CLAIUS

Thrice Sacred Valley, I kiss thy hallowed Earth! I see the smoke steam from the Cottage tops, The fearful hus wife rakes the embers up. All hush to bed. Sure no man will disturb me. Oh blessed valley! I the wretched Claius Salute thy happy soil, I that have lived Pelted with angry curses in a place As horrid as my griefs, the Lylibaean mountains, These sixteen frozen winter's, there have I Been with rude outlaws, living by such sins As run o'th' score with justice against my prayers & wishes. And when I would have tumbled down a rock, Some secret pour restrained me: There I lately herd By a disconsolate Pilgrim that sought death, That my Amyntas wits (ah me!) were marred. It not a time to think to save my self When my poor boy was lost. Lost said I?—Oh Phœbus, If there be sovereign power in juice of herbs, And that the teeming earth yield medicinal flowers To cure all maladies, I have sought the skill; No leaf no root hath scaped me: I may boast it, I have been nature's diligent Apothecary. Be lucky my emplaster! I have tempered The surest Recipe the world's garden yields; 'Twould put Orestes in his wits again. I know I step upon my death: the Oracle Desires my blood for sacrifice, and Pilumnus For his old hate still seeks it: make long stay I dare not, only I desire apply My medicine and be gone. Who's this I spy? What breed is he? Yes, I had almost Forgotten it, I would feign have seen her too. So you may Urania, If you will grant me one request. I would entreat you presently to vow Virginity to Ceres, that Amyntas No more may toil his brain in thinking what To give you for a Dowry. Remember it Urania. 'Tis he, I hear his name, good mole away. How no fear Can make me lose the father! Death or danger Threat what you can; I have no heart to go Back to the mountains, Till my eyes have seen My Amaryllis! Would! I herd the found Of Amarillis; where's that blessed creature, That owes the name? are you the Virgin? Oh speak, what hand, What barbarous Tigers issue, what cursed whelp Of Bears or Lion, had the marble heart To wound so sweet a Nymph? I durst presume upon the power of art, Did I but know the murderer. It is not so, For had it been by her own hand, my skill Could have preserved her life. Who's that? Conceal him not! in plain, I am thy father Thy father, Amarillis, that commands thee By these grey hairs to tell me. I am Claius. I, do, I fear not death. Let every Virgins hand when I am slain Ring me a knell of Plaudits: let my Dirges Be amorous Ditties, and in stead of weeping Dance at my funeral! 'Tis no grief for me To die to make my countrymen some sport. Here's one in whom I only wish to live Another age. The Murderer Is in this place, the issue of her blood Is stopped oth' sudden. Cruel man, it's thou Hast done this bloody act, that will disgrace The story of our nation, and imprint So deep a blemish in the age we live in For savage Barbarism, that eternity Shall never wear out: Pilumnus, on my knees I beg the justice of Sicilian laws Against this monster. Speak Amaryllis I'st not this wolf? Still I am confident 'Twas he. Yes, this unmerciful man (If he be man that can do such a crime) Has wounded her. Fain would I speak And ask for Amaryllis: but my fear Will not permit me. Youth, can you tell me How I may speak to night with Amaryllis? Can you instruct me then how I may meet Amyntas? So pray I. Too well unto his grief.— I 'le go unto him And follow him in his humour:—You have God A dainty spaniel, sir. Was the sire Of the same Country? As how I pray? Sir I have brave things in a Basket for you. Give me your Dog, and you shall have they all. Sir, can he fetch and carry? Not I by heaven! My joys are counterfeit, my sorrows real: (I cannot hold from weeping) ah you know not What grief lies here within, (tears you'll betray me!) Give me my eye full of this noble Shepherd! Who hath not herd how he hath chaced the boar! And how his spear hath torn the paunch of wolves. On the bark of every tree his name's king aven. Now Planet struck, and all that virtue vanished. I am not skilled in riddles, no interpreter Of Divinations, but dare contend With any Empiric to do a cure, Whither the body or the mind be sick. That is my study, I but crave the leave To try the pour of art upon this Shepherd. If Aesculapius be propitious to him, After