University of Virginia Library

Cephisus, Lyriope, Narcissus.
Open thine eares, my sonne, open I bidd
To heare the sound saw which the sage shall reed,
I meane the sage Tyresias, my ducke,
Which shall lay ope to thee thy lott, thy lucke.
Thy father I, Cephisus, that brave river
Who is all water, doe like water shiver.
As any man of iudgment may descrye
By face, hands washt, & bowle, thy father I.

And I thy mother nimphe, as may bee seene
By coulours that I weare, blew, white, & greene;
For nimphes ar of the sea, & sea is right
Of colour truly greene & blew & white;
Would you knowe how, I pray? Billowes are blew,
Water is greene, & foome is white of hue.

Wee both bidd the, Narcisse, our dearest child,
With count'nance sober, modest lookes & milde,
To prophett's wisest woords with tention harken;
But Sunne is gonne & welkin gins to darken,
Vulcan the weary horses is a shooinge,
While Phebus with queene Thetis is a doinge:
Prophett comes not, letts goe both all & some,
Wee may goe home like fooles as wee did come.

O stay deare husband, flowe not away bright water,
The prophett will come by sooner or later.


Why stand wee heere, as it were cappes a thrumming,
To look for prophett? Prophett is not comminge.

Sweete running river which Cephisus hight,
Whose water is so cleare, whose waves so bright,
Gold is thy sand and christall is thy current,
Thy brooke so cleare that no vile wind dare stirre in't;
Thou art my father, & thou, sweetest nimphe,
Thou art my mother, I thy sonne, thy shrimpe.
Agree you in one point, to goe or tarrye,
Narcissus must obey, aye, must hee, marye.

Gush, water, gush! runne, river, from thy channell!
Thou hast a sonne more lovinge then a spanniell;
With watry eyes I see how tis expedient
To have a sonne so wise & so obedient.
Most beauteous sonne, yet not indeede so beautifull
As thou art mannerly & dutifull!

See, husband, see, O see where prophett blind
In twice good time is comming heere behind.

O heere hee is, and now that hee's come nye vs,
Lye close, good wife & sonne, least hee espye vs.

Enter Tyresias.
All you that see mee heere in byshoppes rochett,
And I see not, your heads may runne on crotchett,
For ought I knowe, to knowe what manner wight
In this strange guise I am, or how I hight;
I am Tyresias, the not seeing prophett,
Blinde though I bee, I pray lett noe man scoffe it:
For blind I am, yea, blind as any beetle,
And cannot see a whitt, no, nere so little.


Heere ar no eyes, why, they ar in my minde,
Wherby I see the fortunes of mankind;
Who made mee blind? Jove? I may say to you noe;
But it was Joves wife & his sister Juno.
Juno & Jove fell out, both biggest gods,
And I was hee tooke vpp the merrye oddes.
You knowe it all, I am sure, 'tis somewhat common,
And how besides seven yeares I was a woman;
Which if you knowe you doe know all my state:
Come on, Ile fold the fortune of your fate.

Tremblinge, Tyresias, I pray you cease to travell,
And rest a little on the groundy gravell.

Who ist calls? Speake, for I cannot see.

Poore frends, sir, to the number of some three.

What would you have?

Why, sir, this is the matter,
To bee plaine with you & not to flatter;
I am the stately river hight Cephise,
Smoother then glasse & softer farre then ice;
This nimphe before you heere whom you doe see
Is my owne wife, yclipt Lyriope.
Though with the dawbe of prayse I am loath to lome her,
This Ile assure you, the blind poett Homer
Saw not the like amongst his nimphes and goddesses,
Nor in his Iliads, no, nor in his Odysses.
Thinke not, I pray, that wee are come for nought;
Our lovely infant have wee to you brought.
The purple hew of this our iolly striplynge
I would not have you thinke was gott with tiplinge;
Hee is our sonne Narcisse, no common varlett,
Nature in graine hath died his face in skarlett.
Speak then, I pray you, speake, for wee you portune
That you would tell our sunnfac't sonne his fortune.


Doe not shrink backe, Narcissus, come & stand,
Hold vpp & lett the blind man see thy hand.

