And all things that are in it, that I fear
I shall fall like a tree, and find my grave,
Only rememb'ring that I grieve.
Give me your griefs; you are an innocent,
A soul as white as heaven; let not my sins
Perish your noble youth. I do not fall here
To shadow, by dissembling with my tears,
what heaven and you
Know to be tougher than the hand of Time
Can cut from man's remembrance-no, I do not:
I do appear the same, the same Evadne,
Drest in the shames I lived in, the same monster,
Till
you, my dear lord, shoot your light into me,
The beams of your forgiveness. I am soul-sick,
And wither with the fear of one condemned
Till I have got your pardon.
Aspatia, forsaken by her lover, finds her maid Autiphila working a picture of Ariadne. The expression of her sorrow to Antiphila and the other attendant thus concludes:
THEN, my good girls, be more than women wise,
At least be more than I was; and be sure
You credit any thing the light gives light to,
Before a man. Rather believe the sea
Weeps for the ruin'd merchant when he roars;
Rather the wind courts but the pregnant sails,
When the strong cordage cracks; rather the sun
Comes but to kiss the fruit in wealthy autumn,
When all falls blasted. If you needs must love,
Forc'd by ill fate, take to your maiden bosoms
Two dead cold aspicks, and of them make lovers;
They cannot flatter nor forswear; one kiss
Makes a long peace for all. But man,-
Oh that beast man! Come, let's be sad, my girls.
That downcast eye of thine, Olympias,
Shews a fine sorrow. Mark Antiphila ;
Just such another was the nymph Oenone,
When Paris brought home Helen. Now a tear,
And then thou art a piece expressing fully
The Carthage queen, when from a cold sea-rock,
Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes
To the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them,
Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear. Antiphila!
What would this wench do if she were Aspatia ?
Here she would stand till some more pitying god
Turn'd her to marble! 'Tis enough, my wench;
Shew me the piece of needlework you wrought.
Antiphila. Of Ariadne, madam?
Aspatia. Yes, that piece.
Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila.
You're much mistaken, wench;
These colours are not dull and pale enough
To shew a soul so full of misery
As this sad lady's was;-do it by me;
Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia,
And you shall find all true but the wild island.
Suppose I stand upon the sea-beach now,
Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind,
Wild as that desert; and let all about me
Tell that I am forsaken. Do my face,
If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow,
Thus, thus, Antiphila: strive to make me look
Like sorrow's monument; and the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges, and behind me
Make all a desolation, Look, look, wenches,
A miserable life of this poor picture.
FROM THE TRAGEDY OF PHILASTER.
Philaster's description of his page to his mistress Arethusa,
To hold intelligence, that our true loves,
On any new occasion, may agree
What path is best to tread?
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent,
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain side,
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears:
A garland lay him by, made by himself
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness
Delighted me. But ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle dy'd,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots, and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses, and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did shew
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify, and how all order'd; thus
Express'd his grief, and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wish'd, so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him,
Who was as glad to follow, and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept. Him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.
Philaster parting with Bellario, who is to enter the service of Arethusa. Act II. Scene I.
Philaster. AND thou shalt find her, honourable
Full of regard unto thy tender youth.
For thine own modesty, and for my sake,
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask,
Bellario. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing,
And only yet am something by being yours. You trusted me unknown, and that which you were apt
To construe a simple innocence in me,
Perhaps might have been craft-the cunning of a boy
Harden'd in lies and theft; yet ventur❜d you
To part my miseries and me, for which
I never can expect to serve a lady
That bears more honour in her breast than you. Philaster. But, boy, it will prefer thee: thou art
And bear'st a childish overflowing love
To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet.
But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions,
Thou wilt remember best those careful friends
That plac'd thee in the noblest way of life:
She is a princess I prefer thee to.
Bellario. In that small time that I have seen the world,
I never knew a man hasty to part
With a servant he thought trusty. I remember
My father would prefer the boys he kept
To greater men than he; but did it not
Till they were grown too saucy for himself.
Philaster. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all
In thy behaviour.
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