University of Virginia Library

Act. IIII.

Scene I.

Enter Vulcan.
Vul.
Within here, ho Pirackmon, when you knave?
Take in Adonis quiver, and his bow,
And hang them up in Venus armory,
By Mars his gantlet, and Achilles sword:
Ha, ha, ha, I laugh untill my sides be sore,
For joy that my wives dandiprat is dead;
And now my Ciclops lay't on lustily;
There's halfe a hundred Thunder-bolts bespoak,
Which argues that the world is full of sin;
Neptune hath broke his Mace, and Junos Coach
Must be new mended, and the hind-most wheels
Must have two spoaks set in; Phœbus fore-horse
Must have two new shooes, calk'd, and one remove;
Pans Sheep-hook must be mended shortly too,
Plic it of all hands, we have much to do.

1. Ciolop, from within.
Ci.
Master, here's one of Ceres husband-men
Would have a Plough-share, and a Sythe new ground.

Vul.
New ground, new halter'd, he shall stay his turne;
We shall deceive the gods and goddesses,
For a plow-jogging hinde.

2 Ci.
Here's Mercury to have his Caduces mended.

Vul.
He shall stay.

3 Ci.
Here's Ganimed,
To have his masters hunting-nagge new shod;
And Mars his lackie, with a broken gorget.

4 Ci.
And here's a clowne for hob-nailes.

Vul.
Here's the devill and all;
What would they have me do? I toyle and moyle
Worse than a mill-horse, scarce have kept a minute
This fortnight, and odde dayes; I have not time
To sit and eat; But I'le give over all,
And live upon my wife as others do;
They say she hath good takings; ere I'le endure it,
I will do any thing; when I was made a Smith,
Would I had been a Beare-ward.

4 Ci.
What shall we do first?

Vul.
Why first go hang your selves:
I keep a douzen Journey-men at least,
Besides my Ciclops and my Prentises,
Yet 'twill not fadge; I thinke my little boy
Cupid must blow the bellowes, and my Wife
Venus must leave her trade, and turne she-smith,
Yet 'twould scarce quit the cost; she'd spend me more
In Nectar and sweet-balls to scowre her cheeks,
Smudg'd and besmear'd with cole-dust and with smoak,
Then all her worke would come to;
But soft, what shackled run-away is this?
Enter Cupid in Fetters.
Why how now Cupid?

Cup.
Crawling softly to you,
You are my dad, and I am come to see you.

Vul.
How came you out of credit with your Mother?

Cup.
Aske me how I crept into credit rather,
For do you see sir; thus the matter stands,
I am indebted, and thus enter'd bands
To be forth-comming.

Vul.
Y'are a yong whore-master; about your wench,
I have heard all; but where's your mother now?

Cup.
Binding up Mirtles for Adonis Tombe,
Whom she hath now turn'd to a Hiacnith?

Vul.
And what's become of Psiche, where is she?

Cup.
I parted but even now with Mercury,
Who told me that my mother had enjoyn'd her
To part five measures of commixed graine
Into five heaps, which seem'd impossible;
But he and I sent forth the toyling Ants,
Who like so many earnest labourers,
Did it with ease, for they were numberlesse:
Then with his cunning, having pick'd the locke
Of Venus Closet dore, he set me free,
And I am come dear father, to intreat,
To file off these my bolts.

Vul.
Cupid I dare not, Venus gave me charge,
Not to take off thy shackles.

Cup.
Father, sweet Hony sugar-candy dad,
Indeed, indeed you shall.

Vul.
This cologing wagge
Will not be answered: come, set up your leg;
Venus will sole me by the eares for this.

Cup.
No, no, I warrant you.

Enter Psiche with a Violl.
Vul.
So, now 'tis done, th'art free;—but who comes here?
She's angry sure for see how big she looks;
What a great breadth she beares; me thinks a woman
Becomes no ornaments she wears, so well
As a great-belly; therefore 'tis much pity,
They should want things, to make them look so pritty.

Psi.
Vnhappy Psiche, Venus most obdure,
And never satiate with my endlesse cares,
When by the helps of silly labouring Ants,
I had ended the first taske, her cruelty
Binds me to worse disaster.

Cup.
Once my Love,
Hadst thou been true to Cupid, not the least
Of all these evills had assaulted thee;
And till my mothers anger be appeas'd,
I dare do nothing; Yet for our first loves sake,
Make me acquainted, with thy second taske,
And as I may be sure I'le further it.

Psi.
Let my lips kisse this earth whereon you tread,
In low submission; for her late injunction,
Transcends all humane possibility:
This Violl I must fill at that spring-head,
From whence Cocitus flowes, that fearfull stream,
Which feeds the River Stix.

