University of Virginia Library

SCENE 5.

Enter Xena the Mother-Empresse, with three Ladies, Eudoxa, Irene, and Artemia waiting on her with a Lutanist.
Xen.
Come lets be merry, Ladies, Sirrah sings,

SONG.
Lad.
Since that our life's so very short,
All is lost that is not sport,
Revenge your selves of envious death,
And with the Swans sing out your breath,
What the life you lead on earth
Doth want in length, take out in mirth.

[Monobius runs to him, and casually breaks his Lute]
Lad.
My harmlesse Lute! wherein hath it offended,
That this my musick scarce begun, is ended?

Eud.
This is Monobius, that over-grown Saint,
With his prodigious holinesse. Bold Bedlam
How dare you thus my Musick interrupt?

Mon.
I bring you better Musick, If you'le hear it,
Grave Counsell for your Soul,

Xen.
Il'e be at leasure
Forty years hence to give you Audience,
Grave Councell's best, when wee are near our Grave,
It comes too soone now.

Mon.
Then't may come too late.

Xen.
Adde but another word
Ile send thee on an Errand to the wormes.

Mon.
Im'e going thither on my own accord.

Xen.
Ile cause you mend your Pace, and make you fly.

Mon.
Small gaine to you, less loss will come to me,
The whole Cloth of my life is measured out,
Onely the List is left mee.

Eud.
A list indeed spun of course threed,
And your Rude Manners shew it.

Xen.
The Hangman shall confute your Arguments,
A Rope may hold you who have broke the Lute.

Mon.
The Gallowes though it be the worst of waies,
May lead an Innocent to the best of ends.

Xen.
With shame & Paine He shall your Death contrive

Mon.
Both shame & Paine my Patience shall orecome.

Art.
Good Madam do but heare him what He'le say

Xen.
What do you hold that Musick is not lawfull?

Mon.
Yes, but at present, 'tis not seasonable,
Best Musick's now but discord, and doth Jarre
With these sad times, We feel bad and fear worse.

Iren.
We did it but to drive away the time.

Mon.
What need to drive, what of it self doth fly?
Our Nature's bad at best, and must it have
Bad Songs to be the Pandars to our Lust?
So to awake our sleeping badnesse, And
Blow up the Sparks to fire with such Incentives.

Xen.
What made you thus to break my curious Lute?

Jr.
Tameness it self how could It turn so wild?

Eud.
How com your Purity to burne with wrath?

Mon.
For the most part 'twas done against my will,
So much as was done with it, was ill done,

Art.
Did ever Man more freely fault confesse?

Xen.
I'de thought your perfectnesse had bin most just.

Mon.
Just nothing 'tis.

Xen.
I see you would be sad,
If all your faults were in your forehead writ.

Mon.
I should be glad my forehead would conteyn them.
But Ladies, If a Lute's so easily broke,
How quickly is our life?—
Of brittle matter we are made, And such
As strait is shatter'd with a casual touch.

Art.
All Accidents he turns into devotion.

Mon.
Then Ladies lay these lustful Toyes aside,
And for uncertain certain death provide,
This life's a moment whereon doth depend,
Either our Weal or Wo, both without End.

Xen.
The houre's run out, your Sermon should be done.

Mon.
Soon will the houre-glasse of your life be run.
[She offers to strike him.
Nay, I'le be gone, Woful is her condition,
Who when most sick, most scorneth her Physician.

Exit.