a boy. But well, I ſee

Your ſeeming and your being diſagree.

Phi. What Lidia, doth he brawle? what meanes he thus

To ſpeake and looke in this ſtrange ſort on me?

Mon. Well modeſt Phillis, neuer looke ſo coy,

Theſe eyes beheld you dallying with a boy.

Phi. Me with a boy, Montanus? when? where? how?

Mon. To day, here, in moſt laſciuious ſort.

Lid. Ah, ha, belike he ſawe you Phillis, when

This morning you did ſtriue with Cloris boy

To haue your garland, which he ſnatcht away,

And kept it from you by ſtrong force and might:

And you againe laid hold vpon the ſame,

And held it faſt vntill with much adoe

He wrung it from your hands, and got away.

And this is that great matter which he ſaw.

Now fye Montanus fye, are you ſo groſſe,

T’imagine ſuch a worthy nymph as ſhee

Would be inloue with ſuch a youth as he?

Why now you hauc vndone your credit quite,

You neuer can make her amends for this

So impious a ſurmiſe, nor euer can

Shee, as ſhee reaſon hath, but muſt deſpiſe

your groſſeneſſe; who ſhould rather haue come in

And righted her, then ſuffer ſuch a one

To offer an indignity ſo vile,

And you ſtand prying in a buſh the while.

Mon. What do I heare? what, am I not my ſelfe?

How? haue mine eyes double vndone me then?

Firſt ſeeing Phillis face, and now her fact,

Or elſe the fact I ſaw, I did not ſee?

And ſince thou haſt my vnderſtanding wrong’d,

And traytour-like giuen falſe intelligence,

Whereby my iudgement comes to paſſe amiſſe.

And yet I thinke my ſence was in the right:

And yet in this amaze I cannot tell,

But howſoere, I in an errour am,

In louing, or beleeuing, or in both.

And therefore Phillis, at thy feet I fall,

And pardon craue for this my groſſe ſurmiſe.

Lid. But this, Montanus, will not now ſuffiſe.

You quite haue loſt her, and your hopes and all.

Mon. Good Lidia yet intreate her to relent,

And let her but command me any thing

That is within the power of man to do,

And you ſhall finde Montanus will performe

More then a Gyant, and will ſtead her more

Then all the heardſmen in Arcadia can.

Lia. Shee will command you nothing; but I wiſh

You would a little terrifie that boy

As he may neuer dare to vſe her name

But in all reuerence as is fit for her.

But doe not you examine him a word;

For that were neither for your dignity,

Nor hers, that ſuch a boy as he ſhould ſtand

And iuſtifie himſelfe in ſuch a caſe,

Who would but faine vntruths vnto your face.

And herein you ſome ſeruice ſhall performe,

As may perhaps make her to thinke on you.

Mon. Alas, this is a worke ſo farre, ſo low

Beneath my worth, as I account it none,

Were it t’incounter ſome fierce mountaine beaſt

Or monſter, it were ſomething fitting mee.

But yet this will I doe, and doe it home,

Aſſure you Lidia: as I liue I will.

Phi. But yet I would not haue you hurt the youth,

For that were neither grace for you nor mee.

Mon. That as my rage will tollerate muſt be.

ACT. II. SCEN. IV.

Cloris. Clarindo.

Heere comes my long expected meſſenger,

God grant the newes hee brings may make amends

For his long ſtay; and ſure, I hope it will.

Me thinkes his face bewraies more iollytie

In his returning then in going hence.

Cla. Well, all is wel; no Amarillis hath

Supplanted Siluias louein Thirſis heart,

Nor any ſhall: but ſee where Cloris lookes

For what I ſhall not bring her at this time.

Clo. Clarindo though my longing would be faine

Diſpatch’d at once, & heare my doome pronounc’d

All in a word of either life or death,

Yet doe not tell it but by circumſtance.

Tell me the manner where, and how thou foundſt

My Thirſis, what he ſaid, how look’d, how far’d,

How he receau’d my meſſage, vſed thee;

And all in briefe, but yet be ſure tell all.

Cla. All will I tell as neere as I can tell.

Firſt after teadious ſearching vp and downe,

I found him all alone, like a hurt Deare,

Got vnder couer in a ſhadie groue,

Hard by a little chriſtall purling ſpring,

Which but one ſullen note of murmur held;

And where no ſunne could ſee him, where no eye

Might ouerlooke his louely primacy.

There in a path of his owne making, trode

Bare as a common way, yet led no way

Beyond the turnes he made (which were but ſhort)

With armes acroſſe, his hat downe on his eyeſ

(As if thoſe ſhades yeelded not ſhade ynough,

To darken them) he walkes with often ſtops,

Vneuen pace, like motions to his thoughts.

And when he heard me comming, for his eares

Were quicker watches then his eyes, it ſeem’d;

He ſuddenly lookes vp, ſtaies ſuddenly,

And with a brow that told how much the ſight

Of any interrupter troubled him,

Beheld me, without ſpeaking any word,

As if expecting what I had to ſay.

I finding him in this confus’d diſmay,

(Who heretofore had ſeene him otherwiſe:

I muſt confeſſe, (for tell you all I muſt,)

A trembling paſſion ouerwhelmd my breaſt,

ſo that I likewiſe ſtood confus’d and dumbe,

And onely lookt on him, as he on me.

In this ſtrange poſture like two ſtatues we

Remaind a while; but with this difference ſet:

He bluſht, and I look’d pale; my face did ſhew

Ioy to ſee him, his trouble to be ſeene.

At length bethinking me for what I came,

What part I had to act, I rowzd my ſpirits,

And ſet my ſelfe to ſpeake; although I wiſht

He would haue firſt begun; and yet before

A word would iſſue, twice I bowd my knee,

Twice kiſt my hand; my action ſo much waſ

More ready then my tongue: at laſt I told

Whoſe meſſenger I was, and how I came

To intimate the ſadde diſtreſſed caſe

Of an afflicted nymph, whoſe onely helpe

Remaind in him: he when he heard the name

of Cloris, turnes away his head, and ſhrinkes,

As if he grieued that you ſhould grieue for him.

Clo. No, no, it troubled him to heare my name,

Which he deſpiſes, is he ſo pervers

And way ward ſtill? ah then I ſee no hope.

Clarindo, would to God thou hadſt not gone,

I could be, but as now, I am vndone.

Cla. Haue patience Miſtres, & but heare the reſt.

When I perceiu’d his ſuffring, with the touch

And ſodaine ſtop it gauc him, preſently

I layd on all the waights that motion might

Procure, and him beſought, adiur’d, invok’d,

By all the rights of Nature, pietie,

And manlines, to heare my meſſage out.

Told him how much the matter did import

Your ſafetie and his fame. How hee was bound

In all humanity to right the ſame.

Clo. That was well done my boy, what ſaid he then?

Cla. Hee turnes about, and fixt his eyes on mee,

Content to giue his eares a quiet leaue,

To heare me. when I faild not to relate

All what I had in charge, and all he heares,

And lookes directly on me all the while.

