Pal. That's not her voice: no, now I see her

plain,

"Tis an owl in an ivy-bush.

Clown. I'm glad he takes me for an owl: now if I could but cry like one-tu-whit, to-who.

Pal. Oh, 'tis my love! she says I come to woo; "Tis true:

Come down, dear love; or stay, I come to thee. Clown. No, no, no! I come, I come down to thee. He'll break my neck, if he get up once. [Comes down.

Pal. Alas! poor heart, how pale and black, she

looks;

I think she's almost starv'd: she's black i̇' th'

mouth!

See, here's a banquet: come, sit down, my love. Clown. I'm glad o' this, we shall feed again. Pal. Yet stay: now I remember,

Those that are kept from victuals a long time, Must not be cloyed too much for fear they surfeit. Clown. I warrant you, my love, I will not feed. Pal. No, do not feed.

Clown. Yes, yes, a little.

Pal. No, 'tis dangerous; we'll first to sea, And purge the blood that dims thy rosy cheeks. Clown. Let's fill our bellies, and we shall purge the better.

Pal. It is not good to purge on a full stomach. Come, we'll embark us in this hollow tree, And sail to Jericho. Music, shall we dance?

[Wild and irregular music. Clown. Ay, ay, we'll dance to Jericho.

[They dance off the stage like madmen.

Scene Delphi. Temple of Apollo. A Table is set out with Tapers: solemn Music. Enter a PRIEST and two THRACIAN LORDS: whilst the Music is playing the PRIEST performs certain Ceremonies; after that the Music ceases, and he speaks.

Priest. Know, sacred goddess, these are sent From fertile Thrace, whose discontent

By noisome sickness is increas'd:
But how, or when it shall be ceas'd,
Their King Pheander craves resolve;
The reason of his country's grief,
And when they shall regain relief?

[Pithia speaks from above, behind the cur

tains.

Pith. The ireful gods with full consent,
Have plagu'd the Thracian continent;
Their court and country woe shall sing,
For the transgression of their king;
Who, 'gainst all right and piety,
Hath quite expel'd pure chastity:
But for the time when plagues shall end,
This schedule to the king I send;
Wherein at large is full express'd

When all your woe shall be redress'd.

[Throws down a paper.

Priest. (Reads.) Content shall keep in town

and field,

When Neptune from his waves shall yield

A Thracian Wonder; and as when

It shall be prov'd 'mongst Thracian men,

That lambs have lions to their guides,
And seas have neither ebbs nor tides;
Then shall a shepherd from the plain,
Restore your health and crown again.
The oracle pronounces still obscure;
But what is writ, is truth most sure:
Though ne'er so hard to you it seem,

Time will make clear what you misdeem. [Exit.

1 Lord. But we that time shall never live to see. What Thracian Wonder can the sea-waves yield? Lambs ne'er will have stern lions for their guide: Or when will seas leave off their ebbs and tides? 2 Lord. Never, oh, never!

1 Lord. Then ne'er shall Thrace be bless'd.

But we will bear this problem to the king,
And let him know that for his tyranny,
His subjects suffer this calamity.

[Exeunt.

Scene changes to the Coast of Thrace-Enter ANTIMON and ARIADNE.

Ant. Minion, take heed; turn not my proffered love,

By peevishness and folly to disdain; for if thou dost-

Ariad. You'll turn me out of all;

I know it is the sequel of your words,
Which I, unhappy wretch, must undergo:
Were every lamb increas'd unto a flock,
And every flock to thousands multiplied,
I must not love you.

Ant. You must not?

Ariad. And worse,

I must for ever hate you if you name
But love again; I must ungrateful be

For all the courtesies you have bestowed.
Love, or the thought of it, to me,

Is like the talon of a soaring hawk
Striking a silly dove, it murthers me.

Ant. So, you are sensible of your own grief,
But no other pity; I am wounded too,
But you feel it not.

Ariad. Where are you wounded, sir?

Ant. Even at the heart: I'm wounded for thy love.

Ariad. If I could see it bleed, I should believe 't.
Ant. You would; I thank you heartily for that.
Ariad. Sure, sir, I think you would not fear a
wound:

Cold and decaying nature has made you
Strike free; you have no blood to die with;
You're now buried in your skin's sear-cloth;
And would you warm that monumental robe
At love's fire in your grave?

Ant. Scorn'd and abus'd? 'tis long of Menalcas.
Go! with that hand preserved thee from the wrack
Of the devouring billows, that ravenous
And merciless assembly of salt drops,

That charitable hand, that long hath been
The tender foster-father to thy wants;

With that hand now I turn thee off: turn thou
Thy face no more to any house of mine;
I'll burn them all ere they shall cover thee.
Thou wert my joy, but this thy scornful spite,
Has made me hate where I took most delight.

[Exit. Ariad. My sweet Eusanius! It is his loss Makes me unfortunate; that weighty grief Followed by mercies, yet wert thou the chief;

Where'er thou art, Fate in spite send me hither, Though in the arms of death we meet together.

Enter TITYRUS; he sings.

I loved a lass, (alas! my folly),

Was full of her coy disdaining;

I courted her thus: what shall I, sweet Dolly,
Do for thy dear love's obtaining?

At length I did dally so long with my Dolly,
That Dolly, for all her faining,

Had got such a mountain above her valley,
That Dolly came home complaining.

Ariad. Oh, misery, misery! which way should I turn from thee?

Tit. Ha! there's a foolish lover, upon my life a female heigho, i'faith. Alas, poor heart, why dost thou sit dejected? pretty soul, he is a hardhearted stubborn clown, I warrant him, whate'er he is; but I hold him the wiser man for't though: will he not do, filthy churl as he is? Poor heart, would I had a heart could pity thee.

Ariad. Whate'er you are, sir,

My miseries have not deserved your scorn,
I do beseech you leave me with my sorrows,
For I desire no other company.

Tit. Ha! a good face, i'faith, a special good face! fine babies in her eyes; those lips speak now methinks, and say, Come kiss me. How now, Tityrus! the singing satire against all women, the madrigal-maker against good faces, beauty's despiser, are you in contemplation now? I must not turn my tale sure from shepherds' roundelays to epithalamiums, and sonnets, and lo's and

;