University of Virginia Library

Scena sexta.

Corisca, Satyr.
Cor.
O I'm dead.

Sat.
But I was quick.
There's a trick now for your trick.

Cor.
My Amarillis, I am caught.
O come back.

Sat.
She hears thee not.
'Twill now behove thee to be strong.

Cor.
O me, my hair!

Sat.
I have so long
Stood angling for thee in my boat,
At last th'art strook. 'Tis not thy coat,
'Tis thy hair (Sister) this.

Cor.
To mee
This usage (Satyr?)

Sat.
Yes, to thee
Corisca, or I am mistaken:
That Mistresse in the art of making
The fine-spun lyes, that sels so deer
False words, false hopes, and a false leer?
Shee that so often hath betraid me;
Shee that so many fools hath made me
At every turn: the sorceresse,
The cheat Corisca?

Cor.
I confesse,
I am Corisca; but not shee
Now, that was once so lov'd by thee,
My gentile Satyr.

Sat.
Pray since when
Am I gentile? I was not then
When me for Coridon thou didst change.

Cor.
Thee for another?

Sat.
See how strange
She makes it now! I warrant then
This is great news to thee; and when
Thou mad'st me Silvia's Buskins steal,
The Bow of Lilla, Cloris Veile,
And Daphne's Gown, that were to be
The price of love, which promis'd me,
Thou gav'st another: and when that
Fair wreathe I on thy head did plat,
Thou upon Niso didst bestow;
And when thou mad'st me (cold as snow)
Watch many a night out at the Fountain,
The Cave, Wood-side, and foot o'th'Mountain,
And for my pains didst laugh at me,
Did I then seem gentile to thee?
Ah thief! But now as I am here,
I'le make thee pay thy whole arrear.

Cor.
O me! Thou dragg'st me like a beast.

Sat.
I drag thee like thy self then. Wrest
Thy neck out of the collar now;
Give me the slip if thou knowst how.
Fox, though thy craft the time before
Did save thee, it shall do't no more.
For this I'm sure thou canst not scape,
Unlesse thou leave thy head i'th trap.

Cor.
Yet give me so much time I pray,
As for my self to answer.

Sat.
Say.

Cor.
How can I if thou hold me so?

Sat.
'Tis likely I should let thee go.

Cor.
I'le gage my faith not to go hence.

Sat.
What faith? Hast thou the impudence
(Perfidious woman) to name faith
To me? I'le bear thee where there hath
No Sun, much lesse the feet of men
Approacht, unto the horrid'st den
Of all this Mountain: there—(but I
Will act the rest) to mine own joy
And thy dishonour, I will kerve
Such vengeance as thy faults deserve.

Cor.
Canst thou then (cruell) to this hair (which has
Ty'd fast thy heart), unto this face (which was
Once thy delight), to this Corisca (then
More dear to thee then thine own life was when
Thou swar'st by that, that thou couldst finde it sweet
On her behalf, ev'n death it self to meet),
Canst thou once think to offer injury,
I say, to her? O Heav'ns! O Destinie!
Whom have I hop't in? whom can I believe
Again?

Sat.
Ah Syren! thinkst thou to deceive
Me still? still rock me with thy flatt'ring charms?

Cor.
My sweet deer Satyr, do no harm
To her that loves thee. Thou art not a beast,
Nor hast a marble or a flinty brest:
Behold me at thy feet! O pardon me
If ever I (by chance) offended thee,
My Idol. By those sinewy and more
Then humane knees, which clasping I adore;
By that rough manly visage; by that dear
Affection which thou once to me didst bear;
By the sweet influence of those eyes which thou
Wert wont to call two stars (two fountains now;)
By these salt tears which trickle down so fast,
Pitie me now, and let me go.

Sat.
Thou hast
Mov'd me (I must confesse) and I were gone,
If I should hearken to affection.
But to be short, I doe not credit thee;
Thou art too full of wiles and tricks for me,
And he that takes thy word, believes his snares:
Beneath this humble shew, beneath these prayr's
There's hid Corisca: Thou canst never be
Another. Sruggling still?

