University of Virginia Library

Act. III.

Scene I.

Enter Psiche in night-attyre, with a Lampe and a Raysor.
Psi.
Times eldest daughter Night, mother of ease,
Thou gentle nurse, that with sweet lullabies,
Care-waking hearts to gentle slumber charm'st?
Thou smooth-cheek't negro night, the black-ey'd Queen,
That rid'st about the world on the soft backs
Of downy Ravens sleeke and sable plumes,
And from thy Charriot, silent darkenesse flings;
In which man, beast, and bird-inveloped,
Takes their repose and rest; Psiche intreats thee,
No Jar nor found betray her bold attempt:
Cup. discovered sleeping on a bed.
Soft silken vaile that curtains in my doubt,
Give way to these white hands, these jealous eyes,
Sharpe knife prepar'd for a red sacrifice;
Bright Lampe conduct me to my love or hate,
Make me this night blest or unfortunate:
Wonderous amazement! what do I behold?
A Bow and Quiver, these shafts tip'd with gold,
With silver this, this sluggish arrowes head,
Is like my heavy heart, compos'd of lead,
Such weapons Cithereas Son doth beare,
Psiche were happy if this Cupid were;
Malicious sisters, I your envy see,
This is no serpent, but a Deity:
What pretty loves, like silken slumbers lie,
Closing the covers of each Christall eye;
Hence thou prepared instrument of death,
Whilst Psiche sucks new life from his sweet breath:
Churle beauty, beautious nigard, thus I'le chide,
Why didst thou from mine eyes this glory hide?
Ah me, thou envious light, what hast thou done?

Cup.
Immortall powers, oh succour Venus Son;
What hellish hagg hath drop't this scalding oyle
On Loves Celæstiall shape?

Psi.
'Twas Psiche hand.

Cup.
How durst thou violate my dread command?
Venus my mother, bid me make thee doat
On some base groom; and I left her and heaven,
And with mine owne dart wounded my owne brest;
For all these favours, wouldst thou murder me?

Psi.
Let my weak sex plead for my great offence,

Cup.
No, for thy sake, this plague pursue thy sex;
You shall have appetites, and hot desires,
Which though supply'd, shall nere be satisfied:
You shall be still rebellious, like the Sea,
And like the windes inconstant; things forbid
You most shall covet, loath what you should like;
You shall be wise in wishes, but enjoying,
Shall venture heavens losse for a little toying.
Ho Zephirus.

Enter Zephirus.
Psi.
What will my dear love do?

Cup.
Hence, touch me not, I'le be no more thy love:
Discharge my servants from this fairy vaile,
Resigne thy office to the boystrous North,
Bid famine ride upon his frozen wings,
Till they be blasted with his poysonous breath;
Musicke, be turn'd to horror, smiles to teares,
Pleasures to shreikes, felicity to feares.

Psi.
Why do you plague the place for my offence?

Cu.
Why for thy sisters sake sought'st thou my hate?
But I will be reveng'd on them and thee,
On them, for thy sake, on thy selfe for me.

Psi.
For pity heare poor Psiche.

Cup.
No away?

Psi.
I have no way but yours; which way you fly,
I'le hang upon your wings, or fall and die.

Cup.
Soon shalt thou leave thy hold; run Zophirus.
A storme. Enter Boreus.
Fetch Boreus—Art thou come my Aquilon:
Boreus, I charge thee by Orithias love,
Lay waste and barren this faire flowry grove,
And make this Paradise a den of snakes;
For I will have it uglier then hell,
And none but gastly scrieth-owles here shall dwell;
Breath winters stormes upon the blushing cheekes
Of beautious Psiche; with thy boysterous breath,
Rend off her silkes, and cloathe her in torne rags;
Hang on her loath'd locks base deformity,
And beare her to her father, leave her there,
Barren of comfort, great with child of feare;
Psiche fare well, whilst thou with woes art crown'd
I must go gather helpes to cure my wound.

Exit.
Psi.
With woes indeed; those wretches live in woe,
Whom love forsakes, and Psiche must do so.

Exeunt with a great storme.
Enter Clowne, Amarillis, and Swaines
Clow.
Do you hear the newes, you annimals?

1 Swa.
Is it worth the hearing?

Clow.

A question well ask'd, for it is musicall newes, and
therefore worth your ears: Apollo being call'd by Venus from
heaven, hath ever since kept Admetus his sheep, with whom
Pan meeting, they fell into contention, whether his pipe or
Apollo's Harpe could yield the better Musicke, and which
withall could sing the best; come then my sweet Amarillis,
and take thy place amongst the rest, for this is the day of the
tryall, and amongst others, I heard my father Midas say,
that all other businesse set a part, he would be at it; but there
is one mischief late happened.

1 Swa.

What's that I prithee?

Clo.

