AMARYLLIS

For what? deer brother speak! Borrow there? How this grief Racks my tormented soul? but the neglect Of Damon more afflicts me: the whole Senate Of heaven decrees my ruin. Would to Ceres That I were dead! Then had not I been wretched! Alas what strange distraction, Toss his distempered brain! Mine is that restless toil. Seem to be What he conceives you. I will not. What a sad pair are we? And he that I Do love, loves not; or, if he love, not me. And my Damon Has undone me. But his unkindness, me; unhappy me! But does not: thy Amyntas Returns thee mutual love. Mine has reason, but no love. Oh me! Come Urania: Let's fit together Like two marble monuments Of ever weeping misery— If so, my Damon, How many times hath thy unkindness ruined Sad Amaryllis? every frown is mortal. Be not so cruel to me! Gentle Damon, —Accept this witness of my love, it is The story of poor Each , than for love Of her Narcissus pined into a voice. Damon, suppose I should, And then the Gods for thy contempt of me Should plague thee Like Narcissus. —. Prithee love accept it, 'Twas wrought by mine own hand Oh, I am sick to death! My grief over weighs me! Like a Taper Almost burned out: sometime all a darkness, And now and then a flash or two of comfort, But soon blown out again. Ah Thestylis, I cannot long subsist. For thee vain's labour; Away! I hate thee cause my Damon does, And for that reason too I hate my self, And every thing but him! Do Urania, or I die. Stay me not Urania! Disheveled hair, poor ornament of the head I'll tear you from my crown! what dost thou here? Weak chains! my pride presumed you had a pour To fetter Heroes! and in amorous Gives Led any Shepherd captive! But Damon breaks thee Like a spiders loom! And thou poor face that were't so oft beli'de For fair and beauteous, by my flattering glass; I'll tear those crimson roses from my cheeks, That but my self never yet enchanted any. My will is fixed! Since Damon hates my life I'll go and see If I can please him in my death: if he'll but deign To kiss me, and accept my latest breath, I shall salute the Gods a happy soul. —This dart I'll give him; and upon my knees Beg till I have obtained to die by him: Death from that hand is welcome. I shall wrong you, Laurinda! No enjoy him, The treasure of the Earth: my latest words Shall be prayers for you: mild Urania, Sister in blood to Damon, not in affection, Nymph take this whistle, 'twas a Tritons once, With which I call my Lambkins when they stray; It's Amaryllis last bequeathment to you. Laurinda, my great legacy is yours, Gentle-ungentle Damon. Innocence Let me not understand you. How, to Damon? To him she loves so dearly? Why yet sir I know no more. What was it he said last?—Thou hast indeed A time wherein thou mayest revenge my scorn. —With love, no otherwise: and there thou shalt not Prevent me, Damon. I will write—This ink Deserves not to record the name of Damon, 'Tis black and ugly; thou thy self hast furnished me With that of better colour. It's my blood That's truly Cupid's ink: love ought to write Only with that;—. This paper is too course; Oh that I had my heart, to write it there! But so it is already. Would I had A Parchment made of my own skin, in that To write the truth of my affection, A wonder to posterity!—Hand make hast As my blood does, or I shall faint I fear Ere I have done my story.— My blood congeals Within my quill, and I can write no more. I will fold it up And send it; who's that's here? my eyes Are dim, would, Dorylas! Dorylas, carry this letter for me. Good Dorylas be gone, whilst yet my breath Will give me leave to say it was not you. Yes, That fatal name is mine. I shall anon Be nothing but the name. Oh—if it be death to him That did it, I have not the power to live Behind him. My self, And therefore in my death your law is satisfied, The blood and act both mine. I'll rather die Then name him, though it be a name I use Oft to repeat, and every repetition Is a new soul unto me: it's a name I have taught the birds to carol, every Laurel and Cedar bears it registered Upon his tender bark; it is a name In which is all the life I yet have left; A name I long to speak; yet I had rather Die all the several sorts of death twice over Then speak it once. Oh, I am angry with my blood for stopping! This coward ebb against my will betrays me; The stream is turned, my eyes run faster now. Pray believe her not, She speaks it out of anger, I never saw Damon to day before. Nay, Laurinda, You have bound your self to stand to my award; The sentence now is passed, and you must love him, It cannot be reversed; you are deceived, He is not guilty of this sin, his love To me, for mine, makes him against his conscience Seem to confess it, but believe him not. Ceres has herd my prayers, For all my morning orisons begged no more Then one kind word from Damon. The same;—why startle you? you have not met A poison, Damon. What should this mean, my Damon? how have I Displeased you, sweet? heaven knows it is my prayer More then for heaven, to please you. Can it be A sin to pray for Damon? Ceres, these obscure passion move me. For that I love it, Because it once was thine. So it would have done Had it not first touched yours. Laurinda gave