QUEEN

Pretty! Is it the child of nature, or of some fair hand? What is it thus within whispering remorse, and calls Love Tyrant? all powers, but his, their rigour, and our fear, have made divine! But every Creature holds of him by sense, the sweetest Tenure; yea! but my husbands brother: and what of that? do harmless birds or beasts ask leave of curious Heraldry at all? Does not the womb of one fair spring, bring unto the earth many sweet rivers, that wantonly do one another chase, and in one bed, kiss, mingle, and embrace? Man (Nature's heir) is not by her will tied, to shun all creatures are allied unto him, for then he should shun all; since death and life doubly allies all them that live by breath: The Air that does impart to all life's brood, refreshing, is so near to it self, and to us all, that all in all is individual: But, how am I sure one and the same desire warms Ariaspes: for Art can keep alive a beddred love. Why would't thou thus embark into strange seas, and trouble Fate, for what we have already? Thou art to me what thou now seekest, a Kingdom; and were thy love as great, as thy ambition; I should be so to thee. And would not you prove false too then? Oh do not swear by that; Cankers may eat that flower upon the stalk, (for sickness and mischance, are great devourers) and when there is not in these cheeks and lips, l ft read enough to blush at perjury, when you shall make it, what shall I do then? I undertake I know not what, That's very sudden. Which of all you have seen the fair prisoner since she was confined? And how behaves she now her self? So gallant! I wonder where the beauty lies that thus inflames the royal blood? These Lovers sure are Like Astronomers, that when the vulgar eye discovers, but a Sky above, studded with some few Stars, find out beside strange fish, birds, and beasts. That's too severe Semanthe; but we will have your reasons in the park; are the doors open through the Gardens? What make you up at this strange hour my Lord? It's a sad Prologue, what follows in the name of virtue? I: what of him? is well is he not? Why he's not dead, is he? How? where? Dead! Didst see them dead? Dead! Well, we must all die; the Sisters spin no cables for us mortals; th'are thread; and Time, and chance— trust me I could weep now, but watery distillations do but ill on graves, they make the lodging colder. Why my friends, my Lord! I would consult and know, what's to be done. Where's Ariaspes? I know he is not! find him instantly. My Lord, I am not yet so wise, as to be jealous; pray dispute no further. Would! Strange! this night is big with miracle! I would it were my Lord, but I am now no private woman, if I did love him once (and it's so long ago, I have forgotten) my youth and ignorance may well excuse't. Yes, excuse it Sir. May be it's a plot to keep off Ariaspes greatness, which he must fear, because he knows he hates him: for these great Statesmen, that when time has made bold with the King and Subject, throwing down all fence that stood betwixt their power and others right, are on a change, Like wanton Salmons coming in with floods, that leap over wyres and nets, and make their way to be at the return to every one a prey. Would! murdered too! treason—treason— Why? thou wilt not murder me too? wilt thou villain? Hold—hold— Not for my sake, but Orbella's (Sir) a bore and single death is such a wrong to Justice, I must needs except against it. Find out a way to make me long a dying; for death's no punishment, it is the sense, the pains and fears afore that makes a death: To think what I had had, had I had you, what I have lost in losing of my self; are death's far worse than any you can give: yet kill me quickly, for if I have time, I shall so wash this soul of mine with tears, make it so fine, that you would be afresh in love with it, and so perchance I should again come to deceive you. Were but the Lilies in this face as fresh as are the roses; had I but innocence joined to their blushes, I should then be bold, for when they went on begging they were never den de, It's but a parting kiss Sir— Your hand Sir then, for that's a partly I shall love after death (if after death we love) cause it did right the wronged Zorannes, here— Sleep, sleep for ever, and forgotten too, all but thy ills, which may succeeding time remember, as the Seaman does his marks, to know what to avoid, may at thy name all good men start, and bade too, may it prove infection to the Air, that people dying of it may help to curse thee for me. Could I but call thee back as easily now; but that's a Subject for our tears, not Hope's! there is no piecing Tulips to their stalks, when they are once divorced by a rude hand; all we can do is to preserve in water a little life, and give by courteous Art what scanted Nature wants Commission for, that thou shalt have: for to thy memory such Tribute of moist sorrow I will pay, and that so purified by love, that on thy grave nothing shall grow but Violets and Primroses, of which too, some shall be of the mysterious number, so that Lovers shall come thither not as to a Tomb, but to and Oracle. Come! come! help me to weep my self away, and melt into a grave, for life is but repentance nurse, and will conspire with memory, to make my hours my tortures. Dead? I! and it's but half death's triumphs this, the King and Prince lie somewhere, just such emptietruncks as these. Weepest thou for him, found Prodigal? dost know on whom thou spendest thy tears? this is the man to whom we owe our ills; the false Zorannes disguised, not lost; but kept alive, by some incensed Power, to punish Persia thus: He would have killed me too, but Heaven was just, and furnished me with means, to make him pay this score of villainy, ere he could do more. Well,—but I was better, and shall— What make you up at this strange hour my Lord? It's a sad Prologue, what follows in the name of virtue? I: what of him? is well is he not? Why he's not dead, is he? How? where? Dead! Art sure he's dead? Dead! We must all die, the Sisters spin no cables for us mortals; th'are threads; and Time, and chance— trust me I could weep now, but watery distillations do but ill on graves, they make the lodging colder. Why my friends, my Lord; I would consult and know, what's to be done. Where's Ariaspes? I know he is not! find him instantly. My Lord, I am not yet so wise, as to be jealous; pray dispute no further. Would! Strange! this night is big with miracle! I would it were, my Lord, but I am now no private woman, if I did love him once, (as it's so long ago, I have forgotten) my youth and ignorance may well excus . Yes, excuse it Sir. May be it's but a plot to keep off Ariaspes greatness, which he must fear, because he knows he hates him: for these great Statesmen, that when time has made bold with the King and Subject, throwing down all fence that stood betwixt their power and others right, are on a change, Like wanton Salmons coming in with floods, that leap over wyres and nets, and make their way to be at the return to every one a prey. Hold—hold— Not for my sake, but Orbella's (Sir) a bore and single death is such a wrong to Justice, I must needs except against it. Find out a way to make ee long a dying; for death's no punishment, it is the sense, the pains and fears afore that makes a death: To think what I had had, had I had you, what I have lost in losing of my self; a e death's far worse than any you can give: yet kill me quickly, for if I have time, I shall so wash this soul of mine with tears, make it so fine, that you would be afresh in love with it, and so perchance I should again come to deceive you. Were but the Lilies in this face as fresh as are the roses; had I but innocence joined to these blushes, I should then be bold, for when they went a begging they were never deni'de, is but a parting kiss Sir— Above my Hope's.