Come, my young sonne, hold vp & catch audacitye;
I see thy hand with the eyes of my capacitye.
Though I speake riddles, thinke not I am typsye,
For what I speake I learnde it of a gipsye,
And though I speak hard woords of curromanstike,
Doe not, I pray, suppose that I am franticke.
The table of thy hand is somewhat ragged,
Thy mensall line is too direct and cragged,
Thy line of life, my sonne, is to, to breife,
And crosseth Venus girdle heere in cheife,
And heere (O dolefull signe) is overthwarte
In Venus mount a little pricke or warte.
Besides heere, in the hillocke of great Jupiter,
Monnsieur la mors lyes lurking like a sheppbiter;
What can I make out of this hard construction
But dolefull dumpes, decay, death, & destruction?

O furious fates, O three thread-thrumming sisters,
O fickle fortune, thou, thou art the mistres
Of this mishapp; why am I longer liver?
Runne river, runne, & drowne thee in the river.

Then sith to thee, my sonne, I doe pronounce ill,
It shall behove thee for to take good counsell,
And that eft soone; wisdoome they say is good,
Your parents ambo have done what they coode,
They can but bringe horse to the water brinke,
But horse may choose whether that horse will drinke.

Oh say, thou holy preist of high Apollo,
What harme, what hurt, what chaunge, what chaunce, will followe,
That if wee can wee may provide a plaster
Of holsome hearbes to cure this dire disaster.


If I should tell you, you amisse would iudge it;
I have one salve, one medecine, in my budgett,
And that is this, since you will have mee tell,
If hee himselfe doe never knowe; farewell.
[Exit Tyr.

Mary come out, is his ould noddle dotinge?
Heere is an ould said saw well woorth the notinge;
Shall hee not know himselfe? Who shall hee then?
My boy shall knowe himselfe from other men,
I, & my boy shall live vntill hee dye,
In spight of prophett & in spight of pye.
It is an ould sawe: That it is too late
When steede is stolne to shutt the stable gate;
Therfore take heed; yet I bethinke at Delph,
One Phibbus walls is written: Knowe thyselfe.
Shall hee not know himselfe, and so bee laught on,
When as Apollo cries, gnotti seauton?

Come, prethy lett vs goe: come, Clinias, come,
And girt thy baskett dagger to thy bumme;
Lett vs, I say, bee packinge, and goe meete
The poore blind prophett stalking in the streete:
Lett us be iogginge quickly.

Peace, you asse,
I smell the footinge of Tyresias.

Enter Tyresias.
O thou which hast thy staffe to bee thy tutor,
Whose head doth shine with bright hairs white as pewter,
Like silver moone, when as shee kist her minion
In Late-mouse mont, the swaine yclipt Endimion,


Who, beeing cald Endimion the drowsye,
Slept fifty yeers, & for want of shift was lowsye;
O thou whose breast, I, even this little cantle,
Is counsells capcase, prudences portmantle,
O thou that pickest wisdome out of guttes
As easy as men doe kernells out of nuttes,
Looke in our midriffs, & I pray you tell vs
Whether wee two shall live & dye good fellowes.

How doe you both?

Well, I thanke you.

Are you not sicklye?

Noe, I thanke God.

Yet you shall both dye quicklye.
Goe, thou hast done, Tyresias; bidd adiew;
Thy part is well plaid & thy wordes are true.

Shall wee dye quickly, both? I pray what coulour?
Ile bee a diar, thou shalt be a fuller;
Weele cozin the prophett, I my life will pawne yee,
Thou shalt dye whyte, & Ile dye oreng tawnye.

Enter Narcissus walkinge.
O eyes, what see you? Eyes, bee ever bloud shedd
That turne your Master thus into a codshead.
O eyes, noe eyes, O instruments, O engines,
That were ordain'd to worke your Master's vengeance!
His huge orentall beawty melts my eyeballs
Into rayne dropps, even as sunne doth snowballes.

Cracke eye strings, cracke,
Runne eyes, runne backe,
My lovely brace of beagles;
Looke no more on
Yon shininge sunne,
For your eyes are not eagles.


Leave off the chace
My pretty brace,
And hide you in your kennell,
And hunt no more,
Your sight is sore;
Oh that I had some fennell!

Leave off to bragg, thou boy of Venus bredd,
I am as faire as thou, for white & redd;
If then twixt mee & thee theres no more oddes,
Why I on earth & thou amongst the goddes?

