University of Virginia Library

Scena 1.

Sound Musicke.
Enter Octauian, Caradoc, Guiniuer, Gloster, Cornewall and Codigune vnto the Banket.
Octa.
Sit, Princes, and let each man, as befits
This solemne Festiuall, tune his sullen senses,
To merry Carols, and delightsome thoughts,
Comicke inuentions, and such pleasant straines
As may decypher time to be well pleased.
All things distinguisht are into their times
And Iouiall howres, vnfit for graue designes.
A health vnto the Bride and Bridegroome. Lords,
Let it goe round.

They drinke round.
Octa.
How fares our princely Daughter?
Me thinks, your looks are too composde for such a holiday.

Gui.
Oh my good Lord, to put your Highnes out of your suspect,
Which your weak argument draws frō my looks:
Tis true, that heathen Sages haue affirmed,
That Natures Tablet fixt within our looke,
Giues scope to reade our hearts, as in a booke.
Yet this affirmatiue not alwayes holds;
For sometimes as the vrine, that foretels
The constitution of each temperature,
It falsely wrongs the iudgement, makes our wit
Turne Mountybanke in falsely iudging it:
And like the outward parts of some fayre whore,
Deceiues, euen in the obiect we adore:
My Lord, my soule's so rapte
In contemplation of my happy choyce,
That inward silence makes it more complete,
By how much more it is remote
From custome of a superficiall ioy,
Thats meerely incorporeall, a meere dreame,
To that essentiall ioy my thoughts conceyue.

Octa.
How learnedly hath thy perswasiue toung
Discouered a new passage vnto ioy,
In mentall reseruation? True ioy is strung
Best with the heart-strings, sounds onely in the tongue.
But where's Sir Morgan, Earle of Anglesey?
He promised vs some pleasant masking sight,
To crowne these Nuptials with their due delight.

Enter Morgans foolish sonne, Morion.
Morion.

Oh my Lord, my father is comming to your
Grace, with such a many of Damsons and shee Shittlecockes:
They smell of nothing in the world but Rozin
and Coblers waxe; such a many lights in their heeles, &
lungs in their hands, aboue all cry, yfaith.

Enter the Maske of the Fayry Queene with foure Harpers; before they daunce, one of them singeth a Welsh song: they daunce, and then the foole, Earle Morgans sonne, falleth in loue with the Fayry Queene.
Morion.

By my troth, my stomacke rumbleth at the very
conceit of this Iamall loue, euen from the sole of my
head, to the crowne of the foote. Surely, I will haue

more acquaintance of that Gentlewoman; me thinks she
daunceth like a Hobby-horse.

After the daunce, a Trumpet within.
Octa.
Thanks, Cousin Morgan.
But soft, what Trumpets this?

Constan.
A messenger, my Lord, from King Gederus,
King of Brytayne, desires accesse vnto your Maiesty.

Octa.
Admit him to our presence.

Enter Ambassadour.
Ambass.

Health to this princely presence, and specially,
to great Octauian; for vnto him I must direct my
speech.

Octa.
To vs? then freely speake the tenor of thy speech,
And wee as freely will reply to it.
Thy Master is a Prince, whom wee affect,
For honourable causes knowne to vs:
Then speake, as if the power we haue to graunt,
Were tied to his desire.

Amb.
Then know, great King, that now Gederus stands,
As in a Labyrinth of hope and feare,
Vncertaine eyther of his life and Crowne.
The Romane Claudius Cesar, with an hoste.
Of matchlesse numbers, bold and resolute,
Are marching towards Brittayn, armd with rage,
For the denying Tribute vnto Rome,
By force and bloudy warre to conquer it,
And eyther winne Brittayne with the sword,
Or make her stoope vnder the Romane yoke.
Now, mighty King, since Brittayne, through the world,
Is counted famous for a generous Ile,
Scorning to yeeld to forraine seruitude,
Gederus humbly doth desire your ayde,
To backe him 'gainst the pride of Romane Cesar,
And force his Forces from the Brittish shores:
Which being done with speede, he vowes to tye
Himselfe to Wales, in bonds of amity.

Oct.
Legate, this news hath pleasd Octauian wel.
The Bryttaynes are a Nation free and bold,
And scorne the bonds of any forrayne foe;
A Nation, that by force was ne're subdude,
But by base Treasons politikely forst.
Claudius forgets, that when the Bryttish Ile
Scarce knew the meaning of a strangers march,
Great Iulius Cesar, fortunate in armes,
Suffred three base repulses from the Cliffes
Of chalky Douer:
And had not Bryttayne to her selfe prou'd false,
Cesar and all his Army had beene toombde
In the vast bosome of the angry sea.
Sonne Caradoc, how thinke you of this worthy enterprise?
Yet tis vnfit, that on this sudden warning,
You leaue your fayre wife, to the Theoricke
Of matrimoniall pleasure and delight.

Cara.
Oh my good Lord, this honourable cause
Is able to inflame the coward brest
Of base Thersites, to transforme a man,
Thats Planet-strooke with Saturne, into Mars;
To turne the Caucasus of peasant thoughts,
Into the burning Ætna of reuenge,
And manly Execution of the foe.
What man is he, if Reason speake him man,
Or honour spurs on, that immortall fame
May canonize his Acts to after times,
And Kingly Homers in their Swanlike tunes
Of sphearelike Musicke, of sweet Poesie,
May tell their memorable acts in verse;
But at the name of Romanes, is all warre,
All courage, all compact of manly vigour
Totally magnanimious, fit to cope
Euen with a band of Centaures, or a hoast
Of Cretan Minotaures? Then let not me be bard:
The way to honour's craggy, rough, and hard.

Octa.
Go on, & prosper, braue resolued Prince.

Car.
Faire Princesse, be not you dismaid at this;
Tis honour bids me leaue you for a while.
Twill not long be absent. All the world,
Except this honourable accident,
Could not intreat, what now I must performe,
Being ingadgde by honour. Let it suffice,
That ioy that liues with thee, without thee dies.

Guin.
Sweet Lord, ech howre whilst you return, Ile pray,
Honour may crowne you with a glorious day.

Cara.
Then here Ile take my leaue;
He kisses his hand.
First, as my duty binds, of you great King.
Next, of you, fayre Princesse.
He kisses her.
Come brothers, and Lord Morgan, I must intreat
Your company along.

Mor.

Fare you well, great King: our Cousin ap Caradoc
and I, will make Cesars, with all her Romanes, runne to
the Teuils arse a peake, I warrant her.

Exeunt.

I pray you looke vnto her sonne there: bee Cad, hee
hath no more wit in his pates, then the arrantest Cander
at Coose fayre.

Exit.
Octa.
Come, daughter, now let's in.
He that loues honour, must his honour winne.

Exeunt.