CORYBREUS

They strike a horror Unless You have a mind to try how well your hoods Can swim, go trudge back to your rotten bark, And steer another course. Strange! I have no meaning to come near him. Great Ceanerachius has inspired the Priest! This is the only way. Health to our Priest. My brother and the fair Emeria, Milcho's daughter, Out of their way; but so, to reach their voice, This place o'th'Garden's apt. If my fate Cannot enjoy thy love, I shall grieve both Your destinies. Thou art my genius, but she's very holy, And, I fear, too religious to her vows, She is devoted much to Ceanerachius, head of the gods. When these dull vegetals Show their ambition to be thine Emeria, How much should we, that have and active soul To know and valve thee, be taken with This beauty? yet if you dare trust me Madam, There's none, within the throng of thy admirers, More willing, more devote to be thy servant Then Coribreus. Why, I do love you Madam. Why not? I love you Madam. If there be difference of our birth or state, When we are compa ed, it should make me the first In your fair thoughts: come, you must love again, And meet me with and equal active flame. You would be coy, your heart is not bestowed. On whom? Were he my brother did twist heart with thine, That act should make him strange to my blood, And I would cut him from his bold embraces. I know you will be wise And just to my desires Emeria, When you shall see my love bid fairest for you, And that presented from a Prince, who knows No equal here. Come, I already promise My self possessed of those fair eyes, in which I gazing thus, at every search discover New crystal heavens, those tempting cheeks are mine, A garden with fresh flowers all the winter; Those lips invite to print my soul upon they Or lose it in thy breath, which I'll convey Down to my heart, and wish no other spirit, As loath to change it for my own again. How in thy bosom will I dwell Emeria, And tell the azure winding of thy veins That flow, yet climb those soft, and ivory hills Whose smooth descent leads to a bliss, that may Be known, but puzzle art and tongue to speak it. I prithee do not use this froward motion, I must and will be thine. This won't gain her, her heart's fixed upon My brother, all my hope is in Archimagus, She is a frozen thing, yet she may melt. If their disdain should make a man despair, Nature mistook in making woman fair. I am weary Of these dull compliments, Archimagus. Softly my deer Archimagus; the rest Speak in a whisper I shall be jealous of The intelligencing air. It's rare, and must succeed to my ambition. I fly, command me ever. So, so, this amm let I find secures me From all obs rvers, I now am in H r chamber, by a feat my Spirit did me: Would? She sle pes too, what a fine Bawd the devil is, What opportunities he can frame to bring These things to pass; I were best lose no time; Madam, Madam, fair Emeria. I had Forgotten, shee'le never see me if I do not Take off my charm, perhaps I may again be visible If I would not lost my self. Emeria. Put off thy fright Emeria, yet I blame not Thy feeble sense to tremble at my presence: Not used to mortal eyes, and unprepared. But gather strength, and call thy blood again Whose seat a paleness does usurp: I am Thy friend. Not what I seem, I have assumed this for me, To tell thee what a happiness is now Coming from heaven upon thee. And when the sweet Emeria is collected, She will lose her life again in joy and wonder. Then know Emeria, I am no mortal But Ceancrochi, chief of all the gods That now appear. Thy pure devotion Richer then clouds of incense, Myrrh, and Cassia, And all the Gums whose piles make sweet our Altar, Hath been delightful to the gods, and me, And I have left the Palace of the blessed, Where many glorious virgins wait: and want thee, A fellow singer in their heavenly choir, To visit in this form the fair Emeria, And thank thee for thy pious sacrifices: Rise then and be confirmed, we mean to honour Thy p rson and thy virtues. To assure thy thoughts, ask fairest virgin, what Thou most desirest, and it shall firmer, than The Destinies, be made thine own: hast thou A wish to this world's glory, to be greater? Wouldst thou enlarge thy knowledge, or thy pleasure? Dost thou affect to have thy life extended, Double the course of Nature; or thy beauty Above the malice of disease, or time To wither? Wouldst thou see thy book