Seven Minor Epics of the English Renaissance (1596-1624) Part 17

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Why dost thou weep? tis I shold drown mine eies And burst my heart with languor, and dispaire, I whom thy vnrelenting thoughts despise, I who can woo thee by no sute, nor prayer, Yet doating mad for thee, o cruell faire, I sweare by this diuine white daizy-hand, The loue I beare thee, in my heart it lies, Whose searching fire, no reason can withstand.

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Wilt thou be mine? here shalt thou liue with me, Free'd from oppression, and the Souldiers l.u.s.t, Who if thou pa.s.se my Tent, will seize on thee, And they are rude, and what they will thou must.

O do not to the common Kestrels trust, They are not as the Eagles n.o.ble kinde, But rough, and daring in all villany: Honor with me, with them scarce safety finde.

40

Honor and safety, both in true loue is, And _Mahomet_ is zealous, o loue him: With him ioy euery thing that tasts of blisse, Pompe, honor, pleasure, shews, and pastimes trim, Care dwels not where he dwels, nor sorrow grim Onely till now, that he for _Hiren_ mournes: A Greeke whom he would bring to paradice, He ner'e took thought, but now he sighs & burns.

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Wilt thou be his, on thee shall waite and tend, A traine of Nymphs, and Pages by thy side, With faunes, horse, coach, & musicke which shall lend The spheares new notes in their harmonies pride.

When thou wilt walke, and publikly be ey'd, To bring thee in thy hie way, cloath'd with flowers Shall sent like _Tempe_ when the graces send, To meet each other in those fragrant bowers.

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At home shall comick Masques, & night disports Conduct thee to thy pillow, and thy sheetes, And all those reuels which soft loue consorts, Shall entertaine thee with their sweetest sweets.

And as the warlike G.o.d with _Venus_ meetes, And dallies with her in the Paphian groue, Shall _Mahomet_ in bed shew thee such sports, As none shall haue, but she which is his loue.

43

Againe: No more againe (saies she) great king, I know you can do much, and all this to, But tell me when we loose so deere a thing, Shame can we take pride in, in publike shew: Think you the adulterate owle, then wold not so?

No, no, nor state, nor honor can repure, Dishonor'd sheet's, nor lend the owle daies wing Ign.o.ble shame a King cannot recure.

44

Now say mine eies & cheeks are faire, what then?

Why so are yours, yet do I dote on you?

Beauty is blacke, defam'd by wicked men, And yet must euery beauty make men sue?

Too good is worse then bad, you seeme too true Too easie, pa.s.sionate, loue-sicke, and kinde, Then blame not me, that cannot so soone ren Your course: the fault is in your forward minde.

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But say great prince, I had a wanton eye, Would you adde _Syrius_ to the sommer sunne?

And whurle hote flaming fire where tow doth lie By which combustion all might be vndone?

For loke how mightier greater Kings do run Amisse, the fault is more pernicious, And opens more to shame and obloquy, Then what we erre in, or is done by vs.

46

A Monarch, and a mighty Conquerour To doate, proues euery woman is his better, But I'le be true to thee (said he:) One houre (Said she;) but what for truth, when it is fitter We keepe our own, then haue a doubtful debter.

But I will sweare, said he: So _Iason_ did, Replide faire _Hiren_, yet who faithlesse more, or more inconstant to his sworne loues bed?

47

Too many mirrors haue we to behold, Of mens inconstancy, and womens shame.

How many margent notes can we vnfold, Mourning for virgins that haue bene too blame?

And shall I then run headlong to the flame?

I blush, but it is you should be ashamed, For know, if that you neuer haue beene told, "Vertue may be inforc'd, but not defamed.

48

Faire louely Prince, let warre your triumphs be, Go forward in the glittering course you run, The kingly Eagle strikes through _Atomie_, Those little moates that barre him from the Sun, Then let not both of vs be here vndone, You of your Conquest, I of Chast.i.tie.

And pardon my rude specch, for lo you see, I plead for life, and who's not loath to dye?

49

Death of my fame, which oft proues mortal death Witnesse the Prince-forc'd chaste _Lucretia_, Ere I like her be rap'd, o reaue my breath, And gainst thy nature, take a yeelding pray, That will embrace death, before thee this day.

If thou loue me, shew it in killing me, Thy sword had neuer yet a chaster sheath, Nor thou, nor _Mahound_ a worse enemy.

50

He heard nor this, nor ought of what she said, For all his senses now were turn'd to eyes, And with such fired gaze he view'd this maid, That sure I thinke not _Hermes_ mysteries, Nor all his _Caducean_ nouelties, That flow from him like a slye winding streame, (To which the G.o.ds gladly their eares haue laid) Could once haue mou'd him from this waking dreame.

51

But sighes he sends out on this emba.s.sie, Liegers that dye ere they returne againe, Poore subst.i.tutes to coape with chast.i.ty.

She knew the pleading of their Liege was vaine, And all his teares like to a Mel-dew raine, That falles vpon the floures, to defloure.

Yet, for twas tedious, she did aske him why, Each sigh was o're him such a conquerour.

52

By heauen he swore, and made his Eunuch start, I sigh to coole Loues fire, then kist her hand: For know, thou wonder of the Easterne part, He need not counterfeite that can command: But by thy middle, _Cupids_ coniuring wand, I am all loue, and faire beleeue my vow, Sprung from a Souldier, now a louers heart, He sweares to loue, that neuer lou'd till now.

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Not halfe so faire was _h.e.l.len_, thy pre'cessor, On whom the firy brand of Troy did dote, For whom so many riuall kings to succour, Made many a mountaine pine on Symois floate, Whilst fame to this day, tels it with wide throat.

_Hector_ fell wounded in that warlike stir, _Peleus_ did faint, _Aiax_ that l.u.s.ty warriour, Then blame not me, that loue one far 'boue her.

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