Moonlight The Doge's daughter: Ariadne: Carmen Britannicum, or The song of Britain: Angelica, or The rape of Proteus: By Edward, Lord Thurlow |
 |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. | PART THE SECOND. |
| 3. |
|
|
|
 | Moonlight |  |
172
II. PART THE SECOND.
Ariel speaks.
By Amphitrite's most divine command,
Upon the marge of ocean here I stand;
And, see, before, young Ariadne weeps
Her crystal tears into the briny deeps:
Such beauty might delay the fleeting moon,
To do her service; I'll be with her soon:
But in some shape of good intelligence,
That may not startle her afflicted sense.
As a young shepherd with my country tongue,
My staff, and scrip over my shoulder flung,
Will I approach her; now assist me, Jove,
That I may worthy of my message prove.
Upon the marge of ocean here I stand;
And, see, before, young Ariadne weeps
Her crystal tears into the briny deeps:
Such beauty might delay the fleeting moon,
To do her service; I'll be with her soon:
But in some shape of good intelligence,
That may not startle her afflicted sense.
As a young shepherd with my country tongue,
My staff, and scrip over my shoulder flung,
173
That I may worthy of my message prove.
But 'tis well, Jove is not here,
Looking on this beauty dear,
Though in tears, she might persuade
Jove himself to give her aid,
And do service to a maid.
Then, translated to the sky,
Above Hebe she would fly,
And crown'd Juno dispossess,
Making all Olympus less:
What a stature for a queen!
Love her snowy paps between,
Purple love hath spread his wings;
And her eyes are crystal springs
Of persuasion and delight,
Flowing, like the morning bright:
What hath Hebe to compare
With her cheeks of crimson fair?
And her vermeil lips a pair
Of sweet mounds of roses are.
Passion here, and here alone,
Is thy kingdom and thy throne:
And a God he sure must be,
Who shall make young Cupid free
Of that empire, there to reign,
And in God-ship to remain:
For what shoulders, but her own,
For his yoke can be a throne?
Swelling her thrice-marble neck,
To make duty a plain wreck;
On the which let honour die,
Tasting immortality!
Looking on this beauty dear,
Though in tears, she might persuade
Jove himself to give her aid,
And do service to a maid.
Then, translated to the sky,
Above Hebe she would fly,
And crown'd Juno dispossess,
Making all Olympus less:
What a stature for a queen!
Love her snowy paps between,
Purple love hath spread his wings;
And her eyes are crystal springs
Of persuasion and delight,
Flowing, like the morning bright:
What hath Hebe to compare
With her cheeks of crimson fair?
And her vermeil lips a pair
Of sweet mounds of roses are.
174
Is thy kingdom and thy throne:
And a God he sure must be,
Who shall make young Cupid free
Of that empire, there to reign,
And in God-ship to remain:
For what shoulders, but her own,
For his yoke can be a throne?
Swelling her thrice-marble neck,
To make duty a plain wreck;
On the which let honour die,
Tasting immortality!
Now I will a garland make
Of bright lilies for her sake,
And of purple violets,
Closing, when Apollo sets,
And of pale Anemone,
Where the streaks of morning be,
And of roses, kiss'd by Love,
To present this child of Jove.
But, hark! she sings, and the delighted ear
Of silence now is fed; Oh me, what strains,
Would Jupiter were here, that the blithe songs
Of chaste Apollo were a carter's tune,
And Hebe but a chanter for the night!
Nay Philomel's o'er match'd:
Of bright lilies for her sake,
And of purple violets,
Closing, when Apollo sets,
And of pale Anemone,
Where the streaks of morning be,
And of roses, kiss'd by Love,
To present this child of Jove.
175
Of silence now is fed; Oh me, what strains,
Would Jupiter were here, that the blithe songs
Of chaste Apollo were a carter's tune,
And Hebe but a chanter for the night!
Nay Philomel's o'er match'd:
Ariadne sings.
Where am I, O Sea-Gods, say,
In what wild forsaken bay,
Where for ages I may weep,
Betrothed to the sullen deep,
And my sad complainings keep?
