About thee, which, it seems, thy tongue hath lost. Thy hands are bloody, and thou hast a knife. Evad. In this consists thy happiness and mine. Joy to Amintor! for the King is dead. Amin. Those have most power to hurt us, that we love; 130 135 We lay our sleeping lives within their arms. I shall not fear to meet it. Take me home. Amin. Thou monster of cruelty, forbear! Evad. For Heaven's sake look more calm! Thine eyes are sharper Than thou canst make thy sword. Amin. Away, away! Thy knees are more to me than violence. I am worse than sick to see knees follow me For that I must not grant. For God's sake, stand. Evad. Receive me, then. Amin. I dare not stay thy language. 155 In midst of all my anger and my grief, Thou dost awake something that troubles me, And says, I lov'd thee once. I dare not stay; There is no end of woman's reasoning. Leaves her. Evad. [rising.] Amintor, thou shalt love me now again. Go; I am calm. Farewell, and peace for ever! Evadne, whom thou hat'st, will die for thee. Stabs herself. Amin. (returning.) I have a little human na ture yet, That's left for thee, that bids me stay thy hand. Evad. Thy hand was welcome, but it came too late. Oh, I am lost! the heavy sleep makes haste. Asp. Oh, oh, oh! She dies. Amin. This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel That calls my flesh unto 'em; I am cold. There's something yet, which I am loth to leave: There's man enough in me to meet the fears That death can bring; and yet would it were done! I can find nothing in the whole discourse If all that's left in me can answer it. Or I dream still. IF you be not reasonably assur'd of your knowledge in this kind of poem, lay down the book, or read this, which I would wish had been the prologue. It is a pastoral tragi-comedy, which the people seeing when it was play'd, having ever had a singular gift in defining, concluded to be a play of country hired shepherds in gray cloaks, with curtail'd dogs in strings, sometimes laughing together, and sometimes killing one another; and, missing Whitsun-ales, cream, wassail, and mor ris-dances, began to be angry. In their error I would not have you fall, lest you incur their censure. Understand, therefore, a pastoral to be a representation of shepherds and shepherdesses with their actions and passions, which must be such as may agree with their natures, at least not exceeding former fictions and vulgar traditions; they are not to be adorn'd with any art, but such improper ones as nature is said to bestow, as singing and poetry; or such as experience may teach them, as the virtues of herbs and fountains, the ordinary course of the sun, moon, and stars, and such like. But you are ever to remember shepherds to be such as all the ancient poets, and modern, of understanding, have received them; that is, the owners of flocks, and not hirelings. A tragi-comedy is not so called in respect of mirth and killing, but in respect it wants deaths, which is enough to make it no tragedy, yet brings some near it, which is enough to make it no comedy, which must be a representation of familiar people, with such kind of trouble as no life be question'd; 2 so that a god is as lawful in this as in a tragedy, and mean people as in a comedy. Thus much I hope will serve to justify my poem, and make you understand it; to teach you more for nothing, I do not know that I am in conscience bound. ACT I Enter CLORIN, a shepherdess, having buried her love in an arbour. Clorin. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do The truest man that ever fed his flocks Q. Q omits Some copies of Q3 read merry. JOHN FLETCHER. That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring, eyes; 30 Only rememb'ring what my youth did gain Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat 35 40 My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pull'd from the fair head of the straight-grown pine; On these I'll feed with free content, and rest, 45 When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest. Enter a Satyr [with a basket of fruit]. 80 55 He stands amazed. Else why should this rough thing, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity,2 whose heats 3 Are rougher than himself and more mis-shapen, Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there is a In that great name of virgin, that binds fast Be thou my strongest guard, for here I'll dwell In opposition against fate and hell! [Retires into her bower.] [SCENE II.] 4 Enter an Old Shepherd, with four couples of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, [among whom are PERIGOT and AMORET.] Old Shep. Now we have done this holy festival 80 1 Entice. 2 Culture. In the neighbourhood of a village. 3 Passions Whatsoever this great day, Or the past hours, gave not good, Of the grapes, and strength of meat, All your thoughts be smooth and fair: In a shepherdess's ear: 10 15 20 25 They rise and sing in praise of PAN. Or mingle my clean thoughts with foul desires. The wolf, or winter's rage, summer's great heat And in their general ruin let me go! Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so: I do believe thee; 't is as hard for me Peri. Oh, you are fairer far Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star That guides the wand'ring seaman through the deep; Straighter than the straightest pine upon the steep Head of an aged mountain; and more white * Than the new milk we strip before day-light From the full-freighted bags of our fair flocks; Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks Of young Apollo ! Åmo. Shepherd, be not lost; Y' are sail'd too far already from the coast Of your discourse. Peri. Did you not tell me once I should not love alone, I should not lose hand, Even that fair hand, in hostage? Do not, then. Give back again those sweets to other men, You yourself vow'd were mine. Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty May give assurance, I am once more thine, Once more I give my hand. Be ever free From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy! Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire. For stronger confirmation of our love, To meet this happy night in that fair grove, Where all true shepherds have rewarded been For their long service: say,.sweet, shall it hold? Amo. Dear friend, you must not blame me, if I make A doubt of what the silent night may do, Coupled with this day's heat, to move your blood. |