The folio volume numbered Eg. MS. 1,994 contains 349 leaves. It was purchased by the British Museum, for the very modest sum of thirty-three pounds, at the sale of Lord Charlemont's library on August 6, 1865. Mr. Warner (of the Manuscript Department of the British Museum), to whom the public are indebted for an excellent catalogue of the Dulwich Collection, thinks that the volume originally belonged to Dulwich College. Towards the end of the XVIIth century Cartwright, the actor, bequeathed to the College a number of MS. plays, which the College authorities in the middle of the last century exchanged (horrendum dictu!) for tomes of controversial divinity. Of all the plays left by the actor only one[280]—and that imperfect—remains. The late Lord Charlemont was a friend of Malone, and it is well known that Malone had many of the Dulwich documents in his possession for years. Mr. Warner's theory is that Malone lent the volume to Lord Charlemont, and that it was never returned. The objection that naturally suggests itself is, "How came so acute a scholar as Malone to fail to draw attention to a Collection of such considerable interest?" And I confess that I am not able to offer any satisfactory answer.
The volume contains in all fifteen plays, written in various hands. One piece has the author's initials attached, but the others have neither name nor initials.
First in order, leaves 1-29, stands Fletcher's Elder Brother. I have compared the MS. with Dyce's text, and find the variations to be few and unimportant. In III. 3 Dyce follows the old copies in reading:—
What a noise is in this house! my head is broken
Within a parenthesis: in every corner,
As if the earth were shaken with some strange colic,
There are stirs and motions.
As the words "within a parenthesis" were found in all the old copies Dyce did not feel justified in rejecting them, although he had only the most grotesque meaning to assign to them. Theobald rightly saw that "within a parenthesis" was a marginal note, mistaken for a part of the text when the book was sent to press. The MS. gives—
Sweet heart,
What noyse is in this house? my head is broken
In every corner, as the earth were shaken
With some strange Collick: there are stirs and motions:
What planet rules this house? Whos there?
In III. 5 the MS. supports Mason's correction "Their blue veins and blush disclose," where Dyce followed the old reading "in blush."—At the end of the play, after the Epilogue, are written the three following Epigrams:—
A freemans life is like a pilgrimage:
What's his life then that lives in mariage?
Tis Sisyphus his toyle that with a stone
Doth doe what surely for ease must be done.
His labours journey's endles; 'tis no riddle,
Since he's but halfe on's way that stands inth' middle.
Ad Janum.
Take comfort, Janus; never feare thy head
Which to the quick belongs, not to the dead.
Thy wife did lye with one; thou, being dead drunke,
Then art no Cuckold though she bee a Punke.
Tis not the state nor soveraintie of Jove
Could draw thy pure affections from my love:
Nor is there any Venus in the skyes
Could from thy lookes withdraw my greedy eyes.
Leaves 30-51 are taken up with Dick of Devonshire. Then follows an unnamed play (leaves 52-73), written in a villainous hand. If I succeed in transcribing this play I shall print it in the third volume, for it seems to be an unpublished play of Heywood's. The next piece, entitled Calisto (leaves 74-95), which is written in the same hand, consists of scenes from Heywood's Golden Age and Silver Age. There are many variations from the printed copies, showing that the most active of the old playwrights found time to revise his works. Here is a song that was omitted in the printed copy. Its proper place in Pearson's Reprint of Heywood is vol. iii. p. 67:—
Whether they be awake or sleepe,
With what greate Care ought Virgins keepe,
With what art and indevor,
The Jewell which they ought to pryse
Above the ritchest marchandise,—
And once lost lost for ever!
Virginity is a rare gem,
Rated above a diadem,
And was despised never:
'Tis that at which the most men ayme
And being gott they count their game
And once lost lost for ever.
Of the charming song "Haile beauteous Dian, Queene of Shades" the MS. gives a far inferior version:—
Thou Trivia, dost alone excell,
In heaven when thou dost please to dwell
Cald Cynthia, Proserpine in Hell:
But when thou theair art fyred
And takest thy bugle and thy bowe,
To chase on Earth the hart or doe,
Thee for Diana all men knowe,
Who art mongst us admired:
Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce,
So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
Off all chast vestalls thou art queene
Which are, which heretofore have been;
The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene
On earth wayte to attend thee;
And when that thou on huntinge goest,
In which thou art delighted moest,
They off their active swiftnes boast,
For which we all comend thee.