Cup.
Be advis'd by me,
Not far from Tenerus, whose barren top
Is crown'd with clouds of smoak, there lies a mead,
Ore-growne with Osiers, Bryars, and Sicamors,
In this Ioves Eagle (on whose duskie wings,
Ganimed flew to heaven) obscures himselfe
From Jealous Iunoes wrath; enquire him out,
Tell him thy grief, and that thou cam'st from me,
From this hard taske he will deliver thee.

Psi.
Thanks glorious deity, upon my knees,
Prest downe with this rich burthen of thy love,
I beg that you will mediate 'twixt my errours,
And your sterne mothers wrath.

Cup.
Well get thee gone,
'Tis I will front her indignation.

Exit. Psiche.
Enter Pan and Venus.
Pan.
This way he ran with shackles on his heels,
And said he would to Vulcan: oh but see
Where he stands cogging with him.

Ven.
Now you run-away,
You disobedient, thou unhappy wagg,
Where be the golden fetters I left you bound in?

Cup.
True, for my good behaviour, but you see
My bands are cancell'd, and your son set free.

Ven.
I'le whip you for't, with nettles steept in wine.

Cup.
So you'll nettle me, and I must smart for't;
But when your owne flames burne, and you desire
With him, or him, to glut your appetite,
Then gentle Cupid, then, my pritty sonne,
My love, my dear, my darling, and what not,
Till you have had your will.

Ven.
With his flattering tongue,
He still prevents my anger: but for thee,
As crooked is thy manners as thy shape;
I thought, great fool, you durst not harbor him.

Vul.
No more I did, sweet wife.

Cup.
Sweet mother Queen, busse my black dad, for all that he hath done,
Was love to you, and kindnesse to your son.

Vul.
Speak for me Pan, as ere thou hop'st to have
Thy broken hook well mended,

Pan.
When, canst tell?
I tell thee, I must first have besides that,
A douzen of Branding-irons to marke my flocke,
(The time drawes neer, sheep-shearing is at hand)
Besides, two of my Satirs falling out
About a Lambe, one of them burst his horne,
It must be tip'd too; thou art well acquainted
With tipping hornes.

Vul.
Ha hornes, with hornes, how's that?

Pan.
Nay aske your Wife, I cannot speak of hornes,
But still you take the last word to your selfe,
For Venus makes, and Vulcan weares,
And Vulcan takes, and Venus beares.

Vul.
Vulcan wear hornes?

Ven.
No sweet-heart, you mistake,
Pan is the forked god, with hornes was borne,
And ever since, his tongue runs of the horne.

Pan.
Speak shall I have my Sheep-hook, and those Irons?

Vul.
Yes Pan, you shall,
But yet those hornes have strucke deep to my heart.

Pan.
Take heed they grow not upward to your head,
And tipping hornes, your browes wear hornes indeed:
Enter Psiche,
But who comes here? Vulcan is this your wench?
T'hadst best look to him Venus.

Psi.
Like your obediens servant, that layes downe
Her life and labour at her Mistris feet,
So comes poor Psiche, held between the armes
Of fear and duty; feare dishartning me,
Would pluck me back, but duty being more strong,
Bids me go forward, bending my weak knee
Before the Shrine of sacred Majesty;
Accept my service, who to gaine your grace,
Would yeeld my selfe to ashie death's imbrace.

Ven.
Is this that water of th'Infernall lake?

Psi.
This is that water whose infectious torrent
Runs from Cocitus, into Flegiton,
Infernall Stix, and the black Acheron,
Deare goddesse.

Ven.
Art thou not a fawning counterfeit?
First I imploy'd thee to divide my graine,
A taske impossible for mortall hands,
This second as more hard, and yet 'tis done;
Thou work'st by sorcery; but no damn'd spell
Shall keep me from my wrath, thy soule from hell.

Vul.
Venus, sweet mouse, nay prithee do not chide,
Forgive, as I forgive thee.

Ven.
Polt-foot, peace.

Cup.
Sweet mother, let your ire be mollified,
Since for her fault she hath endur'd this paine,
Banish all hate and make her blest againe.

Ven.
Againe I charge thee not to speak for her:
Once more I'le try thee further, since thy heart
Is wedded to such hellish sorcery;
Hye to Proserpina, the black-brow'd Queen,
I'le send thee on my embassie to hell,
Tell her that sicknesse, with her ashy hand,
Hath swept away the beauty from my cheeks,
And I desire her send me some of hers;
Fetch me a boxe of beauty then from hell,
That's thy last labour, urge not a reply,
Do my command and live, refuse, and die.

