ALVIDA

The wonder of the earth & pride of heaven. And here would Alvida resign her charge, For were I but in thought Th'assirian King, I needs must quite thy tears, with kisses sweet, And crave a pardon with a friendly touch, You know it Madam though I teach it not, The touch I mean, you smile when as you think ill. Content Thee sweet, isle salve thy sorrow straight, Rest but the ease of all thy thoughts on me, And if I make not Rasni blithe again, Then say that women's fancies have no shifts. How dare I go, shamed with so deep misdeed, Revenge will broil within my husbands breast, And when he hath me in the Court at home, Then Alvida shall feel revenge for all. Go damosel fetch me that sweet wine That stands within thy Closet on the shelf, Pour it into a standing bowl of gold, But on shy life taste not before the king, Make hast, why is great Rasni melancholy thus? If promise be not kept, hate all for me. Here is the wine my Lord, first make him swear. Now have I not salved the sorrows of my Lord? Have I not rid arrival of thy loves, What sayest thou Rasni to thy Paramour? And wilt thou not then pity my estate? I ask of Thee sweet, thou hast stole my heart. Tut women's love, it is a fickle thing. I love my Rasni for my dignity. I love Cilician King for his sweet eye. I love my Rasni since he rules the world. But more I love this kingly little world. Embrace him. How sweet he looks? O were I Cinthia's Pheere, And thou Endymion, I should hold Thee dear: Thus should mine arms be spread about thy neck. Thus would I kiss my love at every beck. Thus would I sighs to see Thee sweetly sleep: And if thou wakest not soon, thus would I weep. And thus, and thus, and thus: thus much I love Thee. Good Lord how men are coy when they are craved? Thou art Endymion, then no more, heigho for him I die. What ails the Centre of my happiness, Whereon depends the heaven of my delight? Thine eyes the motors to command my world, Thy hands the axier to maintain my world. Thy smiles, the prime and springtide of my world. Thy frowns, the winter to afflict the world. Thou Queen of me, I King of all the world. Ah Feeble eyes lift up and look on him, She riseth as out of a trance. Is Rasni here? then droop no more poor heart, O how I fainted when I wanted Thee? How feign am I, now I may look on Thee? How glorious is my Rasni ? how divine? Eunukes play himmes, to praise his deity: He is my Jove, and I his Juno am. What if I slept, where should my pillow be? Why goest not forward with thy tale? Fill him a bowl, and let him want no drink. Why fellow weart thou so afraid? This pleasant knave hath made me laugh my fill. Rasni, now Alvida begins her quaff, And drinks a full carouse unto her King. About me for what? Villains why skink you not unto this fellow? He makes me blithe and merry in my thoughts. Herd you not that the King hath given command, That all be drunk this day within his Court, In quaffing to the health of Alvida ? Assailed with shame, with horror overborn, To sorrows sold, all guilty of our sin. Come Ladies come, let us prepare to pray. Ah-lasse, how dare we look on heavenly light, That have despised the maker of the same? How may we hope for mercy from above, That still despise the warnings from above? Woes me, my conscience is a heavy foe. Oh patron of the poor oppressed with sin, Look, look on me, that now for pity crave, Assailed with shame, with horror overborn, To sorrow sold, all guilty of our sin. Come Ladies come, let us prepare to pray. Come mournful dams lay off your broidered locks, And on your shoulders spread dispiearsed hairs, Let voice of music cease, where sorrow dwells. Clothed in sackcloaths, sighs your sins with me. Bemoan your pride, bewail your lawless lustest, With fasting mortify your pampered loins: O think upon the horror of your sins. Think, think, with me, the burden of your blames, Woe to thy pomp, fall, e beauty, fading flower, Blasted by age, by sickness, and by death. Woe to our painted cheeks, our curious oils, Our rich array, that fostered us in sin. Woe to our idle thoughts that wound our souls. O would to God all nations might receive, A good example by our grievous fallen. Mourn, mourn, let moan be all your melody, And pray with me, and I will pray for all. With blushing looks betokening my remorse, I lowly yield my King to thy behest, So as this man of God shall think it good. Plighted in the presence of the Lord thy God. Madam, unless you coy it trick and trim, And play the civil wanton ere you yield, Smiting disdain of pleasures with your tongue, Patting your princely Rasni on the cheek, When he presumest to kiss without consent: You mar the market, beauty nought avails. You must be proud, for pleasures hardly God, And sweet, if once attainde. King of Cilicia, kind and curtious, Like to thy self, because a lovely King, Come lay Thee down upon thy mistress knee, And I will sing and talk of love to Thee. Nay, I will love, and sighs at every rest. Beauty alas where wast thou born? Thus to hold thy self in scorn: When as Beauty kissed to woo thee, Thou by Beauty dost undo me. Heigho, despise me not. I and thou in sooth are one, Fairer thou, I fairer none: Wanton thou, and wilt thou wanton Yield a cruel heart to plant on? Do me right, and do me reason, Cruelty is cursed treason. Heigho I love, heigho I love, Heigho, and yet he eyes me not. The beauty's y to proud Paris saw from Troy Mustering in Ida for the golden ball, Were not so gorgeous as Remilia. I would be master then of love and Thee. Tut my Remilia, be not thou so coy, Say nay, and take it. Believe me, though she say that she is fairest, I think my penny silver by her leave. Why good fellow the King talks not of drink, he would have Thee tell him how this man came dead. He is so drunk my Lord, theres no talking with him. Nothing my Lord, for all my thoughts are pleased, When as mine eye surfeits with Rasnes sighed. Ladies go fit you down amid this bower, And let the Eunickes play you all a sleep: Put garlands made of Roses on your heads, And play the wantons while I talk a while. Ah-lasse my Lord what tidings do I hear? Shall I be slain? To talk sweet friend? who would not talk with Thee? O be not coy, art thou not only fair? Come twine thine arms about this snow white neck, A love-nest for the great Assyrian King, Blushing I tell Thee fair, Cilician Prince, None but thy self can merit such a grace. No king, fair king, my meaning is to yoke Thee. Hear me but sing of love, then by my sighs, My tears, my glancing looks, my changed cheer, Thou shalt perceive how I do hold Thee deer. That will he swear it to my Lord the king, And in a full carouse of Greekish wine, Drink down the malice of his deep revenge, I will go home and love him new again. And there Rasni heres a kiss for Thee. Now mayest thou freely fold thine Alvida.