And with her all the World's joy. Reach thy hand :
Farewell; I have told my last hour. I was false,
Yet never treacherous: forgive me, Cousin.
One kiss from fair Emilia. [kisses her.] 'Tis done:
Take her. I die.
Thy brave soul seek Elysium!
EMI. I'll close thine eyes, Prince: blessed souls be with
Thou art a right good man; and, while I live,
This day I give to tears.
THES. In this place first you fought; even very here
I sunder'd you: acknowledge to the Gods
Your thanks that you are living.
His part is play'd, and, though it were too short,
He did it well; your day is lengthen'd,1 and
The blissful view of Heaven does arouse you :
The powerful Venus well hath grac'd her altar,
And given you your love; our master Mars
Hath vouch'd his oracle, and to Arcite gave
The grace of the contention: so the deities
Have shew'd due justice. Bear this hence.
PAL.
That we should things desire, which do cost us
The loss of our desire! that nought could buy
Dear love but loss of dear love!
Did play a subtler game: the conquer'd triumphs,
The victor has the loss; yet in the passage
The Gods have been most equal. Palamon,
Your kinsman hath confess'd the right o' the lady
Did lie in you; for you first saw her, and
Even then proclaim'd your fancy; he restor❜d her,
As your stol'n jewel, and desir'd your spirit
To send him hence forgiven: the Gods my justice
Take from my hand, and they themselves become
The executioners. Lead your lady off;
And call your lovers from the stage of death,
Whom I adopt my friends. A day or two
1 i.e. your course is yet to run. What follows is perhaps a metaphor from hunting.
Let us look sadly, and give grace unto
The funeral of Arcite; in whose end
The visages of bridegrooms we'll put on,
And smile with Palamon; for whom an hour,
But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry
As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad
As for him sorry. O you heavenly Charmers,
What things you make of us! For what we lack
We laugh, for what we have are sorry; still
Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful
For that which is, and with you leave dispute
That are above our question. Let's go off,
And bear us like the time.
I would now ask ye how ye like the Play;
But, as it is with schoolboys, cannot say
I'm cruel-fearful. Pray, yet stay awhile,
And let me look upon ye. No man smile?
Then it goes hard, I see.
Lov'd a young handsome wench, then, shew his face-
'Tis strange if none be here ;-and, if he will
Against his conscience, let him hiss, and kill
Our market. 'Tis in vain, I see, to stay ye:
Have at the worst can come, then! Now what say ye?
And yet mistake me not; I am not bold;
We have no such cause. If the tale we've told
(For 'tis no other) any way content ye
(For to that honest purpose it was meant ye)
We have our end; and ye shall have ere long,
I dare say, many a better, to prolong
Rest at your service: Gentlemen, good night.
RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD.
RIGHT HONOURABLE,-I know not how I shall
offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your
Lordship, nor how the world will censure me for
choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a
burden: only, if your Honour seem but pleased,
I account myself highly praised, and vow to take
advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured
you with some graver labour. But, if the first
heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be
sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after
ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so
bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable
survey, and your Honour to your heart's content;
which I wish may always answer your own wish
and the world's hopeful expectation.
Your Honour's in all duty,
'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'
EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,
• The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all Nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses:
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'
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