KING

Nay if your pleasures shrink at sighed of us, We shall repent this labour, Mistress Bride You that for speaking but one word to day Must lose your head at night; you that do stand Taking your last leave of virginity; You that being well begun, must not be Maid: Win you the Ladies, S the men will woo, Our self will lead my blushing Bride with you. We thank you good Sir Vaughan, we will take your meaning not your words. But I see thou darest not. Yea, this night, tush thy mind repairs not, The more thou talkest of night, the more thou darest not; Thus far I tend, I wood but turn this sphere, Of Ladies eyes, and place it in the Court, Where thy fair Bride should for the Zodiac shine, And every Lady el e fit for a sign. But all thy thoughts are yellow, thy sweet blood Rebels, th'art jealous What; thus with proud revels To emmulate the masking firmament, Where Stars dance in the silver Hall of heaven, Thy pleasure should be seasoned, and thy bed Relish thy Bride, But, but thou darest not What. What Terrill th'art ill suited, ill made up, In Sable colours, Like a night piece died, Comest thou the Prologue of a Mask in black; Thy body is ill shaped; a Bridegroom too? Look how the day is dressed in Silver cloth, Laid round about with golden Sunbeams: so (As white as heaven) should a fresh Bridegroom go. What? Caelestine the Bride, in the same task? Nay then I see ther's mystery in this mask. Prithee resolve me What? And poisoned? What villain durst blaspheme her beauty's, or Profane the clear religion of her eyes. What busy fellow's this? Good words Sir Vau han, I prithee give us leave. That turn fair Bride shows you must turn at night, In that sweet dance which steals away delight. True, he S the thief, but women the receiver. This change sweet Maid, says you must change your life, As Virgins do. But she that die a Maid;— Leads Apes in hell. Well met. Why fair sweet? Your blood speaks Like a coward, A coward blood, why whom should maidens fear? Only my heart takes measure of thy beauty. Sir Walter Terrill. Thy Bride, thy choice, thy wife, She that is now thy fathom, thy new world, That brings thee people, and makes little subjects; Kneel at thy feet, obey in every thing, So every Father is a private King. Do not backbite her beauty's, they all shine, Brighter on thee, because the beams are thine, To thee more fair, to others her two lips Show Like a parted Moon in thine Eclipse; That glance, which lovers amongst themselves devise, Walks as invisible to other eyes: Give me thine ear. Thou darest not What. Thou darest not What: let to night be to morrow, Thou darest not What Speak that again. Again kind What, and then I know thou darest. To Court? Why, she's confirmed in thee; I now approve her, If constant in thy thoughts who then can move her? I go good Knight; What thy oath. My song of parting does this burden bear; A ki e the Ditty, and I S to it here. Your lips are well in tune, strung with delight, By this fair Bride remember soon at night: Sir Walter. Till then my leave commend. Why so, even thus the Mercury of Ushers th'ambrosiate banquet of the Gods, When a long train of Angels in a rank, Serve the first course, and bow their Crystal knees, Before the Silver table; where Jove's page Sweet Ganymede fills Nectar: when the Gods. Drink healths to Kings, they pledge them; none but Kings Dare pledge the Gods; none but Gods drink to Kings. Men of our house are we prepared? The Bride? Yea, every senseless thing, which she beholds, Will look on her again, her eyes reflection, Will make the walls all eyes, with her perfection: Observe me now, because of Masks and Revels, And many nuptial ceremonies: Mark, This I create the Presence, here the State, Our Kingdoms seat, shall fit in honours Pride, Like pleasures Queen, there will I place the Bride: Be gone, be speedy, let me see it done. A King in Love, is Steward to himself, And never scorns the office, my self buy, All glances from the Market of her eye. Found Music, thou sweet suitor to the air, Now woo the air again this is the hour, Writ in the Calendar of time, this hour, Music shall spend, the next and next the Bride; Her tongue will read the Music-lecture: What I love thee What, because thou art not wise; Not deep-read in the volume of a man, Thou never sawest a thought, poor soul thou thinkest, The heart and tongue is cut out of one piece, But th'art deceived, the world hath a false light, Fools think 'tis day, when wise men know 'tis night. Now—the spirit of Love ushers my blood. Come Bride, the Scene of blushing entered first, Your cheeks are settled now, and passed the worst; Un asks her A mystery? o none plays here but death, This is death's motion, motionles; speak you, Flatter no longer; thou her Bridegroom; thou Her Father speak. How? Do not confound me quite; for mine own gilded, Speaks more within me then thy tongue contains; Thy sorrow is my shame: yet herein springs, oy out of sorrow, boldness ont of sham ; For I by this have found, once in my life, A faithful subject, thou a con tant wife. Am I confounded twice? Blasted with wonder. Mirror of Maidens, wonder of thy name, I give thee that art given, pure, chaste, the same Here What: I would not partly (for the world's pride) So true a Bridegroom, and so chaste a Bride. Dreadful in his proportion or his pen? If a clear merit stand upon his praise, Reach him a Poets Crown (the honoured Baize) But if he claim it, wanting right thereto, (As many bastard Sons of Poesy do) Raze down his usurpation to the ground. rue Poets are with Art and Nature Crowned. But in what mould so ere this man be east; We make him thine Crispinus, wit and judgement, Shine in thy numbers, and thy soul I know, Will not go armed in passion gainst thy foe: Therefore be thou our self; while our self , But as spectator of this Scene of wit. Not under us, but next us take thy Seat, " Arts nourished by Kings make Kings more great, Use thy Authority. What news with thee Sir Vaughan? Sir Vaughan, what's this jolly Captains name? How? counterfeit? does he usurp that name? Our spirits have well been feasted; he whose pen Draws both corrupt, and clear blood from all men: (Careless what vein he pricks) let him not rave, When his own fides are struck, blows, blows, do crave. He glue thee Kingly honour: Night and Sleep, With silken Ribbons would tie up our eyes, But Mistress Bride, one measure shall be led, In scorn of Midnights hast and then to bed. Horace, what's he sir Vaughan? I neither know that Horace, nor mine anger, If as thou sayest our high and princely choler Be up, we'll tread it down with dances; Ladies Lose not your men; fair measures must be tread, When by so fair a dancer you are led. Beauty out of her bounty, thee hath lent, More then her own with liberal extent.