ANNE

My Bateman. Had I but one entire affected Pearl Inestimable unto vulgar censure And is there none to play the Thief but thou! O misery wouldst have thy love entransd, Without and echo that would sighs farewell. Common courtesy amongst rural Hinds With this formality disciplines them (Kiss at the departure), and you to steal away Without my Privity? Sweet do not go; and yet if that you will Leaving me here Like a forsaken Lover, Prithee forget me not; nay be not angry Soldiers in War make any saint their own Forgetting those they are devoted too! 'Tis I have vowed to have thee quick or dead, Flattering honours, nor dissembling beauty's Works me not from thee. Be it writ in brass My love shall be as durable as that! Now by this kiss, nay I will second that, When I this hand bequeathe to any one But my sweet Bateman; then may I ever From heaven, and goodness resta castaway, If ever I give this hand, to any one But my sweet Bateman. What then! Not shrink a jot for thee. Father! sir. Father? Amen say I. And let heaven loath me when I falsify. When I prove false to thee; o may I then Beheld the scorn of heaven, earth, and men. As far as my Commission Arguile I have proceeded, we in the trade of war Whose Mars consists in blows, and batteries, Are Like small Rivers that must keep their bounds, Till the Queen Ocean command them rise. Dunbarr can witness where we skuirmishd last I require the hostages be delivered Betwixt England, and the federary Lords. Dost thou not believe it? Thou art pleasant still. In natural things we see that Herbs, and Plants In autumn ever do receive perfection, As they, so man, never attains his height Till in the autumn of his growing age Experience Like a Mistress beautifies him, With silver hairs, badges of experience. Of wisdom, honours, counsel, knowledge, arts, With all th'endowmens virtue hath in store. Contrarily green headed youth Being in the spring or summer of his age, Is prove to surfeits, riots, intemperancies, And all the stock of ills that vice is queen of; He brings wealth, promotion, and 'tis the way. I loved young Bateman in my childish days, Have vowed to have him, and he again to me, But what of that, foolish lovers vows Like breath on steel, as soon are of, as on, Germane is wealthy and by him I gain Recourse amongst the modest sagest dams? Wealth has a privilege that beauty cannot, Bateman is young, embellished with a natural, Active, and generous, unspotted beauty, Germane is old, indebted much to age, Yet Like old Aeson, gold can make him young, Gold Like a second nature can elixate, Make the deformed fair, the fair seem fowl, And we that love not, must be tide to th'face, A sparkling eye, or a smooth pleading tongue Will not keep hospitality with time. Maids that love young men gain their loves by stealth, We that love old men, wed not man but wealth? Conscience, pray no more o'nt? My lovely Germane? Sir I am yours? I lov'de young Bateman with and inward joy Affected him beyond a common rate, Yet not so far, but that I might reduce My vows, and my affections to my will, For when I saw how disproportionable Our jarring father's were! I then began To alienate all love; here I renew To whom it comes as free, as bright, and pure As are these unstained Lamps beyond the Moon. Who is't would speak with me? Beshrew thy heart for this. I do not know you—touch me not? If you be Bateman; T'were best you traveled from my father's ground Least he indite you? It must be now for I am married. You talk idly sir; these sparks of love That were betwixt you, and I, are quite extinct Pacify your self, you may speed better, Yowl show much wit, and judgement if you do? If you will be wise, and live one year a bachelor 'tis ten to one thats odds, I bury my husband, ever I wear out my wedding Ring. My Husbands. I am? This Day? To wealthy Germane? And may I tell you if you le stay my husbands Funeral. I'll promise you i'll mourn, and marry all in a month. Pretty passion this would, would, would? I have lost my self, and know not where I am! To bed! o heavens, would it were to my grave So I might never here of my misdeeds I have not cursed thee yet! remember that Alive or dead I must, and will enjoy thee How Like the deadly towling of a Bell A peal of sad presages were his words. A certain man indeed, for whom I now Could weep a Sea, to wash out my pollutions? I never looked for better end of him, he had a malevolent aspect in his looks, would, would, would! Had you disciplined your son in's youth You might then have prevented your tears? Cause he was bade, and I did shun his evils, Must I be held the cause'res of his ils? Must my virtues beget his perverseness, Or my obedience breed his shameful death, If the World balance me uprightly just I care not then which way you turn the Scales; My best counsel is that you bury him as the custom of the Country is, and drive a stack through him; so perhaps I that had no quietness with him whilst he lived, may sleep in peace now he's dead. How now cozen weeping? Afraid on's Ghost, as much as of a picture painted o'th wall! thats just Like we fools that rub our shins against the bed posts in our dreams, and then swear the fairies, pinchd us? he swore he would have me quick or dead. Let him lie still in's grave I will in my bed, and let consequents prove the rest? Keep of, keep back, I charge thee. It haunts me as my shadow or a vision? It will not let me rest sleep, nor eat, The barricoded doors and iron locks. No sooner shut but Like a new clasped book Their leavy hinges straightway fallen asunder, And it gets in; I wonder 'tis not here, This is a gentle respite, and not usual, Since Germane went I never had so much; It plays the centinnell at my beds feet? And but it wants the rosy coloured face Whom meager death has played the Horseleech with, It would not seem so ghostly in these eyes. It bears the perfect form it used to do. As if it never knew immortality Nor wasted underneath a Hill of Clay. Sometime as curious limners have pourtraid Tears trilling from the weeping Niobe, That some would swear the very picture wept, And art of nature God the mastery? So did I guess affluxe of brinish tears Came from this Airy, and unfadom'd Ghost? And could the Painters of this age draw sighs