A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Ix Part 55

Will heavens still smile at Sophos' miseries, And give no end to my incessant moans?

These cypress shades are witness of my woes; The senseless trees do grieve at my laments; The leafy branches drop sweet Myrrha's tears: For love did scorn me in my mother's womb, And sullen Saturn, pregnant at my birth, With all the fatal stars conspir'd in one To frame a hapless constellation, Presaging Sophos' luckless destiny.

Here, here doth Sophos turn Ixion's restless wheel, And here lies wrapp'd in labyrinths of love-- Of his sweet Lelia's love, whose sole idea still Prolongs the hapless date of Sophos' hopeless life.

Ah! said I life? a life far worse than death-- Than death? ay, than ten thousand deaths.

I daily die, in that I live love's thrall; They die thrice happy that once die for all.

Here will I stay my weary wand'ring steps, And lay me down upon this solid earth, [_He lies down_.

The mother of despair and baleful thoughts.

Ay, this befits my melancholy moods.

Now, now, methinks I hear the pretty birds With warbling tunes record Fair Lelia's name, Whose absence makes warm blood drop from my heart, And forceth wat'ry tears from these my weeping eyes.

Methinks I hear the silver-sounding stream With gentle murmur summon me to sleep, Singing a sweet, melodious lullaby.

Here will I take a nap, and drown my hapless hopes In the ocean seas of _Never like to speed_.

[_He falls in a slumber, and music sounds_.

_Enter_ SYLVa.n.u.s.

SYLVa.n.u.s.

Thus hath Sylva.n.u.s left his leafy bowers, Drawn by the sound of Echo's sad reports, That with shrill notes and high resounding voice Doth pierce the very caverns of the earth, And rings through hills and dales the sad laments Of virtue's loss and Sophos' mournful plaints.

Now, Morpheus, rouse thee from thy sable den, Charm all his senses with a slumb'ring trance; Whilst old Sylva.n.u.s send[s] a lovely train Of satyrs, dryades, and water[149] nymphs Out of their bowers to tune their silver strings, And with sweet-sounding music sing Some pleasing madrigals and roundelays, To comfort Sophos in his deep distress.

[_Exit_ SYLVa.n.u.s.

_Enter the Nymphs and Satyrs singing_.

THE SONG.

1.

_Satyrs, sing, let sorrow keep her cell, Let warbling Echoes ring, And sounding music yell[150]

Through hills, through dales, sad grief and care to kill In him long since, alas! hath griev'd his fill_.

2.

_Sleep no more, but wake and live content, Thy grief the Nymphs deplore: The Sylvan G.o.ds lament To hear, to see thy moan, thy loss, thy love, Thy plaints to tears the flinty rocks do move_.

3.

_Grieve not, then; the queen of love is mild, She sweetly smiles on men, When reason's most beguil'd; Her looks, her smiles are kind, are sweet, are fair: Awake therefore, and sleep not still in care_.

4.

_Love intends to free thee from annoy, His nymphs Sylva.n.u.s sends To bid thee live in joy, In hope, in joy, sweet love, delight's embrace: Fair love herself will yield thee so much grace_.

[_Exeunt the Nymphs and Satyrs_.

SOPHOS.

What do I hear? what harmony is this, With silver sound that glutteth Sophos' ears.

And drives sad pa.s.sions from his heavy heart, Presaging some good future hap shall fall, After these bl.u.s.t'ring blasts of discontent?

Thanks, gentle Nymphs, and Satyrs too, adieu; That thus compa.s.sionate a loyal lover's woe, When heav'n sits smiling at his dire mishaps.

_Enter_ FORTUNATUS.

FORTUNATUS.

With weary steps I trace these desert groves, And search to find out Sophos' secret walks, My truest vowed friend and Lelia's dearest love.

SOPHOS.

What voice is this sounds Lelia's sacred name? [_He riseth_.

Is it some satyr that hath view'd her late, And's grown enamour'd of her gorgeous hue?

FORTUNATUS.

No satyr, Sophos; but thy ancient friend, Whose dearest blood doth rest at thy command: Hath sorrow lately blear'd thy wat'ry eyes, That thou forgett'st the lasting league of love, Long since was vowed betwixt thyself and me?

Look on me, man; I am thy friend.

SOPHOS.

O, now I know thee, now thou nam'st my friend; I have no friend, to whom I dare Unload the burden of my grief, But only Fortunatus, he's my second self: _Mi Fortunate, ter fortunate venis_.[151]

FORTUNATUS.

How fares my friend? methinks you look not well; Your eyes are sunk, your cheeks look pale and wan: What means this alteration?

SOPHOS.

My mind, sweet friend, is like a mastless ship, That's hurl'd and toss'd upon the surging seas By Boreas' bitter blast and Ae'lus' whistling winds, On rocks and sands far from the wished port, Whereon my silly ship desires to land: Fair Lelia's love, that is the wished haven, Wherein my wand'ring mind would take repose; For want of which my restless thoughts are toss'd, For want of which all Sophos' joys are lost.

FORTUNATUS.

Doth Sophos love my sister Lelia?

SOPHOS.

She, she it is, whose love I wish to gain, Nor need I wish, nor do I love in vain: My love she doth repay with equal meed-- 'Tis strange, you'll say, that Sophos should not speed.

FORTUNATUS.

Your love repaid with equal meed, And yet you languish still in love? 'tis strange.

From whence proceeds your grief, Unfold unto your friend: a friend may yield relief.

SOPHOS.

My want of wealth is author of my grief; Your father says, my state is too-too low: I am no hobby bred; I may not soar so high As Lelia's love, The lofty eagle will not catch at flies.

When I with Icarus would soar against the sun, He is the only fiery Phaeton Denies my course, and sears my waxen wings, When as I soar aloft.

He mews fair Lelia up from Sophos' sight, That not so much as paper pleads remorse.

Thrice three times Sol hath slept in Thetis' lap, Since these mine eyes beheld sweet Lelia's face: What greater grief, what other h.e.l.l than this, To be denied to come where my beloved is?

FORTUNATUS.

Do you alone love Lelia?

Have you no rivals with you in your love?

SOPHOS.

Yes, only one; and him your father backs: 'Tis Peter Plod-all, rich Plod-all's son and heir, One whose base, rustic, rude desert Unworthy far to win so fair a prize; Yet means your father for to make a match For golden lucre with this Coridon, And scorns at virtue's lore: hence grows my grief.

FORTUNATUS.

If it be true I hear, there is one Churms beside Makes suit to win my sister to his bride.

SOPHOS.

That cannot be; Churms is my vowed friend, Whose tongue relates the tenor of my love To Lelia's ears: I have no other means.

FORTUNATUS.