 | Amyntas |  |
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Scen. 5.
Pilumnus with a sacrificing knife, fire laid on the Altar, a Priest holding a Taper ready to kindle it, another Priest powring water on Claius head, who was bound: Corymbus leading out Damon bound.Pil.
Sicilians, Nature and religion
Are at contention in mee: my sad soule
Divided 'twixt my Goddesse and my sonne,
Would in her strange distractions, either have mee
Turne Parricide or Apostate: Awefull Ceres,
For whom I feed the fattest of my Lambs,
To whom I send the holiest of my prayers
Vpon the smoaky wings of sweetest myrrhe,
Instruct thy doubtfull Flamen! As I cannot
Forget I am thy priest: for sooner shall
Our Lambs forget to feed, our swaines to sing,
Our Bees forget first, from the fruitfull Thyme
To cull them baggs of Nectar: everything
Forget his nature, ere I can forget
I am thy Priest: Nor can I but remember
That Damon is my sonne: yet take him Ceres!
You need not powre water upon his head,
I'le doe it with my teares. Ceres, I hope
Thy anger will not bind the Fathers eye
To look into the Bowels of his sonne,
I'le therefore first spill on thy hallowed Altar
This Captives blood; and then retire my selfe
Not to be present at my Damons death
Least nature might turne Rebell to devotion.
Are at contention in mee: my sad soule
Divided 'twixt my Goddesse and my sonne,
Would in her strange distractions, either have mee
Turne Parricide or Apostate: Awefull Ceres,
For whom I feed the fattest of my Lambs,
To whom I send the holiest of my prayers
Vpon the smoaky wings of sweetest myrrhe,
Instruct thy doubtfull Flamen! As I cannot
Forget I am thy priest: for sooner shall
Our Lambs forget to feed, our swaines to sing,
Our Bees forget first, from the fruitfull Thyme
To cull them baggs of Nectar: everything
Forget his nature, ere I can forget
I am thy Priest: Nor can I but remember
That Damon is my sonne: yet take him Ceres!
You need not powre water upon his head,
I'le doe it with my teares. Ceres, I hope
Thy anger will not bind the Fathers eye
To look into the Bowels of his sonne,
I'le therefore first spill on thy hallowed Altar
This Captives blood; and then retire my selfe
Not to be present at my Damons death
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Song.
Ceres, to whom we owe that yetWe doe not Mast and Acornes eat:
That didst provide us better meat,
The purest flower of finest wheat.
This bloud we spill at thy desire,
To kindle, and to quench a ire.
O let it quench thy flame of fire,
And kindle mercies more entire.
O let this guilty bloud attone
For every poore unlucky one;
Nymph, or Swain, who ere doe grone
Vnder sad Loves imperious throne.
That Love a happier age may see
In thy long tortur'd Sicily.
That blood which must th'Attonement bee
Thus Goddesse, thus, we pay to thee!
Amyntas, Amarillis.
Amy.
Stay, stay that impious hand, whose hasty zeale
Thinks murther can appease the Goddesse wrath!
If it be murther must appease her wrath,
What is't can move her anger? Doe not then,
Doe not pollute her Altar, least it keep
The crimson staine of bloud, and blush for ever,
At this too cruell, ignorant devotion.
Pil.
Avoid the mad man.
Amyn.
Why Pilumnus, Why?
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And I'le expound the Oracle.
Amyn.
What fire has yet his bloud or quench't or kindled?
Pil.
Why it hath quencht the sadder flames of love,
And more auspitious fires begin to move.
Amyn.
Where? in what brest? No love in all Trinacria
But under Cupids scepter faints and groanes
More now then ever. Thy unfortunate Damon,
And more unfortunate Amarillis stand
A sad example; Thy Vrania
(O sad sweet name!) may with her poore Amintas
Witnesse his tyrannous reigne: here in Sicilia
Turtles grow jealous, Doves are turn'd unchast,
The very Pellicans of Trinacrean woods
Are found unnaturall, and thirst the bloud
Of their young brood, (alas who can believe it?)
Whom they were wont to suckle with their own.
O wretched season! Bitter fruits of love!
The very Storks with us are Parricides.
Nay even the senselesse trees are sensible
Of this imperious rage: the gentle Vine
(The happy embleme once of happier Lovers)
That with such amorous twines, and close imbraces
Did cling about the loved-loving elme,
With slacker branches now falls down and withers:
If then to adde more fuell to the flame,
To powre in oyle and sulphure be to quench it,
The flame is quench'd. Nor are you hee, Pilumnus,
That must expound the Oracle, 'Tis a witt
102
The Goddesse meaning: you, the living Oracle
Of Sicilie, the breathing Ompha of the Kingdome
Will misconceive the Goddesse; you are wise
Skil'd in the vertues of all herbs, and flowers,
What makes our Ewes can best, what keeps thē sound;
Can tell us all the mysteries of heaven,
The number, height, and motion of the starres;
Tis a mad brain, an intellect, you scorne
That must unty this riddle.
Pil.
But I know
The wrath of Ceres cannot be appeas'd
But by the bloud of Claius.
Amy.
So it is.
Pil.
How can that bee? yet his accursed gore
Hath not imbru'd the Altar.