O, where am I,
Who see around but ocean, and the sky?
Ariel.
Poor pensioner of grief! how dear is this,
That even woe is sweet upon her tongue:
Again, poor Philomel?
176
When did spring forsake the world.
And abundant summer's pride,
Into wat'ry darkness hurl'd?
It was when my lover died.
And abundant summer's pride,
Into wat'ry darkness hurl'd?
It was when my lover died.
Violets sweet, and daisies trim,
Should have deck'd his sylvan bier,
And the priest's lamenting hymn,
For he was to nature dear.
Should have deck'd his sylvan bier,
And the priest's lamenting hymn,
For he was to nature dear.
But his bones are coral made,
Wheresoe'er his spirit be,
And through all the seas are sway'd;
Then, sing, O sing lamentingly, Corydon is dead.
Wheresoe'er his spirit be,
And through all the seas are sway'd;
Then, sing, O sing lamentingly, Corydon is dead.
Ariel.
Why this is sweeter than the mermaid's chant,
Beguiling the false wave: if this be woe,
Let me banish'd from the sprightly sun,
And drop my tears into the pool as fast,
As if I wept for Phaëton: But, hark!
My mistress now goes overthwart the moon,
So spirited her yoke, that at one plunge
They circle the vast globe: I'll to my task:
Beguiling the false wave: if this be woe,
Let me banish'd from the sprightly sun,
177
As if I wept for Phaëton: But, hark!
My mistress now goes overthwart the moon,
So spirited her yoke, that at one plunge
They circle the vast globe: I'll to my task:
Lady fair, or Goddess true,
If my soul may trust my view,
From what heaven art thou come,
Making this our isle your home?
Can a Goddess then have woe,
That thy sacred tears should flow?
May thy grief be shortly o'er,
Thou, that deign'st to bless our shore.
And a garland I present,
For my suit and service meant,
That within our yellow meads,
Where the gentle turtle breeds,
By the side of silver springs,
Nature of her bounty flings.
Fair angel of this soil, and messenger
Of winged light, the Phœbus of our sphere,
I worship, and present thee with this crown.
If my soul may trust my view,
From what heaven art thou come,
Making this our isle your home?
Can a Goddess then have woe,
That thy sacred tears should flow?
May thy grief be shortly o'er,
Thou, that deign'st to bless our shore.
And a garland I present,
For my suit and service meant,
That within our yellow meads,
Where the gentle turtle breeds,
By the side of silver springs,
Nature of her bounty flings.
178
Of winged light, the Phœbus of our sphere,
I worship, and present thee with this crown.
Ariadne speaks.
No, gentle shepherd, I am earthly born,
And tributary to this mortal realm,
Though somewhat at my state I wonder now,
Forsaken here, and 'plaining to the winds,
That take no heedment of a maiden's woe,
Whence-ever come, to this dejected isle.
But who art thou? for since the beams of morn
Have shown th' horizon, I have scarcely seen
But sea-fowl, and the dolphins of the wave,
And here and there upon the sandy waste,
Some straggler from old Proteus' piped herd.
Ah me, shall eve go down upon the sea,
And I be left to 'plain upon this rock?
This rock, whence I have seen the golden sun
From east to west complete his fine career,
And with my tears have told the lapse of time?
Help, gentle shepherd, for thy face betrays
179
As are the rocks upon this stony isle.
And know beside, that she who asks thee thus,
Is a king's daughter, of the blood of Troy,
Though fortune thus hast cast me here aside.
Say, gentle shepherd.
Ariel.
As the light to morn,
Or as the ev'ning to the welkin'd gloom,
So will I take this honour to my soul,
And be as true, as thou art wise and fair:
A shepherd, lady, on this lonely isle,
I sought a skipping straggler from my flock,
And came here to the sea: but please to tell
Thy sweet commands, that I may haste t' obey.
Ariadne.
Then say, O gentle shepherd, have you seen
A youth, much like Apollo in his mien?
Who left me here, or e'er the morning-shine,
But by what fatal chance I not divine,
180
Nor can my Marinello so have blame.
