OCTAVIAN

Conduct them to our presence. Enter March. Welcome, brave Earl, with these thy manly sons: Never came rain unto the Sunne-parcht earth, In more auspicious time, then thy supply, To scourge usurping pride and sovereignty. Brave Earl of March, I needs not here delude The precious time with vain capituling Our own hereditary right. Graves to the dead, Balsum to green wounds, or a soul to man Is not more proper, then Octavian To the usurped Title Monmouth holds. Then once more on: this be our only trust: Heavens suffer wrongs: but Angels guard the joust. Exeunt. Here ends the life and death of bloody war, Whose gravelike Paunch did never cry, Enough: And welcome, Peace, that long hath lined exiled, Immurde within the Ivory walls of bliss. Ambition now hath thrown her snaky skin, From off her venomde back. O may she die, Congealed, and never move again to multiply. Thanks, gentle Earl. Why, Cousin Morgan, I use not to kill Conies. Well, Cousin, you are merry. But now, brave plants of that unhappy tree, Whom chance of war hath leveled with the earth, And in our cause: We cannot but lament The sudden downfall of that aged Earl. But since the will of heaven is not confined Unto the will of man: his soul's at rest. Our bounties and our love to you alive, Shall well confirm the love we owe him dead. And first, because your worthy selves shall see, Our Royal thoughts adore no peasants God, Or dunghill baseness: but in that sphere we move, Where honour sits coequal with high Jove. To thee brave Knight, heavens chiefest instrument Of our newborn tranquillity and peace, We give for thy reward, this golden Fleece, Our Royal daughter, beauteous Guiniuer, And after our decease, our Kingly right. Speak, valiant Knight, wilt thou accept of this? How now, my Lord, do you play the Priest? Now Princely son, reach me each others hand. Here in the sighed of heaven, of God and men, I join your Nuptial hands. O, may this hour Be guided by a fair and kind aspect. Let no malevolent Planet this day dart Her hateful influence, against these hallowed rites. You heavenly Pilots of the life of man, O, be propitious to this sacred cause, That God and men may seal it with applause. So now to Ceremonies. Music, found shrill thy note: It's Hymen's holiday; Let Bacchus float. Exeunt. Fit, Princes, and let each man, as befits This solemn Festival, tune his sullen senses, To merry Carols, and delightsome thoughts, Comic inventions, and such pleasant strains As may decipher time to be well pleased. All things distinguished are into their times And Jovial hours, unfit for graven designs. A health unto the Bride and Bridegroom. Lords, Let it go round. They drink round. How fares our princely Daughter? Me thinks, your looks are too composed for such a holiday. How learnedly hath thy persuasive tongue Discovered a new passage unto joy, In mental reservation? True joy is strung Best with the heartstrings, sounds only in the tongue. But where's Sir Morgan, Earl of Anglesey? He promised us some pleasant masking sighed, To crown these Nuptials with their endue delight. Thanks, Cousin Morgan. But soft, what Trumpets this? Admit him to our presence. To us? then freely speak the tenor of thy speech, And we as freely will reply to it. Thy Master is a Prince, whom we affect, For honourable causes known to us: Then speak, as if the power we have to grant, Were tied to his desire. Go on, & prosper, brave resolved Prince. Come, daughter, now let's in. He that loves honour, must his honour win. Exeunt. Gloucester, Lord Codigune, And Noble Morgan, Earl of Anglesey, Can the usurping name of Monmouth live Within the airy confines of your souls, And not infect the purest temperature Of loyalty and sworn allegiance, With that base Apoplexy of revolt, And egre appetite of sovereign might, Counting the greatest wrong, the greatest right? Full many Moons have these two aged lights Beheld in peaceful wise: Now, to my grief, When the pure oil, that fed these aged Lamps, Is almost spent, and dimly shines those beams, That in my youth darted forth spriteful rays, Must now die miserable and undone, By monstrous and base usurpation. But soft, what Drum is this, The Drum soundeth a far off. That with her silent march salutes the air? Herald, go see. Legate, this news hath pleased Octavian well. The Bryttaynes are a Nation free and bold, And scorn the bonds of any foreign foe; A Nation, that by force was never subdued, But by base Treasons politicly forced. Claudius forgets, that when the Bryttish I'll Scarce knew the meaning of a strangers march, Great Julius Caesar, fortunate in arms, Suffered three baserepulses from the Cliffs Of chalky Dover: And had not Bryttayne to her self proved false, Caesar and all his Army had been toombde In the vast bosom of the angry sea. Son Caradoc, how think you of this worthy enterprise? Yet 'tis unfit, that on this sudden warning, You leave your fair wife, to the Theoric Of matrimonial pleasure and delight.