Pan and Pomona boath rejoyce,
So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), Edmond Ironside: The English King. This piece had a second title—A trew Chronicle History called War hath made all friends. It must be confessed that this old play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:—
Enter Canutus, Edricus with other Lords and souldiers.
Canutus. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards!
Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred
Doth come into the pitt with greater grace,
Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes,
Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out
Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight;
Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke,
Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself:
Even soe my bigbond Daines, adrest to fight
As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven,
(And like the Giants graple with the gods)
At first encounter rush uppon theire foes
But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye
As men distraught with lightninge from above
Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.
Edricus. Renowned Soveraigne, doe not fret your self.
Fortune in turninge will exalt your state
And change the Countenaunce of her cloudy browe,
Now you must hope for better still and better
And Edmond must expect still worse and worse,
A lowringe morning proves a fayer daye,
Fortunes ilfavord frowne shewes shee will smile
On you and frowne on Ironside.
Canutus. What telst thou mee of fortune and her frownes,
Of her sower visage and her rowling stone?
Thy tongue rowles headlong into flattery.
Now by theis heavens above our wretched heades
Ye are but cowards every one of you!
Edmond is blest: oh, had I but his men,
I would not doute to conquer all the world
In shorter time the [then] Alexander did.
But all my Daines are Braggadochios
And I accurst to bee the generall
Of such a stocke of fearefull runawaies.
South. Remember you have lost Ten Thousand men,
All English borne except a Thousand Daines.
Your pensive lookes will kill them that survive
If thus to Choller you give libertie.
Canutus. It weare no matter if they all weare slaine,
Then they should neaver runne awaye againe.
Uska. My noble lord, our Cuntrymen are safe:
In all their broyles English gainst English fight;
The Daines or none or very few are slaine.
Canutus. It was a signe yee fledd and did not fight.
[turns towards Uskatant.
Ist not a dishonour unto you
To see a foraingne nation fight for mee
Whenas my homebred Cuntrymen doe runne,
Leaving theire king amongest his enimies?
Edricus. Give not such scoope to humerous discontent,
Wee all are partners of your privat greefes.
Kinges are the heads, and yf the head but ache
The little finger is distempered.
Wee greeve to se you greeved, which hurteth us
And yet availes not to asswage your greefe.
You are the Sunne, my lo:, wee Marigolds;
Whenas you shine wee spred our selves abroad
And take our glory from your influence;
And when you hide your face or darken yt
With th'least incounter of a clowdy looke,
Wee close our eies as partners of your woes,
Droopinge our heades as grasse downe waid with due.
Then cheere ye upp, my lord, and cheere upp us,
For now our valours are extinguished
And all our force lyes drownd in brinish teares,
As Jewells in the bottome of the sea.
—I doe beseech your grace to heare mee speake.
[Edricus talks to him.
The next piece (leaves 119-135), which is without a title, is founded on the Charlemagne romances. My friend, Mr. S.L. Lee, editor of Huon of Bordeaux, in answer to my inquiries writes as follows: "Almost all the characters in this play are the traditional heroes of the French Charlemagne romances, and stand in the same relation to one another as in the Lyf of Charles the Grete and the Four Sons of Aymon, both of which were first printed by Caxton, and secured through later editions a wide popularity in England during the XVIth century. I believe, however, that the story of the magic ring is drawn from another source. It is unknown to the Charlemagne romances of France and England, but it appears in several German legends of the Emperor, and is said to be still a living tradition at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the episode is usually localised (cf. Gaston, Paris, Histoire PoÉtique de Charlemagne, p. 383). Petrarch has given a succinct account of it in a letter written from Cologne, in which he states that he learnt it from the priests of the city, and it is through his narrative that the legend appears to have reached England. John Skelton in his poem 'Why come ye not to court?' quotes the story, and refers to the Italian poet as his authority (cf. Dyce's Skelton, II. 48 and 364, where the letter is printed at length). Southey has also made the tradition the subject of a ballad entitled King Charlemain to which he has prefixed a French translation of the passage of Petrarch. In 1589 George Peele in a Farewell addressed to Morris and Drake on setting out with the English forces for Spain tells them to
Bid theatres and proud tragedians,
Bid Mahomet, Scipio, & mighty Tamburlaine,
King Charlemagne, Tom Stukeley and the rest
Adieu.