of fate, And read the various lines that fallen into Thy life, as to their centre: speak, and be Possessed; if thou refuse what here is named, Thy wish will come too late, Emeria? Then I Will find some other way to thy reward: First, we release that duty of thy knee; Reach thy fair hand. Do not tremble, It shall but meet another Like thine own; For I had care not to affright my virgin: What dost thou see in me, that to thy sense Appears not man? Divinity is too bright For thy weak eye, and therefore I have clad In this no threatening shape, all that is divine: That I with safety of thy sense, Emeria, Might visit thee: come, I will see thee often, If thou be wise to understand how much It is my will to honour thee; and I Will thus descend, and leave my beams behind, Whose brightness were enough to burn thee, To converse with thee in a loving way Of smiling thus, and thus embracing thee— Of mixing palms, nay I will kiss thee too. Not, but with those They mean especial grace to, such as they know must hereafter shine above with them, though merely mortals, are adored; and seldom visit the world, hid thus in flesh and blood, which we at pleasure can assume, and have desires Like you, and have our passi ons too, can love, I, and enjoy where we will place the happi ness, else we had less than men. It's in them chastity, nor is it sin In those we love to meet wit active flames, And be glad mother's to immortal issues: How oft hath Jove, who justly is adored, Left heaven, to practice love with such a fair one? The Sun, for one embrace of Daphne, would Have pawned his beams: not one, but hath sometime Descended, to make fruitful weak Mortality. O, if thou couldst but reach, Emeria, With thy imagination, what delight, What flowing ecstasies of joy we bring Your sex, made nice and cold by winter laws Of man, that freeze the blood, thou wouldst be found To my embraces, and petition me To bless thee with a rape, yet I woe thy Consent. Take heed, and do not vam e Thy self by rash and froward opposition; Know, I can make thee nothing, at a breath. Nay then, what should have been with thy consent a blessing, shall now only serve my pleasure, and I will take the for feit of thy coldness. I shall needs none, thou thing of disobedience, thou art now within my power of love, or fury: yield, or I ll force thee into po stures shall make pleasure weep, and hurl thee into want nnesse. How is it with my sweet Emeria? I do not ask, To make thee think I doubt, but to maintain That form, which men familiar to such fair ones use When they converse: For I would have my language Soft as a lovers. This temper is becoming, and thou dost Now appear worthy of our loves and presence. I knew when thy wise soul examined what It was to be the darling to a God, Thou wouldst compose thy gestures, and resign Thy self to our great will: Which we accept And pardon thy first frailty; it's in us Emeria to translate thee hence to heaven, Without thy bodies separation, I'th twinkling of and eye, but thou shalt live Here to convince erring mortality, That gods do visit such religious votaries In humane for me; and thus salute they. O thou hast murdered me, Strumpet, hold. My blood is punished, A curse upon thy hand, I am no God; I am the Prince, see Corybreus. H lp, O I am lost. How now my fair Emeria. Alone you are In beauty sweet Emeria, and all The graces of your sex. Yet in this garden, when you seemed most solitary, Madam, you had many fair, and sweet companions. Yes, and my rivals too Emeria, And now they court thy beauty in my presence Proud erring things of nature, dost not see As thou dost move, how every amorous plant Does how his leavy head, and beckon thee; The wind does practice dalliance with thy hairs And weave a thousand pretty nets within To catch it self. That violet drooped but now, How 'tis exalted at thy smile, and spreads A virgin bosom to thee. There's a rose Would have slept still within his bud, but at Thy presence, it does open his thin curtains And with warm apprehension looking forth Betrays her love in blushes. And that Woodbin As it would be divorced from the Sweet-bryer, Courts thee to and embrace. It is not Due That Like so many pearls embroider all The flowers, but tears of their complaint, with fear To lose thee, from whose eye they take in all That makes them beautiful, and with humble necks Pay duty unto thee their only spring.