AGRIPYNE

Not so, for when her soul steals into her heart, and her heart leaps up to her eyes, and her eyes drop into her hands, then if she say, Heres my hand, she's your own, else never. My kind prisoners well encountered, the Prince of Cyprus here and my self have been wrangling about a question of love: My Lord of Orleans, you look lean, and likest a lover; Whither is it more torment to love a Lady and never enjoy her, or always to enjoy a Lady, whom you cannot choose but hate? No more, no more, good Orleans, nay then I see my prisoner is in love too. Me thinks, a Soldier is the most faithful lover of all men else: for his affection stands not upon compliment: his wooing is plain homespun stuff: theres no outlandish thread in it, no Rhetoric: a Soldier casts no figures to get his mistress heart, his love is Like his valour in the field, when he pays downright blows. No, but I mean, I love a Soldier best, for his plain dealing. Be it so, that goodness I Like: for what Lady can abide to love a Spruce silken face Courtier, that stands every morning two or three hours learning how to look by his Glass, how to speak by his Glass, how to sighs by his glass, how to court his Mistress by his Glass. I would wish him no other plague, but to have a Mistress as brittle as glass. What madmen are not possessed with this love? yet by my troth, we poor women do but smile in our sleeves to see all this foppery: yet we all desire to see our lovers attire gallantly, to hear them sing sweetly, to be hold them dance comely and such Like; but this apish monkey fashion of effeminate niceness, out upon it: O, I hate it worse then to be counted a scold. So think not I: for as there is no reason to hate any that love us, so it were madness to love all that do not hate us: women are created beautiful, only because men should woo them: for it miserable tyranny to enjoin poor women to woo men: I would not hear of a woman in love for my father's kingdom. Nor I: but we had all rather die then confess we love; our glory is to hear men sighs while we smile, to kill them with a frown, to strike them dead with a sharp eye, to make you this day wear a feather, and to morrow a sick nightcap: O, why this is rare, there's a certain deity in this, when a Lady by the Magic of her looks, can turn a man into twenty shapes. Poor Orleans, how lamentably he looks: if he stay, heel make me surely love him for pure pity. I must send him hence, for of all sorts of love. I hate the French: I pray thee, sweet prisoner, entreat Lord Longauile to come to me presently. Watch him, watch him for Gods sake, if he sighs not or look not back. Nay, no mystery, 'tis as plain as Cupid's before head: why this is as it should be: And esteem my self more then happy, that you will employ me: my French prisoner is in love over head and ears. With his keeper, for a good wager: Ah, how glad is he to obey? And how proud am I to command in this Em pire of affection? Over him and such Spungy-liuerd youths, (that lie soaking in love) I triumph more with mine eye, then ever he did over a Soldier with his sword. Is't not a gallant victory for me to subdue my Father's enemy with a look? Prince of Cyprus, you were best take heed, how you encounter and English Lady. God bless me from suffering you to love me, if you be not so formable. No other service but this, that (as Orleans) you love me, for no other reason, but that I may torment you. I'll try this strangers cunning in a dance. Whats the reason? Cowardliness or pride? Its a sign, that either your women are very black, & are glad to be sped, or your men very found, & will take no denial. But your men more venturous at a breach then you, or else they are all dastardly soldiers. Does my Spanish prisoner deny to dance? He has sworn to me by the cross of his pure Toledo, to be my servant: by that oath (my Castilian prisoner) I conjure you to show your cunning, though all your body be not free, I am sure your heels are at liberty. The Spaniards dance, is as his deeds be, full of pride. I have found the sacred spring that never ebbs. Leave us: Exit Lady. But isle not shew't your majesty, Till you have sworn by England's royal crown, To let me keep it. Then is this mine: see, Father, here's the fire, Whose gilded beams still burn, this is the Sun, That ever shines, the tree that never die, Here grows the Garden of Hesperides, The outside mocks you, makes you think 'tis poor, But entering it, you find eternal store. Fear not his waking yet, I made him drink That soporiferous Juice which was composed, To make the Queen (my Mother) relish sleep, When