I could demonstrate sighs, and heavy groans As if a sensible heart had broke in twain? Then would it turn, and cry false woman. And leave me to descant on the rest! I theirs the point, For that I must be pardoned; o my shame That I should be the cause'res of a deed, I blush to nominate. Yes sweet Ursula, But such a one as sadly aggravates My woes in repetition; pray leave me I am addicted to contemplation But rest within my call. Thou now hast touched the point, 'Tis conscience is the Alarm Bell indeed That makes us sensible of our good or bade? You that are Lovers, by me you may perceive What is the burden of a troubled mind, Take heed of vows, and protestations Which wantonly in dalliancies you make, The eye of Heaven is on you, and your oaths Are registered; which if you break, bless me. Distraction Like and Ague seizes me, I know not whither I see here, or speak, My intellectual parts are frozen up At sighed of thee, thou fiery Effigies Of my wronged Bateman. Do you not see it? Are you blind, or will you make your selves so? See! how Like a dreadful magistrate it stands, Still pointing at me the black offender; And Like a cunning poisoner, will not kill me, But lets me linger on, for days, and years. It stares, beckons, points, to the piece of Gold We brake between us; look, look there, here there! But I will too't, hug, and embrace it. you do not hear it neither? Young Batemans visage. In every limb as perfect as he lived. It's vanished in and instant! I will not be too confident in my eyes, Will you grant me leave to visit Bateman? I have and inward sorrow bids me do it, I did him wrong to gibe his Misery's When as he boar the dead Corpses in his arms, My Genius tells me, I shall have no rest Till I have made contrition; Music! harsh Ravens croak? Scritch-owls shreile, the augurers of night, Are first companions for my melancholy, I must go see him; if this apparition Appear not in his sighed, my conjecture Shall judge it nothing, but my conscience That finds me guilty for my black offence; Softly, softly; fie on your creaking shoes, what noise they make; shut the Doors close, it does not here us a jot, look well to the Darneicke Hangings, that it play not the Court Page with us. Yet all is clear, no frightful vision Nor Ghostly apparition haunts me yet; Yonders thy father, good powers assist me, That I may gain his patience to hear me, And I am heartily satisfied. Whom talks he too? my life Coz, he has a ghost too! Yet I see nothing. Good sir, use patience, That in extremity is sovereign Balm, Tears be my witness I come to comfort you, Yet I see nothing. Still I nothing any where. Yet all is safe; sure it was but my dreams, Sir you had a son, bless me it's here now. In the same figure that it used to be. Peace is more deer, and precious unto me Then a nights rest, to a man turmoiled in Law. My eyes set here unmoved, i'll gaze with thee, Until the windows of my head drop out. But then my mind will be afflicted too. For what is unseen there, is visible here. Lead me, i'll follow; though to a desert, Or any uncouth place work thy vengeance, And do not torture me alive; neither Let all times daughters which are days, convert To one day, and bring me to my perjod, See with eyes of wonder! see! Ask you what? why it's your son, Just as he died, look, look, there, here, there. Just heavens not I! see how it smiles on you, On me it hurls a dejected look. Another Ganymede! This eye, and yoned, are one? this front, that lip This cheek, a little ruddier shows then that, The very ashy paleness of his face, The mossy down still growing on his chin, And so his Alabaster finger pointing To the bracelet, whereon the piece of gold We broke between us hangs. Pray come hither, You shade this Picture from the pearsant Sun, And curtain it, to keep it from the dust, Why are you not as chary then of that? It looks as it were could, alas poor Picture, I say theirs two, You will not see this for to save a Curtain, His knotty curls, Like to Apollo's tramells Neatly are displayed; I'll swear the Painter That made this piece, had the other by it. Why do you not speak too it? it's your son, May be, he's tongue-tide, and cannot crave blessing, And you'd remove that, I'de thank you; And can their be a hope you will forgive me? See i'ts gone now. As if it vexed to see your clemency. Will be abortive, As are my actions, I shall not live To take felicity in it! see i'ts here again. Be you my counselor, and father too, Just heaven; I might have taken comfort In this pretty babe; now it is too late, Leave me your blessing Sir; and depart hence, Good women whose helps I had but now. It's almost now of that necessity It was before: I pray be vigilant, For if you slumber, or shut your eyelids, You never shall behold my living corpse. Nothing but a dream. Pray mark me, and let my words be written Within your minds, as in a manuscript, That when it proves so, you may say I told it. Me thought I walked a long the verdant banks Of fertile Trent, at and unusual time, The winter quarter; when Herbs, and Flowers Nature's choicest braveries are dead. When every sapless Tree sad's at the root; Yet then, though contrary to nature, Upon those banks where foaming surges beat, I gathered Flowers, Roses read, and Damask, Love Pauncies, Pinks, and gentle Daffodils, That seldom buds before the Spring time comes, Daisies, Cowslopps, Harebells, Marigoulds, But not one bending Violet to be seen. My apron full I thought to pass away, And make a Garland of these fragrancies; Just as I turned, I spied a lovely person, Whose countenance was full of splendancy With such embellishings, as I may imagine Better then name them; it bade me follow it, Then me thought, it went upon the water, As firmly as on land; I covetous To parley with so sweet a frontispiece Leaped into water, and so drowned my self. Pray watch me well this night; for if you sleep. I shall go gather Flowers, and then yowl weep Lay the babe by me that I may Kiss it; Bless me I was in my dream again; would! Mother's, Cozens, Midwife, all drowned in sleep? Then my decreed hour is here set down I must away? O help, succour: help! wives, cozens, Midwives, Good Angels guard me, I go, but cannot tell, Whither my journey be, to Heaven or hell.