A prince, good shepherd, of all virtues heir,
That in this world for praise or envy are;
And could you once but lead me to his sight,
As sure he left me but in fortune's spite,
I would reward you with our mutual love,
And happy Thebes her gratitude shall prove.
Ariel.
Is that his place?
Ariadne.
Yes, of that town the lord.
Ariel.
Believe it, lady, on a shepherd's word,
I have not seen the youth: but yet I think,
That, we here parleying on this forest's brink,
'Tis like, the while you slumber'd, that his feet
Were tangled here, and cannot now retreat.
181
This may indeed have been.
Ariel.
'Tis likeliest so,
But to resolve you to the wood I'll go;
And yet with fear, for I have heard it said
That there ill shapes and ugly fiends are bred,
That with lascivious flute, and fawning tongue,
Have minds ill-judging to perdition sung:
The moon not pierces, nor no twinkling star,
But it's vile depths are from all safety far.
This have I heard, and do in part believe;
Yet, O sweet lady, let not fables grieve,
For fables they may be, your spotless soul;
The thrice-prov'd virtue stands not in controul
Of vice; but Marinell thenceforth shall go,
Uncharm'd, unhurt, as from me you shall know.
Ariadne.
Ah me, unhappy, but the ship is gone.
182
What ship is that? for I have look'd on none.
Ariadne.
No, gentle shepherd: but last eve, ere yet
The eye of Hesper was in heaven set,
When owls begin to chant, and day-light done,
The woods' musician through her notes hath run,
Making sweet prologue to black-robed night,
That the world's ear is taken with delight,
Lord Marinell and I, our anchor thrown,
For some brief tenure made this isle our own:
Here by this fountain we talk'd down the night,
And watch'd for great Hyperion's rising light,
To blaze the waters, and renew our flight;
When, ere the bird could the pale skies adorn,
That sings under the eye-lid of the morn,
A slumber took me, and, O shepherd, well
You know the rest; what ills my tongue can tell;
Oh me unhappy!
183
Weep, fair lady, weep:
But yet this harvest of thy sorrow reap;
Mere accident thy foe, and no meant ill,
In him, who loves thee, and shall meet thee still:
For so I dream; what say I, dream? I know:
For where truth is, 'bove fortune it will go;
And ere the Morn shall with her rosy smile
The night's sad liv'ry into joy beguile,
Then banish these soft tears, lord Marinell,
Shall worship at your feet, and all be well.
Ariadne.
If this be flatt'ry, as indeed I fear,
Yet is it sweet, O shepherd, to my ear:
I will be comforted, for hope is near.
Lord Marinell indeed, the soul of truth,
Would never prove injurious to my youth;
Nor can it be, his gentleness should fly,
And leave his Ariadne here to die:
Yet have I shed sad tears.
184
Forget them now,
And let sweet hope be thron'd upon thy brow;
Doubtless pure truth is unto heav'n so dear,
And constant love, that angels from their sphere,
On pinions of soft service would descend,
To wipe away her sorrows, and befriend.
Make trust of God, sweet lady; and ere morn
These things will be, as they had not been born.
Ariadne.
In that is all my hope.
Ariel.
Awhile I go,
That no fit dwelling for such beauty know
Within this isle; to search, where I may find,
For herbs and racy fruits, of nature kind;
Which, with pure water from the spring, may feed
Your gentle sense, the produce of the mead.
185
Thanks, O good shepherd; what in courts we miss,
We oft-times find under a peasant's weed.
But where is Marinell? O hapless prince,
My beauty and delight, thus torn from thee,
I weep as a poor dove, beguiling morn,
And wakeful eve with my lamenting song:
Flow on my tears, for they are due to him,
Who is the morn, and day-spring of my heart.
Ariadne sings.
O poor Alcyone!
What were thy feelings on the stormy strand,
When thou saw'st Ceÿx borne a corse to land?
O, I could weep with thee,
And sit whole tides upon the pebbly shore,
And listen to the waves' lamenting roar,
O poor Alcyone!
What were thy feelings on the stormy strand,
When thou saw'st Ceÿx borne a corse to land?
