THEN, my good girls, be more than women wise,
At least be more than I was: and be sure
You credit anything 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,
Forced 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,
Shows 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 :
Show me the piece of needlework you wrought.
Antiph. Of Ariadne, madam?

Asp. 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 show 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.

I have a boy,

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 died, 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 show What every flower, as country people hold, Express'd his grief, and to my thoughts did read Did signify, and how all order'd; thus 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.

Phil. But, boy, it will prefer thee: thou art And bear'st a childish overflowing love [young, 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 placed thee in the noblest way of life:
She is a princess I prefer thee to.

Bell. In that small time that I have seen the [world, 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. Phil. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behaviour.

I never knew a man hasty to part

Bell. Sir, if I have made

A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth;
I shall be willing, if not apt to learn.
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge; and if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
For once. What master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning? Let me be corrected
To break my stubbornness, if it be so,
Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend.

Phil. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay,
That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee.
Alas, I do not turn thee off: thou know'st
It is my business that doth call me hence :
And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me:
Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust
Laid on so weak a one, I will again
With joy receive thee: as I live, I will.
Nay, weep not, gentle boy-'tis more than time
Thou didst attend the princess.

Bell. I am gone.

Now I perceive she loves me; she does show it
In loving thee, my boy: she's made thee brave.
Bell. My lord, she has attired me past my wish,
Past my desert, more fit for her attendant-
Though far unfit for me who do attend. [women
Phil. Thou art grown courtly, boy. Oh, let all
That love black deeds learn to dissemble here:
Here by this paper, she does write to me
As if her heart were mines of adamant
To all the world besides, but unto me

A maiden snow that melted with my looks.
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee?
For I shall guess her love to me by that.

Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were
Something allied to her, or had preserved
Her life three times by my fidelity;
As mothers fond do use their only sons;

As I'd use one that's left unto my trust,
For whom my life should pay if he met harm-
So she does use me.

Phil. Why, this is wond'rous well;

But what kind language does she feed thee with? Bell. Why, she does tell me she will trust my youth

With all her loving secrets, and does call me
Her pretty servant; bids me weep no more
For leaving you-she'll see my services
Regarded; and such words of that soft strain,
That I am nearer weeping when she ends
Than ere she spake.

Phil. This is much better still.
Bell. Are you not ill, my lord?
Phil. Ill-no, Bellario.

Bell. Methinks your words

Fall not from off your tongue so evenly,
Nor is there in your looks that quietness
That I was wont to see.

Phil. Thou art deceived, boy.
And she strokes thy head?
Bell. Yes.

Bell. If you do hate, you could not curse me The gods have not a punishment in store [worse. Greater for me than is your hate.

Phil. Fie, fie! so young and so dissembling. Tell me when and where ****

Or plagues fall on me if I destroy thee not!
Bell. Heav'n knows I never did; and when I lie
To save my life, may I live long and loathed !
Hew me asunder; and, whilst I can think,
I'll love those pieces you have cut away
Better than those that grow, and kiss those limbs
Because you made them so.

Phil. Fear'st thou not death? Can boys contemn
Bell. Oh, what boy is he

Can be content to live to be a man,

That sees the best of men thus passionate,
Thus without reason?

Phil. Oh, but thou dost not know

What 'tis to die!

Bell. Yes, I do know, my lord:

'Tis less than to be born-a lasting sleep, A quiet resting from all jealousy,

[that?

A thing we all pursue. I know, besides,
It is but giving o'er a game that must be lost.
Phil. But there are pains, false boy,

For perjured souls. Think but on these, and then
Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all.

Bell. May they fall all upon me whilst I live, If I be perjured, or have ever thought Of that you charge me with! If I be false, Send me to suffer in those punishments You speak of--kill me!

Phil. Oh! what should I do?

Why who can but believe him? he does swear
So earnestly, that if it were not true
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario;
Thy protestations are so deep, and thou
Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them,
That though I know 'em false as were my hopes,
I cannot urge thee farther; but thou wert
To blame to injure me, for I must love
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon
Thy tender youth. A love from me to thee
So firm, whate'er thou dost, it troubles me
That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks,
That did so well become thee; but, good boy,
Let me not see thee more. Something is done
That will distract me, that will make me mad,
If I behold thee. If thou tender'st me,
Let me not see thee.

In the last scene of Philaster, the supposed youth, Bellario, is obliged to confess her sex, and accounts thus for her assumed disguise.

Phil. But, Bellario,

(For I must call thee still so) tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex? It was a fault-
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweigh'd it. All these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discover'd
What now we know.