Pan hath got a cold, is hoarse, and hath lost his voice,
and therefore hath chose me to sing in his place; and Phœbus,
because he will take no advantage, hath pick'd out one of his
Pages to do the like for him; therefore come, make a lane, for
by this time they are upon their entrance.

1 Swa.

But is it possible, that Pans Pipe dare contend
with Apollo's Harpe?

Clo.

Yes that it is possible, blinde harper, and that my
winde-pipe shall proove; make roome, and get you all out
of the lists save I, that am to be one of the combatants.

A Flourish. Enter Apollo, Pan, Admetus, Petrea, Astioche, their two husbands, and Midas
Pan.
Who shall be Judge?

Apo.
Admetus.

Ad.
Sacred Apollo, great Pan pardon me;
It is a cunning much beyond my skill,
Therefore I humbly crave to be excus'd.

Apol.
Admetus, for thy hospitality,
Phœbus will be thy friend, and give thee leave
In this to use thy pleasure.

Pan.
What thinkes Phœbus
Of Midas, once of men, now King of beasts.

Apol.
No better man, so please him undertake it.

Mi.
Yes Phœbus, Midas will, and though poor Marsias,
For striving with thee had his skin pull'd off,
Yet have we Swaines, and some too not farre off,
I could have said, some neere to me in blood,
Can tickle you for a tone.

Clo.
Meaning me, and I will set out a throat,

Apol.
Is this thy Champion?

Pan.
Yes, and who's for thee?

Apo.
One of my minuts, houres, dayes, weeks, or moneths,
Or yeeres, or seasons, that still waite on us,
And have done ever since the first of time;
Not one can come amisse.

Mi.
Who shall begin?

Ad.
Most voices.

All.
Apollo, Apollo.

Clo.

No matter though his Champion begin, let me alone to
come up with the Catastrophie.

All.
Silence, silence.


Song.
Phœbus unto thee we sing,
Oh thou great Idalian King,
Thou the god of Physick art,
Of Poetry, and Archery;
We sing unto thee with a heart,
Devoted to thy deity:
All bright glory crowne thy head,
Thou soveraigne of all Piety,
Whose golden beames and rayes are shed
As well upon the poore as rich,
For thou alike regardest each;
Phœbus unto the we sing,
Oh thou great Idalian King.


I marry this was some-wat to th'purpose;
I needs must say 'twas pretty, but god Pan,
Now let us heare your Champion?

Pan.
Come, stand forth?

Song.
Clow.

Ad.
You Midas have heard both; these only wait
Your just and upright sentence.

Mi.
Is Phœbus pleased?

Ap.
Pleased.

Mi.
And is Pan content.

Pan.
Content.

Clow.

Now if my father can but censure as well as I sing,
the towne's ours.

Mi.
Yes Son, I can, and that most learnedly:

All.
A sentence, a sentence, a Pan, a Pan.

Apol.
Henceforth be all your rurall musicke such,
Made out of Tinkers, Pans, and Kettle-drums;
And never henceforth may your fields be grac'd
With the sweet musick of Apollos lyre:
Midas for thee, may thy eares longer grow,
As shorter still thy judgement, dulnesse, and dotage,
Be only govern'd with those reverend haires;
Let all like thee, that as they grow in time,
Decay in knowledge, have that old mans curse,
To be twice children: for thy squeaking sonne,
May all thy state thou leav'st him at thy death,
Be to sing Ballets through Arcadia,
And them to the like tunes; fare-well Admetus,
My musicke lies unquestion'd, what's amisse
Is not in us, but in their ignorance;
Thus undisparadg'd, Phœbus leaves the place,
And with them to succession, my disgrace.

Exit.
Ad.
Phœbus is gone displeas'd.

Pan.
Still may he be so.

Mi.
Midas I'me sure has judg'd with equity.

A Storme. Enter Psiche and Boreas.
Clo.

But see father, see god Pan, if in revenge, he hath not sent
a blustering wind to blow us all hence; 'tis Boreas, 'tis Boreas.

Pan.
Come Midas, come Swaines, till this storme be past,
Let us away to shelter.

Exeunt.
Psi.
Where art thou Psiche, how art thou deform'd?
What ayre affords thee breath? what men be these?
Where shall I hide me; let no humane eye
Behold me thus disfigured, and asham'd:
My Father, Brothers, and my Sisters too,
That wrought my fall, what shall poore Psiche do?

Ad.
What bare anotomy of griefe is this,
That glads mine eare with sound of Psiches name?

Psi.
'Tis her owne tongue, the herald of her shame;
Father Admetus, Sisters pitty me.

Ad.
Thou art no childe of mine.

Asti.
Spurne her away,
'Tis some infectious strumpet, and her breath
Will blast our cheeks; her sight is worse than death.

