MELEANDER

Cleophila? The Raven croakt, and hollow shrieks of Owls Sung Dirges at her funeral; I laughed The while: for it no boot to weep. The Girl Was fresh and full of youth: but, Oh the cunning Of Tyrants that look big, their very frowns Doom poor souls guilty, ere their cause be herd. Good. What art thou, and thou? I know ye both. alas, why d'ee use me thus! Thy Sister, my Eroclea, was so gentle, That Turtles in their Down do feed more gall, Then her spleen mixed with: yet when winds and storm Driven dirt and dust on banks of spotless snow, The purest whiteness is no such defence Against the sullying foulness of that fury. So raved Agenor, that great man, mischief Against the Girl—'twas a politic trick, We were too old in Honour.—I am lean And fallen away extremely; most assuredly I have not dined these three days. Am I stark mad? Here's all my care: and I do often sighs For thee, Cleophyla : we are secluded From all good people. But take heed, Amethus Was son to Doryla, Agenors Sister. There's some ill blood about him, if the Surgeon Have not been very skilful to let all out. Sirrah, be wise, be wise. Would, would, would. I am a weak old man. All these are come To jeer my ripe calamities. But I'll outstare thou all, fools, desperate fools, You are cheated, grossly cheated, range, range on, And roll about the world to gather moss, The moss of honour, gay reports, gay clothes, Gay wives, huge empty buildings, whose proud roofs, Shall with their pinnacles, even reach the stars. You work and work Like Moles, blind in the paths, That are bored through the crannies of the earth, To charge your hungry souls with such full surfeits, As being gorged once, make thou lean with plenty. And when you have skimmed the vomit of your riots, You're fat in no felicity but folly, Then your last sleeps seize on thou. Then the troops Of worms crawl round, &, feast, good cheer, rich fare, Dainty delicious—here's Cleophyl : All the poor stock of my remaining thrift; You, you, the Princes Cousin: how d'ee Like her? ( Amethus ) how d'ee Like her? Take her.—we two must partly, go to him, do. In this Jewel I have given away, All what I can call mine. When I am dead, Save charge; let me be buried in a nook. No guns, no pompous whining: these are fooleries. If while we live, we stalk about the streets, Justled by Carmen, Foot-posts, and fine Apes, In silken coats, unminded, and scarce thought on; It is not comely to be haled to the earth, Like high fed lades upon a Tilting-day, In antique trappings: scorn to useless tears. Eroclea was not coffind so: she perished, And no eye dropped save mine, and I am childish. I talk Like one that dotes; laugh at me, Rhetias, Or rail at me: they will not give me meat: They have starved me: but I'll henceforth be mine own Cook. Good morrow: 'tis too early for my cares To revel. I will break my heart a little, And tell ye more hereafter. Pray be merry. Ho, Cleophyla? Show me the Dog, whose triple throated noise, Hath rowzd a Lion from his uncouth den, To tear the Cur in pieces. Hold, hold thy conquering breath, 'tis stronger far Then Gunpowder and Garlic. If the Fates Have spun my thread, and my spent-clue of life Be now untwisted, let us partly Like friends. Lay up my weapon, Trollio, and be gone. This friend and I will walk, and gabble wisely. So Politicians thrive, That with their crabbed faces, and sly tricks Legerdemain, ducks, cringes, formal beards, Crisped hairs, and punctual cheats, do wriggle in Their heads first, Like a Fox, to rooms of State, Then the whole body follows. There are none poor, but such as engross offices. The hangman is a rare Physician. All the buz of Drugs, and Myneralls and Simples, Blood-lettings, Vomits, Purges, or what else Is conjured up by men of Art, to gull Liege-people, and rear golden piles, are trash To a well-strong-wrought halter; there the Coute, The stone, yes and the Melancholy devil, Are cured in less time then a pair of minutes. Built me a Gallows in this very plot, And I'll dispatch your business. Sirrah, make ready. Pray where is she? I cannot see her yet. Cruel man! How canst thou rip a heart, that's cleft already With injuries of time? while I am frantic, While throngs of rude divisions huddle on, And do difranke my brains from peace, and sleep; So long I am insensible of cares. As balls of wildfire may be safely touched, Not violently sundered, and thrown up; So my distempered thoughts rest in their rage, Not hurried in the Air of repetition, Or memory of my misfortunes passed. Then are my griefs struck home, When they are reclaimed, To their own pity of themselves—Proceed; What of your daughter now? alas poor man; canst thou imagine To prosper in the task thou takest in hand, By practising a cure upon my weakness, And yet be no Physician for thy self? Go, go, turn over all thy books once more, And learn to thrive in modesty; for impudence Does least become a Scholar. Thou art a fool, A kind of learned fool. If thou canst wake with me, forget to eat, Renounce the thought of Greatness; tread on Fate; Sighs out a lamentable tale of things Done long ago, and ill done; and when sighs Are wearied, piece up what remains behind, With weeping eyes, and hearts that bleed to death: Thou shalt be a companion fit for me, And we will fit together Like true friends, And never be divided. With what greediness Do I hug my afflictions? there's no mirth Which is not truly seasoned with some madness. As for example.