ARASPAS

What portion of the gold shall we reserve To be employed in your highness use? The archers of Hercania served so well, as not to give them payment with the rest, Were open wrong to their approude deserts. Histaspis there is a proud Assyrian tent, Wherein the king was wont to sleep and banquet in, I think if that were offered to his hands, Cyrus would take it in most gracious partly. Lady, the graces that adorn your presence, Deserves a fortune mild as it your face. But howsoever Fortune envies you, Yet we will use you honourable still. Madam, you are a captive in our hands, And captives are not to command the conquerors. And eke so does that lively face. Madam, your fa l is great and lamentable, Thus of a Queen a captive to become, This rests to show your princely fortitude, In bearing these mishaps with patient mind But they that once in state of bondage be. Must yield to hest of others that be free. It is my Lord, and every soldier pleased, Where is enclosed a jewel of such worth, As Asia hardly can afford the Like The Susian king stout Abradates Queen, A woman so richly embellished with beauty and perfection of the mind, As never any mortal creature was. Her hair as radiant as is Tagis sand, And softer than the stream on which it runs. Her lily cheeks all died with ruddy blush, Casts such reflection to the standers by, As does the union of ten thousand suns. Through her transparent neck the air does play, And makes it fairer then a Crystal glass, And from her eyes it seems nature herself, Bids every star receive his proper light. For with her glance she casts such a brightness, As makes the night more brighter than the day. And day more fairer than is Eliziur. But when she talks so pleasant is her voice, As were she blacker then the pitchy night, She would entice the hardest massagite. Or wildest Scythian in your highness camp. And when she looks upon you, were she dumb Her beauty were in stead of eloquence. And had she neither loveliness nor wit, The harmony she makes would ravish you, She weeps and plays while both her handmaids sing. And sighs at every strain using that note, Which Orpheus sings for Eruditus. with wringed hands her waiting maids keep time, Upon their mournful breasts, as were we flint, we could not choose but melt to hear their songs, wherefore my lord comfort this captive dame. And with your presence comfort her distress. Your Grace may look on her, and yet not love. Nay rather voluntary my gracious lord, you know that woman's beauty is Like fire, And fire does always burn each thing alike, Therefore if nature were of such great power, Should every man by beauty be inflamed? But beauteous things are not in equal powers, For some love that which others do abstain. Either for fear or love, to prove this true, The sister of the brother is not loved, The daughter of the father not desired, And yet some one loves any of them both. They may. They yield too much unto affections. T'is folly and not beauty makes them die. Must I confess that love is violent. By doting on my captive Panthea, I will not love, I'll bridle those affects. It cannot be resisted, I must yield, O what a tyrant is this cruel love, That drinks my blood, and makes me pale and won, That sucks my spirits, and makes me weak and faint, That tears my heart, and makes me almost dead. That revels in my brains and makes me mad. I am a soldier, and will conquer love, I'll mount me straight give me a horseman's staff, Proud love, fit fast, for now Araspas runs, Run, and scarcely stand: Oh Panthea, Thou sets my idle fantasy thus a work, and makes me speak and think I know not what. I would I might forget fair Panthea, I cannot name her but I must say fair, And that word fair makes me remember her. Panthea is ugly, black, ill favoured, fowl, And who is so beautiful as she? And I must weep for this misterming her, Why should I weep? ask I the reason Why? I have abused my love, weep not but die. Die not but live and enjoy thy love. What contrariety consisteth in my words. Oh reconcile them, lovely Panthea. Thy looks hath made me lunatic. Nay they recover me, I am half well. Panthea fit down, but fit so Panthea, As I may view thy face, or else I die. Nicasia cause the music cease, Music plays. For it is harsh and mars the harmony, Come Panthea fit down by me, and let us talk. Where Panthea goes, o frown not my fair love. What will a captive woman threat her love. No lovely Queen I'll rather end my love Then anger Panthea, much less leather die, And yet God knows my love can never end, Being infinite in measure and in time. Give me the charm, for now does Panthea sleep If it prevail this jewel shall be thine, But tell me first, how must it be applied? And in what time will it begin to work? I will. Now favour me infernal Jove. Tell me Magician, what imports this speech? Oh give me leave to court her in her sleep, It may be when she wakes she will not love? Oh let her wake, I long to talk with her. Stand thou aside until I call for thee. If Panthea be fair and beautiful, Then love and Panthea do well agree. How figurative is Panthea in her speech? Resembling cunning Rhetoricians, who in the person of some one deceased, Persuades their auditors to what they please, I cannot think that these be Panthea's words, She is so fair to give so sharp reply. But if these be the words of Panthea, Then must she change her face, and seemless fair, For know that beauty is loves harbinger, Then being beauteous, Panthea needs must love. But torments can enforce a woman's will. I, say so till you feel them Panthea. Then shalt thou live and I'll importune thee. Thus therefore shall I pine, abandou love, Oh t'is inherent to Araspas soul. And thereby claims and immortality. So it shall never begin, nor never end, A cursed Magician, are these thy wicked spells? Must Magic yield to virtue? wherefore then Didst thou assure me she should be in love; And why not being wake, speak villain speak Smooth are thy words, but rough and harsh thy sense, For they import Panthea cannot be forced. Canst thou with inchauntations make her die? That she being gone my