There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell, And span-long elves that dance about a pool, With each a little changeling in their arms: The airy spirits play with falling stars, And mount the sphere of fire, to kiss the moon ; While she sits reading by the glow-worm's light, Or rotten wood, o'er which the worm hath crept, The baneful schedule of her nocent charms, And binding characters, through which she wounds Her puppets, the Sigilla of her witchcraft. All this I know, and I will find her for you; And show you her sitting in her fourm; I'll lay My hand upon her; make her throw her scut Along her back, when she doth start before us. But you must give her law; and you shall see her Make twenty leaps and doubles, cross the paths, And then squat down beside us.
Epicure Mammon, a Knight, deceived by the pretensions of Subtle (the Alchemist), glories in the prospect of obtaining the philosopher's stone.
Mam. Come on, sir.
In novo orbe.
Now you set your foot on shore
Here's the rich Peru:
And there within, sir, are the golden mines,
Great Solomon's Ophir! He was sailing to it Three years, but we have reached it in ten months. This is the day wherein to all my friends
I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich.
This day you shall be spectatissimi.
You shall no more deal with the hollow die,
Or the frail card; no more be at charge of keeping The livery punk for the young heir, that must Seal at all hours in his shirt. No more,
If he deny, have him beaten to it, as he is That brings him the commodity. No more Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloke To be display'd at madam Augusta's, make The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights Commit idolatry with wine and trumpets;
Or go a-feasting after drum and ensign.
No more of this. You shall start up young viceroys, And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly: And unto thee I speak it first, Be rich.
Sejanus, the morning he is condemned by the Senate, receives some tokens which presage his death.
SEJANUS, POMPONIUS, MINUTIUS, TERENTIUS, &c.
Min. Thousands are gazing at it in the streets.
Minutius tells us here, my lord,
That a new head being set upon your statue, A rope is since found wreath'd about it! and But now a fiery meteor in the form
Of a great ball was seen to roll along
The troubled air, where yet it hangs unperfect, The amazing wonder of the multitude. No more.-
You, my good Natta, Now, Satrius,
Arm all our servants,
Send for the tribunes; we will straight have up More of the soldiers for our guard. We pray you go for Cotta, Latiaris, Trio the consul, or what senators You know are sure, and ours. For Laco provost of the watch. The time of proof comes on. And without tumult. You, Pomponius, Hold some good correspondence with the consul; Attempt him, noble friend. These things begin To look like dangers, now, worthy my fates. Fortune, I see thy worst: let doubtful states And things uncertain hang upon thy will; Me surest death shall render certain still. Yet why is now my thought turn'd toward death, Whom fates have let go on so far in breath Uncheck'd or unreproved? I, that did help To fell the lofty cedar of the world, Germanicus; that at one stroke cut down Drusus that upright elm; wither'd his vine; Laid Silius and Sabinus, two strong oaks, Flat on the earth; besides those other shrubs, Cordus, and Sosia, Claudia, Pulchra,
Furnius, and Gallus, which I have grubb'd up ; And since, have set my axe so strong and deep Into the root of spreading Agrippina;
Lopp'd off and scatter'd her proud branches, Nero, Drusus, and Caius too, although replanted: If you will, destinies, that after all
I faint now ere I touch my period,
You are but cruel; and I already have done
Things great enough. All Rome hath been my slave; The senate sat an idle looker-on,
And witness of my power; when I have blush'd
More to command, than it to suffer; all
The fathers have sat ready and prepared
To give me empire, temples, or their throats, When I would ask them; and (what crowns the top). Rome, senate, people, all the world, have seen
Jove but my equal, Cæsar but my second. "Tis then your malice, Fates, who (but your own) Envy and fear to have any power long known.
Beaumont, 1586-1615, and Fletcher, 1576-1625. (Manual, p. 165.) 95. FROM THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.
Clorin, a Shepherdess, watching by the Grave of her Lover, is found by a Satyr. Clor. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed his flocks By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly. Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes, To thy still loved ashes: thus I free Myself from all ensuing heats and fires Of love all sports, delights, and jolly games, That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. No more the company of fresh fair maids And wanton shepherds be to me delightful : Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes Under some shady dell, when the cool wind Plays on the leaves: all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side How often have I sat crown'd with fresh flowers For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, And hanging script of finest cordevan!
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory: That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring, 'Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. And here will I, in honour of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes, Only remembering what my youth did gain In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs. That will I practise, and as freely give All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, Or charm'd with powerful words of wicked art; Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears, Thicken'd with misty film of dulling rheum: These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.
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, When night shall blind the world, by thy side bless'd. A Satyr enters.
Satyr. Thorough yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run, Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun.
Since the lusty spring began, All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains this coming night His paramour the Syrinx bright: But behold a fairer sight! By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods, for in thy face Shines more awful majesty, Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And live therefore on this mould
Lowly do I bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send Of her choice fruits; and but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells, Fairer by the famous wells To this present day ne'er grew, Never better, nor more true. Here be grapes, whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good; Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them, Deign, O fairest fair, to take them, For these, black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time
Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen,
Some be red, some be green; These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when, humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run,
Swifter than the fiery sun.
96. FROM THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Palamon and Arcite, repining at their hard condition, in being made captives for life in Athens, derive consolation from the enjoyment of each other's company in prison.
Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?
Where are our friends and kindreds? never more
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, Hung with the painted favours of their ladies Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst them,
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