Clo. I doubt he noted thee more then thy words,

But now Clarindo, what was his reply?

Cla. Thus. Tel faire Cloris, my good boy, how that

I am not ſo diſnatured a man,

Or ſo ill borne, to diſeſteeme her loue,

Or not to grieue, (as I proteſt I doe)

That ſhee ſhould ſo afflict her ſelfe for mee.

But. Clo. Ah now comes that bitter word of But

Which makes all nothing, that was ſaid before.

That ſmoothes & wounds, that ſtroakes and daſhes more

Then flat denyals, or a plaine diſgrace.

But tell me yet what followed on that But?

Cla. Tell her (ſaid hee) that I deſire ſhee would

Redeeme her ſelfe at any price ſhee could,

And neuer let her thinke on mee, who am

But euen the barke, and outſide of a man,

That trades not with the liuing, neither can

Nor euer will keepe other company.

Then with the dead. My Siluias memory

Is all that I muſt euer liue withall.

With that his teares, which likewiſe forced mine,

ſet me againe vpon another racke

Of paſſion ſo, that of my ſelfe I ſought

To comfort him the beſt I could deuiſe.

And I beſought him that he would not be

Tranſported thus. But know that with the dead

He ſhould no more conuerſe: and how his loue

Was liuing, that would giue him all content,

And was all his intire, and pure, and wiſht

To liue no longer then ſhee ſhould be ſo.

When more I would haue ſaid, he ſhooke his head

And wild me ſpeake no further at that time,

But leaue him to himſelfe, and to returne

Againe anone, and he would tell me more;

Commending me for hauing done the part

Both of a true and mouing meſſenger.

And ſo I tooke my leaue, and came my way.

Clo. Returne againe? no, to what end,

If hee be ſo conceited, and ſo fond

To intertaine a ſhadow; I haue done,

And wiſh, that I had neuer done ſo much.

Shall I deſcend below my ſelfe, to ſend

To one is not himſelfe? Let him alone

With his dead image: you ſhall goe no more

Haue I here fram’d with all the art I could

This garland deckt with all the various flowres,

Arcadia yeelds, in hope he would ſend backe

ſome cofort, that I might therwith haue crown’d

His loue, and witneſs’d mine, in thendles round

Of this faire ring, the Character of faith?

But now he ſhall haue none of it, I rather will

Rend it in peeces, and diſhatter all

Into a Chaos, like his formeles thoughts.

But yet thou faiſt he wild thee to returne,

And he would tell thee more.

Cla. Yes ſo he ſaide.

Clo. Perhaps thy words might yet ſo worke with him

As that hee takes this time to thinke on them,

And then I ſhould doe wrong to keepe thee backe.

Well thou ſhalt goe, and carry him from mee

This garland, worke it what effect it will.

But yet I know it will doe nothing. Stay

Thou ſhalt not goe, for ſure hee ſaid but that

To put thee off, that he might be alone

At his idolatrie, in worſhipping

A nothing, but his ſelfe made images.

But yet he may be wearied with thoſe thoughtſ

As hauing worne them long, and end they muſt:

And this my meſſage comming in fit time,

And moouingly deliuered, may take hold:

He ſaid thou wert a moouing meſſenger

Clarindo, did he not?

Cla. Yes ſo he ſaid.

Clo. Well, thou ſhalt goe; and yet if any thought

Of me ſhould mooue him, he knowes wel my mind

(if not too well) and where he may me finde.

Thou ſhalt not goe Clarindo, nor will I

Diſgrace me more with importunity:

And yet if ſuch a motion ſhould take fire,

And finde no matter ready, it would out,

And opportunities muſt not be ſlackt

Clarindo, thou ſhalt goe, and as thou goeſt,

Looke to my flocke, and ſo God ſpeed thee well.

SCEN. V.

Clarindo, alias Siluia ſol.

Well, this imployment makes for my auaile,

For hereby haue I meanes to ſee my loue;

Who likewiſe ſees me, though he ſees me not;

Nor doe I ſee him as I would I did.

But I muſt by ſome meanes or other make

Him know I liue; and yet not ſo as he

May know that I am I, for feare we might

Miſcary in our ioyes by ouer haſte.

But it is more then time his ſuffrings were

Releeu’d in ſome cloſe ſort; and that can I deuiſe

No way to doe, but by relating how

I heard of an eſcape a nymph did make

From pirats lately, and was ſafe return’d.

And ſo to tell ſome ſtorie that containes

Our fortunes and our loues, in other names;

And wiſh him to expect the like euent;

For I perceiue him very well content

To heare me ſpeake; and ſure he hath ſome note,

Although ſo darkly drawne, as that his eyes

Cannot expreſly reade it; yet it ſhowes

Him ſomthing, which he rather feels, then knowes.

The ſong of the ſecond Chorus.

Deſire that is of things vngot,

See what trauaile it procureth,

And how much the minde endureth,

To gaine what yet it gaineth not:

For neuer was it paid,

The charge defraide,

According to the price of thought.

ACT. III. SCEN. I.

Charinus, the father of Thirſis. Palaemon.

Palaemon, you me thinkes might ſomething work

With Thirſis my aggreeued ſonne, and ſound

His humour what it is: and why he thus

Afflicts himſelfe in ſolitarineſſe.

You two were wont to be moſt inward friends,

And glad I was to ſee it; knowing you

To be a man well tempred, fit to ſort

With his raw youth; can you doe nothing now,

To win him from this vile captiuity

Of paſſion, that withholdes him from the world?

Pal. In troth, Charinus, I haue oftentimes,

As one that ſuffred for his grieuances,

Aſſayd to finde a way into the cauſe

Of his ſo ſtrange diſmay; and by all meaneſ

Aduis’d him make redemption of himſelfe,

And come to life againe, and be a man

With men: but all ſerues not, I finde him lockt

Faſt to his will, alleadge I what I can.

Char. But will he not impart to you the cauſe?

Pal. The cauſe is loue; but it is ſuch a loue,

As is not to be had.  Cha. Not to be had?

Palaemon, if his loue beregular,

Is there in all Arcadia any ſhee,

Whom his ability, his ſhape, and worth

May not attaine, he being my onely ſonne?

Pal. Shee is not in Arcadia whom he loues,

Nor in the world, and yet he deerely loues.

Cha. How may that be, Palaemon? tell me plaine.

Pal. Thus plainly; he’s in loue with a dead woman,

And that ſo farre, as with the thought of her

Which hath ſhut out all other, he alone

Liues, and abhorres to be, or ſeene, or knowne.

Cha. What was this creature could poſſeſſe him ſo?

Pal. Faire Siluia, old Medorus daughter, who

Was two yeares paſt reported to be ſlaine

By ſauage beaſts vpon our countrey ſhore.

Cha. Is that his griefe? alas, I rather thought

It appertain’d vnto anothers part

To wayle her death: Alexis ſhould doe that

To whom her father had diſpoſed her,

And ſhee eſteemed onely to be his.