love may follow her. Deceitful Artisan thy words are sleights, Thy words deceitful and full of guile, Wit is a witch, sweet words must conquer her, Out of my sighed, yet conceal this attempt, If thou bewray it, maugre all thy skill, This sword shall send thee to eternal hell. I fear the fury of the Persian prince Histaspis, Cyrus fury I do fear, Oh spiteful beauty that bewitched my mind, And led my fancy to such foul extremes, I will assay the mercy of my Lord, And yield my life to bazzard of his grace, My sovereign Lord in trembling fear I stay, And prostrate fallen before your highness feet, The frail affects and errors of my youth, Enforsed through follies of a wanton will, Hath cast my life in peril of your wrath, Blinded with charms of beauty I have fallen, And made my judgement subject to desire. And in pursuit of loves unbridled rage, I have transgressed the bounds of honours laws, Oh gracious Lord impute my error passed, Unto the power of proud commanding love, That led my mind and thought so far astray, Forgive those frailties of my youth, Oh king, And take your servant once again to grace, with fear of your displeasure almost slain. I know and grant my Lord, the prince abounds with peerless gifts and graces of the mind, wherewith the gods have filled his kingly breast, There nought but virtuous motions takes root, Nothing but honour harbours in that seat, And holy thoughts direct his royal deeds. That so his grace might every way be found, worthy the glory of so High a charge, Yet since these frailties that disgrace your thrall, are humane faults and incident to mind, Where strong desires hold reason under yoke, The wonted mercy of my Lord the prince, So prove in favour to the penetent, May mitigate the shame of this my fault. With sweet compassion to his princes thrall. No longer let Araspas live and breath, Then with the utmost venture of his life, He will perform what Cyrus shall command. And sacred price for this extended grace, Though in the compass of this hard affair, I leave the Assyrian faction to maintain, yet vow to bear a trusty Persian heart. And grant the gods that Cyrus still may live, happy in peace, and in arms victorious. Antiochus I'll wear it for thy sake, And for the wrong that Cyrus offered me, Unless my destiny prevent my drift, I'll quickly handsel it with Cyrus blood. I lovely Panthea Abradates wife, Albeit I have not Alexanders skill, To manage him, nor yet Achilles arms, to charge as bravely, yet as good a heart, as Alexander or Achilles ever had. And when I shrink for fear out of the field, Let me be torn in pieces with that horse, Or hewed to death with this bright cortelaux, Health unto the person of my gracious lord. This day he means to encounter with your host. In all two hundred thousand at the least, And thus in order lies his noble camp. The forestont is ten chariots, Of purpose to disranke the approaching so. Next them are fifty thousand horsemen placed, To break in where the chariots break the way, Next them five thousand staves being lightly laden with spears, helmet, naked swords, To go along to serve the horsmens use. Then twenty thousand Scythians runagates, with venomde darts, whose heads are tipped with steel, And last the battle of the Assyrians, Being hedgde with lances, as a wood with Briers. On whose heads the cross bows and the slings, will shoot and throw bullets of massy iron, Whose very fallen would strike Aclipos down, In midst whereof Antiochus will march, Before whom do a thousand bondmen draw A brazen wall built upon turning wheels, To guard him sure and his concubine, All these upon my honour I a duer. If to a Persian, it belongs to me. The enemy is near, make haste my Lord. Cyrus alas all sense of feeling is gone, His senseless limbs with stiffness overgrown, No rubbing warming, ought avails us, But pale death sits as conqueror over him. Asia hath not seen a richer prize, The covering is of blue Sydoman silk, Embroidered all with pearl and precious stones, They glimmer brighter than the Sun it self, On every point of the pavilion, There stands a princely top of Phoenix plumes, which tricked with spangle's and with silver belies, And every gentle murmur of the wind, delights the day with every harmony. The stakes wherewith t'is fastened to the ground, are massy silver of the purest proof, The ropes are all of chrimson silk and gold, Hung from the top with wrists of Ivory, Under a Vine where Bacchus bruiseth grapes, and twenty cubits hover in the leaves, Believe me Lords, when I behold the thing, The work appeared so glorious to the eye. Come Lady, you must walk apart with me, O welcome Panthea, shall I tell my grief? Something stands by and whispers in my ear, A kiss of Panthea will recover me. O love? I cannot keep it in, it bursts my heart, For thee sweet Panthea is Araspas sick. Fling not away, celestial Panthea, Though I were half dead I should follow thee. Cannot I win her, Oh unhappy man? Araspas thou wantest eloquence to woo, Against chastity no eloquence prevails, It was because I offered her no gift, She is a Queen what gifts can compass her, I should have courted her with better words, But here does love and threatening disagree, Nothing but Magic can obtain her love, If Magic will, then Panthea shall be mine. Here is Araspas lovely Panthea, For thee I'll leave the field, then leave thou him, For thee I'll leave the world, then love thou me. Let Cyrus joy in pomp and empery, Suffices me to conquer fair Panthea. Let others glory in their ground and gold, Panthea to me is twenty thousand world's. And without Panthea all the world is trash, Nay then if amorous courting will not serve, Know whither thou wilt or no I'll make thee yield, Not that alone, but many injuries, Incensed me to attempt his overthrow, For in the field wherein your father fell, I God rich armour, gold, and sumptuous tents, all which he took unto his proper use, and gave unto his special favourites, Nor had I where withal at Cyrus hands, To heal those wounds which I received in fight. In barring me of her whom I esteem, Above the valve of his Diadem. Panthea my Lord.