Cor.
My head, O me!
Ah cruell! stay a little longer yet,
And grant me but one favour.

Sat.
What is it?

Cor.
Hear me a little more.

Sat.
Thou hopest now
With flatt'ries and squeez'd tears to make me bow.

Cor.
Ah courteous Satyr! wilt thou kerve in me
Such cruell vengeance?

Sat.
Come, and thou shalt see.

Cor.
And take no Pity of me?

Sat.
None at all.

Cor.
But art thou firm in this?

Sat.
As a brasse-wall.
Is this charm ended?

Cor.
O thou base, and not
To be exampled Rogue; half man, half goat,
And all a beast; thou carrion that doth stink,
By-blow and blush of nature; If thou think
Corisca loves thee not, thou thinkst the truth.
What should she love in such a comely youth?
That fair Stags head? that chimney-sweepers broom?
Goats ears? that grave of rottennesse and rheume
Which once had bones in't?

Sat.
This to me,
Thou wicked varlet?

Cor.
Ev'n to thee.

Sat.
To me, thou scold?

Cor.
To thee, thou Goat.

Sat.
And with these pincers pull I not
Thy barking tongue out?

Cor.
Would thou durst
Come neer't, there's that will scour their rust.

Sat.
A paltry woman, and in such
Condition (being in my clutch)
To injure me! and dare mee too!
I will—

Cor.
Base slave, what wilt thou do?

Sat.
Eat thee alive I will.

Cor.
Where be
The teeth to do't?

Sat.
Heav'n, dost thou see
And suffer this! But if I doe not
Chastise thee—Come along.

Cor.
I wo'not.

Sat.
Wo'not, my Mistresse Malapert?

Cor.
Wo'not in spight of thy foulheart.

Sat.
That shall be seen; Come, or I swear,
This arm I'le from thy shoulder tear.

Cor.
Tear my head off, I wo'not go
One foot.

Sat.
Art thou resolved so?
Let's ne're dispute then any longer,
But put to tryall whether's stronger
And faster on, thy neck-piece, or
My arm.—Thy hands to help too? Nor
Are these (perverse one) enough guard.

Cor.
That shall be try'd.

Sat.
It shall.

Cor.
Pull hard.—
Satyr adieu, Get thy neck set.

Sat.
O me!
How I am shatter'd! O my head! my knee!
O my back-bone! my thigh! what a vile fall
Was here! to get upon my legs is all
I have the pow'r to do. But can it be
That she should fly, and leave her head with me?
O marvellous! ye Nymphs and Shepherds run,
Flock hither to behold a wonder; one
That runs away without her head, by skill
In Magick. Hah! how light it is! how ill
Peopled with brains! How comes it that I see
None of the blood spirt forth? But stay; let me
Peruse it better. O thou stock! thou stone!
Thou hast no head, if thou think she hath none.
Was ever any man so fool'd? See now
If she had not a trick to scape, when thou
Thoughtst her most sure! Thou all made up of wiles,
Was't not enough thy heart, thy face, thy smiles,
Thy looks and speeches falsified were,
But thou must likewise falsifie thy hair?
The glowing Amber, and the flowing Gold,
Which you (mad Poets) so extoll, behold!
Blush, blush now at your errour, and recant
Your thred-bare theam; in stead whereof, go paint
The arts of a deform'd and impious Witch
Breaking up Sepulchres by night, from which
She steals the hair that upon Death's head growes,
To imp her own, which she so neatly does,
That she hath made you praise what ye should more
Then dire Megæra's snakie locks abhor.
These (Lovers) are your gyves (I take it) too!
Look on 'em Idiots: and if (as you
Protest) your hearts are fastned to these hairs,
Now every one may without sighs or tears
Come by his owne. But why do I forbear
To publish her disgrace? Surely that hair,
Which stuck with starres adorns the azure skye,—
Never so famous was as this; and shee
Much more that wore it by my tongue shall be
Made infamous to all posterity.—

Chorus.