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Alv. Tut, women's love—it is a fickle thing. I love my Rasni for my dignity: I love Cilician King for his sweet eye. I love my Rasni, since he rules the world : But more I love this Kingly little world. How sweet he looks !–0 were I Cynthia's sphere, And thou Endymion, I should hold thee dear : Thus should mine arms be spread about thy neck, Thus would I kiss my Love at every beck. Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleep; And if thou wak’st not soon, thus would I weep; And thus, and thus, and thus : thus much I love thee.
TETHYS' FESTIVAL. BY SAMUEL DANIEL, 1610.
Song at a Court Masque.
Are they shadows that we see
And can shadows pleasure give?-
Pleasures only shadows be,
Cast by bodies we conceive;
And are made the things we deem
In those figures which they seem.-
But these pleasures vanish fast,
Which by shadows are exprest :-
Pleasures are not, if they last;
In their passing is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
On the wonder you behold;
Take it sudden as it flies,
Tho' you take it not to hold :
When your eyes
have done their part,
Thought must lengthen it in the heart.
THE SILVER AGE: AN HISTORICAL PLAY. BY
THOMAS HEYWOOD, 1613.
Proserpine seeking Flowers.
Pros. O may these meadows ever barren be,
That yield of flowers no more variety !
Here neither is the White nor Sanguine Rose,
The Strawberry Flower, the Paunce, nor Violet;
Methinks I have too poor a meadow chose :
Going to beg, I am with a Beggar met,
That wants as much as I. I should do ill
To take from them that need.-
Ceres, after the Rape of her Daughter. Cer. Where is my fair and lovely Proserpine? Speak, Jove's fair Daughter, whither art thou stray'd ? I've sought the meadows, glebes, and new-reap'd fields Yet cannot find my Child. Her scatter'd flowers, And garland half made up, I have lit upon ; But her I cannot spy.
Behold the trace Of some strange wagon*, that hath scorcht the trees, And singed the grass : these ruts the sun ne'er sear'd Where art thou, Love, where art thou, Proserpine ?
She questions Triton for her Daughter. Cer. thou that on thy shelly trumpet Summons the sea-god, answer from the depth.
Trit. On Neptune's sea-horse with my concave trump Thro' all the abyss I've shrill'd thy daughter's loss. The channels clothed in waters, the low cities In which the water-gods and sea-nymphs dwell,
I have perused ; sought thro' whole woods and forests
Of leafless coral, planted in the deeps ;
Toss'd up the beds of pearl ; rouzed up huge whales,
And stern sea-monsters, from their rocky dens;
Those bottoms, bottomless ; shallows and shelves,
And all those currents where th' earth's springs break in;
Those plains where Neptune feeds his porpoises,
Sea-morses, seals, and all his cattle else:
Thro' all our ebbs and tides my trump hath blazed her,
Yet can no cavern shew me Proserpine.
She questions the Earth.
Cer. Fair sister Earth, for all these beauteous fields,
Spread o'er thy breast; for all these fertile crops,
With which my plenty hath enrich'd thy bosom ;
For all those rich and pleasant wreaths of grain,
With which so oft thy temples I have crowned;
For all the yearly liveries, and fresh robes,
Upon thy summer beauty I bestow-
Shew me my Child !
Earth. Not in revenge, fair Ceres, That
your remorseless ploughs have rak't my breast,
Nor that your iron-tooth'd harrows print my face
So full of wrinkles ; that you dig my sides
For marle and soil, and make me bleed my springs
Thro' all my open'd veins to weaken me-
Do I conceal your daughter. I have spread
My arms from sea to sea, look'd o'er my mountains,
Examin'd all my pastures, groves, and plains,
Marshes and wolds, my woods and champain fields,
My dens and caves—and yet, from foot to head,
I have no place on which the Moon * doth tread.
Cer. Then, Earth, thou'st lost her; and for Proser-
Proserpine; who was also Luna in Heaven, Diana on Earth.
I'll strike thee with a lasting barrenness.
No more shall plenty crown thy fertile brows;
I'll break thy ploughs, thy oxen murrain-strike :
With idle agues I'll consume thy swains ;
Sow tares and cockles in thy lands of wheat,
Whose spikes the weed and cooch-grass shall outgrow,
And choke it in the blade. The rotten showers
Shall drown thy seed, which the hot sun shall parch,
Or mildews rot; and what remains, shall be
A prey to ravenous birds.-Oh Proserpine !
You Gods that dwell above, and you below,
Both of the woods and gardens, rivers, brooks,
Fountains and wells, some one among you all
Shew me her self or grave: to you I call.
Are. That can the river Arethusa do.
My streams you know, fair Goddess, issue forth
From Tartary by the Tenarian isles :
My head's in Hell where Stygian Pluto reigns,
There did I see the lovely Proserpine,
Whom Pluto hath rapt hence: behold her girdle,
Which on her way dropt from her lovely waist,
And scatter'd in my streams.–Fair Queen, adieu !
Crown you my banks with flowers, as I tell true.
THE GOLDEN AGE:'AN HISTORICAL PLAY. BY THE
SAME AUTHOR, 1611.
Sibilla, the Wife of Saturn, is by him enjoined to slay the
born Jupiter. None can do it for his smiles.
SIBILLA. VESTA. NURSE.
Sib. Mother, of all that ever mothers were
Most wretched ! Kiss thy sweet babe ere he die,
That hath life only lent to suffer death.
Sweet Lad, I would thy father saw thee smile.
Thy beauty, and thy pretty infancy,
Would mollify his heart, were't hew'd from flint,
Or carved with iron tools from Corsic rock.
Thou laugh'st to think thou must be kill'd in jest.
Oh! if thou needs must die, I'll be thy murtheress,
And kill thee with my kisses, pretty knave.-
And canst thou laugh to see thy mother weep?
Or art thou in thy cheerful smiles so free,
In scorn of thy rude father's tyranny ?
I'll kiss thee ere I kill thee : for my life
The Lad so smiles, I cannot hold the knife.
Vest. Then give him me; I am his Grandmother,
And I will kill him gently: this sad office
Belongs to me, as to the next of kin.
Sib. For heaven's sake, when you kill him, hurt hira
not. Vest. Come, little knave, prepare your naked throat I have not heart to give thee wounds, My kindness is to take thy life at once. NowAlack, my pretty Grandchild, smilest thou still ? I have lust to kiss, but have no heart to kill.