TECHMESSA

Bless me! what uncouth fancies toss my brain? As in yon arbour sleep had closed mine eyes, Me thought within a flowery plain were met A troup of Ladies, and my self was one. Amongst them rose a challenge, whose soft foot Should gentliest press the grass and quickest run. The prize for which they strove, the heart of Pamphilus. The victory was doubtful. All performed Their course with equal speed, and Pamphilus Was chosen judge to end the controversy. Me thought he shared his heart, and dealt a piece To every Lady of the troup, but me: It was unkindly done. What, Ballio? Oh my soul! Thou hast descried too much. —How sweet it is To live in ignorance? It cannot be. I am no common mistress, nor have needs To entertain a multitude of champions To draw in my defence. —Yet had he loved me, He could not hear me injured with such patience. Ballio, one trial more: bring me his sword Rather resigned then drawn in my defence, And I shall rest confirmed. Will you do this? What of him? Haste, Techmessa then: What dost thou here when Pamphilus is dead? Cast off this robe of clay my soul, and fly To overtake him, bear him company To the Elysian groves: the journey thither Is dark and melancholy: do not suffer him To go alone. Do you put tricks upon me? we shall have you On a little counterfeit sorrow, and a few drops Of woman's tears, go and persuade your master I am deeply in love with him. I'll give thee a new feather And tell me what were those three Ladies names Your master entertained last night. You make it strange now. Go, Paegnium, tell your master I could wish That I was his, but bid him choose another. Tell him he has no hope ever to enjoy me, Yet bid him not despair. I do not doubt His constant love to me. Yet I suspect His zeal more fervent to some other saint. Say I receive his letters with all joy, But will not take the pains to read a syllable. Exit. Me thinks sometime I view my Pamphilus Clothed Angel-like in white, and spotless robes, And straight upon a sudden my changed fancy Presents him black and horrid, all a stain, More loathsome then a leper. Peace, thou foul tongue. Nay, do not leave me unresolved, good Ballio. Thou couldst not do't, And live. Could Pamphilus hear all this, And not his blood turn choler? Have I lost All woman, that I can with patience hear My self thus injured? I am e'ne frighted with thy strange description. Was ever such a fury? Had all malice Dwelled in one tongue, it could not scandal more. Is this the man adores me as his saint? And pays his morning orisons at my window Duly as at the Temple? Is there such hypocrisy In loves religion too? Are Venus doves But white dissemblers? Is this that Pamphilus That shakes and trembles at a frown of mine, More then at thunder? I must have more argument Of his apostasy, or suspect you false. It's his. And this I tied About the hilt, and herd him swear to fight Under those colours, the most faithful soldier The fields of Mars or tents of Cupid knew. False men, resign your arms. Let us go forth Like bans of Amazons: for your valours be Not upright fortitude, but treachery. Then Love, I shoot thy arrows back again, Return they to thy quiver, guide thy arm To wound a breast will say the dart is welcome, And kiss the golden pile. I am possessed With a just anger, Pamphilus shall know My scorn as high as his. I needs no other witness then his sword. And this happy minute Has cleared my soul too of the same disease. Oh fine hair! And amorous brow, a pretty lovely eye, A most delicious cheek, a handsome nose! How Nectar-sweet his lips are? and his teeth, Like two fair ivory pales, enclose a tongue Made up of harmony. Then he has a chin So full of ravishing dimples, it were pity A beard should overgrow it: and his feet Passed all expression comely. And then a shoulder Straight as the pine or cedar. I could not hear Those precious parts defamed, but I durst fight In the just quarrel. I'll unriddle it. Then know, thou perjured Pamphilus, I have learned Neglect from thee. No doubt the flame is violent, and must work Upon a breast so capable as mine. But I must tell you, you are false and perjured, Or, what is more, a coward. Tell me, Sir, To Asotus. Yet you, my valiant champion, could resign This (if you know it) rather then endure The terror of your own steel, to redeem My bleeding honours. HEre's a champion for you. What punishment Shall we inflict on these? That he was not Guilty of this, acquits him not of all: To prove a man free from and act of theft, Assoils him not of murder. No, no, sister, Tempt him with kisses, and what other dalliance Craft and indulgent nature hath taught woman To raise hight youth to appetite; if he yield not, I will put off distrust. I do not know Whom I durst trust but you. Take heed Evadne, Lest while you counterfeit a flame, you kindle A real fire.— I dare not be too confident. Hence will I closely pry into their actions, And overhear their language; for if my sister See with my eyes, she cannot choose but love him In the same height with me. I Can endure no longer,— Gentle sister. Too much of sweetness in his amorous lips. There is no tie in nature, faith in blood Is but a thing that should be. Brother's, sisters, Father's, and mother's are but specious names Of love and duty: you and I have been But guests in the same womb, that at first meeting Change kind and friendly language, and next morning Fallen out before they partly, or at least ride Contrary roads. Henceforth I'll set the Kite to keep my chickens, And make the Wolf my shepherd. Sir, we are both abused, and the same womb That gave us life was fruitful to our ruin. Your traitor wears the mask called Brother: mine As cunning a disguise, the name of Sister. These eyes are witness that descried they kissing Closer then cockles, and in lustful twines Outbid the ivy, or the circling arms Of winding vines. Their hight embraces met So near, and folded in so close a knot, As if they would incorporate, and grow one. On my knees I beg, deer father, cloister me in darkness, Or send me to the desert to converse With nothing but a wilderness, or expose me To the cold mercy of the wind and wave, So you will free me from the company Of a false sister. Well sister, I shall study to requite This courteous treachery. WHy should we toil thus in and endless search Of what we now behold?—Let us grow wise, I loath false Pamphilus—yet I could have loved him: And if he were but faithful, could do still. Dear Tyndarus! In all my life I never found such peace As in this coffin: it presented me The sweets that death affords. —Man has no libèrtie But in this prison.—Being once lodged here, He's fortified in and impregnable fort, Through which no doubts, suspicions, jealousies, No sorrows, cares, or wild distractions Can force and entrance to disturb our sleeps. But what benefit Shall we enjoy by this disguise? I hope they may prove constant! Quiet sleep, or thou shalt see The horrid bags of Tartary. Whose tresses ugly serpents be, And Cerberus shall bank at thee. And all the Furies that are three, The worst is called Tisiphone, Shall lash thee to ever . And therefore sleep thou peacefully. This villain has revealed All our designs to Pamphilus and Evadne: And they with bribes and Hope's of and inheritance, If you were dead indeed, have wone this rascal To this black treason.—What foul crimes can Lust Prompt her base vassals to!—Here let us end Our busy search, and travel over the world, To see if any cold and Northern climate Have entertained lost Virtue, long since fled Our warmer country. If this grief were real! Sir, what cause Enforced you hither? Were you constant, Sir, To her whose death you now so much lament? For by those prodigies and apparitions That have to night shaked the foundations Of the whole temple, your inconstancy Hath caused your Mistress's untimely end. Sir, you may veil your falsehood in smooth language, And gild it over with fair hypocrisy: But here has been such groans: Ghosts that have cried In hollow voices, Pamphilus, Oh false Pamphilus! Revenge on Pamphilus! Such complaints as these The gods never make in vain. Certainly There's no false fire in this. There your dead Saint lies. What do you mean? Oh blessed minute! Cunning Pamphilus, Though, Like a snake, you couch your self in flowers, The gods can find your lurking, and betray The spotted skin. I'll try your spirits, Phronesium, Enter Phrones. & exit rursus, & statim in trat cum gladio