HORATIO

Divine invention, Oh how I could hug, And Like and amorous Lover court thy beauty, That crownst me King of pleasures! were my brain Fordg'dout of vulgar metal without fire, And sprightly motion, my big-swollen Hope's, Had be stillborn, but when dejected minds, Out slept the golden pleasure of the night: My serious meditations have outwatched, The glorious tapers that attend the Moon: I turned my thoughts into a thousand shapes: Moulded the fashion of ten thousand plots, Liked and disliked so many, that my brain The mother of Invention grew barren, Almost passed bearing, still my labouring thoughts Conceived a yet more strange and quaint Idea, Gave it proportion, and I brought it forth: And that blessed infant of Invention Beyond all hope hath my contentment won, And that's Loves heaven I love a face more fair Then Cinthe as hue that seems above compare, But hell, her husband with a jealous eye Ushers her steps, o wedded slavery! This tender rose, whom artless marriage, Hath grafted on a nettle (testy age) Have I ungrafted, made himself untie The knot of wedlock: thanks sweet industry. And here a comes, that which most heaps my fame, His wit's well spoken of. Ha a quick wit. I know't my Lord. I know your honour's wise. What was the cause? How Justice Slender glories in the plot, Which to deceive him, my full brain begotten? But to his wife, true virtue though disgraced, She's now half wooed because she's thought un chased Her sexes credit, or discredit thrives In the outward shape and fashion of their lives, and be a woman's virtues never so strong. Her honour's weighed upon discourses tongue. Be her same sullied, were her thoughts as bright As Innocence, the world would count her light. For though amongst women, most are beauteous, They that please time are counted virtuous, And in this hope, isle to the Countess go, She's counted light, Love grant I find her so. Exit. Madam. Madam. In passion Lady. Be not, be counseled, do not let despair, Like the rank cancer bred by sultry air. Eat this young Rose of beauty in the bud: But in the April Sun of youthful blood Let the sweet blossom ripen, thrive and grow, To those full joys which none but Lovers know. You are, by love you are, Not fair, you are: Leanders paramour: Compared with you was a swarth Blackamour Your hair is softer then the Colchean Fleece, Your well limed features, nature's master piece Your eyes too Diamonds, set in purer mould Then rocks of currall, or the Indian gold. In thy smooth chin there is and Ivory pit, Where blushing Ʋ enus and young Cupid fit, Feathering of golden shafts, the wounding heads, Made of thy mber tresses finest threads. Yet fair, isle bid fair for you ere I go, By heaven a does not. This my discourse intends, Were husbands Saints, some wives would have close friends. Husbands but for't, true, woot? prithee woot thou? Love-tricks quickly, wilt thou prithee. Credit? life a man, What talks of credit? art not known a strumpet? Damnation, what a gloss, This gilded copper, Diamond of glass, What strange show it makes? isle give you a colot Your face was never worse painted, then isle paint Your Wain-fcot credit, you are a private bit, Kept for some great made Dives. Read hight scandal Suck the native colour of your souls As it hath scorched thy credit, shriueld Bawed, Sponge, Lemon-pill, and more irrelishable Then ore-dride Stockfish, fie. Swear thou art my strumpet. Oh my honoured Lord, Our souls and our affections are made all of one fashion now the slightest wrong that scars the reputation of my friend, stabs daggers to my heart. Yes. Your wife. Amongst her lustful Mates, She shame's not to give out, that by your greatness, knowledge, credit, and friends in highest place, You have divorced her without endue desert. I cannot counsel, but fore-god my Lord, My lodgings mightily annoyed with rats, That eat my papers and deface my books How should I rid them. Yes. That she shall never swell on't. A Limb of Satan. Destruction. Ratsbane doo't? The Rate shall die. Save you fair Ladies, madam, my business leads me to you. Come, these words of course My fame, mine honour, and my deer respect: Are but Like Ignes fatui to delude, Green and unseasoned wits, pry thee be kind, A guilded slip carries as fair a show, As perfect gold, gilded honour may do so Come, thy distinctions sold Let not thy April beauty Like a Rose, Fade in the bud, and ripened pleasures loose, My sword thy honour: thy estate my purse, Shall man and worser strenghten, Your husband hath a sweet heart: 'Tis dead already, every idle tongue, Stabs it to death. Thou wrongest thy self & spurnest thy proper good Am I not youthful see my wanton blood Danceth within my veins, and blushing, Courts Thy generous beauty to more amorous sports, You shall not choose. I love the e deer. Dost thou? I was made of hope. and rich performance waits upon my words. To morrow, the hour eight. As life. Swell heart, hold bosom, yield not to relent, and yet her beauty, colourable trash, Her virtues, vengeance Hypocritical, I love her, fury, poison, Hidra's gall, Impatience man me, black damnation Usher my practice, poison play thy partly, and do my latest greetings to her heart. We all must down, yet here the difference lies. Many for sins, she for her virtue die. Faith after a sort, I love a good smooth face And forty more. I would to night, upon condition That I might bury her to morrow, God Boy. Hum, I cannot tell, The