Cup.
For my sake, my best Mother, pitty her.

Ven.
For thee I hate her, and for her hate thee.

Pan.
Nay gentle Venus, be more mercifull,
For her great-bellies sake.

Ven.
For that alone,
I'le hate you all, till she be fled and gone.

Psi.
Then go I must, and going nere returne;
Oh Cupid my inconstancy to thee,
Is cause of this my endlesse misery.

Cup.
With-draw thee Psiche. till the rest be gone,
Anon I'le speak with thee.

Exit. Psiche
Enter Mercury.
Mer.
Venus, Vulcan, Cupid, and god Pan,
I summon you to appeare at Ceres plaine,
To entertaine the faire Proserpina.
For whom I now am sent; I must to hell
About Ioues embassie, Venus farewell.

Exit.
Ven.
Hermes farewell, we'll meet at Ceres plentious Court:
Come Cupid, follow me.

Pan.
Vulcan cannot go.

Vul.
Yes, but 'tis best to keep behind a shrew.

Pan.
Then put her in before, on Venus, go.

Ex. all but Cup.
Cup.
Psiche approach, but do not come too neer,
That pride thou hast already bought too deer.

Enter Psiche.
Psi.
Oh pity Psiche, she is sent to hell.

Cup.
It is the sound of hell wakes pities eye.
Else I had left thee to more misery;
My loves not done, though thou art quite undone,
Vnlesse I arme thee 'gainst the darts of death,
Which hell aimes at thee.

Psi.
Let thy sacred breath—

Cup.
Wound me no more with words, for they but grieve me;
Now marke what on thy Journey must relieve thee:
First, hye thee to the bancks of Acheton,
Thou can'st not misse the way, 'tis broad and worne
With trampling of ten Thousand passengers,
There shalt thou find hells churlish Ferry-man,
His name is Charon, there's to pay his hire,
Take heed thou loose it not, for doing so,
He'le beat, and leave thee on the shore of woe;
Being ferried over, thou shalt spie hell gates,
Thou need'st not knocke, they are open night and day,
Give Cerberus a sop, and passe away.

Psi.
And what's that Corborus?

Cup.
Porter of hell,
Who must at thy returne be brib'd againe;
My great desire to helpe thee, hinders thee,
I should have told thee when in Charons barge,
Thou art wasting ore the dreadfull waves of Stix,
An aged man, with a pale countenance,
His name's Oblivion, swimming in the flood,
Will heave his wither'd armes, and cry helpe, helpe,
Save me from drowning; stretch not forth thy hand,
For if thou dost, thou nere return'st to shore,
Thou wilt forget my love, see me no more.

Psi.
Ile stop mine eares against Oblivions cry.

Cup.
Being landed, thou shalt see old wrinkled haggs,
Spinning black threds, whilst folly reels them up;
He will let fall his reele, and pray thee reach it,
But stoop not; they will likewise beckon thee
To sit downe by them; but to spin a thred,
Take heed, doing so, from me thou art banished.

Psi.
Ile shun their baits.

Cup.
Being enter'd Plutoes Court,
They all will tice thee with a thousand traines,
Shun all, and neither sit nor eat with them,
Only deliver what thou art enioyn'd,
Receive the boxe of beauty, and be gon,
Which still keep shut, let not thy daring eye
Behold the wealth that in the boxe doth lie.

Psi.
Dread Cupid—

Cup.
Now fare-well, hadst thou but obey'd me,
Thy face had still bin lovely, and mine eye
Doated on thee with heavenly Jealousie.

Exeunt.
Enter Clowne and Swaines.
1. Swa.
And what dost thou think of Cupid now?

Clo.
Doe not think I am so stupid,
But to think well of great god Cupid.

2. Swa.
And what of Poets?

Clo.

As Poets, as of Potentates, for since I plaid the last
prize against Phœbus, in which I may say of my selfe, veni, vidi
vici; I have bin so troubled with a Poeticall itch, that I can
scratch you out Rimes, and Ballats, Songs, and Sonnetts, Oades,
and Madrigalls, till they bleed againe.

1. Swa.

Then thou art reconcil'd to Homer.

Clo.

Homer was Honourable, Hesiod Heroicall, Virgil a Vicegerent,
Naso Notorious, Martiall a Provost. Juvinall a Joviall
lad, and Persius a Paramount; what doe I think of Poetry?
of which my selfe am a profest member.

2. Swa.

And may be very well spar'd, and yet the body never
the worse, but thou may'st see what becoms of rayling against
Cupid, what a sweet Mistris hee hath put upon thee?

Clo.

Who, my Amarillis.