Thy voice, Narcisse, so softly & so loude,
Makes in mine eares more musicke then a crowde
Of most melodious minstrells, & thy tonge
Is edged with silver, & with iewells strunge;
Thy throate, which speaketh ever & anan,
Is farre more shriller then the pipe of Pan,
Thy weasand pipe is clearer then an organ,
Thy face more faire then was the head of Gorgon,
Thy haire, which bout thy necke so faire dishevells,
Excells the haire of the faire queene of devills,
And thy perfumed breath farr better savours
Then does the sweat hot breath of blowing Mavors;
Thy azur'd veynes blewer then Saturne shine,
And what are Cupids eyes to those of thine?
Thy currall cheeks hath a farre better lustre
Then Ceres when the sunne in harvest bust her;
Silenus for streight backe, & I can tell yee,
You putt downe Bacchus for a slender bellye.
To passe from braunch to barke, from rine to roote,
Venus her husband hath not such a foote.

O thou whose cheeks are like the skye so blewe,
Whose nose is rubye, of the sunnlike hue,
Whose forhead is most plaine without all rinkle,


Whose eyes like starrs in frosty night doe twinkle,
Most hollowe are thy eyelidds, & thy ball
Whiter then ivory, brighter yea withall,
Whose ledge of teeth is farre more bright then jett is,
Whose lipps are too, too good for any lettice,
O doe thou condiscend vnto my boone,
Graunt mee thy love, graunt it, O silver spoone,
Silver moone, silver moone.

Graunt mee thy love, to speake I first begunne,
Graunt mee thy love, graunt it, O golden sunne.

Nor sunne, nor moone, nor twinkling starre in skye,
Nor god, nor goddesse, nor yet nimphe am I,
And though my sweete face bee sett out with rubye,
You misse your marke, I am a man as you bee.

A man, Narcisse, thou hast a manlike figure;
Then bee not like vnto the savage tiger,
So cruell as the huge camelion,
Nor yet so changing as small elephant.
A man, Narcisse, then bee not thou a wolfe,
To devoure my hart in thy mawes griping gulfe,
Bee none of these, & lett not nature vaunt her
That shee hath made a man like to a panther;
A man thou art, Narcisse, & soe are wee,
Then love thou vs againe as wee love thee.

A man I am, & sweare by gods above
I cannot yett find in my heart to love.

Cannott find love in hart! O search more narrowe,
Thou well shalt knowe him by his ivory arrowe;
That arrowe, when in breast, my bloud was tunninge,
Broacht my harts barrell, sett it all a runninge,
Which with loves liquor vnles thou doe staunch,
All my lifes liquor will runne out my paunche.


Why would you have mee love? You talke most oddlye,
Love is a naughty thinge & an ungodlye.

Is love ungodlye? Love is still a god.

But in his nonage allwaies vnder rodde.

O love, Narcissus, wee beseech thee, O love.

Noe love, good gentiles, Ile assure you, noe love.

[Exeunt Dorastus et Clinias, ambulat Narcissus.
Enter Florida, Clois.
Clois, what ist I wis that I doe see,
What forme doth charme this storme within my breast,
What face, what grace, what race may that same bee,
So faire, so rare, debonaire, breeds this vnrest?
How white, how bright, how light, like starre of Venus
His beames & gleames so streames so faire between vs!

'Tis Venus sure, why doe wee stand and palter?
Lett vs goe shake our thighes vpon the altar.

Most brightest Hasparus, for thou seemst to mee soe,
I, and in very deed thou well maist bee soe,
For as bigg as a man is every plannett,
Although it seemes a farre that wee may spanne it,
Shine thou on mee, sweet plannet, bee soe good
As with thy fiery beames to warme my bloud;
Ile beare thee light, and thinke light of the burthen,
And say, light plannett neare was heavy lurden.

To speake the truth, faire maid, if you will have vs,
O Œdipus I am not, I am Davus.


Good Master Davis, bee not so discourteous
As not to heare a maidens plaint for vertuous.

Speake on a Gods name, so love bee not the theame.

O, whiter then a dish of clowted creame,
Speake not of love? How can I overskippe
To speake of love to such a cherrye lippe?

It would beseeme a maidens slender vastitye
Never to speake of any thinge but chastitye.