Countess drunk and died. Farewell. On Mules and she Asses. Then keep a leash of Wenches. Had she uruiu'd Time— But now she's dtad. Had she be living, golden promises, The smooth Attorneys to a Lovers tongue Might have in time solicited my suit, Gifts might have pleaded, mournful Elegies, Told her my passion, had she be composed Of steel or flint, nay, made of women's hearts, The most obdurate mettle, Time and Art, But she is dead, o hell! and in her tomb. My Hope's are buried. To all these bade misfortunes should the Corn use any tricks? Yet I regard not. Say a complain? He contrived her death and cannot wrong me, I cannot rest, my gilded keeps open mine eyes. My passion rips my bosom, and my blood Is turned to poisoned water, and so swells, That my vexed soul, endures a thousand hels. If I chance slumber, then I dream of Serpents, Toads, altogether, and such venomous evils, As hale me from my sleep Like forked Devils, Midnight, thou Aethiope, Empress of black souls, Thou general Bawd to the whole word, I salute thee, Wishing thy poison dropped upon my brain, For my so rude, so rash, so heedless murder, In the ambition & the height of lust, Not giving my blood liberty to cool. To poison such a beauty, Oh black Fate! Thus many killed, too soon repent too late. Soft, stay, this sames the chilly monument, That huggs her body in his marble arms. Thou gentle soul of my deceased love? Oh, Wertenberg but possible to enjoy thy voice, Thy sweet Harmonious voice, I should be blessed, But Eene to dally with thy silables, Oh tomb. Countess, soul shadow, shadow speak again Hudge wrongs indeed, but charitable soul, What ransom shall I pay thee for thy life? Pardon forgive me, shall I go? But shall your hate pursue me, I or no? Adieu my grief and isle go sleep. It was no Ghost, subtle opinion, Working in men decayed faculties, Cuts out and shapes illusive fantasies, And our weak apprehensions Like wax, Receive the From, and presently convey Unto our dull imagination. And hereupon we ground a thousand lies, As that we see Devils rattling their chains, G astes of dead men, variety of spirits, When our own guilty conscience is the hell. and our black thoughts, the Caverns where they dwell: Yet sure this was her shadow, for I hear Her last words found still dancing in mine ear. Then gentle soul if thou be'st yet vnthronde, Answer one question and no more. May my hearts true repentance satisfy, My with full murder, your reply. I loved her, wood her, my hight love denied Change into hate, I poisoned her, she died. And you laid the plot Do, the world shall prove My heart's as bold to die as twa's to love. Make room deer Madam, law this leave does give To die by thee with whom I could not live, 'Sblood I gave her poison. What shall I do then? For such as haue't. How the daw Scours over his rusty phrases? honoured Count, How grows your plot? My Hope's are prevalent. But does her brother swallow This gross abuse? See where a comes, his sad complexion wears, Griefs mourning livery, he is clothed in tears. Not yet, but I'll take order that it shall. It merits none, the shame's nor yours nor his, That foot's even made that never treads a miss, Beauty came first from Heaven, Prometheus, Stole it to make proud women bewteous, Now, stolen goods thrive not: women steal from men Then blame not them to seek their own again. Kings have for this be felons, and 'tis proved, He never was divine that never loved. Custom you prove, And what's more Ancient then to pilfer louet Then bury grief, If this be felony, my self's a thief. He is a towards Prince. That dares Horatioes. Vd's Hartlings do? Thy husband, Oh thy husbands bow-leg'd fame Death I shall hate thee. Shalt not deny't, heart, canst not. Doo't for thy life, thy soul, base courtesan. Your ear, be wood, what should beget this coins Were I a stranger, or some City Gull I would commend thee, but I know the world. Lodging is costly, maintenance asks charge: Thou art divorced and hast no other help, But thy bore comings in: accept my Love, I w ill allow thee twenty pound a quarter. To buy thee Pins. No, isle believe thee Phoenix of thy sex, I glory in thy virtues, and reveal, What by my oath I promised to conceal. Your jealous husband vrgde me to this try all, Pawning his oath upon your strict deny all, all bastard Jealousy should be exiled, and ancient love entirely reconsilde. I touched your heart, and now I find it true, I'll give you notice, isle impoison you. A roated Phoenix were excellent good for that Lady. Fare ech'd and deer bought, is good for you know hwo. I for Ladies. For knaves. I shall never be loved. I cannot drink, God boy. What is a man? heart a the Devil mere fools, His rich invention, Machiavellian plots: Idle illusive antic fantasies. Apelles grapes, I had as full a brain, Fertile invention and as forward Hope's, As man could father, or his wit bring forth: Yet in a minute in bubbles age, The venomdfury of a bitter spleen, Confounded all, forgetful that I was, Women are moulded out of bashfulness: And must be drawn to kindness by degrees. All this I knew. This comfort yet which many want I have, To follow my fair Fortune's to the graven. Oh heart! What should I speak, my hate, or thy huge wrongs? My life? Discourteous air, My blood is frozen with despair. Thanks, thousand thanks, and so farewell. The bane of murder is despair and hell. And if you think I lie, Ask Lurdo, his damned tongue will answer I.