Bell. My father oft would speak
Your worth and virtue; and as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found, till, sitting at my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought, but it was you, enter our gates ;
My blood flew out and back again as fast
As I had puff'd it forth, and suck'd it in
Like breath; then was I call'd away in haste
To entertain you: never was a man,
Heaved from a sheep-cote to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I. You left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever. I did hear you talk
Far above singing! After you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd
What stirr'd it so. Alas! I found it love,
Yet far from lust; for, could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you; and understanding well,
That when I made discovery of my sex
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes
For other than I seem'd, that I might ever
Abide with you; then sat I by the fount
Where first you took me up.

King. Search out a match

Within our kingdom where and when thou wilt,
And I will pay thy dowry; and thyself
Wilt well deserve him.

Bell. Never, sir, will I

Marry it is a thing within my vow:

But if I may have leave to serve the princess,
To see the virtues of her lord and her,
I shall have hope to live.

Arethusa. I, Philaster,

Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady, Dress'd like a page, to serve you; nor will I Suspect her living here. Come, live with me, Live free as I do she that loves my lord, Curst be the wife that hates her!

Abig. Why, Master Roger, will you set your wit To a weak woman's?

Rog. You are weak, indeed;

For so the poet sings.

Abig. I do confess

My weakness, sweet Sir Roger.
Rog. Good, my lady's

Gentlewoman, or my good lady's gentlewoman,
(This trope is lost to you now) leave your prating,
You have a season of your first mother in you,
And, surely, had the devil been in love,
He had been abused too. Go, Dalilah,
You make men fools, and wear fig-breeches.
Abig. Well, well, hard-hearted man, you may
Upon the weak infirmities of woman, [dilate
These are fit texts: but once there was a time-
Would I had never seen those eyes, those eyes,
Those orient eyes!

Rog. Ay, they were pearls once with you.

Abig. Saving your presence, sir, so they are still. Rog. Nay, nay, I do beseech you, leave your What they are, they are—

And give me possets with purging comfits in them? I tell thee, gentlewoman,thou hast been harder to me Than a long chapter with a pedigree.

Abig. Oh, curate, cure me;

I will love thee better, dearer, longer!
I will do anything-betray the secrets
Of the main household to thy reformation;
My lady shall look lovingly on thy learning;
And when due time shall point thee for a parson,

I will convert thy eggs to penny custards,
And thy tithe goose shall graze and multiply.
Rog. I am mollified,

As well shall testify this faithful kiss.
But have a great care, Mistress Abigail,
How you depress the spirit any more,
With your rebukes and mocks, for certainly
The edge of such a folly cuts itself.

Abig. Oh, Sir, you've pierced me thorough! Here A recantation to those malicious faults

[I vow

I ever did against you. Never more
Will I despise your learning; never more
Pin cards and cony tails upon your cassock ;
Never again reproach your reverend nightcap,
And call it by the mangy name of murrion;
Never your reverend person more, and say
You look like one of Baal's priests i' the hanging;
Never again, when you say grace, laugh at you,
Nor put you out at pray'rs; never cramp you more
With the great book of Martyrs; nor, when you ride,
Get soap and thistles for you-No, my Roger,
These faults shall be corrected and amended,
As by the tenor of my tears appears.

They serve me without spectacles-I thank 'em.
Abig. Oh, will you kill me?
Rog. I do not think I can :
You're like a copyhold with nine lives in't.
Abig. You were wont to wear a Christian fear
For your own worship's sake.
[about you,

Rog. I was a Christian fool, then.
Do you remember what a dance you led me,
How I grew qualm'd in love, and was a dunce;
Could not expound but once a quarter, and then
was out too-

And then, out of the stir you put me in,
I pray'd for my own royal issue. You do
Remember all this.

Abig. Oh, be as then you were.
Rog. I thank you for it.

Surely I will be wiser, Abigail,
And, as the Ethnic poet sings,

I will not lose my oil and labour too.
You're for the worshipful, I take it, Abigail.

Abig. Oh, take it so, and then I am for thee. Rog. I like these symptoms well, and this humbling also,

They are symptoms of contrition, as a father saith. If I should fall into my fit again,

Would you not shake me into a quotidian coxcomb, Would you not use me scurvily again,

THE MAID OF THE MILL, ACT IV. SCENE II.

Jul. My mind's unquiet; while Antonio My nephew's abroad, my heart's not at home; Only my fears stay with me-bad company, But I cannot shift 'em off. This hatred Betwixt the house of Bellides and us Is not fair war-'tis civil, but uncivil; We are near neighbours, were of love as near, Till a cross misconstruction ('twas no more In conscience,) put us so far asunder.

I would 'twere reconciled; it has lasted

Too many sunsets: if grace might moderate,
Man should not lose so many days of peace
To satisfy the anger of one minute.

