 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
SCEN. IIII.
Asotus, Ballio, Simo.Sim.
Good morrow boy: how flows thy bloud, Asotus,
Upon thy wedding day? is it spring-tide?
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Wilt thou at night create me Grandsire? ha?
O, I remember with what sprightly courage
I bedded thy old mother, and that night
Bid fair for thee boy: how I curst the ceremonies,
And thought the yongsters scrambled for my points
Too slowly: 'Twas a happy night, Asotus.
Asot.
How sad a day is this! methinks the sunne
Affrighted with our sorrows, should run back
Into his Eastern palace, and for ever
Sleep in the lap of Thetis. Can he show
A glorious beam when Tyndarus is dead,
And fair Techmessa? I will weep a floud
Deep as Deucalions; and again the Chaos
Shall mufle up the lamentable world
In sable clokes of grief and black confusion!
Sim.
What ailes my boy? unseasonable grief
Shall not disturb thy nuptialls.—Good Asotus,
Be not so passionate.
Ball.
What incomparable mirth
Would such a dotard and his humorous sonne
Make in a Comedie, if a learned pen
Had the expression!
Asot.
Now the tother cloke.
In what a verdant weed the spring arayes
Fresh Tellus in! how Flora decks the fields
With all her tapestry! and the Choristers
Of every grove chaunt Carrolls! Mirth is come
To visit mortalls. Every thing is blithe,
Jocund, and joviall. All the gods arrive
To grace our nuptialls. Let us sing and dance,
That heaven may see our revells, and send down
The planets in a Masque, the more to grace
This dayes solemnitie.
Sim.
I, this Asotus,
There's musick boy in this.
Asot.
Now this cloke again,
You Gods, you overload mortalitie,
And presse our shoulders with too great a weight
Of dismall miseries. All content is fled
With Tyndarus and Techmessa. Ravens croak
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Epithalamiums to my spouse and me.
Can I dream pleasures, or expect to taste
The comforts of the married bed, when Tyndarus
And fair Techmessa from the world are gone!
No, pardon me you gentle ghosts; I vow
To cloister up my grief in some dark cell:
And there till grief shall close my blubber'd eyes,
Weep forth repentance.
Sim.
Sure he is distracted!
Asotus, do not grieve so, all thy sorrows
Are doubled in thy father: Pity me,
If not thy self; O pity these gray hairs,
Pity my age, Asotus.
Asot.
What a silly fellow
My father is, that knows not which cloke speaks?
Father, you do forget this is our nuptiall.
Cast off those trophies of your wealthy beggerie,
And clad your self in rich and splendent weeds,
Such as become my father: Do not blemish
Our dignity with rags. Appeare to day
As glorious as the sunne. Set forth your self
In your bright lustre.
Sim.
So I will, my boy:
Was there ever father so fortunate in a childe?
Exit Sim.
Asot.
Do not I vary with decorum, Ballio?
Ball.
I do not think but Proteus, Sir, begot you
On a Chamæleon.
Asot.
Nay, I know my mother
Was a Chamæleon, for my father allowed her
Nothing but aire to feed on.
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