1. Swa.

Yes, the veriest dowdy in all Arcadia, even Mopsa
compar'd with her, shewes like a Madam; first she's old—

Clo.

It was very well said, to say first, because she was before
us, and for old, is not age reverend? and therefore in mine eyes
she's honourable.

1. Swa.

And wrinkled.

Clo.

Is't not the fashion; doe not our Gentiles weare their
haire crisped, the Nimphs their gownes pleated, and the Fawns
their stockings, for the more grace, wrinkled; doth not the
earth shew well when 'tis plowed, and the land best when it
lyes in furrowes.

1. Swa.

Besides, shee hath a horrible long nose.

Clo.

That's to defend her lipps, but thou finner to sence, and
renegade to reason, do'st thou blame length in any thing? do'st
thou not wish thy life long, and know'st thou not that Trueth
comes out at length; When all our joyes are gone and past,
doth not Long-look'd for, come at last; If any of our Nimphs

be wrong'd, will she not say, 'tis Long of me, 'tis Long of
thee, or Long of him; If they buy any comodity by the yard,
do they not wish it long; your advocate wishes to have a law
suit hang Long; And the poore client, be his cloak never so
short, and thred-bare, yet would be glad to weare it longer.

No married man, but doth his wife much wrong.
Tho' he himselfe be short, to have nothing long.

2. Swa.

The short and the long on't is, she's an ugly creature,
make of her what thou can'st,

Clo.

Make of her what I can; oh that all, or any of you could
like me, looke upon her with the eyes of Poetry, I would
then let you know what I have made of her.

1 Swa.

Prithee let's hear't.

Clow.

Then listen hither, 'oh you Imps of ignorance;

1 Swa.

All the Homers in Asia could never have come so
neer the businesse.

Clo.

From head to foot, for her stature and yeers, patterne
her in all Arcadia; say she be a foule beast in your eyes, yet
she is my Hyren; and shewing foule to others, and faire to
me, I shall live the happier, and she the honester, but I have a
remedy against all this, in spight of Cupid.

2 Swa.

What's that?

Clo.

I heare Psiche his Mistris, is sent to hell for a boxe of
beauty, 'tis but way-laying of her, and taking it from her, then
Amarillis shall compare with any other she that dare.

Exeunt.
Enter Midas and Apulcius.
Mi.
This last I lik't, and had it all been such,
Only a meer discourse 'twixt Swaines and Clownes,
It then had pleas'd me; now some quaint device,
Some kick-shaw or other to keep me waking.

Ap.
Then by the leave of these spectators here,
I'le suite me to thy low capacity;
Of Vulcans Ciclops Ile so much intreat,
That thou shalt see them on their Anvile beat;
'Tis musicke fitting thee, for who but knowes,
The vulgar are best pleas'd with noyse and showes?

A Dance of Vulcan and his Ciclops.
Mi.
Well, this I like:
Now let me know the creame of this conceit;
Why graine? why measures? why the number five?
Your morrall sir for that.

Ap.
The number five, our Sences doth include,
Those severall graines, our severall sorts of sinnes,
Which like those seeds, to count, are infinite;
And so commixt, that to distinguish them,
It much transcends humane capacitie.

Mid.
And then those Ants, what didst thou meane by them?

Ap.
By those are ment our recolections,
And Laborinths, still busied in the search
Of what hath past, and were it possible,
By drawing them into their former heapes,
To pay to each, indebted penitence;
But all in vaine, for this can never bee
Without true Love, guided by Mercury:
But for my Sceane, how do'st thou relish that?

Mid.
As ribble, rabble, and I know not what;
A Violl must be fill'd with stigian dropps,
And that an Eagle must for Psiche fetch;
And all this, to what purpose?

Apu.
What to thee,
And such like drones, seemes to bee most absur'd,
Is to the wise, perspicuous and most plaine?
When Psiche hath transgressed, and her offence
(Almost past pardon) merrits Cupids wrath,
Then woes like waves, follow each others neck,
Then must shee fetch a glasse of stigian water,
A Violl fill'd with true repentant teares,
And that shee cannot fill, nor fetch from thence,
But by the Eagles help, Heavens providence.

Mid.
But for her voyage into Hell; can'st make mee
Believe, that once there, shee can come from thence?

Ap.
Can'st thou be silent, and but apprehend
Thou now behold'st her sit in Charons boate?
Oblivion reaching up his wretched hands,
To crave her helpe, and then by folly woed,
Next by the Idle sisters; these things past,
Entring Hell gates, whither thy imagination
May bring her, Howsoever Gentlemen,
I hope you will that better understand;
Wee'le but affright her with Hells Court, and then,
On your wing'd thoughts bring her to earth agen.

Exeunt.