Daphne would have added to thy stroke sweetness, and to thy thoughts melody.

Apol. Doth Pan talk of the passions of love? of the passions of divine love? Oh! how that word, Daphne, wounds Apollo, pronounced by the barbarous mouth of Pan. I fear his breath will blast the fair green, if I dazzle not his eyes, that he may not behold it. Thy pipe a nymph? some hag rather, haunting these shady groves, and desiring not thy love, but the fellowship of such a monster. What god is Pan, but the god of beasts, of woods, of hills? excluded from heaven, and in earth not honoured. Break thy pipe, or with my sweet lute will I break thy heart. Let not love enter into those savage lips; a word for Jove, for Apollo, for the heavenly gods, whose thoughts are gods, and gods are all love.

Pan. Apollo, I told thee before that Pan was a god; I tell thee now again as great a god as Apollo, I had almost said a greater; and because thou shalt know I care not to tell my thoughts, I say a greater. Pan feels the passions of love deeply engraven in his heart, with as fair nymphs, with as great fortune, as Apollo, as Neptune, as Jove; and better than Pan can none describe love. Not Apollo, not Neptune, not Jove. My temple is in Arcadia, where they burn continual flames to Pan. In Arcadia is mine oracle, where Erato, the nymph, giveth answers for Pan. In Arcadia, the place of love, is the honour of Pan. Ah, but I am god of hills! so I am, Apollo, and

The laurel into which Daphne, the mistress of Apollo, was turned.

that of hills so high, as I can pry into the juggling of the highest gods. Of woods! So I am, Apollo, of woods so thick, that thou with thy beams canst not pierce them. I knew Apollo prying, I knew mine own jealousy. Sun and shadow cozen one another. Be thou sun still, the shadow is fast at thy heels, Apollo. Ah, as near to thy love, as thou to mine. A carter with his whistle and his whip, in true ears, moves as much as Phoebus with his fiery chariot and winged horses. Love-leaves are as well for country porridge, as heavenly nectar. Love made Jupiter a swan*, and Neptune a swine, and both for love of an earthly mistress. What hath made Pan, or any god on earth (for gods on earth can change their shapes), turn themselves for an heavenly goddess? Believe me, Apollo, our groves are pleasanter than your heavens, our milk-maids than your goddesses, our rude ditties to a pipe, than your sonnets to a lute. Here is flat faith amo amas; where you cry, O utinam amarent vel non amassem. I let pass, Apollo, thy hard words as calling Pan monster; which is as much as to call all monsters: for Pan is allt, Apollo but one. But touch thy strings, and let these nymphs decide.

Apol. Those nymphs shall decide, unless thy rude speech have made them deaf: as for any other answer to Pan, take this: that it becometh

* The original has it goose; but as Lyly was extremely well skilled in the heathen mythology, he must here, I think, allude to the story of Leda; I have therefore presumed on the alte ration.

This alludes to the original meaning of the word Pan.

not Apollo to answer Pan. Pan is all, and all is Pan; thou art Pan and all, all pan and tinkerly *. But to this music, wherein all thy

shame shall be seen, and all my skill.

Enter MIDAS.

Mid. In the chase I lost all my company, and missed the game too; I think Midas shall in all things be unfortunate.

Apol. What is he that talketh?

Mid. Midas, the unfortunate King of Phrygia. Apol. To be a king is next to being a god. Thy fortune is not bad; what is thy folly? Mid. To abuse a god.

Apol. An ungrateful part of a king. But, Midas, seeing by chance thou art come, or sent by some god of purpose; none can in the earth better judge of gods than kings. Sit down with these nymphs. I am Apollo, this Pan, both gods. We contend for sovereignty in music. Seeing it happens in earth, we must be judged of those on earth; in which there are none more worthy than kings and nymphs: therefore give ear that thy judgment err not.

Mid. If gods you be, although I dare wish nothing of gods, being so deeply wounded with wishing, yet let my judgment prevail before these nymphs, if we agree not, because I am a king.

Pan. There must be no condition, but judge Midas, and judge nymphs.

* If Apollo played not on the lute better than he plays on words, many would have decided with Midas.

CC 2

Apol. Then thus I begin both my song and

my play.

[A Song of Daphne to the lute.

My Daphne's hair is twisted gold,
Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold,
My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces,
My Daphine's beauty stains all faces,
On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry;
My Daphne's hand* but touch'd does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,
My Daphne's music charms all ears;
Fond am I thus to sing her praise,
These glories now are turn'd to Bays.

Erat. O divine Apollo! O sweet consent t! Tha. If the god of music should not be above our reach, who should?

Mid. I like it not.

Pan. Now let me tune my pipes. I cannot pipe and sing, that's the odds in the instrument, not the art; but I will pipe and then sing, and then judge both of the art and instrument.

[He pipes and then sings.

* In the original it runs, "Daphne's snowy hand;" but as Lyly's songs are extremely correct as to measure, I cannot but think this line corrupted, and have altered it accordingly.

By consent is meant the harmony resulting from the union of the sounds of Apollo's voice and of his lute. Stevens, in a note on the "First Part of Henry VI." quotes several instances of this use of the word, and observes it should be spelt concent. So Spenser in his translation of Virgil's Culex:

"Chaunted their sundry notes with sweet concent.”

Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed,

Though now she's turn'd into a reed;

From that dear reed Pan's pipe does come,
A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb;
Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern * can,
So chant it as the pipe of Pan:
Cross-garter'd swains and dairy girls,
With faces smug, and round as pearls;
When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play,
With dancing wear out night and day:
The bag-pipe's drone his hum lays by,
When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy;
His minstrelsy! O base! This quill,
Which, at my mouth, with wind I fill,
Puts me in mind, though her I miss,
That still my Syrinx lips I kiss.

Apol. Hast thou done, Pan?

Pan. Aye, and done well, as I think.
Apol. Now, nymphs, what say you?

Erat. We all say that Apollo hath shewed himself both a god, and of music the god. Pan himself a rude satyr, neither keeping measure nor time; his piping as far out of tune, as his body out of form. To thee, divine Apollo, we give the prize and reverence.

Apol. But what says Midas?

Mid. Methinks there's more sweetness in the pipe of Pan than Apollo's lute: I brook not that nice tickling of strings; that contents me, that makes one start. What a shrillness came into mine ears out of that pipe, and what a goodly

* The cittern, I have before observed, was the usual entertainment of persons waiting in barber's shops. The gittern was the same instrument. So in Lord Falkland's " Marriage Night:"

"He has travelled, and speaks languages
As a barber's boy plays o' th' gittern.