Why ſhould my ſonne afflict him more for her,

Then doth Alexis, who this day doth wed

Faire Galatea, and forgets the dead?

And here the ſhepheards come to celebrate

His ioyfull nuptials with all merriment,

Which doth increaſe my cares, conſidering

The comforts other parents doe receiue:

And therefore good Palaemon worke all meanes

You can to win him from his peeuiſh will,

And draw him to theſe ſhewes, to companies,

That others pleaſures may inkindle his.

And tell him what a ſinne he doeth commit,

To waſte his youth in ſolitarineſſe,

And take a courſe to end vs all in him.

Pal. Aſſure your ſelfe Charinus, as I haue

So will I ſtill imploy my vtmoſt powre,

To ſaue him; for me thinks it pittie were,

So rare a peece of worth ſhould ſo be loſt,

That ought to be preſerued at any coſt.

ACT. III. SCEN. II.

Charinus. Medorus.

Medorus come, we two muſt ſit, and mourne

Whilſt others reuell. We are not for ſports,

Or nuptiall ſhewes, which will but ſhew vs more

Our miſeries, in beeing both depriu’d,

The comforts of our iſſue, which might haue

(And was as like to haue) made our hearts

As ioyfull now, as others are in theirs.

Med. In deed Charinus, I for my part haue

Iuſt cauſe to grieue amidſt theſe feſtiuals,

For they ſhould haue been mine. This day I ſhould

Haue ſeene my daughter Siluia how ſhe would

Haue womand it; theſe rites had bene her grace,

And ſhee had ſat in Galateas place.

And now had warm’d my heart to ſee my bloud

Preſeru’d in her; had ſhee not beene ſo rapt

And rent from off the liuing as ſhee was.

But your caſe is not pararell with mine,

You haue a ſonne, Charinus, that doth liue,

And may one day to you like comforts giue.

Cha. Indeed I haue a ſonne; but yet to ſay he liues,

I cannot; for who liues not to the world,

Nor to himſelfe, cannot be ſaid to liue:

For euer ſince that you your daughter loſt,

I loſt my ſonne: for from that day he hath

Imbrakd in ſhades and ſolitarineſſe,

ſhut himſelfe vp from ſight or company

Of any liuing: and as now I heard,

By good Palaemon, vowes ſtill ſo to doe.

Med. And did your ſonne, my daughter loue ſo deare?

Now good Charinus, I muſt grieue the more,

If more my heart could ſuffer then it doth;

For now I feele the horrour of my deede,

In hauing croſt the worthieſt match on earth.

Now I perceiue why Siluia did refuſe

To marrie with Alexis, hauing made

A worthier choice; which oh had I had grace

To haue foreſeene, perhaps this diſmall chance

Neuer had bene, and now they both had had

Ioy of their loues, and we the like of them.

But ah my greedy eye, viewing the large

And ſpacious ſheep-walkes ioyning vnto mine,

Whereof Alexis was poſſeſt, made me,

As worldlings doe, deſire to marry grounds,

And not affections, which haue other bounds.

How oft haue I with threats, with promiſes,

With all perſwaſions, ſought to win her minde

To fancie him, yet all would not preuaile?

How oft hath ſhee againe vpon her knees

With teares beſought me; Oh deare father mine

Doe not inforce me to accept a man

I cannot fancie: rather take from mee,

The life you gaue me, then afflict it ſo.

Yet all this would not alter mine intent,

This was the man ſhee muſt affect or none.

But ah what ſinne was this to torture ſo

A hart forevow’d vnto a better choice,

Where goodneſſe met in one the ſelfe ſame point,

And vertues anſwer’d in an equall ioynt?

ſure, ſure, Charinus, for this ſinne of mine

The gods bereaſt me of my childe, and would

Not haue her be, to be without her heart,

Nor me take ioy where I did none impart.

Cha. Medorus, thus wee ſee mans wretchedneſſe

That learnes his errours but by their ſucceſſe,

And when there is no remedie; and now

Wee can but wiſh it had beene otherwiſe.

Med. And in that wiſh Charinus we are rackt;

But I remember now I often haue

Had ſhadoweſin my ſleepe that figures bare

Of ſome ſuch liking twixt your childe and mine.

And this laſt night a pleaſing dreame I had

(Though dreams of ioy makes wakers minds more ſad)

Me thought my daughter Siluia was return’d

In moſt ſtrange faſhion, and vpon her kneeſ

Craues my good will for Thirſis, otherwiſe

She would be gone againe and ſeene no more.

I at the ſight of my deare childe, was rapt

With that exceſſe of ioy, as gaue no time

Either for me to anſwer her requeſt,

Or leaue for ſleepe to figure out the reſt.

Cha. Alas Medorus, dreames are vapours, which

Ingendred with day thoughts, fall in the night

And vaniſh with the morning; are but made

Afflictions vnto man, to th’ end he might

Not reſt in reſt, but toyle both day and night.

But ſee here comes my ſolitarie ſonne:

Let vs ſtand cloſe Medorus out of ſight,

And note how he behaues hlmſelfe in thiſ

Affliction, and diſtreſſed caſe of his.

SCEN. III.

Thirſis ſolus.

This is the day, the day, the lamentable day

Of my deſtruction, which the ſun hath twice

Returnd vnto my griefe, which keepe one courſe

Continually with it in motion like.

But that they neuer ſet: this day doth claime

Th’eſpeciall tribute of my ſighes and teares,

Though euery day I duely pay my teareſ

Vnto that ſoule which this day left the world.

And yet I know not why? me thoughts the Sun

Aroſe this day with farre more cheerefull rayes

With brighter beames, then vſually it did

As if it would bring ſomething of releaſe

Vnto my cares, or elſe my ſpirit hath had

ſome manner of intelligence with hope

Wherewith my heart is vnacquainted yet:

And that might cauſe mine eie with quicker ſence,

To note th’appearing of the eye of heauen;

But ſomething ſure I feele which doth beare vp

The weight of ſorrow eaſier then before.

SCEN. IV.

Palaemon. Thirſis.

What Thirſis ſtill in paſſion? ſtill one man?

For ſhame ſhew not your ſelfe ſo weakely ſet,

ſo feebly ioynted that you cannot beare

The fortunes of the world like other men.

Beleeue me Thirſis you much wrong your worth:

This is to be no man, to haue no powers.

Paſſions are womens parts, actions ours.

I was in hope t’ haue found you otherwiſe.

Thir. How? otherwiſe Palaemon? doe not you

Hold it to be a moſt heroicke thing

To act one man, and doe that part exact?

Can there be in the world more worthineſſe change?

Then to be conſtant? is there any thing

Shewes more a man? What, would you haue me

That were to haue me baſe, that were indeed

To ſhew a feeble heart, and weakely ſet.

No no Palaemon, I ſhould thinke my ſelfe

The moſt vnworthy man of men, ſhould I

But let a thought into this heart of mine

That might diſturbe or ſhake my conſtancie.