Psi.
I did not use you thus, nor spurne you back,
When on the nimble wings of Zephirus,
You were transported into Cupids vaile;
Your entertainment then deserv'd more right,
Then like a dog, thus spurne me from your sight;
Sisters.

Petr.
Out hagge, we scorne thy sister-hood.

Psi.
You scorne me too; nay then at last I see,
pride will not looke on base deformity:
Father Admetus, pitty wretched Psiche.

Kneels.
Ad.
Out impudence; if once againe thy tongue
Mangle the reputation of my girle,
I'le have it straight torne out, hence with th'Impostor,

Psi.
Us'd like a dogge, and by a fathers doom,
Dragg'd from his presence, how am I transform'd?
Ile try my brothers next, upon my knees,

Zel.
Depart the place, for me, I know thee not.

Psi.
Oh me, how quickly wretches are forgot?

Me.
Wretched, away.

Psi.
Away; all cry away,
Basenesse and pride in one place cannot stay:
Astioche, kind sister, for old loves,
Resolve my father that I am his child;
Put him in mind of Phœbus oracle,
And leaving me upon the barren Rock;
Remember how you came unto my bower,
And how my servants fill'd your laps with gold;
And last, remember how by your advise,
I made attempt to strike my husband dead,
As he was sleeping, do you know me now?
Thence grew my misery.

Asti.
Yes foole, and my great heart
Joyes in thy fall: and father, now I better
Survey her, my mind gives me this is Psiche.

Petr.
I am of her thought too, and yet much wonder,
How such a beauty should be so deform'd.

Ad.
None shall perswade me to't; she's none of mine
That tells me I have any part in her.

Recorders. Cupid descends.
Cup.
Admetus stay, chide thy conceit, it offers
wrong unto thy daughter Psiche.

Psi.
Oh what heavenly tongue
Will once vouchsafe to sound poor Psiches name,
Torne with disgrace, doubly expos'd to shame.

Cup.
Psiche, his tongue, whose charge had'st thou obey'd,
Thy prosperous state had not been so betray'd;
Nor hadst thou bin a subject to that shame
Which now attends thee.

Psi.
Cupid, my dear lord,
Pardon my gilt, have pity on my sorrow?

Cup.
I cannot, no I dare not, heaven, and earth,
The destinies, and all th'Immortall powers,
Have with the yron pen of Fate, writ downe
Thy certaine paine; did I not give thee charge,
To taste the pleasures of Immortall love,
But not to wade too deep in mystery?
Could not my heavenly company suffice
To cheere the soule? but thou with earthly eyes
Must see my face; and view my reall beauty,
Against my charge, thy love, and humane duty.

Psi.
I do intreat.

Cup.
Arise, kneel not to me;
But thanke thy sisters, they apparrell'd thee
In that distractfull shape; Psiche fare well,
I'le mourne in heaven, to see thy paines in hell.

Cupid ascends.
Ad.
Poor miserable childe; in stead of teares,
My heart weeps blood; I am confounded quite:
I have three daughters, thou of all the rest,
Had'st in my true conceptions greatest share,
For which, I call'd thee Psiche, that's the soule,
For as my soule I lov'd thee; now I abjure
All interest in thy birth; hence from my Court?
My hand shall nere lay blessing on thy head,
Nor my tongue grace thee with a daughters name,
Thou art not mine, but the base birth of shame.

Psi.
Oh whether shall a wretch convert her eyes,
When her owne father shall her teares despise?

Enter Mercury.
Mer.
Atend Arcadians,
The Proclamation of the Paphian Queen.

Ad.
When Hermes speakes, we are bound to all attendance.

Mer.
Oh yes, If any can bring Psiche unto Venus—

Asti.
Psiche, whom you are sent to seek, stands there.

Mer.
Then here ends Mercuries Commission:
Psiche, in Venus name, I do arrest thee,
For wrongs to her and Cupid.

Psi.
I obey
Your high arrest, and with an humble suit,
Prostrate my selfe to Citherias wrath;
Where's angry Venus?

Mer.
Frantick in this grove,
Mourning Adonis death,—and here she comes.

Enter Venus.
Ven.
Accursed bow, why didst thou not defend him?
He shall not die, Adonis still shall live;
Apollo, gentle Phœbus mount thy Charriot,
And in his cold brest breathe Cælestiall fire,
For all earths simples cannot cure his wound;
Or if he must expire, command the Muses
To give my love Immortall memory:
Hast thou found Psiche? oh that in this rage,
I could but now forget her.

Mer.
See where she stands,
With down-cast eyes, and weak up-heaved hands.

Ven.
Just of my height, state, and my proportion;
And were her pristine beauty lent her backe,
Might in the rabbles judgement rivall me:
Strumpet, prophaner of our sacred rights,
How hast thou wrong'd me, and abus'd my son?
By ayming at my honour and his life.