O, I could weep with thee,
And sit whole tides upon the pebbly shore,
And listen to the waves' lamenting roar,
O poor Alcyone!
But now thy stormy passion past,
Thou upon the wave at last
Buildest, from all tempest free:
Thou and Ceÿx, side by side,
Charming the distemper'd tide,
O dear Alcyone!
Thou upon the wave at last
186
Thou and Ceÿx, side by side,
Charming the distemper'd tide,
O dear Alcyone!
But this is idle for another's woe,
And that too but a story of old date,
To weep, when I at home am so possess'd:
O Marinell, my lord!
And that too but a story of old date,
To weep, when I at home am so possess'd:
O Marinell, my lord!
Ariel returns, and speaks.
Behold, what I have brought: O lady sweet,
These herbs and native fruits, fed by the dew,
And kiss'd of the hot sun, shall more delight,
The pantler being temperance, than feasts,
Dish'd up with kingly musick, and the pomp
Of golden service, and the fuming wine
Blushing to surfeit in their crystal cups.
Is not this crystal? and the marble rock
Shall be thy table; and the warbling bird,
That chants beneath the moon, shall give thee voice,
T' outdo their stringed instruments. Be pleas'd,
187
O'erlooking all defect.
Ariadne.
Shepherd, thy kindness
Is more than I can pay: but listen now,
And I will tell thee why from Troy I came
With flight upon the wave to this lone isle,
Where yet I find the courtesy of kings;
For I perceive thee curious to know.
Is more than I can pay: but listen now,
And I will tell thee why from Troy I came
With flight upon the wave to this lone isle,
Where yet I find the courtesy of kings;
For I perceive thee curious to know.
My name is Ariadne: I am born
Of Troy, upon the wave th' espoused queen,
My mother bringing forth: what time the duke,
My father, from sweet Corinth led her home
Then did the wave swell underneath the beam
With plenteous duty: and the mermaid's chant
Beguil'd the orbed Dian at her height.
So was my birth eventful; and the term
Of all my life but theme of accident,
Dependent on her pale, and crescent horn.
Well, I grew up, and not the air might breathe
On me too roughly, and the poets sung
That Hebe on their meadows walk'd again.
Much learn'd I of my mother's bounteous care,
To walk, to dance, to touch the silv'ry lute,
And with a charmed voice to melt the soul,
Though it were cased in an iron front,
And grown as rugged as the wolf or bear:
Much too of herbs, and of the purple flowers,
Their virtues, and estate: of beaming stars,
Whose influence may be read with fine delight,
And many beauteous fables thence deriv'd
To the pure soul, of moral wisdom store.
Much too of sweet and feminine employ,
That ever held me most: to paint the web
Of Iris' bow, and with the slender warp
Deduce the story of chaste women's love.
But love she bade me shun; a fearful boy,
Whose arrows and whose wings alike are dread:
And love I knew not, nor I car'd to know.
So fifteen summers warbled o'er my head,
And I, beneath my mother's careful eye,
Like a young bird, that must be taught her tune,
Liv'd happy, and suspecting of no change.
The sixteenth summer, and, O shepherd, then
My mother died; and I remember well,
'Twas when the almonds blossom, and a bird,
She lov'd and fed, died first upon the eve,
And then she follow'd, innocent and sweet.
Forgive me if I weep; I oft have wept,
Though many years have pass'd: but tears are vain.
My mother died, and then my father sought
Another love; and thence came all my woe.
Now when the May first blossom'd, to delight
His youthful wife, and grace his marriage too,
My father held a tournament of knights,
That from all countries to the barrier came,
Many, and brave, and full of beauteous pride.
But none affected me: or if they did,
'Twas but a passing look: true they were brave,
And in despiteful arms accomplish'd fair;
Their crested helmets nodding in the wind,
Their lances in fine rest, their horses fresh,
As he struck out by Neptune, drinking up
The brazen musick of immortal war:
And women, as you know, are Mars's fools,
Being themselves so weak, and timorous.