And thinke Palaemon I haue combates too,

To be the man I am, being built of fleſh,

And hauing round about me traytors too

That ſeeke to vndermine my powres, and ſteale

Into my weakeneſſes, but that I keepe

Continual watch and ward vpon my ſelfe,

Leaſt I ſhould be ſurpriz’d at vnawareſ

And taken from my vowes with other ſnares.

And euen now at this inſtant I confeſſe,

Palaemon, I doe feele a certaine touch

Of comfort, which I feare to entertaine,

Leaſt it ſhould be ſome ſpie, ſent as a traine

To make diſcouery of what ſtrength I am.

Pal. Ah worthie Thirſis, entertaine that ſpirit

What euer elſe thou doe: ſet all the dooreſ

Of thine affections open thereunto.

Thir. Palaemon no. Comfort and I haue beene

ſo long time ſtrangers, as that now I feare

To let it in. I know not how t’acquaint

My ſelfe therewith, being vſed to conuerſe

With other humours, that affect me beſt.

Nor doe I loue to haue mixt company

Whereto I muſt of force my ſelfe apply.

Pal. But Thirſis thinke that this muſt haue an end,

And more it would approoue your worth to make

The ſame your work, then time ſhould make it his.

Thir. End ſure it muſt Palaemon, but with me:

For ſo I by the Oracle was told

That very day wherein I loſt the day

And light of comfort that can neuer riſe

Againe to mee: when I the faddeſt man

That euer breath’d before thoſe Altars fell,

And there beſought to know what was become

Of my deare Siluia, whether dead, or how

Reaſt from the world: but that I could not learne.

Yet thus much did that voice diuine returne:

Goe youth, reſerue thy ſelfe, the day will come

Thou ſhalt be happy, and returne againe.

But when ſhall be that day demanded I,

The day thou dyeſt, replide the Oracle.

So that you ſee, it will not be in theſe

But in th’Elizian fields, where I ſhall ioy,

The day of death muſt bring me happineſſe.

Pal. You may miſtake the meaning of thoſe words

Which is not knowne before it be fulfill’d.

Yeeld you to what the gods command, if not

Vnto your friends deſires: reſerue your ſelfe

For better daies, and thinke the Oracle

Is not vntrue, although not vnderſtood.

But howſoeuer, let it not be ſaid

That Thirſis being a man of ſo rare parts,

So vnderſtanding and diſcreete, ſhould pine in loue

And languiſh for a ſilly woman thus:

To be the fable of the vulgar, made

Aſcorne, and laught at, by inferiour wits.

Thir. In loue Palaemon? know you what you ſay?

Doe you eſteeme it light to be in loue?

How haue I beene miſtaken in the choice

Of ſuch a friend, as I held you to be,

That ſeemes not, or elſe doth not vnderſtand

The nobleſt portion of humanity,

The worthieſt peece of nature ſet in man?

Ah know that when you mention loue, you name

A ſacred miſtery, a Deity,

Not vnderſtood of creatures built of mudde,

But of the pureſt and refined clay

Whereto th’eternall fires their ſpirits conuey.

And for a woman, which you prize ſo low,

Like men that doe forget whence they are men;

Know her to be th’eſpeciall creature, made

By the Creator of the complement

Of this great Architect the world; to hold

The ſame together, which would otherwiſe

Fall all aſunder: and is natures chiefe

Vicegerent vpon earth, ſupplies her ſtate.

And doe you hold it weakeneſſe then to loue?

And loue ſo excellent a miracle

As is a worthy woman, ah then let mee

ſtill be ſo weake, ſtill let me loue and pine

In contemplation of that cleane, cleare ſoule,

That made mine ſee that nothing in the world

Is ſo ſupreamely beautifull as it.

Thinke not it was thoſe colours white and red

Laid but on fleſh, that could affect me ſo.

But ſomething elſe, which thought holds vnder locke

And hath no key of words to open it.

They are the ſmalleſt peeces of the minde

That paſſe this narrow organ of the voice.

The great remaine behinde in that vaſt orbe

Ofth apprehenſion, and are neuer borne.

And therefore if your iudge cannot reach

Vnto the vnderſtanding of my Caſe,

You doe not well to put your ſelfe into

My Iury, to condemne me as you doe.

Let th’ignorant out of their dulneſſe laugh

At theſe my ſufferings, I will pitty them

To haue beene ſo ill borne, ſo miſcompos’d

As not to know what thing it is to loue.

And I to great Apollo here appeale

The ſoueraigne of the Muſes, and of all

Wel tun’d affections, and to Cinthia bright,

And glorious Lady of cleere faithfulneſſe;

Who from aboue looke down with bliſfull beameſ

Vpon our humble groues, and ioy the hearts

Of all the world, to ſee their mutuall loues;

They can iudge what worthineſſe there is

In worthy loue. Therefore Palaemon peace,

Vnleſſe you did know better what it were.

And this be ſure, when as that fire goes out

In man, he is the miſerableſt thing

On earth, his day-light ſets, and is all darke

And dull within; no motions of delight,

But all oppreſt, lies ſtruggling with the weight

Of worldly cares: and this olde Damon ſaies,

Who well had felt what loue was in his daies.

Pal. Well Thirſis, well, how euer you doe guilde

Your paſſions, to indeere them to your ſelfe,

You neuer ſhall induce me to beleeue,

That ſickneſſes can be of ſuch effect.

And ſo farewell, vntill you ſhall be well.

SCEN. V

Medorus. Charinus.

O Gods, Charinus, what a man is this?

Who euer heard of ſuch a conſtancie?

Had I but knowne him in enioying him,

As now I doe, too late, in loſing him,

How bleſt had bene mine age? but ah I was

Vnworthie of ſo great a bleſſedneſſe.

Cha. You ſee, Medorus, how no counſell can

Preuaile to turne the current of his will,

To make it run in any other courſe

Then what it doth; ſo that I ſee I muſt

Eſteeme him irreuocably loſt.

But harke, the ſhepheards feſtiuals begin,

Let vs from hence, where ſadneſſe were a ſinne.

Here was preſented a rurall marriage, conducted with this Song.

From the Temple to the Boord,

From the Boord vnto the Bed,

We conduct your maidenhead:

Wiſhing Hymen to affoord

All the pleaſures that he can,

Twixt a woman and a man.

ACT. IIII. SCEN. I.

Thirſis ſolus

I thought theſe ſimple woods, theſe gentle trees

Would, in regard I am their daily gueſt,

And harbour vnderneath their ſhadie roofes,

Not haue conſented to delude my griefes;

And mock my miſeries with falſe reports:

But now I ſee they will afflict me too.

For as I came by yonder ſpreading Beech

Which often hath the ſecretarie beene

To my ſad thoughts, while I haue reſted me

(if loue had euer reſt) vnder his gentle ſhade,

I found incaru’d, and faire incaru’d, theſe words:

Thy Siluia, Thirſis, liues; and is return’d.