I could repent it heartily. I sent
The knave to attend my Antonio too,

Yet he returns no comfort to me neither.

Bust. I have spied him. Now to knock down a don With a lie a silly, harmless lie: 'twill be Valiantly done, and nobly, perhaps.

Jul. I cannot hear him now.

Bust. Oh, the bloody days that we live in!
The envious, malicious, deadly days
That we draw breath in.

Jul. Now I hear too loud.

Bust. The children that never shall be born may rue,

For men that are slain now, might have lived
To have got children that might have cursed
Their fathers.

Jul. Oh, my posterity is ruin'd.

Bust. Oh, sweet Antonio !

Jul. O dear Antonio !

Bust. Yet it was nobly done of both parts, When he and Lisauro met.

Jul. Oh, death has parted them!

Bust. Welcome, my mortal foe! says one ;
Welcome,

My deadly enemy! says t'other. Offgo their doublets,
They in their shirts, and their swords stark naked.
Here lies Antonio-here lies Lisauro.
He comes upon him with an embroccado,

Then he puts by with a puncta reversa. Lisauro
Recoils me two paces, and some six inches back
Takes his career, and then-Oh !--

Jul. Oh!

Bust. Runs Antonio

Quite through.

Jul. Oh, villain !

Bust. Quite through, between the arm

And the body, so that he had no hurt at that bout.

Jul. Goodness be praised!

Bust. But then, at next encounter,

He fetches me up Lisauro; Lisauro

Makes out a lunge at him, which he thinking
To be a passado, Antonio's foot
Slipping down-oh! down--

Jul, Oh, now thou art lost!

Bust. Oh, but the quality of the thing; both gentlemen,

Both Spanish Christians-yet one man to shedJul. Say his enemy's blood.

Bust. His hair may come

By divers casualties, though he never go
Into the field with his foe; but a man
To lose nine ounces and two drams of blood
At one wound, thirteen and a scruple at another,
And to live till he die in cold blood; yet the surgeon
That cured him said, that if pia mater had not
Been perish'd, he had been a lives man
Till this day.

Jul. There he concludes-he is gone.

Bust. But all this is nothing,-now I come to the point.

Jul. Ay, the point-that's deadly; the ancient

blow

Over the buckler ne'er went half so deep.
Bust. Yet pity bids me keep in my charity;
For me to pull an old man's ears from his head

With telling of a tale. Oh, foul tale! no, be silent,
Furthermore, there is the charge of burial. [tale.
Every one will cry blacks, blacks, that had
But the least finger dipt in his blood, though ten
Degrees removed when 'twas done. Moreover,
The surgeons that made an end of him will be paid
Sugar-plums and sweet-breads; yet, say I,
The man may recover again, and die in his bed.

Jul. What motley stuff is this? Sirrah, speak What hath befallen my dear Antonio ! [truth. Restrain your pity in concealing it;

Tell me the danger full. Take off your care

Of my receiving it; kill me that way,

I'll forgive my death! What thou keep'st back from truth,

Thou shalt speak in pain: do not look to find
A limb in his right place, a bone unbroke,
Nor so much flesh unbroil'd of all that mountain,
As a worm might sup on-despatch or be despatch'd.
Bust. Alas, Sir, I know nothing but that Antonio
Is a man of God's making to this hour;
'Tis not two since I left him so.

Jul. Where didst thou leave him?

Bust. In the same clothes he had on when he

went from you.

Jul. Does he live?

Bust. I saw him drink.

Jul. Is he not wounded?

Bust. He may have a cut i' the leg by this time, For Don Martino and he were at whole slashes. Jul. Met he not with Lisauro?

Bust. I do not know her.

Jul. Her! Lisauro is a man, as he is.
Bust. I saw ne'er a man like him.
Jul. Didst thou not discourse

A fight betwixt Antonio and Lisauro?
Bust. Ay, to myself:

I hope a man may give himself the lie
If it please him.

Jul. Didst thou lie then?

Bust. As sure as you live now.

Jul. I live the happier by it. When will he return?

Bust. That he sent me to tell you-within these Ten days at farthest.

Jul. Ten days! he's not wont

To be absent two.

Bust. Nor I think he will not. He said he would be at home

To-morrow; but I love to speak within
My compass.

Jul. You shall speak within mine, Sir, now.
Within there! take this fellow into custody.
Keep him safe, I charge you. [Enter Servants.
Bust. Safe, do you hear! take notice
What plight you find me in.
If there want but a
Or a steak of me, look to 't.
[collop,

Jul. If my nephew

Return not in his health to-morrow, thou goest To the rack.

Bust. Let me go to the manger first, I'd rather eat oats than hay.