University of Virginia Library

Scen. 8.

Enter Pilumnus. Corymbus.
Pilum.
What sad voyce
Disturbs our pious Orgyes?

Cor.
See, Pilumnus,
A virgin all in gore.

Pil.
Ceres defend us,
The Sacred Vally is prophan'd.

Cor.
The place
So deare to Ceres, all defil'd with bloud.

Pil.
By Ceres, and her holy Ompha, hee
That did it, with his blood shall satisfy
The Goddesse anger; who by blood offends
By his own sacrific'd, must make amends.

Cla.
I durst presume upon the power of art,
Did I but know the murtherer.

Pil.
Howsoever
'Tis death to him that did it.

Cor.
Speake his name
Faire virgin.

Ama.
O—if it be death to him
That did it, I have not the power to live
Behind him.

Cor.
Why, who was it then?

Ama.
My selfe,
And therefore in my death your law is satisfied,
The blood and act both mine.

Cla.
It is not so,
For had it been by her own hand, my skill
Could have preserv'd her life.

Amar.
It was my selfe,
Or one as deare.

Cla.
Who's that?

Ama.
I'le rather dye
Then name him, though it be a name I use
Oft to repeat, and every repetition
Is a new soule unto mee: 'tis a name
I have taught the birds to caroll, every
Laurell and Cedar beares it registred
Vpon his tender barke; it is a name
In which is all the life I yet have left;
A name I long to speake; yet I had rather
Dye all the severall sorts of death twice over
Then speake it once.

Clai.
I charge thee by that duty
Thou ow'st to me, Amarillis, that thou owest to me
Who gave thee life.—

Pil.
What should this mean Corymbus!

Cl.
And by the womb that bare thee, by the breasts
Of thy dead mother, Lalage,

Cor.
This is strange.

Cla.
Conceale him not! in plain, I am thy father
Thy father, Amarillis, that commands thee
By these gray haires to tell mee. I am Claius.

Pilum.
How, Claius! and so fortunatly found!

Claius.
I, glut your hate, Pilumnus; let your soule
That has so long thirsted to drinke my blood,
Swill till my veines are empty; and carowse
Deep in my heart, till you grow drunke, and reele,
And vomit up the surfet, that your cruelty
Quaft off with so much pleasure; I have stood
Long like a fatall oake, at which great Iove
Levels his thunder; all my boughes long since
Blasted and wither'd; now the trunke falls too.
Heaven end thy wrath in mee!

Pilum.
Blessed be Ceres!
What unexpected happines is here?
Rejoyce Sicilians; miserable lovers,
Crowne all your browes with roses, and adore
The Deity that sent him: he is come
Whose blood must quench the fire of Ceres wrath,
And kindle more auspitious flames of love
In every brest.

Cla.
I, doe, I feare not death.
Let every Virgins hand when I am slaine
Ring me a knell of Plaudits: let my Dirges
Be amorous Ditties, and in stead of weeping
Dance at my funerall! Tis no griefe for mee
To dye to make my countrymen some sport.
Here's one in whom I only wish to live
Another age.

Amar.
What joy have I to live,
That nere liv'd yet: the time that I have spent
Since first I wept, then, when I first had entrance
Into this world, this cold and sorrowfull world,
Was but a scene of sorrow; wretched I!
Fatall to both my parents! For my birth
Ruin'd my mother, and my death my father.
O Tragick life! I either should have been
Nere borne, or nere have died. When I began
To be, my sinne began, why should it then
Out live mee? for, though now I cease to be,
That still continues: Eyes, flow forth a pace,
And be asham'd to see my wound run blood
Faster then you drop teares—
Enter Damon.
See, here he comes.
His absence never untill now I wisht.

Dam.
My Conscience brings me back, the feet of guilt
Goe slow and dull, 'tis hard to run away
From that we beare about us!

Cla.
The Murtherer
Is in this place, the issue of her blood
Is stop'd oth' sudden. Cruell man, 'tis thou
Hast done this bloudy act, that will disgrace
The story of our nation, and imprint
So deepe a blemish in the age we live in
For savage Barbarisme, that eternity
Shall nere weare out: Pilumnus, on my knees
I beg the justice of Sicilian lawes
Against this monster.

Pilum.
Claius, 'tis your hate,
And old revenge instructs you to accuse
My Sonne: you would have fellowes in your death,
And to that purpose you pretend, I know not
What mysteries of art!

Cla.
Speak Amaryllis
I'st not this wolfe?

Pilum.
Say, virgin, was it hee?

Ama.
O, I am angry with my blood for stopping!
This coward ebbe against my will betraies mee;
The streame is turn'd, my eyes run faster now.

Pilum.
Can you accuse my sonne?

Amar.
By Ceres, no;
I have no heart to doe it: does that face
Look cruell? doe those eyes sparkle with hate,
Or malice? Tell me, Father, lookes that brow
As if it could but frowne? Say, can you thinke
Tis possible Damon could have the heart
To wound a Virgin? surely barbarous cruelty
Dwels not in such a brest: mercy, and mildnesse,
Courtesy, love, and sweetnesse breath in him,
Not Anger, wrath, or murther; Damon was not
Fed at a Thracian teat, Venus did send
Her Doves to nurse him, and can he be cruell?
Whence should he learne so much of barbarisme
As thus to wrong a Virgin? if he wound mee
Tis only from his eyes, where loves blind God
Whets his pil'd arrowes; He besides, you know,
Had never cause to wrong mee, for the knowes
Alwaies I lov'd him: Father, doe not wrong
An innocent; his soule is white, and pure,
Tis sinne to thinke there lives a sinne in him;
Impiety to accuse him.

Clai.
In his lookes
He carries guilt, whose horror breeds this strange
And obstinate silence: shame, and his conscience
Will not permit him to deny it.

Amar.
Tis, alas,
His modest, bashfull nature, and pure innocence,
That makes him silent: think you that bright rose
That buds within his cheekes, was planted there
By guilt or shame? no, he has alwaies been
So unacquainted with all act of sinne,
That but to be suspected strikes him dumb
With wonder and amazement. For by Ceres
(I think my oath be lawfull) I my selfe
Was cause of this.

Cla.
Still I am confident
'Twas hee.

Pilum.
It is your envy makes you so.