Ah me, that any hand would thus adde ſcorne

Vnto affliction; and a hand ſo faire

As this may ſeeme to be; which were more fit,

Me thinkes, for good, then to doe iniurie;

For ſure no vertue ſhould be ill imployd.

And which is more; the name of Siluia was

Caru’d in the ſelfe ſame kinde of character

Which ſhee aliue did vſe, and where with all

Subſcrib’d her vowes to me, who knowes it beſt;

Which ſhews the fraud the more, & more the wrōg.

Therefore you ſtars of that high court of heauen,

Which do reueale deceits, and puniſh them,

Let not this crime, to counterfeit a hand

To couzin my deſires, eſcape your doome.

Nor let theſe riots of intruſion, made

Vpon my loueneſſe, by ſtrange company

Afflict me thus, but let me haue ſome reſt.

Come then, refreſher of all liuing things,

Soft ſleepe, come gently, and take truce with theſe

Oppreſſours, but come ſimple and alone,

Without theſe images of fantaſie,

Which hurt me more then thou canſt do me good:

Let me not ſleepe, vnleſſe I could ſleepe all.

SCEN. II.

Palaemon. Thirſis.

Alas, he here hath laid him downe to reſt,

It were now ſinne his quiet to moleſt;

And God forbid I ſhould; I will retire

And leaue him, for I know his griefes require

This poore releeuement of a little ſleepe.

Thi. What ſpirit here haunts me? what no time free?

Ah, is it you Palaemon? would to God

You would forbeare me but a little while:

You ſhew your care of me too much in this:

Vnſeaſonable loue, ſkarce kindneſſe is.

Pal. Good Thirſis, I am ſorie I ſhould giue

The leaſt occaſion of diſeaſe to you;

I will be gone and leaue you to your reſt.

Thi. Doe good Palaemon, goe your way, farewell;

And yet Palaemon ſtay, perhaps you may

By charmes you haue, cauſe ſleep to cloſe mine eies;

For you were wont, I doe remember well,

To ſing me ſonnets, which in paſſion I

Compoſed in my happier daies, when aſ

Her beames inflam’d my ſpirits, which now are ſet.

And if you can remember it, I pray

Sing me the ſong, which thus begins: Eyes hide my loue,

Which I did write vpon the earneſt charge

Shee gaue vnto me, to conceale our loue.

The Song.

Eyes hide my loue, and doe not ſhew

To any but to her my notes,

Who onely doth that cipher know,

Wherewith we paſſe our ſecret thoughts:

Belie your lookes in others ſight;

And wrong your ſelues to doe her right.

Pal. So now he ſleeps, or elſe doth ſeeme to ſleep;

But howſoeuer, I will not trouble him.

SCEN. III.

Clarindo. Thirſis

See where he lies, whom I ſo long to ſee;

Ah my deere Thirſis, take thy quiet reſt,

I know thou needſt it, ſleepe thy fill, ſweete loue

Let nothing trouble thee: be calme oh windes,

Be ſtill you heards, chirp not ſo loud ſweet birds,

Leſt you ſhould wake my loue: thou gentle banke

That thus art bleſt to beare ſo deare a weight,

Be ſoft vnto thoſe dainty lymmes of his,

Plie tender graſſe, and render ſweet refreſh

Vnto his wearie ſenſes, whilſt he reſts.

Oh could I now but put off this diſguiſe,

With thoſe reſpects that fetter my deſ||||¹:

How cloſely could I neighbour that ſweet ſide?

But ſtay, he ſtirres; I feare my heart hath brought

My feete too neere, and I haue wakened him.

Thi. It will not be, ſleepe is no friend of mine,

Or ſuch a friend, as leaues a man, when moſt

He needes him. ſee a new aſſault: who now?

Ah tis the boy that was with me erewhiles,

That gentle boy; I am content to ſpeake

With him, he ſpeakes ſo pretily, ſo ſweet,

And with ſo good reſpectiue modeſty:

And much reſembles one I knew once well:

Come hither gentle boy, what haſt thou there?

Cla. A token ſent you from the nymph I ſerue.

Thi. Keepe it my boy, and weare it on thy head.

Cla. The gods forbid, rhat I, a ſeruant, ſhould

Weare on my head, that which my miſtreſſe hath

Prepar’d for yours: ſir, I beſeech you vrge

No more a thing ſo ill becomming me.

Thi. Nay ſure I thinke, it better will become

Thy head then mine; and therefore boy, thou muſt

Needes put it on.

Cla. I truſt you lo|eneſſe² hath not ſo

Vnciuil’d you, to force a meſſenger

To doe againſt good manners, and his will.

Thi. No, good my boy, but I intreate thee now

Let me but put it on, hold ſtill thy head,

It ſhall not be thy act, but onely mine:

Let it alone good boy, for if thou ſaw’ſt

How well it did become thee, ſure thou wouldſt.

Now, canſt thou ſing my boy ſome gentle ſong?

Cla. I cannot ſing, but I could weepe.

Thi. Weepe, why?

Cla. Becauſe I am not as I wiſh to be.

Thi. Why ſo are none; be not dipleas’d for this;

And if you cannot ſing, tell me ſome tale

To paſſe the time.

Cla. That can I doe, did I but know what kinde

Of tale you lik’d.

Thi. No merry tale my boy, nor yet too ſad,

But mixed, like the tragicke Comedies.

Cla. Then ſuch a tale I haue, and a true tale,

Beleeue me ſir, although not written yet

In any booke, but ſure it will, I know

ſome gentle ſhepheard, moou’d with paſſion, muſt

Record it to the world, and well it will

Become the world to vnderſtand the ſame.

And this it is: There was ſometimes a nymph,

Iſulia nam’d, and an Arcadian borne;

Faire can I not avouch ſhee was, but chaſte,

And honeſt ſure, as the euent will prooue;

Whoſe mother dying, left her very young

Vnto her fathers charge, who carefully

Did breed her vp, vntill ſhee came to yeares

Of womanhood, and then prouides a match

Both rich, and young, and fit ynough for her.

But ſhee, who to another ſhepheard had

Call’d ſirthis, vow’d her loue, as vnto one

Her heart eſteem’d more worthy of her loue,

Could not by all her fathers meanes be wrought

To leaue her choice; and to forgoe her vow.

Thi. No more could my deere Siluia be from me.

Cla. Which cauſed much affliction to the both,

Thi. And ſo the ſelfe ſame cauſe did vnto vs.

Cla. This nymph one day, ſurcharg’d with loue & griefe,

Which comonly (the more the pittie) dwel

As Inmates both together, walking forth

With other maydes, to fiſh vpon the ſhore;

Eſtrayes apart, and leaues her companie,

To entertaine her ſelfe with her owne thoughts:

And wanders on ſo far, and out of ſight,

As ſhee at length was ſudainely ſurpriz’d

By Pyrats, who lay lurking vnderneath

Thoſe hollow rocks, expecting there ſome prize.

