University of Virginia Library

SCEN. V.

Violetta, Florinda.
Viol.
Madame! y'have view'd these gardens;—has not art
Sweetly conspir'd with nature, to make up
A pleasure of variety?

Flor.
It takes exceedingly.—

(Looking upon and sorting her flowers.)
Viol.
What do's?

Flor.
Pretty indeede,
To have these flowers reade morall lectures to us.

Viol.
Yet Madame, you can finde in your heart to treade
Them underfoote, scorning as much the beauty,
As the rare sense they cary.

Flor.
Yes I can,
Yet streight I turne, and plucke'em;—binde 'em up,
In one faire volume, thus—

Viol.
And what reade you, pray?

Flor.
The emblemes of true vertues in each leafe,
Imprinted there, at natures proper charges.

Viol.
What thinke you of this Lilly?

Flor:
It figures innocence.

Viol:
Weare it in your bosome.

Flor.
Innocence indeed
Should be the breasts faire individuall mate.

Viol,
It will become you well.

Flor:
So will this crowne Imperiall your head,
Pray stick it there.

Viol:
I should be the envie of the Court then,
T'is a pretty flower, what think you if I carry it to the Princesse?

Flor:
Fit, very apt and fit, Lady,—as fit
A gift, as this were for a Lord, an hony-suckle,
The amorous woodbindes off-spring; it emblemes love;

Viol.
You would not have us make love?

Flor.
This mysticke way has bin allow'd of;

Viol.
And practis'd?

Flor.
Yes, and practis'd.

Viol.
Sure I should never do't.

Flor.
No Madame? why are not men creatures
As worthy Courtship, as wee?

Viol.
Oh! but we are women!

Flor:
Oh! but we are proud.

Viol.
Shall I take't on your experience?

Flor.
Or your owne:—ha! whose voyce is that?

Song within.
My heart is big with griefe, my wombe with lust,
Both fruits of my too easie trust;
Breake first my heart, and it will be
To wofull mee
The welcom'st, and most safe delivery.

Enter Sylvio with a Lute.
Syl.
Hence my delight! thou art turn'd traytour to mee:
Thy strings convey'd a poyson to my eares,
And they dranke deeply of it;—yet forbeare,
Alas it was my selfe, my inward griefe,
Throwne from the soule in often sighs, that made
Thy sound infectious; 'tis with that as guilt,
It growes still greater as 'tis borne about,
And poysons every thing should worke it's cure.

Viol.
Is not this Sylvio, Calantha's Page?

Flor.
A lover growne? las pretty innocence.
How finely sorrow shewes there—! That, that passion
Is well express't; now sigh, then knock the breast. Excellent.

Viol.
Let's use the benefit of this shade, to hide
Our selves, and secretly acquainted grow
With the blacke storie of his sad mishap.

Syl.
Felicia.
How has thy name, thy selfe, thy friend deceiv'd thee!
That onely wert acquainted with the sound
Of happinesse; mock't with a false report,
Into a reall misery; whose easie nature
(The greatest foe unto it selfe, was flatter'd)
Out of a virgin treasure; and then left
Rifled of all; but (what griefe now is preying on)
A haplesse life—yet cruell theefe, th'ast left
So much of thee behind, as shall hereafter
Tell to the world a darke and gloomy tale
Of thy blacke perjury.

Flor.
Ha! do's he riddle,
Or play with griefe?

Viol:
No 'tis too like a truth.

Sylv.
Me thinkes each thing
I meete withall upbraids my fond credulity;
The soaring larke hovers aloft i'th aire,
At distance from th'inchanting glasse, that Courts
Her to her ruine! the fearefull Quaile
Suspects and shuns the musicke of the pipe
That sings her into fetters.
Onely poore I am sillier than these;
Witnesse th'untimely swelling of this wombe
Pregnant to my disgrace;—As I lay hid
In yonder thicket, the brambles gently swell'd,
And hid my shame, which yet each triviall winde
But dallying with, perswaded from my covert!
And left mee naked to heaven's eye; the boughs
Of the next willow clung about my head,
As if they'd knit themselves into a garland,
Which I should weare for my forsaken lover,—

Flor.
Very pretty!

Viol.
Wer't not so sad.

Sylv:
Oh you the weake supporters of my woes,
Why do'e faile mee now at greatest need?
Beare mee at least into some hollow cave
Where I may die, free from an after scorne;
And not when I am dead, be found the shame
Of our fraile sex;—Oh! I faint, and fall,
Just like the early branches of some tree,
Whose hasty sap shootes into early fruit,
Till the o're laden boughs cracke with the weight,
Ere yet they bee full ripe—

(staggers off.
Flor:
I am amaz'd, a woman!

Viol.
Some Lady here o'th Court, I'le lay my life on't;
Let's to the Princesse and informe her of it.

Exeunt.