But had they been as num'rous as the sands
Of fretful ocean, as the summer brave,
Fresh as the wave, and orient as the day,
They had not touch'd my heart, which inly wept,
And for my mother mourn'd; so that I sate
Amid' the musick, hiding in a mask
Of plenteous joy an elegy of woe.
At length, good shepherd, the fine engines blew
A blast of expectation, like the roar
Of brawny Tritons on the curved wave,
When summer from their wreathed shells is told.
All hearts were open'd; mine awaken'd then:
For sure I saw the portals of the Morn,
And great Hyperion coming forth in state,
All armed to the prodigal essay.
He stood, like Mars, amid' the thronged shore
Of ladies, and great knights: his massy coat
Out-heralding the flowers of the spring,
That Tempe was despoil'd, inlaid with gold:
And on his head, that temple of great thought,
A mighty lion, finned for the sea,
Made air to tremble with his shaggy mane:
It seem'd his shield, capacious as the moon,
Had ample verge for the embattled spears
Of all Troy's warriors, had all Troy been there:
His spear a mighty mast, with which men sail
From Crete beyond the pillar'd Hercules:
Thrice his horse neigh'd, and the reverberate hills
Gave back the image of his voice, the sea
Replying brave: Troy was astonish'd then,
But more to see his feats: for ere an hour
Had told the fleeting time, his kingly spear
Twelve knights had from their cruppers borne to earth:
And Menelaüs, rising from his throne,
Gave him great welcome; and th' espoused hand
Of that false queen, for so to me she prov'd,
Amid the musick reach'd to him a crown
Of woven laurel, and her lips essay'd,
O cruel lips, though worthy was the cause,
In words, like spring, to speak him first of men.
Where now is Marinell?
Of Troy, upon the wave th' espoused queen,
My mother bringing forth: what time the duke,
My father, from sweet Corinth led her home
Then did the wave swell underneath the beam
With plenteous duty: and the mermaid's chant
Beguil'd the orbed Dian at her height.
So was my birth eventful; and the term
Of all my life but theme of accident,
Dependent on her pale, and crescent horn.
Well, I grew up, and not the air might breathe
188
That Hebe on their meadows walk'd again.
Much learn'd I of my mother's bounteous care,
To walk, to dance, to touch the silv'ry lute,
And with a charmed voice to melt the soul,
Though it were cased in an iron front,
And grown as rugged as the wolf or bear:
Much too of herbs, and of the purple flowers,
Their virtues, and estate: of beaming stars,
Whose influence may be read with fine delight,
And many beauteous fables thence deriv'd
To the pure soul, of moral wisdom store.
Much too of sweet and feminine employ,
That ever held me most: to paint the web
Of Iris' bow, and with the slender warp
Deduce the story of chaste women's love.
But love she bade me shun; a fearful boy,
Whose arrows and whose wings alike are dread:
And love I knew not, nor I car'd to know.
So fifteen summers warbled o'er my head,
And I, beneath my mother's careful eye,
Like a young bird, that must be taught her tune,
189
The sixteenth summer, and, O shepherd, then
My mother died; and I remember well,
'Twas when the almonds blossom, and a bird,
She lov'd and fed, died first upon the eve,
And then she follow'd, innocent and sweet.
Forgive me if I weep; I oft have wept,
Though many years have pass'd: but tears are vain.
My mother died, and then my father sought
Another love; and thence came all my woe.
Now when the May first blossom'd, to delight
His youthful wife, and grace his marriage too,
My father held a tournament of knights,
That from all countries to the barrier came,
Many, and brave, and full of beauteous pride.
But none affected me: or if they did,
'Twas but a passing look: true they were brave,
And in despiteful arms accomplish'd fair;
Their crested helmets nodding in the wind,
Their lances in fine rest, their horses fresh,
As he struck out by Neptune, drinking up
The brazen musick of immortal war:
190
Being themselves so weak, and timorous.
But had they been as num'rous as the sands
Of fretful ocean, as the summer brave,
Fresh as the wave, and orient as the day,
They had not touch'd my heart, which inly wept,
And for my mother mourn'd; so that I sate
Amid' the musick, hiding in a mask
Of plenteous joy an elegy of woe.
