 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
64
SCEN. V.
Tyndarus and Techmessa.Tyn.
How poore a thing is man, whom death it self
Cannot protect from injuries! O ye gods!
Is't not enough our wretched lives are toss'd
On dangerous seas, but we must stand in fear
Of Pyrates in the haven too? Heaven made us
So many buts of clay, at which the gods
In cruell sport shoot miseries.—Yet, I hope,
Their spleen's grown milder, and this blest occasion
Offers it self an earnest of their mercy.
Their sinnes have furnisht us with fit disguises
To quiet our perplexed souls. Techmessa,
Let me aray you in this womans robes.
I'le weare the Sextons garments in exchange.
Our sheets and coffins shall be theirs.
Tech.
Deare Tyndarus!
In all my life I never found such peace
As in this coffin: it presented me
The sweets that death affords.—Man has no libertie
But in this prison.—Being once lodg'd here,
He's fortified in an impregnable fort,
Through which no doubts, suspicions, jealousies,
No sorrows, cares, or wilde distractions
Can force an entrance to disturb our sleeps.
Tyn.
Yet to those prisons will we now commit
These two offenders.
Tech.
But what benefit
Shall we enjoy by this disguise?
Tyn.
A great one:
If my Evadne, or thy Pamphilus
E're lov'd us living, they will haste to make
Atonement for our souls, stain'd with the guilt
Of our own bloud: if not, they will rejoyce
Our deaths have opened them so cleare a passage
To their close loves: and with those thoughts possess'd,
They will forget the torments hell provides
For those, that leave the warfare of this life
65
Tech.
I hope they may prove constant!
Tyn.
So pray I.
I will desire yon statue, be so courteous
To part with's beard a while.—So we are now
Beyond discovery.
Sex.
O, O, O!
Staph.
O, O, O!
Tyn.
Let's use a charm for these.
[Tyn.]
Quiet sleep, or I will make
Erinnys whip thee with a snake.
And cruell Rhadaman thus take
Thy body to the boyling lake,
Where fire and brimstone never slake.
Thy heart shall burn, thy head shall ake,
And every joynt about thee quake.
And therefore dare not yet to wake.
Tech.
Quiet sleep, or thou shalt see
The horrid hags of Tartarie.
Whose tresses ugly serpents he,
And Cerberus shall bark at thee.
And all the Furies that are three,
The worst is call'd Tisiphone,
Shall lash thee to eternitie.
And therefore sleep thou peacefully.
Tyn.
But who comes hither? Ballio, what's his businesse?
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