JACOMO

You gleam is day, darkness, sleep and fear, Dreams, and the ugly visions of the night Are beat to hell by the bright palm of light, Now Rome's the swain and whissells up the morn: Deep Silence breaks: all things start up with light, Only my heart, that endless night and day, Lies bedrid, crippeld by coy Lucea, The wanton spring lies dallying with the earth, And powers fresh blood in her decayed veins, Look how the new sapt branches are in child With tender infants, how the Sun draws out, And shapes their moisture into thousand forms Of sprouting buds, all things that show or breath, Are now instaur'd, saving my wretched breast, That is eternally congealed with Ice Of froz'd, despair. Oh Celia, coy, to nice. Oh where does Piety and Pity rest? Ruin to Chance, and all that strive to stand, Like swollen Colosses on her tottering Base. Fortune is blind— Oh Love! To morrow morn they go to wed, Say quick. I will invoke the triple Heccate, Make charms as potent as the breath of Fate, But I'll confound the match, Boy could not Orpheus make the stones to dance? Bir Lady a sweet touch: did he not bring Eurydice out of hell with his lute. And thou chanced bring Celia's head out of the window with thy Lute, well hazard thy breath: look Sir hears a ditty. 'Tis foully writ slight wit crossed here and there, But where thou findest a blot, their fallen a tear. Fie peace, peace, peace, it hath no passion int. Oh melt thy breath in fluent softer tunes That every note may seem to trickle down Like sad distilling tears and make: Oh God That I were but a Poet now express my thoughts Or a Musician but to sing my thoughts Or any thing but what I am, sing't over once more My griefs a boundless sea that hath no shore. Is this my favour? am I crowned with scorn? Then thus I manumit my slaved condition. Celia but hear me execrate thy love. By heaven that once was conscious of my love By all that is that knows my all was thine I will perseu with detestation. Thawart without stretched vehemence of hate Thy wished Hymen : I will craze my brain But all disceauer all: thy Hope's unite What rage so violent as love turned spite? Nay sir her estimations mounted up She shall be Ladied and sweet Madamed now. Oh I shall never forget how he went clothed He would maintaine't a base ill used fashion To bind a Merchant to the sullen habit Of precise black, chiefly in Venice state. Where Merchants gilded the top And therefore should you have him pass the bridge Up the Rialto Like a soldier (As still he stood a Potestate at sea) French pains embroidered, Goldsmiths work, Oh God! Me thinks I see him now how he would walk: With what a jolly presence he would pace Round the Rialto. Well he's soon forgotten A straggling sir in his rich bed must sleep Which if I can not cross I'll curse and weep. Shall I be plain as Truth, I love your Sister My education birth and wealth deserves her I have no cross, no rub to stop my suit But Lavardur's a knight, that strikes all mute. Oh ill nursed custom no sooner is the wealthy Merchant dead His wife left great in fair possessions But giddy rumor grasps it betwixt his teeth And shakes it bout our ears. Then thither flock A rout of crazed Fortune's whose crakt states Gape to be sodderd up by the rich mass Of the deceased labores, and now and then The troop of I beseech and I protest And believe it sweet, is mixed with too or three Hopeful, well stocked, neat clothed Citizens Variety of objects please us still One dish though never so cooked does quickly fill. When diverse cates the palates scence delight And with fresh fast creates new appetite Therefore my widow she cashiers the blacks For swears turns of the furd-gownes, and surveys The bedrowle of her suitors thinks and thinks, And straight her questing thoughts springs up a knight, Have after then a main the gam's a foot The match clapped up, tut 'tis the knight must do't. But how but how? The passionate mamord Giacomo. She shall not father's by; our brother souls. Wish me good day? it stands in idle stead, My Celia's lost, all my good days are dead. Hark Lorenzo Celso the lose Venice Duke, Is going to bed 'tis now a forward morn Before he take rest. Oh strange transformed sighed, When Princes make night day the day there night. Away away, He