ASCANIO

Away Ioculo. Ioculo, where is she? When went she? Which way went she? Where should I seek her? When shall I find her? A vengeance take thee slave, what dost thou know? What villain? Ah my sweet Boy. What canst thou give me no relief? A Ioculo, my breast is full of grief, And yet my hope, that only wants relief. Boy, for the love that ever thou didst owe, To thy deer master, poor Ascanio, Rack thy proved wits, unto the highest strain, To bring me back Eurymine again. Stay Ioculo: alas it cannot be: If we should partly, I lose both her and thee: The woods are wide: and wandering thus about, Thou mayest be lost: and not my Love found out. I pray thee stay. And dost not know which way. Ah Ioculo, before I leave my Boy, Of this world's comfort, now my only joy: Seest thou this place? upon this grassy bed, With summer's gawdy dyaper bespread. Under these shadows shall my dwelling be: Till thou return, sweet Ioculo to me. In vain I fear, I beat my brains about, Proving by search, to find my mistress out: Eurymine, Eurymine, return: And with thy presence guild the beauteous morn: And yet I fear to call upon thy name, The prattling Echo, should she learn the same, The last words accent sheele no more prolong, But bear that found upon her airy tonge. Adorned with the presence of my Love, The woods I fear, such secret power shall prove As they'll shut up each path: hide every way, Because they still would have her go astray: And in that place would always have her scene, Only because they would be ever green: And keep the winged Quiristers still there, To banish winter clean out of the year. But why persist I to bemoan my state, When she is gone, and my complaint too late? A drowsy dulness closeth up my sighed, Oh powerful sleep, I yield unto thy might. Shall then my travel ever endless prove? That I can hear no tidings of my Love? In neither desert, grove, nor shady wood, Nor obscure thicket, where my foot hath trod? But every ploughman, and rude shepherd swain, Does still reply unto my greater pain? Some Satire then, or Goddess of this place, Some water Nymph, vouchsafe me so much grace As by some view, some sign, or other sho, I may have knowledge if she live or no. Then my poor heart is buried too in woe: Record it once more, if the truth be so? How, that Eurymine is dead, or lives? Now gentle Goddess thou redeemest my soul From death to life: O tell me quickly where? In some remote far region, or else near? O what conceals her from my thirsty eyes? Is it restraint? or some unknown disguise? The very shape my Vision told me off, That I should meet with as I strayed this way. Let me alone, thou dost but trouble me. God speed fair Sir. Health to you Sir. Pardon me rather, for molesting you. Tell me I pray you sir, may I be bold to crave The cause of your abided within this Cave? Forward I pray you, faint not in your tale. Some comfort yet in this there does remain: That you have found a partner in your pain. More overthrown, and deeper in despair Than is the manner of your heavy smart, My cureless grief, does rankle at my heart. And in a word, to hear the sum of all, I love, and am beloved: but therewithal The sweetness of that banquet must forgo, Whose pleasant taste is chaungde with bitter woe. But hence it it that does me Triple wrong, Expected good, that is forborn so long: Does lose the virtue which the use would prove. No, but deprived of her company. And for my careless negligence therein: Am bound to do this penance for my sin. That if I never find where she remains, I vow a year shall be my end of pains. Three days it is since that my Love was seen. I love a Boy? Add not a fresh increase unto my woe. As well I might be said to touch the sky, Or dark the horizon with tapestry: Or walk upon the waters of the sea, As to be haunted with such lunacy. Amazed with grief, my love is then transformed. It is, it is not my love, Eurymine. My love, my joy, my life, By eye, by face, by tongue, it should be she. O I, it was my love, I'll after her, And though she pass the Eagle in her flight, I'll never rest, till I have gained her sighed. Eurymine, I pray if thou be she, Refrain thy haste, and do not fly from me. The time hath be my words thou wouldst allow, And am I grown so loathsome to thee now? What wrong have I contrived? what injury To alienate thy liking so from me? If