And notwithſtanding all her pittious cryes,

Intreaty, teares, and prayes, thoſe feirce men

Rent haire, and vaile, and caried her by force

Into their ſhip, which in a little Creeke

Hard by, at Anckor lay, and preſently hoys’d ſaile,

And ſo away. Thi. Rent haire and vaile? and ſo

Both haire and vaile of Siluia, I found rent,

Which heere I keepe with mee. But now alaſ

What did ſhee? what became of her my boy?

Cla. When ſhe was thus in ſhipp’d, and woefully

Had caſt her eyes about to view that hell

Of horrour, whereinto ſhe was ſo ſudainely

Implung’d, ſhee ſpies a women ſitting with a child

ſucking her breaſt, which was the captaines wife.

To her ſhe creepes, downe at her feet ſhe lyes;

O woman, if that name of woman may

Moue you to pittie, pittie a poore maid,

The moſt diſtreſſed ſoule that euer breath’d.

And ſaue me from the hands of theſe feirce men,

Let me not be defil’d, and made vncleane,

Deare woman now: and I will be to you

The faithfull’ſt ſlaue that euer miſtres ſeru’d;

Neuer poore ſoule ſhall be more dutifull,

To doe what euer you command, then I.

No toile will I refuſe; ſo that I may

Keepe this poore body cleane and vndeflowr’d,

Which is all I will euer ſeeke. For know

It is not feare of death laies me thus low,

But of that ſtain wil make my death to bluſh.

Thi. What, would not all this mooue the womans hart?

Cla. Al this would nothing moue the womans hart,

Whom yet ſhe would not leaue, but ſtill beſought;

Oh woman, by that infant at your breaſt,

And by the paines it coſt you in the birth,

Saue me, as euer you deſire to haue

Your babe to ioy and proſper in the world.

Which will the better proſper ſure, if you

Shall mercy ſhew, which is with mercy paid.

Then kiſſes ſhee her feet, then kiſſes too

The infants feete, and oh ſweet babe (ſaid ſhee)

Could’ſt thou but to thy mother ſpeake for me,

And craue her to haue pittie on my caſe;

Thou mightſt perhaps prevaile with her ſo much

Although I cannot; child, ah could’ſt thou ſpeake.

The infant, whether by her touching it

Or by inſtinct of nature, ſeeing her weepe,

Lookes earneſtly vpon her, and then lookeſ

Vpon the mother, then on her againe,

And then it cryes, and then on either lookes:

Which ſhee perceauing, bleſſed childe, ſaid ſhee,

Although thou canſt not ſpeake, yet do’ſt thou cry

Vnto thy mother for me. Heare thy childe

Deare mother, it’s for mee it cryes,

It’s all the ſpeech it hath: accept thoſe cryes,

ſaue me at his requeſt from being defilde;

Lett pittie moue thee, that thus mooues thy childe.

The woman, though by birth and cuſtome rude.

Yet hauing veynes of nature, could not bee

But peircible, did feele at length the point

Of pittie, enter ſo, as out guſht teares

(Not vſuall to ſterne eyes) and ſhee beſought

Her huſband, to beſtow on her that prize.

With ſafegard of her body, at her will.

The captaine ſeeing his wife, the childe, the nymph,

All crying to him in this pittious ſort;

Felt his rough nature ſhaken too, and grants

His wiues requeſt, and ſeales his graunt with teares;

And ſo they wept all foure for company,

And ſome beholders ſtood not with dry eies;

Such paſſion wrought the paſſion of their prize.

Thi. In troth my boy, and euen thy telling it

Moues me likewiſe, thou dooſt ſo feelingly

Report the ſame, as if thou hadſt bene by.

But I imagine now how this poore nymph

When ſhe receiu’d that doome, was comforted?

Cla. ſir, neuer was there pardon, that did take

Condemned from the blocke, more ioyfull then

This graunt to her. For all her miſery

Seem’d nothing to the comfort ſhe receiu’d.

By being thus ſaued from impurity:

And from the womans feet ſhe would not part,

Nor truſt her hand to be without ſome hold

Of her, or of the childe, ſo long as ſhee remaind

Within the ſhip, which in few daies arriues

At Alexandria, whence theſe pirats were;

And there this woefull maide for two yeares ſpace

Did ſerue, and truly ſerue this captains wife,

Who would not loſe the benefit of her

Attendance for all her profit otherwiſe.

But daring not in ſuch a place as that

To truſt her ſelfe in womans habite, crau’d

That ſhe might be appareld like a boy,

And ſo ſhe was, and as a boy ſhe ſeru’d.

Thi. And two yeares tis, ſince I my Siluia loſt.

Cla. At two yeares end, her miſtres ſends her forth

Vnto the Port for ſome commodities,

Which whilſt ſhee ſought for, going vp and downe

ſhee heard ſome merchant men of Corinth talke,

Who ſpake that language the Arcadians did,

And were next neighbours of one continent.

To them all rapt with paſſion, down ſhe kneeles,

Tels them ſhee was a poore diſtreſſed boy,

Borne in Arcadia, and by Pirats tooke

And made a ſlaue in Egypt, and beſought

Them, as they fathers were of children, or

Did hold their natiue countrey deare, they would

Take pity on her, and releeue her youth

From that ſad ſeruitude wherein ſhee liu’d:

For which ſhee hop’d that ſhee had friends aliue

Would thanke them one day, & reward them too;

If not, yet that, ſhee knew the heauens would doe.

The merchants mou’d with pity of her caſe,

Being ready to depart, tooke her with them,

And landed her vpon her countrey coaſt,

Where when ſhee found her ſelfe, ſhee proſtrate fals,

Kiſſes the ground, thankes giues vnto the Gods,

Thankes them who had beene her deliuerers.

And on ſhee trudges through the deſart woods,

Climes ouer craggie rockes, and mountaines ſteep,

Wades thorough riuers, ſtruggles thorough bogs,

ſuſtained onely by the force of loue;

Vntill ſhee came vnto the natiue plaines,

Vnto the fields, where firſt ſhee drew her breath.

There lifts ſhee vp her eyes, ſalutes the ayre,

Salutes the trees, the buſhes, flowres, and all:

And oh deare ſirthis, here I am, ſaid ſhee,

Here, notwithſtanding all my miſeries.

I am the ſame I was to thee; a pure,

A chaſte, and ſpotleſſe maide: oh that I may

Finde thee the man, thou didſt profeſſe to be.

Thi. Or elſe no man; for boy who truly loues,

Muſt euer ſo; that dye will neuer out:

And who but would loue truly ſuch a ſoule?

Cla. But now, the better to haue notice how

The ſtate of things then ſtood, and not in haſte

To caſt her ſelfe on new incumbrances,

ſhee kept her habite ſtill, and put her ſelfe

To ſerue a nymph, of whom ſhee had made choice

Till time were fitting to reueale her ſelfe.

