Angel. Peace, Violanta: thou hast always been Gentle and good. Viol. Gerrard is better, mother: O if you knew the implicit innocency Dwells in his breast, you'd love him like your prayers. I see no reason but my father might Be told the truth, being pleas'd for Ferdinand To wooe himself: and Gerrard ever was His full comparative; my uncle loves him, Angel. No, not for the world, Since his intent is cross'd: lov'd Ferdinand His madness would pursue ye both to death. Viol. As you please, mother. I am now, methinks, Even in the land of ease; I'll sleep. Angel. Draw in Violanta describes how her Love for Gerrard began. In long coats hither. The little boy would kiss me, being a child, 93 Violanta's prattle is so very pretty and so natural in her situation, that I could not resist giving it a place. Juno Lucina was never invoked with more elegance. Pope has been praised for giving dignity to a game at cards. It required at least as much address to ennoble a lying-in. THE THE MAID'S TRAGEDY. BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT, AND JOHN FLETCHER. Amintor, a noble Gentleman, promises marriage to Aspatia, and forsakes her by the King's command to wed Evadne.The grief of Aspatia at being forsaken, described. This lady Walks discontented, with her watry eyes The marriage-night of Amintor and Evadne. Evad. Would thou could'st instill (To Dula) Asp. Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek; It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, When at the altar the religious priest Were pacifying the offended powers With sacrifice, than now. This should have been My night, and all your hands have been employ'd To young Amintor's bed, as we are now For you: pardon, Evadne, would my worth Were great as yours, or that the King, or he, Or both thought so; perhaps he found me worthless, But till he did so, in these ears of mine (These credulous ears) he pour'd the sweetest words That art or love could frame. Evad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam. Asp. Would I could, then should I leave the cause. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yer. Evad. That's one of your sad songs, madam. Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one. Erud. How is it, madam? lord Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; say I died true : My love was false, but I was firm from my hour of birth; Upon my buried body lay lightly gentle earth. Madam, good night;-may no discontent Grow 'twixt your love and you; but if there do, Enquire of me, and I will guide your moan, Teach you an artificial way to grieve, To keep your sorrow waking. Love your No worse than I; but if you love so well, Alas, you may displease him, so did I. This is the last time you shall look on me : Ladies farewel; as soon as I am dead, Come all and watch one night about my hearse ; Bring each a mournful story and a tear To offer at it when I go to earth: With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round, Write on my brow my fortune, let my bier Be borne by virgins that shall sing by course The truth of maids and perjuries of men. (Amintor enters.) Evad. Alas, I pity thee. (To Amintor.) May all the wrongs that you have done to me, I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take Aspatia wills her Maidens to be sorrowful, because she is so. Asp. Come let's be sad my girls; Asp. Yes that piece. This should be Theseus, h'as a cousening face; Ant. He was so, madam. Asp. Why then 'tis well enough. Never look back, You have a full wind, and a false heart, Theseus. Does Does not the story say, his keel was split, Or his masts spent, or some kind rock or other Met with his vessel? Ant. Not as I remember. Asp. It should ha' been so; could the gods know this, And not of all their number raise a storm? But they are all as ill. This false smile was well ex prest, Just such another caught me; you shall not go so, Antiphila, In this place work a quick sand, And over it a shallow smiling water, And his ship ploughing it, and then a fear. Do that fear to the life wench. Ant. 'Twill wrong the story. Asp. "Twill make the story, wrong'd by wanton poets, Live long and be believ'd; but where's the lady? Ant. There, madam. Asp. Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila, You are 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. I stand upon the sea beach now, and think Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind, 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, Asp. I have done, sit down, and let us Upon that point fix all our eyes, that point there; Make |