Dyce, in a note on this passage (Dyce's Peele, II. 88) writes: 'No drama called Charlemagne has come down to us, nor am I acquainted with any old play in which that monarch figures.' But we know from Henslowe's diary that in at least two plays that were dramatised from Charlemagne romances the Emperor must have taken a part." Mr. Lee concludes his most interesting note by suggesting that the present play may be the one to which Peele alludes; but he will at once perceive from my extracts that the date 1589 is much too early. Here is a passage that might have been written by Cyril Tourneur:—
[Ganelon stabs Richard, his dearest friend, suspecting him of treachery.]
Rich. O you've slayne me! tell me, cruell sir,
Why you have doone thys, that myne innocent soule
May teache repentance to you— dies.
Gan. Speake it out,—
What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe?
You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so:
You have the trycke of mightie men in courte
To speake at leasure and pretend imployment.
Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall
Whether you speake the resydue behynde
Now or at doomes day. If thy common sence
Be not yet parted from thee, understand
I doe not misse thee dyinge because once
I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that
There is no Devyll in me nor in hell
That could have flesht me to this violent deathe
Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.
The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in the Revenger's Tragedy. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or perhaps by the author[281] of the Second Maiden's Tragedy. All the figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to watch the riot of devils. Here is an extract from the scene where Orlando, returning from the wars, hears that Charlemagne, his uncle, has married Ganelon's niece, and that his own hopes of succession have been ruined by the birth of a son:—
Orl[ando.] I am the verye foote-ball of the starres,
Th'anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects
With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves
Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.
My starres, my starres!
O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares
So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.
Enter La Buffe.
Rei[naldo.] Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne—
A propertie oth court, that least his owne
Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt
In pollycie to scoffe at other mens.
He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that
Keepes hym secure from all taxation.
Orl. Y'are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman
And hated of hys father for hys vertues.
Buf. Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe
May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!
Orl. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs
Can ere be heard to my desyred good,
I am not so voyde of humanytie
But I will thancke your loue.
Rei. Pray, Sir, what newse
Hath the courte latterly beene deliverd of?
Buf. Such as the gallymaufry that is fownd
In her large wombe may promise: he that has
The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte
And knowes no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists
Invay agaynst plurallytie of liueinge
And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without
The remedye of sugar candye for't.
Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott
Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes,
I & allmost disjested too assoone.
Oli[ver]. I, but in sober sadnes whatts doone there?
Buf. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,
For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs
To mere confussyon; nothing there hath forme
But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte
Vice only thrives & merrytt starves in courte.
Rei. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte
Oure fayre eied royall empresse?
Buf. Trothe I wonderd, Sir,
You spooke of that no sooner, yet I hope
None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke
To kyndell that ill flame.
Orl. No, of my trothe,
I knowe thee much too honest; but how fares
The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?
Buf. Sir, as a woman in her casse may doe;
Shee's broughte [to] bedd.
Rei. What, has she a chylde then?
Buf. I, my Lord.
Orl. A Sonne?
Buf. Mys-fortune hathe inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.
Orl. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche
I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt.
—O harte, will nothing breake the?
Rei. Tis most straunge.
Orl. Straunge? not a whytt. Why, if she had beene spayd
And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyght
My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde—
Of a son too. Hencefourthe let no man
That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve
Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't
Would tourne the hope't successe to an event
That would fryghte nature, & make patyence braule
With the most pleasinge obiecte.
Buf. Sir, be at peace;
Much may be found by observatyon.
Orl. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable.
Thys observation thou advysest to
Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate
That I should be distrackt. I can observe
Naughte but varyetye of mysseries
Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours.
I neare did good for any but great Charles,
And the meare doing that hath still brought fourth
To me some plague too heavye to be borne,
But that I am reserud onlye to teach
The studyed envye of mallignant starrs.
If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde,
It is with studyinge myne afflictions:
But, for her standing on a roullinge stone,
Theare learninge faylls theym, for she fixed stands
And onlye against me.