her last sickness sommond her to heaven. He sleeps profoundly: when his amorous eyes Had singde their wings in Cupid's wanton flames, I set him all on fire, and promised love: In pride whereof, he drew me forth this purse, And swore, by this he multiplied his gold. I tried and found it true: and secretly Commanded Music with her silver tongue, To chime soft lullabies into his soul, And while my fingers wantond with his hair, (T'intice the sleepy Juice to charm his eyes) In all points was there made a purse, Like his, Which counterfeit is hung in place of this. What devil art thou that affrightest me thus, Haling a Princess from her father's court, To spoil her in this savage wilderness? I am betrayed: this is the Cypriot. Forgive me, it not I that change thy purse, But Athelstan my Father, send me home, And heres thy purse again: here are thy Jewels, And I in satisfaction of all wrongs. Enjoin what pains thou wilt, & isle endure them, so thou wilt send me to my father's court. Oh, do not violate my chastity. If I must die, doom me some easier death. What will my gentle Andelocia do? I pray Thee Andelocia, let me go: Send me to England, and by heaven I swear, Thou from all kings on earth my love shalt bear. In faith, in faith thou shalt. O God. I care not for the world, thou murdrest me, Between my sorrow, and the scalding Sun I faint, and quickly will my life be done, My mouth is Like a Furnace, and dry heat Drinks up my blood. O God, my heart will burst, I die, unless some moisture quench my thirst. Climb up for Gods sake, reach me some of them. This hath a withered face, 'tis some sweet fruit. Not that, my sorrows are too sour already. Oh, I for Gods sake, gather some of these. Ay me, would God I were at home again. Climes up. Oh England, shall I never behold Thee more? Yet gather some of them. O, that a Princess Should pine for food: were I at home again, I should disdain to stand thus and complain. Make hast, for the hight Sun does scald my cheeks. I had not wont be Sunburnt, wretched Me. Oh England, would I were again in Thee. Exit. He leaps down. In heaven or hell, in or without the world, I know not which, for as I oft have seen (When angry Thamesis hath curled her locks,) A whirlwind come, and from her frizeld brows, Snatch up a handful of those sweaty pearls, That stood upon her forehead, which awhile, Being by the boisterous wind hung in the air, At length hath flung them down and raised a storm. Even with such fury was I wherried up, And by such force held prisoner in the clouds, And thrown by such a tempest down again. I have the purse safe, and anon your grace Shall hear this wondrous history at full. My choice must be my Father's fair consent. Damasco apples? good my Lord Montrose, Call yonder fellows. The fairest fruit that ever I beheld, Damasco apples, wherefore are they good? Three crowns for one? what wondrous virtues have they? These Irishmen, Some say, are great dissemblers, and I fear, These two the badge of their own country wear. I'll try what pawer lies in Damasco fruit. Here are ten crowns for three, So fare you well. Your majesty fights with no mortal power. Shame and not conquest, hangs upon his strife. Oh, touch me not, you add but pain to pain, The more you cut, the more they grow again. All grief to Agripyne. Lock me in some cave, Where staring wonders eye shall not be guilty To my abhorred looks, and I will die To Thee, as full of love as misery. Desire to look more fair, makes me more soul, Those apples did entice my wandering eye, To be enamord of deformity. Father, I am in fear to taste his physic. First let him work experiments on those. Oh try thy sacred Physic on me. There's nothing in the world, but may for gold Be bought in England, hold your lap isle rain A shower of Angels. Help, Father, help, I am hurried hence perforce. Oh gentle Andelocia pity me, Take off this infamy, or take my life. Oh gentle Andelocia. Oh gentle Andelocia. But say you should be compelled to swallow y e poison. Hold him in this mind, sweet Cupid, I conjure thee. Oh, what music these hey-hoes make? I was about to cast my little little self into a great love trance for him, fearing his heart had been flint: but since I see 'tis pure virgin wax, he shall melt his belly full: for now I know how to temper him. Exit. Talk not of love, good Orleans, but of hate. You shall: conditionally, that you never beg for mercy. Come, my Lord of Galloway. This curious heap of wonders, (which and Empress Gave him) he gave me, and by Venus hand, The warlike Amorato needs would swear, He left his country Cyprus for my love.