University of Virginia Library

Sce. 5.

Satir
alone.
Like frost to grasse, like drought to gentle flowres,
Like lightning vnto corne, like wormes to seeds,
Like nets to deere, like lime to silly birds,
So to mankind is loue a cruell foe.
He that loue lik'ned vnto sire, knew well
His perfidous and wicked kind. For looke
But on this fire, how fine a thing it is,
But touch it, and t'is then a cruell thing.
The world hath not a monster more to dread.
It rauens worse then beasts, and strike more deepe
Then edged steele, and like the winde it flies:
And where it planteth his impetious feet,
Each force doth yeeld, all power giueth place.
Eu'n so this loue, if we it but behold,
In two faire eyes, and in a golden Tresse,
Oh how it pleaseth! oh how then it seemes
To breathe out ioy, and promise largely peace!
But if you it approach, and tempt it once,
So that it creepe and gather force in you,
Hircane no Tigres, Liby no Lyons hath,
Nor poisonous wormes, with teeth or stings so fierce,
That can surpasse, or equall loues disease,
More dreadfull then is hell, then death it selfe,
Sweete pitties foe, the minister of rage:
And to conclude, loue voyd of any loue.
Why speake I thus of loue? why blame him thus?
Is he the cause that the whole world in loue,
Or rather loue-dissembling, sinneth so?
Oh womans treacherie! that is the cause
That hath begotten loue this infamy.
How euer loue be in his nature good,
With them his goodnesse suddenly he leeseth.
They neuer suffer him to touch their hearts,
But in their faces onely build his bowre.
Their care, their pompe, and all their whole delight,
Is in the barke of a bepainted face.
T'is not in them now faith with faith to grace,
And to contend in loue with him that loues,
Into two breasts diuiding but one will:
Now all their labour is, with burnish'd gold
To die their haire, and tye it vp in curles,
Therein to snare vnwary louers in.
O what a stinking thing it is, to see them take
A Pencill vp, and paint their bloudlesse cheekes:
Hiding the faults of nature and of time,
Making the pale to blush, the wrinkled plaine,
The blacke seeme white, faults mending with farre worse.
Then with a paire of pincers do they pull
Their eye-browes till they smart againe.
But this is nothing, though it be too much,
For all their customes are alike to these.
What is it that they vse, which is not counterfeit?
Ope they their mouthes? they lie: mooue they their eyes?
They counterfeit their lookes: If so they sigh,
Their sighes dissembled are. In summe, each act,
Each looke, each gesture, is a verie lie.
Nor is this yet the worst. T'is their delight,
Them to deceiue eu'n most, that trust them most;
And loue them least, that are most worthy loue.
True faith to hate, worser then death it selfe:
These be the trickes that make loue so peruerse.
Then is the fault faithlesse Corisca thine?
Or rather mine, that haue beleeu'd thee so?
How many troubles haue I for thy sake sustaind?
I now repent, nay more I am ashamed.
Louers beleeue me, women once ador'd,
Are worser then the griesly powers of hell.
Strait by their valure vaunt they that they are
The same you by your folly fashion them.
Let go these baser sighes, praiers and plaints,
Fit weapons for women and children onely.
Once did I thinke that praiers, plaints, and sighes,
Might in a womans heart haue stirred vp
The flames of loue, but tush I was deceiu'd.
Then if thou wouldst thy mistresse conquer, leaue
These silly toyes, and close thou vp all loue.
Do that which loue and nature teacheth thee,
For modestie is but the outward vertue of
A womans face. Wherefore to handle her with modestie,
Is a meere fault, she though she vse it, loues it not.
A tender-harted Louer shalt thou not
Corisca euer find me more, but like a man
I will assaile and pierce thee through and through.
Twise haue I taken thee, and twise againe
Thou hast escap'd (I know not how) my hands:
But if thou com'st the third time in my reach,
I'le fetter thee for running then away.
T'hart wont to passe these woods, I like a hound
Will hunt thee out. Oh what a sweet reuenge
I meane to take: I meane to make thee proue
What t'is vniustly to betray thy Loue.

Exit.
Chorus.