Thi. This may be Siluias caſe; this may be ſhee;

But it is not: let me conſider well:

The teller, and the circumſtance agree.

SCEN. III.

Montanus. Thirſis. Chorus.

Ah ſirrha, haue I found you? are you here

You princock boy? and with your garland on?

Doth this attire become your peeuiſh head?

Come, I muſt teach you better manners, boy.

He ſtabs Clarindo, and raſhes off his garland.

So Phillis, I haue done my taſke, and here

I bring the Trophey to confirme the ſame.

Thi. Ah monſter man, vile wretch, what haſt thou done?

Alas, in what a ſtrait am I ingaged here?

If I purſue reuenge, l leaue to ſaue.

Help, help, you gentle ſwaines, if any now be neere,

Help, help: ah harke cuē Eccho helps me crie

Cho. What meanes this outcrie? ſure ſome ſauage beaſt

Diſturbs our heards, or elſe ſome wolfe hath ſeaz’d

Vpon a Lambe. Thi. A worſe thing then a wolfe,

More bloudy then a beaſt, hath murthered here

A gentler creature then a lambe: therefore

Good ſwaines purſue, purſue the homicide.

That ougly wretch, Montanus, who hath ſtabd

This ſily creature here, at vnawares.

Cho. Montanus? why, we met him but euen now,

Deckt with a garland, grumbling to himſelfe;

We will attach that villaine preſently:

Come ſirs, make haſte, and let vs after him.

SCEN. IIII.

Palaemon. Thirſis.

Alas, what accident is here falne out?

My deere friend Thirſis, how comes this to paſſe?

Thi. That monſter man Montanus, here hath ſtab’d

A harmleſſe youth, in meſſage ſent to me.

Now good Palaemon help me hold him vp,

And ſee if that we can recouer him.

Pal. It may be Thirſis, more his feare then hurt:

Stay him a while, and I will haſte and ſend

For Lamia, who with oyntments, oyle and herbeſ

If any help remayne, will help him ſure.

Thi. Do good Palaemon, make what haſte you may

Seeke out for help, and be not long away.

Alas ſweet boy, that thou ſhould’ſt euer haue

So hard miſfortune, comming vnto me,

And end thy tale with this ſad tragedie;

That tale which well reſembled Siluias caſe,

Which thou reſembleſt; for ſuch browes had ſhe.

Such a proportion’d face, and ſuch a necke.

What haue we here, the mole of Siluia too?

What and her breaſts? what? and her haire? what all?

All Siluia? yes, all Siluia, and all dead.

And art thou thus return’d againe to me?

Art thou thy ſelfe, that ſtrange deliuered nymphe?

And didſt thou come to tell me thine eſcape

From death to die before me? had I not

Ynough to doe, to wayle reported harmes

But thou muſt come to bleed within my armes?

Was not one death ſufficient for my greifes

But that thou muſt die twice? why thou wert dead

To me before. Why? muſt thou dye againe?

Ah, better had it bene ſtill to be loſt

Then thus to haue bene found; yet better found

Though thus, then ſo loſt as was thought before.

For howſoeuer, now I haue thee yet

Though in the ſaddeſt faſhion that may be.

Yet Siluia now I haue thee, and will I

No more for euer part with thee againe:

And we this benefit ſhall haue thereby

Though fate would not permit vs both to haue

One bed, yet Siluia we ſhall haue one graue.

And that is ſomething, and much more then I

Expected euer could haue come to paſſe.

And ſure the gods but only ſent thee thus

To fetch me; and to take me hence with thee;

And Siluia ſo thou ſhalt. I ready am

T’accompany thy ſoule, and that with ſpeed.

The ſtrings I feele, are all diſſolu’d, that hold

This wofull heart, reſeru’d it ſeemes for this:

And well reſeru’d, for this ſo deare an end.

SCEN. V.

Chorus. Palaemon.

So, we haue tooke the villaine, and him bound

Faſt to an Oake, as rugged as himſelfe.

And there he ſtares and gapes in th’ayre, and raues

Like a wilde beaſt, that’s taken in the toyle:

And ſo he ſhall remaine, till time we ſee

What will become of this his ſauage act.

Pa: Cheere Thirſis, Lamia will come preſently

And bring the beſt preſeruatiues ſhe hath.

What now? Who lyes diſcouered here? Ay me,

A woman dead? Is this that boy tranſform’d?

Why, this is Siluia, O good Thirſis how

Comes this to paſſe? Friend Thirſis, Thirſis ſpeake.

Good Thirſis tell me. Out alas he ſownes,

As well as ſhe, and both ſeeme gone alike.

Come gentle heardſ-men, come and carry them

To yonder ſheep-cote quickly, that we may

(If poſſible) recouer them againe.

If not performe thoſe rites that appertaine

Vnto ſo rare a couple. Come my friends, make haſt.

The fourth Song of the Chorus.

Qu. Were euer chaſt and honeſt hearts

Expos’d vnto ſo great diſtreſſes?

Ans. Yes: they that act the worthieſt parts,

Moſt commonly haue worſt ſucceſſes.

Great fortunes follow not the beſt,

It’s vertue that is moſt diſtreſt.

Then fortune why doe we admire

The glory of thy great exceſſes?

ſince by thee what men acquire

Thy worke and not their worths expreſſes.

Nor doſt thou raiſe them for their good:

But t’haue their illes more vnderſtood.

ACT. V. SCAEN. I.

Chorus. Palaemon.

Did euer yet Arcadia heare before

Of two ſo worthie louers, as we find

Thirſis and Siluia were? or euer had

Cleare truth, and ſimple conſtant honeſty,

So lamentable an euent as thiſ?

But here comes forth Palaemon, we ſhall now

Learne all of him, what hath been done within.

Pal. Goe Pollio, ſummon all th’ Arcadia youth

Here, round about, and will them to prepare

To celebrate with all delights they can

This ioyfull houre, that hath reſtord to vs

The worthieſt paire of hearts that euer were,

Will them to ſhew the height of muſiques art,

And all the ſtraines of cunning they can ſhew:

That we may make theſe rockes and hilles about,

Ring with the Eccho of redoubled notes.

And will Charinus and Medorus too,

The aged parents of this worthie paire,

To come with ſpeed, whoſe ioy, good ſoules, wil be

More then their ſpeed; and yet their ſpeed I know,

Will be beyond th’allowance of their yeeres,

When they ſhall vnderſtand this happie newes.

And ſummon likewiſe all the traine of nymphes

That glorifie our plaines, and all that can

Giue honour to this day.

Goe Pollio haſt away, and as you goe

Vnbind Montanus that rude ſauage ſwaine:

And though he be vnworthie to be here,

Yet let him come. He hath bene in his daieſ

Held a good fellow, howſoeuer now

His rage and loue tranſported him in this.

Cho. Palaemon, we are glad to ſee you thuſ

Delightfull, now we hope there is good newes.