skornes all plaints makes jest of serious suit. Did not I tell you, lose no more rich time, What can one get but mier from a swine? Fie ont away, she knows to well 'tis false, I fear it to well. No no I hau't will strongly doe't, Who knows Francisco Soranza? Is he not wondrous Like your decea'sd kinsman Albano. Observe me then, him would I have disguised, Most perfect Like Albano : giving out, Albano saved by swimming (as in faith It's known he swome most strangely) rumor him, This morn arrived in Venice, here to lurk As having herd the forward Nuptials, T'obserue his wives most infamous lewd hast And to revenge— By this means now some little time we catch, For better Hope's at least disturb the match. Good souls, good day, I have not slept last night, I'll take a nap, then pell mell broach all spite. Exeunt. I warrant you give him but fair rich clothes, He can be taken, reputed any thing, Apparail's grown a God and goes more neat, Makes men of rags, which straight he bears aloft, Like patched up scarecrows to affright the rout Of the Idolatrous vulgar, that worship Images, Stand awed and bare-skalp't at the gloss of silks, Which Like the glorious Ajax of Lincoln's Inn, (Survey with wonder by me when I lay, Factor in London:) laps up nought but filth And excrements, that bear the shape of men, Whose inside every day would peck and tear, But that vain skar-crow clothes intreats forbear. Me thinks now in the common sense of fashion, Thou shouldst grow proud, and Like a fore-horse view, None but beforehand gallants, as for sides And those that rank in equal file with thee, Study a faint salute, give a strange eye, But as to those in rearward Oh be blind, The world wants eyes, it cannot see behind. Now you must grow in heat and stut. Oh not till twilight, mean time I'll prop up The tottering Rumor of Albanos scape. And safe arrival, it begins to spread, If this plot live Frenchman thy Hope's are dead. Exeunt. Precious, what means he to go out so soon, Before the dusk of twilight might deceive The doubtful priers. What holla. I'll feign I know him not, what business before those doors. You come to wrong my friend Sir Lauerdure Confess or— Oh my deer rogue thou art a rare dissembler. Francisco did I not help to cloth thee even now I would has worn thee Albano my good sweet slave. Exi. In. For shame, for shame straight clear your house; sweep out this dust, fling out this trash, return to modesty your hus band I say your husband Albano that was supposed drowned is returned I and at the door. Last Hope's all known. Faith we condescend, 'twill not be crosd I see, Marriage and hanging go by destiny. That sames a fiddler, shaped Like thee, fear nought, be confident thou shalt know the jest hereafter, be confident; fear nought, blush not, stand firm. No sir pray you pardon us, we confess you are not Fran cisco nor a Perfumer, but even. But even a fiddler, a miniken tickler, a pum, pum. Well said perfumer. Well done fiddler. It rarely, rarely done, away, away. Exit Francisco. They say ther's revels and a Play at Court. Is't good is't good? Cato grants that I am sure, for he was valiant, and ho nest, which and Epicure never was, and a coward never will be. My worthy leidge the jest comes only thus. Now to stop and cross it with mere Like deceit: All being known the French knight hath disguised, A fiddler Like Albano too, to fright the perfumer, this is all. Most respected Sinior, Believe it by the sacred end of love, What much, much wrong hath forced your patience Proceeded from most deer affied love, Devoted to your house. Nay your self when you shall hear the occurrences will say 'tis happy, comical. Thy rhymes are spilled who would not run rank mad, To see a wandering French man rival, nay Outstrip my suit. He kissed my Celia's cheek, Muffed Masked and Ladied, with my more then most sweet Madam, But how long does this perfume of sweet Madam last? Faith 'tis but a wash sent. My Riotous sir Begins to crack Gests on his Ladies front, Touches her new stamped gentry, takes a glut Keeps out, abandons home, and spends and spends Till stock be melted, then sir takes up here Takes up there, till no where ought is left. Then for the Low-countries, hay for the French And so (to make up rhyme) God night sweet wench.