PILUMNUS

Found Urania, Can ignorant love make thee affect the seed, The hateful seed of cursed Lalage? Did I for this beget thee? I blame thee not so much For loving him, while yet he was Amynt as. But being mad and having lost himself, Why shouldst not thou lose thy affection too What canst thou love In his distempered wildness? Do not Urania. The Gods did well to make their Destinies Of Women, that their wills might stand for law Fixed and unchanged; who's this? Corymbus? he. Corymbus —welcome! What news Corymbus? Is our Country's Mischief's Fettered in chains? Corymbus none! The Goddess has not yet deigned to accept One sacrifice, no favourable Echo Resounded from her Omp a; All her answers Are full, and doubtful. Appeased say you? Rather again incensed so far, Corymbus, As that my self am plagued; My poor Urania Dotes on Amyntas. The chain of fate Will have it so! And he loved her as much. Ah, thou knowest not What sting this waspish fortune pricks me with! I seeing their loves so constant, so inflexible, Chid with dame Ceres if sheus'd me thus. My words were inconsiderate, and the heavens Punished my rough expostulations: Being Archiflamen of Trinacria I did demand a Dowry of that Shepherd That asks my daughter:—Set the price said I, Thou Goddess, that dost cause such hateful loves; If that Amyntas be thy darling swain, Ask thou, and set a Dowry for Urania: With that the Altar groaned, my hair grew stiff, Amyntas looked aghast; Urania quivered, And the Ompha answered No. Ceres defend us, The Sacred Valley is profaned. By Ceres, and her holy Ompha, he That did it, with his blood shall satisfy The Goddess anger; who by blood offends By his own sacrificed, must make amends. How soever It's death to him that did it. What should this mean Corymbus! You see her self frees him. Laurinda, and Alexis, do you call The Shepherds, and the virgins of Sicilia To see him sacrificed, whose death must make There loves more fortunate; this day shall be Happy to all Sicilians, but to me. Yet come thou cursed Claius, the sweet comfort Which I shall take when my revenge is done, Will something ease the sorrow for my son. Sicilians, Nature and religion Are at contention in me: my sad soul Divided betwixt my Goddess and my son, Would in her strange distractions, either have me Turn Parricide or Apostate: Awful Ceres, For whom I feed the fattest of my Lambs, To whom I send the holiest of my prayers Upon the smoky wings of sweetest myrrh, Instruct thy doubtful Flamen! As I cannot Forget I am thy priest: for sooner shall Our Lambs forget to feed, our swains to sing, Our Bees forget first, from the fruitful Thyme To cull them bags of Nectar: everything Forget his nature, ere I can forget I am thy Priest: Nor can I but remember That Damon is my son: yet take him Ceres! You needs not pour water upon his head, I'll do it with my tears. Ceres, I hope Thy anger will not bind the Father's eye To look into the Bowels of his son, I'll therefore first spill on thy hallowed Altar This Captives blood; and then retire my self Not to be present at my Damons death Least nature might turn Rebel to devotion. Ceres, to whom we owe that yet We do not Mast and Acorns eat: That didst provide us better meat, The purest flower of finest wheat. This blood we spill at thy desire, To kindle, and to quench a ire. Oh let it quench thy flame of fire, And kindle mercies more entire. Oh let this guilty blood atone For every poor unlucky one; Nymph, or Swain, who ere do groan Under sad Loves imperious throne. That Love a happier age may see In thy long tortured Sicily. That blood which must the Atonement be Thus Goddess, thus, we pay to thee! Avoid the mad man. Why it hath quenched the sadder flames of love, And more auspicious fires begin to move. But I know The wrath of Ceres cannot be appeased But by the blood of Claius. How can that be? yet his accursed gore Hath not imbrued the Altar. What hath it quenched or kindled? And is the fire of my Damon kindled But to be quenched again: Ceres! a frost Dwell on thy Alters, ere my zeal renew Religious fires to warme'em. How Amyntas? speak! Thou that hast saved a Father, save a son. Amyntas, thou hast now made full amends For my Philebus death; Claius all envy, Envy the viper of a venomous soul Shall quit my breast: This is the man, Sicilians, The man to whom you owe your liberties; Go Virgins, and with Roses strow his way, Crown him with violets, and lily wreathes; Cut off your golden tresses, and from them Weave him a robe of love: Damon, pay here The debt of duty that thou owest to me; Hence was thy second birth. Lovers come, Come all with flowery chaplets on your brows, And singing Hymns to Ceres, walk around This happy village; to express our glee This day each year shall Cupid's triumphs be. The Goddess is well pleased, she deigns to answer By gracious Echo's; go Amyntas speak. This dark demand, That which thou hast not, mayest not, canst not have, Amyntas, is the dowry that I crave: Rest hopeless in thy love, or else divine To give Urania this and she is thine. And so he did, but the perplexed sense Troubled his brains so far, he lost his wits; Yet still he loves, and she,—my grief Corymbus Will not permit me to relate rest! I'll in into the Temple, and express What's yet behind in tears. What sad voice Disturbs our pious Orgyes? How, Claius! and so fortunately found! Blessed be Ceres! What unexpected happiness is here? Rejoice Sicilians; miserable lovers, Crown all your brows with roses, and adore The Deity that sent him: he is come Whose blood must quench the fire of Ceres wrath, And kindle more auspicious flames of love In every breast. Claius, it's your hate, And old revenge instructs you to accuse My Son: you would have fellows in your death, And to that purpose you pretend, I know not What mysteries of art! Say, virgin, was it he? Can you accuse my son? It is your envy makes you so. 'Tis necessity, We must obey. But first I will entreat this company To deign to take partly in this public joy. All Loves are happy, none with us there be, Now sick of coyness, or unconstancy. The wealthy sums of Kisses do amount To greater scores then curious art can count! Each eye is fixed upon his Mistress face, And every arm is locked in some embrace. Each cheek is dimpled; every lip does smile: Such happiness I wish this blessed Isle, This little world of Lovers: and least you Should think this bliss no real joys, nor true, Would every Lady in this orb might see Their Loves as happy as we say they be! And for you gentle youths, whose tender hearts Are not shot proof against love and Cupid's darts; These are my Prayers, (I would those prayers were charms) That each had here his Mistress in his arms. True Lovers, (for 'tis truth gives love delight) To you our Authors only means to wright. If he have pleased (as yet he doubtful stands) For his applause clap lips instead of Hands. He begs nor Baize, nor Ivy; only this, Seal his wished Plaudite with and amorous Kiss.