BATHSHEBA

Come gentle Zephire tricked with those perfumes That erst in Eden sweetened Adam's love, And stroke my bosom with the silken fan: This shade (sun proof) is yet no proof for thee, Thy body smoother then this waveless spring, And purer then the substance of the same, Can creep through that his lances cannot Pierce. Thou and thy sister soft and sacred air, Goddess of life and governess of health, Keeps every fountain fresh and arbour sweet, No brazen gate, her passage can repulse, Nor bushly thicket, bar thy subtle breath, Then deck thee with thy lose delightsome robes, And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes, To play the wantons with us through the leaves, Ah what is Bethsheeba to please the King, Or what is David, that he should desire For fickle beauties sake his servants wife? My lord the King, elect to Gods own heart, Should not his gracious jealousy incense, Whose thoughts are chased, I hate incontinence. The Kings poor handmaid will obey my lord, One medicine cannot heal our different harms. But rather make both rankle at the bone, Then let the King be cunning in his cure, Least flattering both, both perish in his hand. Mourn Bethsheeba, bewail thy foolishness, Thy sin, thy shame, the sorrow of thy soul, Sin, shame, and sorrow swarm about thy soul, And in the gates and entrance of my heart, Sadness with wreathed arms hangs her complaint. No comfort from the ten stringed instrument, The twinkling Cymbal, or the Ivory Lute, Nor does the found of David's kingly Harp, Make glad the broken heart of Bersabe. Jerusalem is filled with thy complaint, And in the streets of Zion fits thy grief: The babe in sick, sick to the death I fear, The fruit that sprung from thee to David's house, Nor may the pot of Honey and of Oil, Glad David or his handmaids countenance. Uria's, woe is me to think hereon, For who is it among the sons of men, That say not to my soul, the King hath sind, David hath done amiss, and Bersabe Laid snares of death unto Uria's life. My sweet Uria's, fallen into the pit Art thou, and gone even to the gates of hell, For Bersabe, that wouldst not shroud her shame. Oh what is it to serve the lust of Kings, How Lyonlike thy rage when we resist, But Bersabe in humbleness attend, The grace that God will to his handmaid send. Exit Beth. The babe is sick, and sad is David's heart, To see the guiltless bear the guilties pain. David hang up thy Harp, hang down thy head, And dash thy ivory Lute against the stones. The Due that on the hill of Hermon falls, Reins not on Zions tops, and lofty towers, And David's thoughts are spent in pensiveness, The plains of Gath and Askaron rejoice. The babe is sick, sweet babe, that Bersabe With woman's pain brought forth to Israel. Enter Nathan. But what says Nathan to his lord the king? What means my lord, the lamp of Israel, From whose bright eyes all eyes receive their light, To dim the glory of his sweet aspects, And paint his countenance with his hearts distress? Why should his thoughts retain a sad conceit, When every pleasure kneels before his throne, And sues for sweet acceptance with his grace, Take but your Lute, and make the mountains dance, Retrieve the suns sphere, and restrain the clouds, Give ears to trees, make savage Lyons tame, Impose still silence to the loudest winds, And fill the fairest day with foulest storms, Then why should passion of much meaner power, Bear head against the heart of Israel. Then is the pleasure of my sovereigns heart, So wrapped within the bosom of that son, That Salomon, whom Israel's God affects, And gave the name unto him for his love, Should be no salve to comfort David's soul? He that hath touched thee with this righteous thought Preserve the harbour of thy thoughts in peace. Die Bethsheeba to see thy David mourn, To hear his tunes of anguish and of hell, Oh help my David, help thy Bethsheeba, Whose heart is pierced with thy breathy swords, And bursts with burden of ten thousand griefs. Now sits thy sorrows sucking of my blood, Oh that it might be poison to their powers, And that their lips might draw my bosom dry, So David's love might ease him, though she die. Oh stay my lords, stay, David mourns no more, But riseth to give honour to your acts. Stay. Too near my lord was your unarmed heart, When furthest off my hapless beauty pierced, And would this dreary day had turned to night, Or that some pitchy cloud had cloaked the Sun, Before their lights had caused my lord to see His name disparaged, and my chastity.