thou be she whom sometime thou didst feign, And bearest not the name of friend in vain, Let not thy borrowed guise of altered kind, Altar the wonted liking of thy mind: But though in habit of a man thou goest, Yet be the same Eurymine thou wast. And is thy fancy altered with thy guise? What though thy habit differ from thy kind: Thou mayest retain thy wonted loving mind. Then why art thou so strange? Or wherefore does thy plighted fancy change? Unkind that kind, that kindness does bereave: Thou sayest thou love me. I wreak not of such love, love me but so As fair Eurymine loved Ascanio. In kindly shows, unkind I do thee find: I see thou art as constant as the wind. Why art not thou Eurymine? Eurymine my Love? And wast not thou a woman then? What then? In guise thou art I see. Before thy flight thou wast a woman though. And since art thou a man? Then have I lost a wife. Good Sir you're welcome, sirrah hold your prate. Both good and bade, as does the sequel prove, For (wretched) I have found, and lost my Love. If that be lost which I can never enjoy. Father, the trial of your skill I find, My Love's transformde into another kind: And so I find, and yet have lost my Love. But sweet Eurymine make some report Why thou departedst from my father's Court? And how this strange mishap to thee befell, Let me entreat thou wouldst the process tell. Thus have you herd our woeful destiny, Which I in heart lament, and so does she. I think no less. For ever you shall bind us to you than. Cease your contention for Eurymine. Nor words, nor vows, can help her misery: But he it is that did her first transform, Must calm the gloomy rigor of this storm: Great Phœbus, whose Palace we are near, Salute him then in his celestial sphere: That with the notes of cheerful harmony, He may be moved to show his Deity. Great God, the grievous travels I have passed, In restless search, to find her out at last: My plaints my toils, in lieu of my annoy, Have well deserved my Lady to enjoy. Penance too much I have sustained before: O Phœbus, plague me not with any more. Nor be thou so extreme, now at the worst To make my torments greater than at the first My Father's late displeasure is forgotten, And theres no let, nor any churlish blot To interrupt our joys from being complete, But only thy good favour to entreat: In thy great grace it lies to make my state Most happy now, or most infortunate. Thy praise shall never die while I do live. Most sacred Phœbus, endless thanks to thee, That dost vouchsafe so much to pity me. And aged father, for your kindness shown, Imagine not your friendship ill bestowne. The earth shall sooner vanish and decay, Than I will prove unthankful any way. Is then my Love derived of noble raze? Behold deer Love, to make your joys abound, Yonder Phylander comes. Thanks kind Phylander, for thy friendly news Like Juno's balm, that our life's blood renews. A small offence compared with my disease, No doubt ingratitude in time may cease And be forgotten: my grief outlives all hours: Raining on my head, continual hapless showers. Lost or forlorn, to me she was right deer. And this is certain, unto him that could The place where she abides to me unfold: For ever I would vow my self his friend, Never revolting till my life did end. And therefore sir, (as well I know your skill) If you will give me physic for this ill, And show me if Eurymine do live, It were a recompense for all my pain, And I should think my joys were full again. O God, and shall my torments never cease? And yet continuest still so strange to me? These tales my mind perplex: thou art Eurymine. Stay Ioculo, it is the Echo Boy, That mocks our grief, and laughs at our annoy. Hard by this grove there is a goodly plain Betwixt two hills, still fresh with drops of rain: Where never spreading Oak nor Poplar grew, Might hinder the prospect or other view, But all the country that about it lies, Presents it self unto our mortal eyes: Save that upon each hill, by leavy trees, The Sun at highest, his scorching heat may lose. There languishing my self I will betake, As heaven shall please, and only for her sake. And art thou changed from a woman now? Poor soul, within a cave, with fear affright She sits to shun Apollos angry view, Until she see what of our prayers ensue: If we can reconcile his love or no, Or that she must continue in her woe.