me This Garland, but never told me of this accident. Damon, thy harsh language is more then death Unto me. No, I am resolved to write what I determine. Welcome death! From him all things are so. Damon, fly hence, Thou hast shed blood here in the Sacred Valley, Make hast away or thou art lost for ever. O I faint. Unto Laurinda, take it. Say I wish all health to her and Damon; And being not able for to bear my griefs, I sought a remedy from mine own spear and died. Fear not Dorylas. Farewell! How fearful death is unto them; whose life Had any sweetness in it! my days have all Been so overworn with sorrow, that this wound Is unto me rather a salve then before, More physic then disease: whither my journey Shall led me now; through what dark hideous place; Among what monsters, hags and snake-haired Furies, Am I to go, I know not: but my life Hath been so spotless, chased, and innocent, My death so undeserved, I have no reason (If there be Gods) but to expect the best; Yet what does most torment me, is the thought How long it'll be ere I again enjoy My Damon's presence: until then, Elysium Will be no place of pleasure; and perchance When he comes thither too, he then may slight me As much as now.—That very fear does make thee Die, wretched Amaryllis! Oh was ever love So crossed as mine! was ever Nymph so wretched As Amaryllis? Oh sir, my blood Calls none but fortune guilty. I by chance Stumbled on mine own dart, and hurt my self. It was my self, Or one as deer. What joy have I to live, That never lived yet: the time that I have spent Since first I wept, then, when I first had entrance Into this world, this cold and sorrowful world, Was but a scene of sorrow; wretched I! Fatal to both my parents! For my birth Ruined my mother, and my death my father. Oh Tragic life! I either should have been Near born, or never have died. When I began To be, my sin began, why should it then Out live me? for, though now I cease to be, That still continues: Eyes, flow forth a pace, And be ashamed to see my wound run blood Faster then you drop tears— See, here he comes. His absence never until now I wished. By Ceres, no; I have no heart to do it: does that face Look cruel? do those eyes sparkle with hate, Or malice? Tell me, Father, looks that brow As if it could but frown? Say, can you think 'Tis possible Damon could have the heart To wound a Virgin? surely barbarous cruelty Dwells not in such a breast: mercy, and mildness, Courtesy, love, and sweetness breath in him, Not Anger, wrath, or murder; Damon was not Fed at a Thracian teat, Venus did send Her Doves to nurse him, and can he be cruel? Whence should he learn so much of barbarism As thus to wrong a Virgin? if he wound me 'Tis only from his eyes, where loves blind God Whets his piled arrows; He beside, you know, Had never cause to wrong me, for he knows Always I loved him: Father, do not wrong And innocent; his soul is white, and pure, 'Tis sin to think there lives a sin in him; Impiety to accuse him. 'Tis, alas, His modest, bashful nature, and pure innocence, That makes him silent: think you that bright rose That buds within his cheeks, was planted there By gilded or shame? no, he has always been So unacquainted with all act of sin, That but to be suspected strikes him dumb With wonder and amazement. For by Ceres (I think my oath be lawful) I my self Was cause of this. Indeed it was not he. You are no competent witness; You are his Rival in Laurinda's love, And speak not truth but malice, it's a plot To ruin innocence. All, all but the distressed Amarillis Are happy, or less wretched; fair Laurinda Is ready for a wedding, old Pilumnus Hath lost a son, yet mitigates his grief In Claius death, my father Claius die Yet joys to have the son of his old enemy A partner of his sorrows; my father looses Only himself; and Damon too no more; Amyntas but a father, only I Have lost all these; I have lost Claius, Damon, And my self too; A father with Amyntas, And all the rest in Damon, and which more Affects me, I am cause of all; Pilumnus Had not else lost his son, nor had Amyntas Wept for a Father, nor poor Thestylis Bewailed a brother; Damon might have lived, And Claius but for me; all circumstances Concurreto make my Misery's complete, And sorrows perfect: for I lost my father As soon as I had found him, and my Damon As soon as I had found he loved me: thus All I can find is lose; oh too too wretched, Distressed virgin! when they both are dead Visit their Ashes, and first weep and hour On Claius Urn, then go, and spend another At Damon's; thence again go wet the tomb Of thy dead father, and from thence return Back to thy lovers grave; thus spend thy age In sorrows; and till death do end thy cares Betwixt these two equally share thy tears. —Yes, it was he: he's in the temple brother, A place wherein he does deserve a shrine, Yet is to him a prison; can you Gods Suffer the place that's reared unto your honours Be made so vile a thing? How much owe I my Damon, whose blessed hand Made me the public sacrifice! could I shed As many drops of blood, even from the heart, As Arethusa drops of water can, I would outvie her at the fullest tide, That other Virgins loves might happy be, And mine my Damon be as blessed in thee.