Psi.
Dread Paphian Queen, for lovely Cupids sake,
And this rich burthen in my wretched wombe,
Pitty poore Psiche.

Ven.
Hast thou plaid the strumpet,
And for thy sins sake, must I pardon thee?
No, that alone hath made me mercilesse.

Venus beats her.
Psi.
Helpe me dear father, sisters, Mercury.

Ad.
I dare not speak for thee.

Asti.
Nor I.

Petr.
Nor I.

Psi.
Poor Psiche, borne unto adversity.

Mer.
Be not so bitter Madam, for his sake,
By whom you are made a grandam.

Ven.
I prove a grandame to a strumpets brat?
Go Mercury, and from some Garner fetch
Five measures of five severall sorts of graine;
Dispatch it Hermes.

Mer.
What will Venus do?

Ven.
Thou shalt know better when thou backe returnst:
Exit. Mercury.
You are yong Venus, and the Queen of Love,
That had th'ambition to be Cupids wife,
And marry with a god; Ho Boreas,
Since Mercury is slack in his returne,
Wind her inticing locks about thy arme,
And tossing her loose carcasse in the ayre,
Fling it into the bosome of some storme,
And grind her bones to powder in the fall.

Psi.
Pity me Venus, father plead for me.

Enter Mercury with graine.
Ven.
'Tis well done Hermes, hast thou brought the grain?

Mer.
I have.

Ven.
Then minion, here's your taske,
Look on all these; see, thus I mingle them.

Psi.
And what must miserable Psiche do?

Ven.
To severall heaps, with thine owne hands divide
Each severall seed ere the Sun kisse the West,
Or look for death; go, and when that is done,
Ile ride to Paphos and enlarge my sonne,
Whom yet I keep close prisoner in my closet.

Ad.
Psiche adieu, none can reverse thy doom.

Asti.
Not I.

Mene.
Nor we.

Exit. all but Mer. and Psi.
Psi.
I wish the earth my tombe.

Mer.
Take patience Psiche, and be comforted.

Psi.
Comfort, alas what comfort can she find,
Whose father and dear friends prove so unkind.

Mer.
For Cupids sake, who for thy love, now weares
A paire of golden shackles on his heeles:
This Mercury will do, flie hence to Paphos,
And fetch him from his late imprisonment,
Then tell him of his mothers tyranny,
That done, we two will teach thee, without paine,
In severall heaps how to divide this graine.

Exeunt.
Enter Midas and Apuleius
Mi.
And where have I been think'st thou Apuleius,
Didst thou not misse me?

Ap.
Yes, I did not sleep as thou didst in thy judgment.

Mi.
Then I perceive,
Thou know'st how I maintain'd our rurall musicke,
Preferring it before Apollos Harpe.

Ap.
Yes, and by that infer, thou art all earthly,
Nothing Cælestiall in thee.

Mi.
All's one for that; now for your morrall.

Ap.
Wilt thou stay it out?

Mi.
No, 'tis too dull,
Vnlesse thou'lt quicken me with some conceit,
Thy Psiches sadnesse hath made me so heavy,
That Morpheus steales upon me.

Ap.
What wouldst thou see?

Mi.
Thy little Cupid I like pretty well,
And would see something else what he can do,
More then belongs to Psiche.

Ap.
Well, to keep thee awake,
I'le shew thee now Loves Contrarieties,
Which was more then my promise.

A Dance.
Enter a King and a Beggar, a Young-man and an Old woman, a Leane man, a Fat woman.
Dance, & Exit.
Mi.

Ap.
I'le tell thee; she charm'd by her sisters tongues,
Thinks her faire love a serpent, and growne mad,
Would murder Cupid, teare even Iove from heaven;
Yet note the greatnesse of Cælestiall mercy;
One glimpse, one lampe, one sparke, one divine thought
Plucks back her arme, and more inflames her brest
With amorous raptures; but because poore soule,
She aym'd to search forbidden mysteries,
Her eyes are blasted, Cupid loathes her sight,
He leaves her ugly, and his blessed bower
Is rent in pieces; For heaven seems to fall
When our poor soules turne diabollicall.

Mi.
For that 'twixt Pan and Phœbus, I know best,
For I was there an umpire; but resolve me;
Why left he Psiche when she lost his love,
Yet mourn'd when she was left of all her friends.

Ap.
All bid the wretched soule run to despaire,
When leprous sin deformes her, but even then,
When the gods hate her? when she's scorn'd of men?
Cupid hangs in the ayre; his divine eyes
Shed teares for her, comforts her miseries.

Mi.
Yet he forsook her too.

Ap.
Till Psiche be made faire, and angel-white,
She's not to stand in Cupids glorious sight.

Mi.
Well, I am answer'd.

Ap.
For thy part Midas,
Laugh, sleep, or flout, nay snarle, and cavell too;
Which none of these here met I hope will do.

Exeunt.