the Due of one nights softer slumbers, I dare be bold to say he shall recover. Thy wits, Amyntas, I mean; Oh cast thy arms in my embraces, Speak careful Nymph how came he thus distracted? Rest rest deluded fancy! With whom? Oh the cross darts of fate! Your story's pitiful: 'Tis my profession To wander through the Earth, and in my Travel, I am inquisitive after the sick to heal they; Their cure and kind acceptance is my pay. You will not fear to lodge me for a night? Thy restitution is my feast Amyntas; Your curds and chestnuts and your country fare Is bounteous for so mean a guest as I: But send for that Urania her sweet voice Must sing a Lullaby to drown his senses, And charm soft sleep upon his troubled fancy. And before the gray-eyd morn do peep, be confident I'll put the music of his brains in tune. Will end I hope thy madness, not my sorrow. And by the womb that bore thee, by the breasts Of thy dead mother, Lalage, I am as you are, mortal; it's my skill In Physic, and experience in the rare Virtue of herbs, that wrought this miracle; No Divinity, or power in me. Thus Like a bat, or owl I spend my age In night or darkness, as ashamed of day, And fearful of the light: the sun and I Dare never be acquainted. Oh gilded, gilded, Thou and thy daughter fear are punishments Perpetual, every whistling of the wind Does seem the noise of apprehenders shadows Affright me more then men. Each step I tread Is danger. Life? why to live longer should we Not live at all: I hear a noise: false timorousness Deceive me not,—my eyes instruct me too, Heaven shield me— Then I have herbs to cure it: heaven I thank thee That didst instruct me hither! still the blood Flows Like a scarlet torrent, whose quick stream Will not be checked: speak Amarillis, quickly, What hand this sin hath stained, upon whose soul This blood writes murder; till you see the man Before your eyes, that gave the hurt, all hope In Physic is despair:—She will not speak, And now the cure grows to the last. Yet here I have a Recipe will revive her spirits, Applies a medicine and rubs her to ̄ ples. And Till the last drop of her blood be clean Exhausted from those azure veins, preserve her; But then she's lost for ever! Then, Oh Ceres, If there be any in these groves, men, virgins, Beast, bird, or trees, or any thing detesting This horrid fact, reveal it! Sacred grass Whose hallowed green this bloody deed hath stained, Ask nature for a tongue to name the murderer! I'll to the Temple:—If this place contain Any Divinity, Piety, or Religion, If there be any God at home, or Priest, Ompha, or Oracle, Shrine, or Altar, speak Who did it: who is guilty of this sin, That die the earth with blood, & makes the heavens Ashamed to stand a witness? I charge thee by that duty Thou owest to me, Amarillis, that thou owest to me Who gave thee life.— In his looks He carries gilded, whose horror breeds this strange And obstinate silence: shame, and his conscience Will not permit him to deny it. Amarillis, prithee call Amyntas to me, And Thestylis: I feign would have mine eye Behold them once again before I die. Oh what a shower of joy falls from mine eyes! The now too fortunate Claius! my Amyntas, My Amarillis, how shall I divide My tears and joys betwixt you! Pilumnus, let us now grow young again, And Like two trees robbed of their leafy boughs By winter, age, and Boreas keener breath, Sprout forth and bud again: This spring of joy Cuts forty years away from the grey sum. Once more in triumph let us walk the Village! Oh those words do touch the quick! Now the floodgates open, And the full stream of tears will issue out: Traitors, you will betray me! To think of this man's father—Oh I loved him As dearly as my self (my words and all Break out suspicious!) has e not a daughter? As I remember well, he said her name was— I dare stay here No longer, for I must begun ereyet The light betrays me. I, glut your hate, Pilumnus; let your soul That has so long thirsted to drink my blood, Swill till my veins are empty; and carouse Deep in my heart, till you grow drunk, and reel, And vomit up the surfeit, that your cruelty Quaffed off with so much pleasure; I have stood Long Like a fatal oak, at which great Jove Levels his thunder; all my boughs long since Blasted and withered; now the trunk falls too. Heaven end thy wrath in me!