 | Rhodon and Iris |  |
Scen. 3.
Martagon, Cynosbatus.Cy.
But is the angry swaine (sai'st thou) so hot,
Is Rhodon growne so zealous in his sisters cause?
Ma.
If that his actions with his words agree,
Cy.
I am resolu'd to take part in thy fortunes,
Be they the worst that ere to any fell.
Ma.
Thanks noble friend, then here lets ioyne our hand
In signe of most unseparable bands.
Cy.
But there's Acanthus a iolly swaine,
He frets (they say) like a furious Mirmidon.
Ma.
In braving language he exceeded so,
That Martagon nere saw so bold a foe,
Surcharg'd with swelling passion, he did vowe
To take a full revenge on me and you.
Cy.
And is the youth so fill'd with valrous heate?
Who would have thought the frozen mountaines could
Have bred so brave a hot-spurre.
Ma.
These raging Lyons must, Cynosbatus,
Be undermin'd by some egregious sleight;
We must pitch some strong toile for these fierce Beasts,
Where we may take them captive at our pleasure:
For if we should assaile them openly,
Much perill then we might incurre thereby.
Cy.
What thy high iudgement shall conclude to doe,
I am resolv'd to condiscend unto.
Ma.
Then heare what I propound. Cynosbatus,
Within a place nigh hand, resides
A Beldam much renown'd for sacred skill
In magicke mysteries.
She with her awfull Charmes wonts to call forth
All sorts of noysome Creatures that are bred
In Sandy Lybia, or cold Scythia,
From whom she takes her choyce of poyson strong.
The Herbs which grow on precipitious Erix,
She with her bloudy Sicle crops:
The craggy top of snowy Caucasus,
That's sprinkled with the bloud of wise Prometheus,
She carefully selects;
Those venomes which the warlike Medians, and
The nimble Parthians, or Arabians rich,
Vse to annoynt their deadly shafts withall.
She doth by Moone-light gather;
Each Herbe that in this fertle vernall season
Puts forth its head from Opses pregnant bosome
She searches for; whether the same be bred
In the cold Forrest of Hercynea,
Or in the deserts of parch'd Africæ,
What flower soe're doth in his seed or root
Strange causes of great mischiefe nourish,
She never faileth to finde out:
Whether the same on bankes of Tigris growes,
Or on the sun-burnt brinke of warme Hydaspes,
Whose golden channels pau'd with precious stones;
Some of these herbes she doth by twilight gather,
At midnight some, and some at breake of day.
Nor is she ignorant how to apply
The panting heart of the dull melancholy Owle,
Or the breathing entrailes cut from a living Cat.
The proudest Swaine that lives in Thessaly
Is glad to be obsequious to her will;
For in her power it is to cure or kill.
Vnto this reverent Sybill let us goe,
And her advice request in this designe;
By her instructions let us our actions regulate,
Providing for our owne security:
She can divine of all events, and tell
Cy.
What thy sound judgement thinks fit to be done,
I condescend to, noble Martagon.
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