At length, good shepherd, the fine engines blew
A blast of expectation, like the roar
Of brawny Tritons on the curved wave,
When summer from their wreathed shells is told.
All hearts were open'd; mine awaken'd then:
For sure I saw the portals of the Morn,
And great Hyperion coming forth in state,
All armed to the prodigal essay.
He stood, like Mars, amid' the thronged shore
Of ladies, and great knights: his massy coat
Out-heralding the flowers of the spring,
That Tempe was despoil'd, inlaid with gold:
And on his head, that temple of great thought,
191
Made air to tremble with his shaggy mane:
It seem'd his shield, capacious as the moon,
Had ample verge for the embattled spears
Of all Troy's warriors, had all Troy been there:
His spear a mighty mast, with which men sail
From Crete beyond the pillar'd Hercules:
Thrice his horse neigh'd, and the reverberate hills
Gave back the image of his voice, the sea
Replying brave: Troy was astonish'd then,
But more to see his feats: for ere an hour
Had told the fleeting time, his kingly spear
Twelve knights had from their cruppers borne to earth:
And Menelaüs, rising from his throne,
Gave him great welcome; and th' espoused hand
Of that false queen, for so to me she prov'd,
Amid the musick reach'd to him a crown
Of woven laurel, and her lips essay'd,
O cruel lips, though worthy was the cause,
In words, like spring, to speak him first of men.
Where now is Marinell?
192
I thought 'twas so:
For only such a knight, as this, could prove
Worthy, O princess, of such peerless love.
For only such a knight, as this, could prove
Worthy, O princess, of such peerless love.
You weep, fair lady, yet are these pure tears
But as the dripping of an April show'r,
From which the sun more brightly shall emerge:
But, pray you, grace your story to an end.
But as the dripping of an April show'r,
From which the sun more brightly shall emerge:
But, pray you, grace your story to an end.
Ariadne.
To make an end, good shepherd, this brave lord,
This brave and virtuous lord, for whom I weep,
Conceiv'd for me affection, and besought
My father, Menelaüs, for my hand:
My father overjoy'd; and I, who knew
How true he was in nature and in thought,
How gentle too, besides, was pleas'd to hear
The words of true affection from his lips.
Great was he in his speech, and fit for kings
In awful council, had they known his worth;
193
And take occasion from the acts of men,
And beauteous works of nature, to discourse
Of wisdom, in which goodness was the soul.
O, he was dear, for why should I conceal
My harmless thoughts, most dear he was to me:
And but the queen, that had too well perceiv'd
His great perfection, and was caught by it,
Had by vile artifice beguil'd the king
Of his good thoughts, and turn'd them from his child,
Our lives had been a race of happiness.
But love has ever been the foe of chance,
And not a shore of this o'er-braving globe
But tells the story of some lover's woe.
So then the queen, to rid her of her fear,
Abusing with a wicked forgery
The over-credulous ear of the good king,
Persuaded him, that I and Marinell
Had purpose to o'ersway the watchful guard,
And, over-ruling Troy's ambitious state,
To dispossess him of his crown and life:
This work'd like fire in Menelaüs' mind.
194
In durance of the king, to break his bars,
And offer to him liberty and love.
This was her mean: but for an underplot
She thought to snare me with Marsaces' love,
A knave of council, ever cramm'd with ill,
And much obsequious to her changeful mind.
Well, the plot took; for what a woman says,
A wife too, to the fond believing age,
Though it be false, as canker-blooms in spring,
Having some semblance of the nat'ral truth,
Though here was none, O shepherd, shall have rule,
Washing away all old fidelity.
Our ruin had been sure, but friends arose,
Which innocence e'er finds, and sav'd us both
From our distressful fate; the prison doors
Were open'd by the king's unflatt'ring friends,
Who serv'd him as he was, and ought to be,
Ere his compact with ill, and led us forth
Beneath the moon to the hoarse-murm'ring flood.
There lay a bark, a suitor to the wind,
And many tears we shed, and wrung their hands,
195
Believe it, shepherd; in this orbed world,
This brave inheritor of day and night,
Not all the min'ral kingdoms, nor the fruits
Of all it's shores, can equal one true friend,
One old, one faithful, one substantial friend.
