University of Virginia Library

Scena 4.

Enter Octauian, Codigune, Cornwall, Gloster, Mauron with colours and souldiers.
Octa.
Here ends the life and death of bloudy warre,
Whose graue-like Paunch did neuer cry, Inough:
And welcome, Peace, that long hath liu'd exilde,
Immurde within the Iuory wals of blisse.
Ambition now hath throwne her snaky skin,
From off her venomde backe. Oh may shee die,
Congeal'd, and neuer moue again to multiply.

Enter Caradoc, Morgan and Constantine.
Morgan.

God plesse her. Be Cad, Kings, all the Sybilles
in the whole orld speake not more tales and prophesies,
then our Cousin Morgan: Looke you now Kings, our cousin
Caradoc, and our cousin Constantine, breake our fasts with
mince-pyes and Gallymawfryes of legs and armes. Is your
Grace a hungry? If you bee, I haue prought you a Calues
head in wooll, bee Cad; tis in my Knappesacke.

Octa.

Thanks, gentle Earle.

Mor.

Thanks for a Pigge in a poake, tis pleeding new;
and I pray you thanke our cousin Caradoc for it: for as Cad
shudge me, hee was the Caterer: be Cad, hee did kill her
with one blow in the crag, as you vse to kill Conies.

Octa.

Why, Cousin Morgan, I vse not to kill Conyes.

Mor.

Do you not? Harke you me: you were a great deale
petter to kil al the Conyes in Wales, then they to kil her. Be
Cad, I haue knowne tall men as Hercules, beene wounded
to death, and kicke vp her heeles in an Hospitall, by the byting
of a tame Conyes in the City: therefore your wilde
Conyes in the Suburbs, that eate of nothing but Mandrakes
& Turne-her-vps, mark you me now, by Sheshu, are worse
then Dog dayes.

Octa.
VVell, Cousin, you are merry.
But now, braue plants of that vnhappy tree,
VVhom chaunce of warre hath leueld with the earth,
And in our cause: We cannot but lament
The sudden downefall of that aged Earle.
But since the wil of heauen is not confinde
Vnto the will of man: his soule's at rest.
Our bounties and our loue to you aliue,
Shall well confirme the loue we owe him dead.
And first, because your worthy selues shall see,
Our Royall thoughts adore no peasants god,
Or dung-hill basenesse: but in that spheare we moue,
Where honour sits coequall with high Ioue.
To thee braue Knight, heauens chiefest instrument
Of our new-borne tranquility and peace,
We giue for thy reward, this golden Fleece,
Our Royall daughter, beautious Guiniuer,
And after our decease, our Kingly right.
Speake, valiant Knight, wilt thou accept of this?

Cara.
Accept of it, great King!
The Thracian Orpheus neuer entertayn'd
More loy in sight of his Euridice,
When with his siluer tunes he did inchaunt
The triple-headed dog, and reassumde,
His soules beatitude, from Plutoes Court,
Then your deuoted seruant in this gift,
Wherein such vnrespected ioy concurs,
That euery sense daunces within his blest circumference,
And cals my blisse, A Newyeeres gift from Ioue;
And not from that which reason or discourse
Proudly from beasts doth challenge, as from man.
In briefe, my Lord,
Looke how proud Nature in her store,
Because shee hath one Phenix and no more,
Whose indiuiduall substance being but one,
Makes Nature boast of her perfection:
So ist with me, great King; more blest in this,
Then man turn'd constellation, starr'd in blisse.
Her gracious answere, and I am content.

Mor.

Her consent, Cousin Caradoc, I warrant her there
is neuer a Lady in England, but consent to giue prike and
prayse to a good thing; goe you together: I warrant
her.

Octa.

How now, my Lord, doe you play the Priest?

Mor.

Priests! Cads blue-hood, I should be mad fellow
to make Priests: for marke you now, my Lord: the Priests
say, Let no man put her asunder: thats very good. But belieue
mee, and her will, it is a great deale petter to put her
betweene; because the one is a curse, and the fruites of the
wombe is a great plessing.

Octa.
Now Princely sonne, reach me each others hand.
Here in the sight of heauen, of God and men,
I ioyne your Nuptiall hands. Oh, may this howre
Be guided by a fayre and kind aspect.
Let no maleuolent Planet this day dart
Her hateful influence, 'gainst these hallowed rites.
You heauenly Pilots of the life of man,
Oh, be propitious to this sacred cause,
That God and men may seale it with applause.
So now to Ceremonies. Musicke, sound shrill thy note:
'Tis Hymens holyday; Let Bacchus flote.

Exeunt.
Manet solus Codigune.
Codig.
Go you vnto the Church, and with your holy fires
Perfume the Altars of your country gods,
Whilst I in curses, swifter in pursute,
Then winged lightning, execrate your soules,
And all your Hymeneall iollity.
Now swels the wombe of my inuention,
With some prodigious proiect, and my brayne
Italianates my barren faculties
To Machiuilian blacknesse. Welshman, stand fast;
Or by these holy raptures that inspire
The soule of Polititians with reuenge,
Blacke proiects, deepe conceits, quaynt villanies,
By her that excommunicates my right
Of my creation, with a bastards name,
And makes me stand nonsuted to a crowne;
Ile fall my selfe, or plucke this Welshman down.
Cornwall, he kild thy brother. There's the base,
Whereon my enuy shall erect the frame
Of his confusion. Gloster, I know,
Is Natures master-piece of enuious plots,
The Cabinet of all adulterate ill
Enuy can hatch; with these I will beginne,
To make blacke enuy Primate of each sin.
Now, in the heate of all their reuelling,
Hypocrisie, Times best complexion,
Smooth all my rugged thoughts, let them appeare
As brothell sinnes benighted, darkely cleare.
Lend me thy face, good Ianus, let mee looke
Iust on Times fashion, with a double face,
And clad my purpose in a Foxes case.

Exit.