— You are saucy, And as I take it, scurvy in your sauciness, To use no more respect—good soul, be patient: We are a pair of things the world does laugh at: Yet be content, Cleophila ; those clouds Which bar the Sun from shining on our Misery's, Will never be chaced off till I am dead; And then some charitable soul will take thee Into protection. I am hasting on, The time cannot be long. It shall not, I am friends with all the world. Get me some wine, to witness that I will be And absolute good fellow, I will drink with thee. Your business with my Lady daughter, Tosspot? Do, come my Genius, we will quaff in wine Till we grow wise. Where am I? Would? What sounds are these? 'Tis day, sure. O, I have slept belike: 'tis but the foolery Of some beguiling dream. So, so, I will not Trouble the play of my delighted Fancy But dream my dream out. Away, beast, let me alone. Physic, Bear-leech? Trollio, Cleophila. I know thee, Rhetias, prithee rid the room Of this tormenting noise. He tells me, sirrah. I have took physic, Rhetias, physic, physic. These things are drunk, Directly drunk. Where did you get your liquour? What dost think I am, that thou shouldst fiddle So much upon my patience? Fool, the weight Of my disease sits on my heart so heavy, That all the hands of Art cannot remove One grain to ease my grief. If thou cood'st poison My memory, or wrap my senses up Into a dulness, hard and cold as Flints? If thou cood'st make me walk, speak, eat and laugh Without a sense or knowledge of my faculties, Why then perhaps at Marts thou mightest make benefit Of such and Antic motion, and get credit From credulous gazers, but not profit me. Study to gull the wise; I am too simple To be wrought on. Dost know that spirit? 'tis a graven familiar, And talked I know not what. Yes, yes; it may be I have seen such a formality; No matter where, or when. A Devil is a rare Juggler, and can cheat the eye, But not corrupt the reason in the Throne Of a pure soul.—Another? I will stand thee, Be what thou canst, I care not. Stay, stay—What Earthquakes Roll in my flesh? here's Prince, and Prince and Prince; Prince upon Prince: the dotage of my sorrows Revels in magic of ambitious scorn, Be they Enchantments deadly (as the graven) I'll look vpon'em: Patent, staff, and Relic To the last first. Round me, you guarding ministers And ever keep me waking till the Cliffs That over hang my sighed fallen off, and leave These hollow spaces to be cramed with dust. Good, give me leave, I will fit down indeed: Here's Company enough for me to prate to, Yes, thou art my Daughter: My eldest blessing. Know thee? Why Eroclea, I never did forget thee in thy absence. Poor soul, how dost? Stand up: the gods who hitherto Have kept us both alive, preserve thee ever. Nor I: yet let us gaze on one another freely, And surfeit with our eyes; let me be plain, If I should speak as much as I should speak, I should talk of a thousand things at once, And all of thee, of thee (my child) of thee: My tears Like ruffling winds locked up in Caves, Do bustle for a vent—on tother side, To fly out into mirth were not so comely. Come hither, let me kiss thee—with a pride, Strength, courage, and fresh blood, which now thy pre sense Hath stored me with, I kneel before their Altars, Whose sovereignty kept guard about thy safety. Ask, ask thy Sister (prithee) shee'le tell thee How I have been much mad. So say I but wherefore crop thy words in such a sloth , As if thou Wertenberg afraid to mingle truth. With thy misfortunes? Understand me thoroughly, I would not have thee to report at large From point to point, a Journal of thy absence: Will take up too much time, I would securely Engross the little remnant of my life, That thou mightest every day be telling somewhat, Which might convey me to my rest with comfort. Let me be think me, how we parted first: Puzzles my faint remembrance—But soft, To requite him, we will not dig his Father's graven anew, Although the mention of him much concerns The business we inquire of—as I said, We parted in a hurry at the Court, I to this Castle, after made my layle. But whither thou, deer heart? A policy quick and strange. O what a thing is man, To bandy factions of distempered passion, Against the sacred providence above him? Here in the Legend of thy two years exile, Rare pity and delight are sweetly mixed, And still thou Wertenberg a Boy. It safely carried, I humbly thank thy Fate. Speak low Eroclea ; That something of the Prince bears danger in it: Yet thou hast travailed (Wench) for such Endowments, As might create a Prince a wife fit for him, Had he the World to guide: but touch not there; How camest thou home? Honest, right honest Rhetias. Enough, enough, the world shall henceforth witness My thankfulness to Heaven, and those people Who have been pitiful to me and mine. Lend me a Lookingglass—How now? How came I So courtly in fresh raiments? I'm in the trim too.—Oh Cleophila, This was the goodness of thy care and cunning.— Whence comes this noise? My tears must thank you, for my tongue cannot. Oh, a rare one. My brains are dulled; I am entranced, and know not what you mean: Great, gracious Sir, alas, why do you mock me? I am a weak old man, so poor and Feeble, That my untoward joints can scarcely creep Unto the graven, where I must seek my rest. The gods that lent you to me, bless your vows: Oh Children, children, pay your prayers to Heaven, For they have showed much mercy. But Sophronos, Thou art my Brother: I can say no more: A good, good Brother.