Ariel.
Or this is true, sweet lady, or the morn
Is not the fount of light.
Ariadne.
What then had we,
Who had so many, and so perfect friends,
That from this sudden danger we escap'd?
Ariel.
Great praise in this: but virtue has its meed;
And when it speaks in such an angel's voice,
And claims our pity, he that would not die,
And brave the tyrant, let him live, base wretch,
With his thrice-grinning honour, 'till he shame
196
Forgive me, lady, for my homely speech,
For I had breeding in a shepherd's stall.
Ariadne.
O thou good shepherd, it were well indeed,
If they who hold the sceptre, had a tongue
To speak the dictates of so pure a mind.
What is in stalls, but what in courts might be,
If rightly understood, of all this life,
So blown abroad by heralds? 'tis a charge
Immediately from God, to tend their sheep,
To fence them from sharp hunger and the wolf,
To feed them, and protect them in all ills,
Like a good shepherd, and their gratitude,
Which is as true, as flowers to the sun,
Is more than musick of a poet's mind;
But this is understood by all but kings.
Yet I not say so: for my theme is drawn
From one example: and ill counsel reign'd,
Led by false love, throughout my father's house.
197
Your words are like the honey of the spring,
Sweet and nutritious: lady, it is loss
To the brave world, when such a flow'ring mind
Lies idle and neglected, as the weed:
But this but for short time: I read it now,
That you, the unfather'd orphan of the winds,
Were by them blown to this our marble rock,
Your keel last come from Ilium?
Ariadne.
Shepherd, yes,
After long chase, until the stars grew pale,
From vile Marsaces, like a hungry hound,
That thinks to track down the o'er-chased deer.
Ariel.
Ill things are ever hasty to their fall.
Dear lady, now farewell; awhile I go,
With the sure hope to save you, ere the morn:
Sleep then, and doubt not the lord Marinell
198
Farewell, sweet lady.
Ariadne.
Shepherd, too farewell,
That have been true to me, a true farewell.
Ariel.
Farewell, sweet lady.
Now my scrip, and staff are gone,
And again I am my own,
On a moon-beam I will ride,
To the brave Corinthian tide,
Where the queen of Neptune dwells,
And they ring the twilight bells,
One, two, three, four, five, six, sev'n, eight,
To preserve their houses bright
From the ugly witch of night:
And again I am my own,
On a moon-beam I will ride,
To the brave Corinthian tide,
Where the queen of Neptune dwells,
And they ring the twilight bells,
One, two, three, four, five, six, sev'n, eight,
To preserve their houses bright
From the ugly witch of night:
Who will, may follow me
O'er the bright and curved sea,
For I go,
To let Amphitrite know,
With my pretty yes and no,
That these things are so and so:
O'er the bright and curved sea,
199
To let Amphitrite know,
With my pretty yes and no,
That these things are so and so:
But for Ariadne's sake,
Dew of cowslip I will take,
And with seeds of poppy slake,
Which into her porched ear
May dispel the ugly fear,
Pregnant with a maiden's dream,
Of which marriage is the theme.
Oaths, and vows, and kisses sweet
In her dainty fancy meet,
Prologue to the marriage sheet;
And white gloves, and knots, and rings,
And such pretty gawdes, and things,
As queen Mab in plenty flings:
Dew of cowslip I will take,
And with seeds of poppy slake,
Which into her porched ear
May dispel the ugly fear,
Pregnant with a maiden's dream,
Of which marriage is the theme.
Oaths, and vows, and kisses sweet
In her dainty fancy meet,
Prologue to the marriage sheet;
And white gloves, and knots, and rings,
And such pretty gawdes, and things,
As queen Mab in plenty flings:
Who will, may follow me
O'er the bright and curved sea;
For I go,
To let Amphitrite know,
With my pretty yes and no,
That these things are so and so.
O'er the bright and curved sea;
200
To let Amphitrite know,
With my pretty yes and no,
That these things are so and so.
| Moonlight | |