Pal. Good newes my friends, and I wil tell it you,

Siluia and Thirſis being to my cottage brought,

The ſkilfull Lamia comes and ſearcht the wound

Which Siluia had receiu’d of this rude ſwaine,

And finding it not deadly ſhe applyde

Thoſe remedies ſhe knew of beſt effect.

And bindes it vp, and powres into her mouth

Such cordiall waters as reuiue the ſpirits:

And ſo much wrought, as ſhe at length perceiu’d

Life was not quite gone out, but lay oppreſt.

With like indeuours we on Thirſis worke,

And miniſtred like Cordials vnto him:

At length we might heare Siluia fetch a groane,

And there withal Thirſis perceiu’d to moue,

Then Thirſis ſet a groane, and Siluia mou’d

As if their liues were made both of one peece.

Whereat we ioyd, and then remoud’ and ſet

Each before other, & held vp their heads,

And chaf’d their temples, rub’d and ſtroak’d their cheekes:

Wherewith firſt Siluia caſts vp her dimme eyes,

And preſently did Thirſis lift vp his.

And then againe they both together ſigh’d,

And each on other fixt an vnſeeing eye:

For yet t’was ſcarſe the twylight of their new

Returning day, out of the night of death.

And though they ſaw, they did not yet perceiue

Each other, and yet both turn’d to one point

As toucht alike, and held their lookes direct.

At length we might perceiue, as life began

T’appeare; and make the morning in their eyes,

Their beames were cleerer, & their opener lookes

Did ſhew as if they tooke ſome little note

Of each the other: yet not ſo as they

Could thorowly diſcerne who themſelues were.

And then we tooke and ioynd their hands in one,

And held them ſo a while, vntill we fealt

How euen each others touch, the motion gaue

Vnto their feeling, and they trembling wrung

Their hands together, and ſo held them lockt,

Lookt ſtill vpon each other, but no words at all.

Then we call’d out to Thirſis Thirſis looke,

It is thy Siluia thou here holdſt, ſhe is

Return’d reuiu’d, and ſafe. Siluia, behold thou haſt

Thy Thirſis, and ſhalt euer haue him thine.

Then did we ſet them both vpon their feet

And there they ſtood in act, euen as before

Looking vpon each other hand in hand:

At laſt we ſaw a bluſhing red appeare

In both their cheekes, which ſenſe ſent as a lampe

To light their vnderſtanding. And forthwith

The teares guſht forth their eies, which hindred thē

A while from ſeeing each other, till they had

Cleared them againe. And then as if new wak’d

From out a fearefull dreame, they ſtand and doubt

Whether they were awake indeed, or elſe

Still in a dreame, diſtruſting their owne eyes.

Their long indured miſeries, would not

Let them belieue their ſudden happineſſe,

Although they ſaw it: till with much adoe

They had confirm’d their credit, and had kiſt

Each other and imbrac’d, and kiſt againe,

And yet ſtill dumbe: their ioy now ſeem’d to be

Too buſie with their thoughts, t’allow them words.

And then they walkt a little, then ſtood ſtill,

Then walkt againe, and ſtill held other faſt

As if they fear’d, they ſhould be loſt againe.

And when at laſt they ſpake, it was but thus,

O Siluia, and O Thirſis, and there ſtopt.

We, leſt our ſight and preſence being there

So many) hinder might the paſſage of

Their modeſt, ſimple, and vnpractis’d loue,

Came all our way, and onely Lamia left

Whoſe ſpirit, and that ſufficient ſkill ſhe hath

Will ſerue no doubt, to ſee they ſhall doe well.

Cho. Well may they do deere couple, who haue thuſ

Grac’d our Arcadia with their faithfulnes.

SCAEN. II.

Phillis. Lidia. Cloris.

What ſhall we now do Lidia? now am I

Vtterly ſham’d: this youth turn’d woman is,

Clarindo, Siluia is become; how now?

Can I for euer looke on her againe?

Or come in any company for ſhame?

Now muſt I needs be made a common ieaſt

And laughing ſtocke to euery one that ſhall

But heare how groſſely I behau’d my ſelfe.

Lid. Faith Phillis aſ it is falne out, your caſe

Is very crazie, and to make it whole

There is no way but euen to laugh it out,

And ſet as good a face, as you can doe

Vpon the matter, and ſay thus: How you

Knew well inough it was no man whom you

Affected ſo, who neuer could loue man,

Nor euer would, and that by meere inſtinct

And ſimpathie of ſexe, you fancied him.

So put it off, and turne it to a ieaſt,

Phi. That ſhall I neuer doe but euer bluſh

At her, to thinke what ſhe will thinke of me,

Who did bewray my ſelfe ſo fooliſhly.

Lid. Are you here Cloris, you are bleſt to day

For being miſtres vnto ſuch a boy:

You may reioyce that euer this fell out.

Clo. Reioyce? ah Lidia, neuer was there nymphe

Had more occaſion to be ſad then I,

For I am quite vndone and ſham’d hereby.

For I imploy’d this my ſuppoſed boy

In meſſage vnto Thirſis, whom I lou’d

I muſt confeſſe, more dearely then my life:

And told him all the ſecrets of my heart.

And therefore with what face can euer I

Looke vpon them that know thus much by me?

No Lidia, I will now take Thirſis courſe:

Hide me for euer in theſe deſert woods,

And neuer come in companie againe;

They ſhall not laugh at me in their great ioyes.

Lid. But Cloris, I would laugh with them, were I as you,

And how ſoeuer felt my ſelfe within,

Yet would I ſeeme be otherwiſe without.

Cannot you ſay, that you knew well enough

How it was Siluia that you intertain’d,

Although you would not ſeeme to take ſuch note;

And thereupon imploy’d her in that ſort

To Thirſis, knowing who it was would giue

To him the greateſt comfort vpon earth.

And thus faire Nimphes you fitly may excuſe

Theſe ſimple ſlips, and know that they ſhall ſtill

Haue croſſes with their piles, who thus doe play

Their fortunes with their loues, as you two did:

But you muſt frame your countenance thereto

And looke with other faces then their owne.

As many elſe doe here, who in their partſ

ſet ſhining lookes vpon their clowdy hearts,

And let vs mixe vs with this company

That here appeares with mirth and iollitie.

The Song of the fifth Chorus.

Who euer ſaw ſo faire a ſight,

Loue and vertue met aright:

And that wonder Conſtancie,

Like a Comet to the eye

ſeldome euer ſeene ſo bright?

ſound out aloud ſo rare a thing,

That all the Hilles and Vales may ring.

Looke, Louers looke, with paſſion ſee,

If that any ſuch there bee:

As there cannot but be ſuch

Who doe feele that noble touch

In this glorious companie,

ſound out aloud, &c.

FINIS.

Pag 51. line 24 & page 54. line 28. for loueneſſe, reade loneneſſe. Ib. p. 54. l. 6. for deſcire r. deſire p. 59. l. 23 put out, all. p. 62. l 7. at the verſes end, adde, help. p. 63. l. 6. r. oyles.