AMPEDO

Did but the bitterness of mine own Fortune's Infect my taste, I could paint over my cheeks With ruddy-coloured smiles: 'tis not the want Of costly diet or desire of gold, Enforce this rupture in my wounded breast. O no, our Father (if he live) does lie. Under the Iron foot of misery, And (as a Dove gripped in a Falcons claw) There pant'th for life being most assured of death. Brother, for him my soul thus languishes. Shadow, theres one for Thee, provide Thee food. Peace, Idiot, peace, my Father is returned. His soul is wandering to the Elizium shades. I am not enamoured of this painted Idol, This strumpet world; for her most beauteous looks Are poisoned baits, hung upon golden hooks, When fools do swim in wealth, her Cynthian beams Will wantonly dance on the silver streams: But when this squinteide age sees virtue poor, And by a little spark sits shivering, Begging at all, relieved at no men door, She miles on her (as the Sun shines on fire) To kill that little heat, and with her frown Is proud, that she can tread poor virtue down: Therefore her wrinkled brow makes not mine sour, Her gifts are toys, and I deride her power. The sons of Fortunatus had not wont, Thus to repine at others happiness: But fools have always this lose garment wore, Being poor themselves, they wish all others poor, Fie, brother Andelocia, hate this madness, Turn your eyes inward, and behold your soul, That wants more then your body: burnish that With glittering Virtue: and make Idiots grieve, So see your beauteous mind in wisdom shine, As you at their rich poverty repine. Go, fool, in spite of mirth, thou shalt be sad. I'll bury half thy pleasures in a graven Of hungry flames, this fire I did ordain To burn both purse and Hat: as this does perish, So shall the other: count what good and bade They both have wrought, the good is to the ill, As a small Bible to a mighty hill. Thy glory and thy mischiefs here shall burn, Good gifts abuzde to men confusion turn. I am, but he did never do you wrong. My brother Andelocia has the purse, This way heel come anon to pass to court, Alas, that sin should make men's hearts so bold, To kill their souls for the base thirst of gold. The wishing Hat is burned. O, 'tis my Father, With these tears of joy, My love and duty greet your fair return: A double gladness hath refreshed my soul; One, that you live, and one, to see your fate Looks freshly howsoever poor in state. Believe me, Sir, I hear not any thing. Father, if heaven have blessed you once again, Let not and open hand disperse that store; Which gone, life's gone: for all tread down the poor. Thus wanton revelling breeds beggary. Brother, it better that you still lived poor. Want would make wisdom rich: but when your Coffers Swell to the brim, then riot sets up sails, And Like a desperate unskilled Mariner Drives your steady Fortune's on the point Of wrack inevitable; of all the wealth, Left (by our Father, when he left us last) This little is unspent, and this being wasted, Your riot ends; therefore consume it all, I'll live; or dying, find some burial. Thanks for my crowns. Oh miserable invocation. A very lean argument. By my consent thou shouldst still live by hunger. Villain, why hast thou chalked my Father's back? How should you be transformed I see no change. The frosty hand of age now nips your blood, And strews her snowle flowers upon your head, And give you warning that within few years, Death needs must marry you: those short lines minutes, That dribble out your life, must needs be spent, In peace not travel: rest in Cyprus then. Could you survey ten world's, yet you must die; And bitter is the sweet thats reaped thereby. Why, brother, are not all these vanities: But tell me, father, have you in all courts Beheld such glory, so majestical? In all perfection? no way blemished? Why droops my father? these are only shadows, Raised by the malice of some enemy, To fright your life, over which they have no power. What benefit did from your choice arise? But hath this golden virtue never failed? Hence, hence, thou stoppest the tide of my true tears. True grief is dumb, though it hath open ears. What is impossible? what canst not get? The poison of their scorn infects not him; He wants no help. See where he breathless lies: Brother, to what place have you born his body? Nor I: a leaden slumber pressed mine eyes. And in that sleep (me thought) I herd the tunes Of sullen passion apt for Funerals, And saw my Father's liveless body born By Satires: Oh I fear that deity Hath stolen him hence, that Snudge his destiny. Will you then violate our Father's Will? Do as you please, the sin shall not be mine. Fools call those things profane, that are divine. I am content to bear all discontents. Exit. For shame cast off this Mask. Mock me no longer With idle apparitions: many a land Have I with weary feet and a sick soul Measured, to find Thee; and when thou art found, My greatest grief is, that thou art not lost: Yet lost thou art, thy fame, thy wealth are lost, Thy wits are lost, and thou hast in their stead, With shame and cares, and misery crowned thy head. That Shadow that pursues Thee, filled mine ears With sad relation of thy wretchedness, Where is the purse, and where my wishing Hat? Oh, how I grieve, to see him thus transformed? Yet from the circles of my jealous eyes, He shall not start, till he have repossessed Those virtuous Jewels, which found once again, More cause they never shall give me to complain. Their worth shall be consumed in murdering flames, And end my grief, his riot, and our shames. Exit. Brother, what mysteries lie in all this? I had more need to cry, away to Thee. Away, away with this wild lunacy, Away with riots. Uncivil: wherefore must I taste your spite? O tyranny, you need not scorn the badge which you did bear: Beasts would you be, though horns you did not wear. Thy riot and the wrong of these two Lords, Who (causeless) thus do starve me in this prison. In want, in misery, in woe and care, Poor Ampedo his fill hath surfeited: My want is famine, bolts my misery, My care and woe should be thy portion. Oh folly, thou hast pour to make flesh glad, When the rich soul in wretchedness is clad. But this sad night will make and end of me. Brother, farewell, grief, famine, sorrow, want, Have made and end of wretched Ampedo. Consumed in fire. Wanton farewell, I faint, death's frozen hand Congeals life's little River in my breast. No man before his end is truly blessed. Dies.