I may perhaps be tempted to print this play in full. The MS. has suffered somewhat, many lines having been cut away at the foot of some of the pages. Although the first scene is marked Act 2, Scene 2,[282] the play seemed to me to be complete. On the last leaf is written "Nella [Greek: phdphnr] la B." Some name is possibly concealed under these enigmatic letters; but the riddle would defy an Oedipus.
The next play (leaves 136-160) is entitled The fatal Maryage, or a second Lucreatya. Galeas, on returning from the wars, crowned with praises, is requested by his widowed mother to make a journey into the province of Parma to receive moneys owed by Signor Jouanny. On his arrival he falls in love with Jouanny's daughter, Lucretia, runs away with her, and secretly marries her. Galeas' mother, angered at the match, practises to convey Lucretia to a nunnery and get her son married to an earl's daughter; but Galeas defeats his mother's machinations by killing himself and Lucretia. There is a second plot to this odd play, but enough has been said. The meeting between Galeas and Jouanny is the best thing in the play:—
Enter Galeas & Jacomo.
Ga. You spake with him as I comanded you?
Jac. And had his promise to meet you presently.
Ga. I have heard much fame of him since my arrive,
His generall nature, hospitable love;
His [He's?] good to all men, enemy to none.
Indeed he has that perfect character
Before I see him I'm in love with him.
Jac. Hee has the fame few Cittizens deserve.
Ga. Why, sir, few Cittizens?
Jac. His words his bond, and does not break that bond
To bankrupt others; he makes you not a library
Of large monopolie to cosen all men:
Subintelligitur, he hates to deale
With such portentious othes as furr his mouth
In the deliverance.
Enter Jouanny.
Ga. Hee comes himselfe.
Jou. Sir Galeas, if I mistake not?
Ga. I weare my fathers name, sir.
Jou. And tis a dignity to weare that name. Whatts your affairs in Parma?
Ga. To visit you, sir.
Jou. Gladness nor sorrow never paid mans debts.
—Your pleasure, sir?
Ga. The livery of my griefe: my fathers dead
And mee hath made his poore executor.
Jou. What? ought hee ten thousand duckets?
Thy fathers face fixt in thy front
Should be the paymaster tho from my hand.
Ga. I doe not come to borrow: please yee read.
Jou. Read? and with good regard, for sorrow paies noe debts.
Ga. The summes soe great I feare, once read by him, My seeming frend will prove my enemy.
Jac. Faith, if he doe, hee proves like your French galloshes that promise faire to the feet, yet twice a day leave a man in the durt.
Jou. Was this your fathers pleasure?
Ga. It was his hand.
Jou. It was his writing, I know it as my owne, Wherein hee has wronged mee beyond measure?
Ga. How? my father wrongd yee? I'm his sonn.
Jou. Wert thou his father I'm wrongd,—
Iniurd, calumniated, baffled to my teeth;
And were it not that these gray haires of mine
Were priviledgd ane enemy to vallour,
I have a heart could see your fathers wrong—
Ga. What? raile you, sir?
Jac. Challenge a half pint pot.
Jou. There in a sawpitt, knave, to quitt my self
Of such an inury.—Hee writes mee here
That I should pay to you tenn thousand crownes.
Ga. As being due to him.
Jou. But thatts not my quarrell, sir; for I did owe to him
Millions of Crownes, millions of my love;—
And but to send a note here for his owne!
Ist not a quarrell for an honest man?
Jac. With very few, I thinke.
Jou. Why, looke yee, sir:
When after many a storme and dreadfull blow
Strooke from fire-belching clouds, bankrupt of life
I have home return'd; when all my frends denide
Their thresholds to mee, and my creditors
Desir'd to sinke mee in a prisoners grave,
Hee gave mee dying life, his helpefull hand
Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land.
Ist not a quarrell then to seeke butts owne?
Ga. Oh, pray, sir—
Jou. When all the talents of oppression
Of usurers, lawyers and my creditors
Had fangd upon my wife and family,
Hee gave mee dying life, his helpfull hand
Sent mee to sea and kept mee safe on land.
Ist not a quarrell then to seeke but's owne?
Ga. Good sir—
Jou. Come in, sir, where I will pay all that you can demand:
Noe other quarrell, sir, shall passe your hand.
Ga. If every [one] should pay as well as you
The world were good, wee should have bankrupts few.
