ARVIRAGUS

Hail Heaven. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The Rain and wind beat dark December? How In this our pinching Cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing: We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey, Like warlike as the Wolf, for what we eat: Our Valour is to chase what flies: Our Cage We make a Quite, as does the prisoned Bird, And sing our Bondage freely. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite. I'll make't my Comfort He is a man, I'll love him as my Brother: And such a welcome as I'd give to him (After long absence) such is yours. Most welcome: Be sprightly, for you fallen amongst Friends. Or I, what ere it be, What pain it cost, what danger: Gods! The Night to the Owl, And Morn to the Lark less welcome. I pray draw near. Brother, stay here: Are we not Brother's? If it be sin to say so (Sir) I yoke me In my good Brother's fault: I know not why I love this youth, and I have herd you say, Love's reason's, without reason. The Beer at door, And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say My Father, not this youth. Brother, farewell. You health.—So please you Sir. Thus did he answer me: yet said hereafter, I might know more. We'll not be long away. How Angellike he sings? He cut our Roots in Characters, And sawc'st our Broths, as Juno had been sick, And he her Dieter. Nobly he yokes A smiling, with a sighs; as if the sigh Was that it was, for not being such a Smile: The Smile, mocking the Sighs, that it would fly From so divine a Temple, to commix With winds, that Sailors rail at. Grow patient, And let the stinking-Elder (Grief) untwine His perishing root, with the increasing Vine. None in the world: you did mistake him sure. In this place we left them; I wish my Brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell. Let Ordnance Come as the Gods foresay it: howsoever, My Brother hath done well. Would I had done it: So the Revenge alone pursued me: Polidore I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robbed me of this deed: I would Revenges That possible strength might meet, would seek us through And put us to our answer. Poor sick Fidele. I'll willingly to him, to gain his colour, Ill let a parish of such Clotens blood, And praise my self for charity. The Bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipped from sixteen years of Age, to sixty: To have turned my leaping time into a Crutch, Then have seen this. Stark, as you see: Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart being laughed at: his right Cheek Reposing on a Cushion. OF the floor: His arms thus leagued, I thought he slept, and put My clouted Brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answered my steps too loud. With fairest Flowers Whilst Summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad graven: thou shalt not lack The Flower that's Like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor The azured Harebell, Like thy Veins: no, nor The leaf of Eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would With Charitable bill (O bill soar shaming Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Father's lie Without a Monument) bring thee all this, Yea, and furred Moss beside. When Flowers are none To winter-ground thy Coarse— Say, where shall's lay him? Be't so: And let us (Polidore) though now our voices Have God the mannish crack, sing him to the ground As once to our Mother: use Like note, and words, Save that Euriphile, must be Fidele. We'll speak it then. If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our Song the whilst: Brother begin. It's true. So, begin. Fear no more the frown of the Great, Thou art passed the Tyrants stroke, Care no more to cloth and eat, To thee the Reed is as the Oak: The Sceptre, Learning, Physic must, All follow this and come to dust. Nor the all-dreaded Thunderstone. Thou hast finished Joy and m ne. Nor no witchcraft charm thee. Nothing ill come near thee. What pleasure Sir, we find in life, to lock it From Actium, and Adventure. It is not likely, That when they hear their Roman horses neigh, Behold their quartered Fires; have both their eyes And ears so cloyed importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. By this Sun that shines I'll thither: What thing is't, that I never Did see man die, scarce ever looked on blood, But that of Coward Hares, hight Goats, and Venison? Never bestrid a Horse save one, that had A Rider Like my self, who never wore Rowell, Nor Iron on his heel? I am ashamed To look upon the holy Sun, to have The benefit of his blessed Beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. So say I, Amen. One Sand another Not more resembles that sweet Rosy Lad: Who died, and was Fidele: what think you? In that he spoke too far. Your danger's ours. I my good Lord. You help us Sir, As you did mean indeed to be our Brother, Joyed are we, that you are. All Gold and Silver rather turn to dirt, As it's no better reckoned, but of those Who worship dirty Gods.