SACRAPANT

Boast not too much Marsillus in thy self, Nor of contentment in Angelica; For Sacrepant must have Angelica, And with her Sacrepant must have the Crown: By hook or crook I must and will have both. Ah sweet Revenge incense their angry minds, Till all these Princes weltering in their bloods, The Crown do fallen to County Sacrepant. Sweet are the thoughts that smother from conceit: For when I come and set me down to rest, My chair presents a throne of Majesty: And when I set my bonnet on my head, Me thinks I fit my forehead for a Crown: And when I take my truncheon in my fist, A Sceptre then comes tumbling in my thoughts. My dreams are Princely, all of Diadems, Honour: me thinks the title is too base. Mighty, glorious and excellent: I these my glorious Genius found within my mouth These please the care, and with a sweet applause, Makes me in terms coequal with the Gods. Then these Sacrepant, and none but these. And these or else make hazard of thy life. Let it suffice, I will conceal the rest. Sirrah. I, so they guess, but level far awry; For if they knew the secrets of my thoughts, Mine Emblem sorts to another sense. I wear not these as one resolved to peace, But blue and read as enemy to both. Blue, as hating King Marsillus; And read, as in revenge to Mandricard: Foe unto both, friend only to my self, And to the crown, for thats the golden mark, Which makes my thoughts dream on a Diadem all men presage I shall be King: to me for peace, of his cap ten mile of, Two things more & then I cannot miss the crown. Thats to be done by poison, prowess, or any means of treachery to put to death the trai trous Orlando. But who is this comes here. Stand close. Sirrah, thou that ruminatest to thy self a Can talogue of privy conspiracies, what art thou? My Majesty, come hither my well nutri mented Knave, whom takest me to be? So it seems for there they salute their king by the name of Sir, Mounsier, but forward. Methinks these salutations makes my thoughts To be heroical. But say to whom art thou sent? Angelica shall I have a word or two with thee Then know my love, I cannot paint my grief Nor tell a tale of Venus and her son, Reporting such a Catalogue of toys. It fits not Sacrepant to be effeminate, Only guy leave my fair Angelica, To say the County is in love with thee. Why overweening Damsel, seest thou not, Thy lawless love unto this straggling mate. Hath filled our Afric Regions full of blood, And wilt thou still persever in thy love? Tush leave the Palatine, and go with me. Stand I on love? Stoop I to Venus lure, That never yet did fear the God of war? Shall men report that County Sacrepant Held lovers pains for pining passion? Shall such a Syren offer me more wrong, Than they did to the Prince of Ithaca? No: as he his cares, so County stop thine eye. Go to your needle (Lady) and your clouts. Go to such milksops as are fit for love: I will employ my busy brains for war, Damsel be gone, fancy hath taken leave; Where I took hurt there have I healed my self, As those that with Achilles lance were wounded, Fetched help at self same pointed spear. Beauty gan brave, and beauty hath repulse: And Beauty get you gone to your Orlando. Thinkest thou my thoughts are lunacies of love? No, they are brands fierd in Pluto's forge, Where sits Tsiphone tempering in flames Those torches that do set on fire Revenge, I loved the Dame, but braved by her repulse, Hate calls me on to quittance all my ills: Which first must come by offering prejudice Unto Orlando her beloved Love. Hard by for solace in a secret Grove, The County once a day fails not to walk: There solemnly he ruminates his love. Upon those shrubs that compass in the spring, And on those trees that border in those walks, I'll slily have engravn on every bark The names of Medor and Angelica. Hard by I'll have some roundelays hung up. Wherein shall be some posies of their loves, Fraughted so full of fiery passion, As that the County shall perceive by proof, Medor hath wone his fair Angelica. And mark thou how I play the carver, Therefore be gone, and make the ready straight. Why what art thou that bravest me thus? These words bewray thou art no base born more, But by descent sprung from some royal line, Then freely tell me whats thy name. Then know that thou hast slain Prince Sacrepant. Oh thats the sting that pricks my conscience O thats the hell my thoughts abhor to think, I tell thee knight, for thou dost seem no less, That I ingravde the roundelays on the trees, And hung the sedulet of poor Medors love, Intending so to breed debate, Between Orlando and Angelica, Oh thus I wronged Orlando and Angelica. Now tell me what shall I call thy name. Hath Demogorgon ruler of the fates, Set such a baleful perjod on my life, As none might end the days of Sacrepant, But mighty Orlando rival of my love, Now holds the fatal murderers of men, The sharpened knife ready to cut my thread, Ending the scene of all my tragedy, This day, this hour, this minute ends the days Of him that lived worthy old Nestor's age. Phœbus put on thy fable suited wreathe, Clad all thy spheres in dark and mourning weeds. Parched be the earth to drink up every spring, Let corn and trees be blasted from above, Heaven turn to brass, & earth to wedge of steel The world to cinders, Mars come thundering down, And never sheath thy swift revenging sword, Till Like the deluge in Dewcalions days, The higgest mountains swim in streams of blood. Heaven, earth, men, beasts, & every living thing Consume and end with county Sacrepant. First must I get the love of fair Angelica. Now am I full of amorous conceits, Not that I doubt to have what I desire, But how I might best with mine honour woo, Write, or entreat: fie that fits not, Send by Ambassadors: no thats too base. Flatly command I thats for Sacrepant: Say thou art Sacrepant and art in love And who in Africa dare say the County nay. Oh Angelica, fairer then Chloris when in all her pride Bright Mayas son intrapther in the net, Wherewith Vulcan entangled the God of war. I hold these salutations as omynous, for saluting me by that which I am not, he presages what I shall be; for so did the Lacedæmonians by A gathocles, who of a base potter, wore the Kingly Diadem, but why deemest thou me to be the migh tie Mandricard of Mexico? Stay there, Wertenberg thou never in France. Why I am he. What ere I seem, I tell thee I am he. Is Angelica there? Sirrah. Villain, Angelica sends for me. See that thou entertain that happy messenger. And bring him in with thee. How fares my fair Angelica? Thus. Thou seest that Medor & Angelica Are still so secret in their private walks, As that they trace the shady lawndes, And thickest shadowed groves; Which well may breed suspicion of some love. Now than the French no Nation under heaven Is sooner tutcht with stings of jealousy. No. For thou Like to a shepherd shalt be Clothed, With staff and bottle Like some country swain, That tends his flocks seeding upon these downs, There see thou buzz into the Counties eats, That thou hast often seen within these woods Base Medor sporting with Angelica. And when he hears a shepherd's simple tale, He will not think 'tis feigned. Then either a madding mood will end his love, Or worse betide him through found jealousy. My Lord. How basely was this Slave brought up? That knows no titles fit for dignity, To grace his Master with Hyperboles. My Lord. Why the basest Baron of fair Africa, Deserves as much: yet County Sacrepant, Must he a swain salute with name of Lord. Sirrah, what thinks the Emperor of my colours, Because in field I wear both blue and read at once? Coward. To arms sir boy, I will not brook these braves, If Mars himself even from his firy throne, Came armed with all his furnitures of war. O villain, thou hast slain a prince. Viceroys you are dead, For Sacrepant already crowned a king, Heaves up his sword to have your diadems.