Jac. I'm of your mind for that. [Exeunt.
We now come to a play (leaves 161-185), without title, and wanting some leaves at the end, on the subject of Richard the Second. I think with Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, who printed eleven copies of this piece, that it is anterior to Shakespeare's play. There is less extravagance of language than in most of the plays belonging to that early date (circ. 1593?); and the blank verse, though it is monotonous enough, has perhaps rather more variety than we should expect to find. Much of the play is taken up with Greene and Baggott; but the playwright has chiefly exerted himself in representing the murder of Woodstock at Calais. Before the murder, Woodstock falls asleep, and there appears to him the ghost of the Black Prince:
… Oh I am nought but ayre:
Had I the vigour of my former strength
When thou beheldst me fight at Cressy feild,
Wher hand to hand I tooke King John of France
And his bould sonns my captive prisoners,
Ide shake these stiff supporters of thy bed
And dragg thee from this dull securyty.
Oh yett for pittye wake; prevent thy doome;
Thy blood upon my sonne will surely come:
For which, deere brother Woodstocke, haste and fly,
Prevent his ruein and thy tragedy. [Exit Ghoste.
Undisturbed by this appeal, Woodstock slumbers on. Then enters the ghost of Edward the Third. His speech is worthy of Robert Greene:—
Sleepst thou so soundly and pale death so nye?
Thomas of Woodstocke, wake my sone and fly.
Thy wrongs have roused thy royall fathers ghost,
And from his quiat grave king Edwards come
To guard thy innocent life, my princely sonne.
Behould me heere, sometymes faire Englands lord:
(7) warlicke sonnes I left, yett being gone
No one succeeded in my kingly throne, &c.
I will not inflict more of this stuff on the reader. Suffice it to say that Woodstock wakes in terror and calls aloud. Lapoole, the governor of the city, who is close at hand with two murderers, enters and comforts him. Here the playwright shows a touch of pathos:—
Good nyght, Lapoole, and pardon me, I prethee,
That my sadd feare made question of thy faith.
My state is fearefull and my mynd was troubled
Even at thy entrance with most fearefull vissions
Which made my passiones more extreame and hastye.
Out of my better judgment I repent itt
And will reward thy love: once more, good nyght.
Now follows the Lady Mother (leaves 186-211), which I have proved to be a play of Glapthorne's. No doubt it is the same piece as the Noble Trial, entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660, but not printed.
Then we have a masque (leaves 212-223). On the first page are given the nomina actorum, and underneath is written "August 5th, 1643." I was surprised to find in this masque a long passage that occurs also in Chapman's Byron's Tragedie (ed. Pearson, ii. 262). Ben Jonson said (to Drummond of Hawthornden) that only he and Chapman knew how to write a masque. The remark has always puzzled me, and certainly I should never have thought of Chapman's name in connexion with this masque. Here is an extract, containing the passage from Byron's Tragedie:—
Love. For thy sake, Will, I feathered all my thoughts
And in a bird's shape flew in to her bosome,
The bosome of Desert, thy beautious Mistris,
As if I had been driven by the hauke
In that sweet sanctuary to save my liffe.
She smild on me, cald me her prety bird,
And for her sport she tyed my little legs
In her faire haire. Proud of my golden fetters
I chirped for Joy; she confident of my lameness,
Soon disintangled me & then she percht me
Upon her naked breast. There being ravishd
I sung with all my cheere and best of skill.
She answered note for note, relish for relish,
And ran division with such art and ease
That she exceeded me.
Judgment. There was rare musicke.
Love. In this swete strife, forgetting where I stood.
I trod so hard in straining of my voice
That with my claw I rent her tender skin;
Which as she felt and saw vermillion follow
Stayning the cullor of Adonis bleeding
In Venus lap, with indignation
She cast me from her.
Will. That fortune be to all that injure her.
Love. Then I put on this shepheards shape you see;
I tooke my bow and quiver as in revenge
Against the birds, shooting and following them
From tre to tre. She passing by beheld
And liked the sport. I offerrd her my prey,
Which she receved and asked to feele my bowe;
Which when she handled and beheld the beauty
Of my bright arrowes, she began to beg em.
I answered they were all my riches, yet
I was content to hazard all and stake em
Downe to a kiss at a game at chess with her.
