University of Virginia Library

Scena sexta.

Mirtillo, Corisca.
Mir.
Hear ye damn'd spirits that in hell lament,
Hear a new sort of pain and punishment.
See in a Turtles look a Tigers minde!
She, crueller then death, 'cause she did find
One death would not suffice her bloody will,
And that to live was to be dying still,
Enjoyns me, not to make my self away,
That I might die a thousand times a day.

Cor.
(I'le make as though I saw him not) I hear
A dolefull voice pierce my relenting ear,
Who should it be? Mirtillo, is it thou?

Mir.
I would it were my ghost.

Cor.
Well, well: but how
(And tell me true) thy self now dost thou find,
Since to thy dearest Nymph thou brak'st thy mind?

Mir.
As one who in a feaver cast,
Forbidden liquor long'd to taste,
If gotten, sets it to his mouth,
And quenches life, but cannot drouth:
So I, with amorous feaver long
Consumed, from her eyes and tongue
Sweet poyson suck'd, which leaves me more
Enflamed then I was before.

Cor.
“Love upon us no power can have
“But what our selves (Mirtillo) gave.
“As a Bear doth with her tongue
“Polish her mishapen young
“Which had else in vain been born:
“So an Am'rist giving form
“To a rude and faint desire
“That would otherwise expire,
“Hatches Love; which is at first
“Weak and raw, but when 'tis nurst,
“Fierce and cruell. Take't upon
“My word, an old affection
“Tyrannizes in a brest,
“And grows a Master from a guest.
“For when the soul shall once be brought
“To be fettred to one thought,
“And that, not have the pow'r to move
“A minute from its object, Love
“(Made for delight) will turn to sadness;
“And which is worse, to death or madness.
“Therefore my advice shall be,
“To part thy love to two or three.

Mir.
Let death or madness me betide,
Rather then my Flame divide.
Amarillis (though she be
Cruell and unkind to me)
Is my Life and Reason too,
And to her I will be true.

Cor.
Foolish Swain! that canst not tell
How to make a bargain well.
What? change love for hatred? I
Rather now then do't would dye.

Mir.
“Cruelty doth faith refine,
“As the fire the golden mine:
“Where were the loyaltie of Love,
“If women should not tyrants prove?
In my many suffrings this
All my joy and comfort is,
Sorrows, tortures, exile, gall,
Here's a cause will sweeten all.
Let me languish, let me burn,
Let me any thing but turn.

Cor.
O brave Lover! valiant brest!
More impetuous then a beast!
And yet tamer then a rock
Which endures the Ocean's shock!
“In Lovers hearts there cannot be
“A worse disease then Constancie.
“O most unhappy those in whom
“This foolish Idol finds a room!
“Which shackles us, when we might prove
“The sweet variety of Love.
With this dull vertue Constancie,
Tell me (simple Lover) why
Amarillis? For her face?
Whom another must embrace?
Or do'st thou affect her mind,
Which to thee is not inclin'd?
All then thou canst doat upon
Is thine own destruction.
And wilt thou be still so mad
To covet that cannot be had?
Up Mirtillo, know thy parts:
Canst thou want a thousand hearts?
Others I dare swear there be,
That would sue as much to thee.

Mir.
To be Amarillis thrall
Is more then to command them all.
And if she my suit deny,
All that's pleasure I defie.
I to make another choice?
In another I rejoyce?
Neither could I if I would,
Neither would I if I could:
But if possible to me
Such a will or power be,
Heav'n and Love before that hour
Strip me of all will and pow'r.

Cor.
Thou art enchanted: otherwise
Couldst thou too thy self despise?

Mir.
I must, when I'm despis'd by her
(Corisca).

Cor.
Come Mirtillo, ne're
Deceive thy self: perhaps thou dost suppose
Shee loves thee in her heart, although shee showes
An outward scorn. If thou but knewst what shee
Talks oftentimes to me concerning thee.

Mir.
All these are trophies of my constant love,
With which I'le triumph o're the Pow'rs above,
And men below, my torments, and her hate,
O're Fortune and the world, o're Death and Fate.

Cor.
(Wonder of Constancy! if this man knew
How much hee's lov'd by her, what would hee do?)
Mirtillo, how it pities me to hear
These frantick speeches! Tell me, wert thou 'ere
In love before?

Mir.
Fair Amarillis was
My first, and shall be my last Love.

