MNESTER

My heart that never yet shr nk begins to throb, And my good Genius whispers in mine care A fair retreat; I am fair warned, and yet I waver doubtful. That's certain death, I, I that in Pompey's, spacious Theater Acted the noble virtues of true man, When the fair piercing lines so much prevailed, I felt a sacred flame run through my brains, And in this Orb of men circumference, My self at furious war within my self, That in my life's sweet sequel, I still strived Wrestled with flesh and blood to imitate The good I then presented, but now, a Coward plague, or else some F end raised from the Pit of fear, hath all my goodness to a Perjod dropped; and I Like chaff, blown on this Wide world's stage, am now to act my own partly, Which must be vicious now, lust stung vicious With Rome's majestic Empress, whose command Strikes dead in the refusal, dead; a word That quakes even the most valiant He, though least Expressed, if by escape I think my self Secure in some remote soil, her revenge Will with the self same stroke there strike me dead, Among petty eminent persons now 'tis Common; then Princes cannot fail, their Arms Are long and large, compulsion bids me on Who ere shall read my story then shall say It's forced compulsion, and not rich reward, No high Court favourers made Menester sin. Alii largitianis aut spei magnitudine sibi ex necestitate Culpam. Tacit. lib. 11. Enchanting earth's temptation is in vain, He basely, basely sins that sins for gain. If not for gain, shall I commit for fear, For fear to die, I must, I will not, keep There my mind, and with chased fortitude Oh be my bar to this lascivious act, And cleave me to the Centre ere I yield, Your pardon glorious Empress, Ther's something in me works so powerful, I dare not, dare not yield to your content. Men a weak Bulrush; all his fortitude Brittle at best; witness these tentered, limbs, Witness the Rack, which tears me from the sighed Of sacred virtue; whose just anger now, Like a worser nyed wooer puts me off, Blushing and despairing; eaven out of sighed Men out of heart, all virtues loose their light. Was men ere blessed with that excess of joy Equal to ours; to us that feel no want Of high court favours life's licentiousness; Kings have their cares, and in their highest state, Want those free pleasures crowns us fortunate. When I commemorate her excellence, How lavish lovely dalliance free proceeds From that rarity of perfection, Oh How I'm ravished; ravished in thought as well, As with the Act; which breeds no wonder though High Jove transhap't him to Amphitrio To taste the pleasure of Alemena's bed; Needs must such prodigal sweets mad thoughts of Men; when power attract the Gods Let it come. This mine From that concerns the credits of best men Which of us three in our affections prized Your excellence most. Mine yield profuse expense. Not Ninus, Was ever more dull, more easily entrap Then Rome's ridiculous Em'prour Claudius. None, not the least let; The people that are the Nerves of Empire All for the virtues of your noble Sire, Dearly affect you; boldly rely on't At publication of this copious grant They'll add all majesty to your high fame. Why? did you never hear of a fellow, that By the scratching of his nimble pate, Worked your best pleasing project for a mask, Was well rewarded for't, when such as you For pains in song and dances laughed to scorn Poor simple sots their payment was the horn. That's slow enough and dull at this time. Oh petulant pureness of defiled pitch, But you forget what actors are prepared In readiness for practice gainst the Masque. Alas, his horns forked Like and aged Oak, Are grown too great, to huge to enter Room. Black blots of infamy to endless fame Wu'd write our Epitaphs, if basely fly. Where were the noble minds of Brutus then, Brave Cassius, and Tytinnius hate to life, We win no glory in our death's by that, Our selves against our selves give guilty, Only beg mercy from the Gods. This Tragic end is the most welcome partly I ever graced with Actium; it's the best, Oh homo fragilis, specta volupta es abeuntes. Man is and Actor, and the world the Stage Where some do laugh, some weep, some sing, some rage, All in their Parts during the Scene of breath Act follies, scourged by the Tragedian death. My Sun is set in blood; fly soul and catch "At a more glorious being, farewell breath, "Man's never in the way to joy till death. Die. Nor thou, nor he, Not Valens nor Proculus though you both, Both durst as much as he durst cuckold Jove Menester would transcend you.