"Wanton," quoth she, being privy to her skill,
"A match!" Then she with that dexterrytey
Answered my challenge that I lost my weapons:
Now Cupides shaffts are headed with her lookes.
My mother soone perceiving my disgrace,
My Arms beinge lost and gon which made me a terror
To all the world, she tooke away my wings,
Renouncd me for her child and cast me from her;
And more, to be revengd upon Desert,
Comanded Danger to be her strong keeper,
That should she empt my quiver at the hearts
Of men they might not dare to court her, fearing
That horrid mischiefe that attends [on] her.
On this I threw me headlong on the sea
To sleepe my tyme out in the bottome off it;
Whence you have puld me up to be a scorne
To all the World.
Will. Not so, my prety boy, Ill arme the againe;
My breast shall be thy quiver, my sighes thy shaffts:
And heres an opportunytey to be wingd againe;
Se here the wings of Fortune.
Love. Fortunes wings
Are full of giddy feathers to unsure
For me to fly with all, but I will stay with you,
I like so well this aire; onely you must
Provide to keepe me from the hands of Danger
That wayts upon Dessert.
Will. Our selfes and all
Arcadia shall be your guard and wher
Love passes and recides he shall be allwayes
Armd and attended by a band of lovers,
Such faithfull ones as if that ugly Danger
Were Lucifer himselfe, they should defend you.
Next on our List (leaves 224-244) is the Two Noble Ladyes, or the Converted Conjurer. This "Tragicomicall Historie often tymes acted with approbation at the Red Bull in St. John's Streete by the company of the Revells," is a coarse noisy play. The comic part consists of the most absurd buffoonery, and the rest is very stilted. But there is one scene—and one only—which shows genuine poetic power. It is where Cyprian, the sorcerer, having by his magical arts saved Justina, a Christian maiden, tries to gain her love:—
Enter Cyprian and Justina.
Cyprian. Doe not disdayne, faire peece of Natures pride,
To heare him plead for love that sav'd thy life.
It was my pow'rfull arte produc'd those monsters
To drowne those monstrous executioners
That should have wrought your wracke.
Justina. Sir, I am sorry
Hell had a hand in my delivery:
That action cannot merrit my affection.
Cyprian. I not alleadge it for desert of grace
But argument of mercie: pitty him
That in distresse so lately pitty'd you.
Justina. I am the troth-plight wife of Clitophon,
The Prince of Babylon; hee has my hart,
And theres no share for others.
Cyprian. That high state
Is now at a low ebbe: destruction
Hangs like a threatning Commet ore the walls
Of Babilon. Then fix thy love on him
That can more then the greatest prince on earth.
Love mee, and princes shall thy pages bee;
Monarchs shall lay their crownes and royalties
As presents at thy feet; the Indian mynes
Shall be thy ioyntures; all the worldes rich marchants
Shall bring their pearles and pretious stones to thee,
Sweet gums and spices of Arabia,
Fine Median linnen and Barbarian silkes;
The earth shall beare no fruit of raritie
But thou shalt taste it. Weele transforme ourselves
In quaintest shapes to vary our delights.
And in a chariot wrought out of a cloud,
Studded with starres, drawne through the subtle aire
By birds of paradise, wee'll ride together
To fruitfull Thessalie, where in fair Tempe
(The only pleasant place of all the earth)
Wee'll sport us under a pavilion
Of Tyrian scarlet.
Justina. Should these rarities
(Faithlesse as are your wondrous promises)
Lead me into the hazard of my soule
And losse of such ay-lasting happinesse
As all earths glories are but shaddows to?
Cyprian. Thincke you this rare pile of perfection.
Wherein Love reads a lecture of delight,
Ows not it's use to Nature? There is love
In every thing that lives: the very sunne
Does burne in love while we partake his heate;
The clyming ivy with her loving twines
Clips the strong oake. No skill of surgerie
Can heale the wounds, nor oceans quench the flames
Made by all pow'rfull love. Witnesse myselfe:
Since first the booke of your perfections
Was brought so neare than I might read it ore,
I have read in it charmes to countermand
All my enchantments and enforce mee stoop
To begge your love.
Justina. How ere you please to style
A lustfull appetite, it takes not mee.
Heav'n has my bow my life shall never bee
Elder then my unstain'd virginitie.