Cor.
Alas!
It should seem then that thou didst never prove
Any but cruell, but disdainfull Love.
O that't had been thy chance but once to be
In love with one that's gentle, courteous, free!
Try that a little: try it, and thou'lt finde
How sweet it is to meet with one that's kinde,
That loves and honours thee as much as thou
Thy sowre and cruell Amarillis; how
Delightfull 'tis to have a joy as great
As is thy love, a happinesse compleat
As thy own wish: to have thy Mistresse twine
About thy neck, and her sighs eccho thine:
And after say, My Joy, all that I have,
All that I am, and thy desires can crave,
At thy devotion is: If I am fair,
For thee I'm fair; for thee I deck this hair,
This face, this bosome; from this brest of mine
I turn'd out my own heart to harbour thine.—
But this is a small river to that vast
Sweet sea of pleasure which love makes us taste,
And they alone that taste can well relate.

Mir.
A thousand thousand times most fortunate
Is he that's born under so blest a star!

Cor.
Hear me Mirtillo: ('ere I was aware
I'd almost call'd him mine) a Nymph as fair
As the proud'st she that curls or spreads to th'air
Her golden tresses, worthy of thy love
As thou of hers, the honour of this Grove,
Love of all hearts; by every worthier swain
In vain sollicited, ador'd in vain,
Doth love thee onely, and thee onely prize
More then her life, and more then her own eyes.
Mirtillo, scorn her not, if wise thou be;
For as the shadow doth the body, she
Will follow thee through all the world: she will
At thy least word and beck be ready still
As thy obedient hand-maid: night and day
With thee shee'll passe the tedious hours away.
Ah! do not wave (Mirtillo) do not wave
So rare a blisse; the perfect'st joyes we have
Are those which neither sighs nor tears do cost,
Nor danger, and on which least time is lost.
Here thou hast passe-time at thy door, a feast
Upon the table alwayes ready drest
To please thy taste. Ay me! canst thou receive
A greater gift then this? Mirtillo, Leave,
Leave this cold hunting after flying feet,
And her that runs to thy embraces, meet.
Nor do I feed thee with vain hopes; command
Her come, and she that loves thee is at hand,
Now, if thou say the word.

Mir.
I prethee rest
Content, my pallat is not for a feast.

Cor.
Try but what joy is made of once, and then
Return unto thy wonted grief agen,
That thou maist say, thou hadst a taste of both.

Mir.
“Distemper'd palats all sweet things do loath.

Cor.
Yet do't in pitie unto her that dyes,
Unlesse sh'enjoy the sun of thy fair eyes.
Uncharitable youth, art not thou poor?
And canst thou beat a beggar from thy door?
Ah! what thou wouldst another should extend
To thee, do thou now to another lend.

Mir.
What alms can beggers give? In short, I swore
Allegeance to that Nymph whom I adore,
Whether she tyrant prov'd, or mercifull.

Cor.
O truly blind, and most unhappy, dull
Mirtillo! who is't thou art constant to?
I am unwilling to add woe to woe;
But thou art too much wrong'd I'faith, and I
That love thee am not able to stand by
And see thee so betraid. If thou suppose
This crueltie of Amarillis growes
From zeal to vertue or Religion,
Th'art gull'd: another doth possesse the throne,
And thou (poor wretch!) whilst he doth laugh, must cry.
What, stricken dumb?

Mir.
I'm in an ecstasie,
'Twixt life and death suspended, till I know
Whether I should believe thee now or no.

Cor.
Do'st not believe me then?

Mir.
If I did, I
Had not surviv'd it sure: and I will dye
Yet, if it be a truth.

Cor.
Live (Caitiffe) live
To be reveng'd.

Mir.
But I cannot believe
It is a truth.

Cor.
Wilt thou not yet believe,
But force me to tell that which it will grieve
Thy soul to hear? Do'st thou see yonder cave?
That is thy Mistresse Faith's and Honour's grave:
There laughs sh'at thee, there makes of thy anoy
A poynant sawce to thy tir'd Rivals joy.
In short; there oft a base-born shepherd warms
Thy vertuous Amarillis in his arms.
Now go and sigh, and whine, and constant prove
Unto a Nymph that thus rewards thy love.

Mir.
Ay me Corisca! do'st thou tell me true?
And is it fit I should believe thee too?

Cor.
The more thou searchest, 'twill the worser be.

Mir.
But didst thou see't Corisca? wo is me!

Cor.
Truth is, I did not see it, but thou mayst,
And presently, for she her word hath past
To meet him there this very hour: But hide
Thy self beneath that shady hedges side,
And thou thy self shalt see her straight descend
Into the cave, and after her, her friend.

Mir.
So quickly must I dye?

Cor.
See! I have spi'd
Her coming down already by the side
O'th'Temple: mark! how guiltily she moves!
Her stealing pace betraying their stoln loves.
To mark the sequell, do thou here remain,
And afterwards we two will meet again.

Mir.
Since the discovery of the truth's so neer,
With my belief I will my death defer.