Amyn.
But his bloud
Hath been already shed in Amarillis:
Shee is his bloud, so is Vrania yours,
And Damon is your bloud; That is the bloud
The Goddesse aimes at, that must still her ire,
For her bloud hath both quench't and kindled fire.
Pil.
What hath it quencht or kindled?
Amyn.
Love, the fire
That must be quench't and kindled. Damons love
To his Laurinda in that bloud extinguish'd,
Is by that powerfull bloud kindled anew
To Amarillis, now grown his desire:
Thus Claius bloud hath quench't and kindled fire.
All.
Amyntas, Amyntas, Amyntas, Amyntas.
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And is the fire of my Damon kindled
But to be quench't againe: Ceres! a frost
Dwell on thy Altars, ere my zeale renew
Religious fires to warme 'em.
Amyn.
Spare these blasphemies,
For Damon is acquitted & assoil'd
Of any trespasse.
Pil.
How Amyntas? speake!
Thou that hast sav'd a Father, save a sonne.
Amyn.
Thus, Amarillis is the Sacrifice
The Goddesse aim'd at: and the bloud of Sacrifice
(As you all know) may lawfully be spilt
Even in the Holy vale, and so it was;
Besides your Damon is a Priest by birth,
And therefore by that Title, he may spill
The sacrifized Amarillis bloud.
If this interpretation be not true,
Speak you Sicilians, I'le be judg'd by you.
All.
Amyntas, Amyntas, Amyntas, Amyntas.
Pil.
Amyntas, thou hast now made full amends
For my Philebus death; Claius all envy,
Envy the viper of a venemous soule
Shall quit my brest: This is the man, Sicilians,
The man to whom you owe your liberties;
Goe Virgins, and with Roses strow his way,
Crowne him with violets, and lilly wreathes;
Cut off your golden tresses, and from them
Weave him a robe of love: Damon, pay here
The debt of duty that thou ow'st to mee;
Hence was thy second birth.
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Or hither rather:
The Balsame of Sicilia flowed from hence,
Hence from this scarlet torrent, whose each drop
Might ransome Cupid were he captive tane.
Amaril.
How much owe I my Damon, whose blest hand
Made mee the publique sacrifice! could I shed
As many drops of blood, even from the heart,
As Arethusa drops of water can,
I would outvie her at the fullest tide,
That other Virgins loues might happy be,
And mine my Damon be as blest in thee.
Clai.
O what a showre of joy falls from mine eyes!
The now too fortunate Claius! my Amyntas,
My Amarillis, how shall I divide
My teares and joyes betwixt you!
Pil.
Lovers come,
Come all with flowry chaplets on your browes,
And singing Hymmes to Ceres, walk around
This happy village; to expresse our glee
This day each yeare shall Cupids triumphs bee.
Amyn.
Still my impossible Dowry for Vrania
Leaves mee unfortunate in the mid'st of joy;
Yet out of piety I will heere a while
(Though blest I am not 'till she be my bride)
In publique joyes lay private griefes aside.
Exeunt cum Choro cantantium.
Io.
And I'le goe fetch the youngsters of the towne,
The mortall Fairies, and the lasses browne,
To bring spic'd cakes, and ale, to dance and play,
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Exit.
Mop.
Ah Dorilas that I could not have the wit
To have been a mad man rather then a foole.
I have lost the credit.
Dor.
Tis no matter
You shall have Thestylis,
Mop.
Shall I, Dorylas,
I had as live interpret her as Oracles.
Dor.
And here she comes, give mee your quaile pipe, harke you.—
Exit.
Enter Thestylis.
Mop.
Now, Thestylis, thou shalt mine Oracle bee,
Hence forth I will interpret none but thee.
Thes.
Why haue the birds (my Mopsus) councel'd so?
Mop.
They say I must, whether you will or noe.
Thes.
How know I that?
Mop.
The birds doe speak it plain.
Dorilas with a quaile pipe.
Harke, Thestylis, the birds say so again.
Thes.
I understand them not.
Mop.
Will you be judg'd
By th'next we meet?
Thes.
Mopsus, I am content,
So you will stand unto it as well as I.
Mop.
By Ceres, Thestylis, most willingly.
Enter Dorylas.
Mop.
Ah Dorilus, heard you what the birds did say?
Dor.
I Mopsus, you are a happy man to day.
Mop.
What said they boy?
Dor.
As if you did not know.
Mop.
But Thestylis.
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Why sure she understands it,
Have you to her this language never read?
Mop.
No, Dorylas, I can teach her best in bed.
Dor.
The Birds said twice: (as you full well doe know)
You must have Thestylis whether she will or no.
Thes.
And am I caught? Tis no great matter though;
For this time Mopsus I will marry thee;
The next I wed, by Pan, shall wiser bee!
Mop.
And have I got thee? thankes my witty boy.
Do.
Harke, Thestylis, the birds doe bid you joy.
Thes.
For fooling Mopsus, now 'tis time give ore.
Mop.
Mad man I may, but will be foole no more.
Thes.
Mad after marriage as a foole before.
For hee's a foole that weds, all wives being bad;
And shee's a foole makes not her husband mad.
| Amyntas | |