As true as Helen was to Menela
So true to thee will bee thy Florida.

As was to trusty Pyramus truest Thisbee
So true to you will ever thy sweete Clois bee.

O doe not stay a moment nor a minute,
Loves is a puddle, I am ore shooes in it.

Doe not delay vs halfe a minutes mountenance
That ar in love, in love with thy sweet countenance.

Then take my dole although I deale my alms ill,
Narcissus cannot love with any damzell;
Although, for most part, men to love encline all,
I will not, I, this is your answere finall.
And so farwell; march on doggs, love's a griper,
If I love any, 'tis Tickler & Piper.
Ah, the poore rascall, never ioyd it since
His fellow iugler first was iugled hence,
Iugler the hope; but now to hunte abraode,
Where, if I meete loves little minitive god,
Ile pay his breech vntill I make his bumme ake,
For why, the talke of him hath turnd my stomacke.

And is hee gone? Letts goe & dye, sweet Cloris,
For poets of our loves shall write the stories.


Enter Clinias, Dorastus, meeting them.
Well mett, faire Florida sweete, which way goe you?

In faith, sweete Clinias, I cannot knowe you.

Noe, knowe, but did you see the white Narcisse?

The whitest man alive a huntinge is;
Hee that doth looke farre whiter then the vilett,
Or moone at midday, or els skye at twilight.

That is the same, even that is that Narcissus,
Hee that hath love despis'd, & scorned vs.

Not you alone hee scornes, but vs also;
O doe not greive when maids part stakes in woe.
O, that same youthe's the scummer of all skorne,
Of surquedry the very shooing horne,
Piller of pride, casting topp of contempt,
Stopple of statelines for takinge vente.
Many youthes, many maids sought him to gaine,
Noe youthes, noe maids could ever him obtaine:
Then thus I pray, & hands to heaven vpp leave,
So may hee love & neare his love atcheive.
Looke you for maids no more, our parte is done,
Wee come but to bee scornd, & so are gone.

But wee have more to doe, that have wee perdie,
Wee must a fish & hunt the hare so hardye,
For even as after hare runnes swiftest beagle,
So doth Narcissus our poore harts corneagle.

Enter Eccho.
Who, why, wherfore, from whence or what I am,
Knowe, if you aske, that Eccho is my name,


That cannott speake a woord, nor halfe a sillable,
Vnles you speake before so intelligible.
But ho, the hobby horse, youle think't absurde
That I should of my selfe once speake a woord.
'Tis true; but lett your wisdomes tell me than
How'de you know Eccho from another man?
I was a well toung'd nimphe, but what of that?
My mother Juno still to hold in chatte,
With tales of tubbes, from thence I ever strove,
Whiles nimphes abroad lay allwaies vnder Jove.
But oh, when drift was spied, my angry grammer
Made ever since my tottering tongue to stammer;
And now, in wild woods, & in moist mountaines,
In high, tall valleys, & in steepye plaines,
Eccho I live, Eccho, surnam'd the dolefull,
That, in remembrance, now could weepe a bowlfull;
Or rather, if you will, Eccho the sorrowfull,
That, in remembrance, now could weepe a barrowfull.


Yolp! yolpe!)

[Exit clamans Yolpe!

Enter Dorastus, Narcissus, Clinias.
Harke, they crye, I heare by that
The doggs have putt the hare from quatte,
Then woe bee vnto little Watt,
Yolp, yolp, yolp, yolp!
Hollowe in the hind doggs, hollowe,
So come on then, solla, solla,
And lett vs so blithly followe,
Yolp, &c.


O, the doggs ar out of sight,
But the crye is my delight;
Harke how Jumball hitts it right,
Yolp, &c.
Over briars, over bushes;
Whose affeard of pricks & pushes,
Hee's no hunter woorth two rushes,
Yolp, &c.
But how long thus shall wee wander?
O, the hares a lusty stander,
Follow apace, the doggs are yonder,
Yolp, &c.

Enter one with a buckett and boughes and grasse.
A well there was withouten mudd,
Of silver hue, with waters cleare,
Whome neither sheepe that chawe the cudd,
Shepheards nor goates came ever neare;
Whome, truth to say, nor beast nor bird,
Nor windfalls yet from trees had stirrde.
[He strawes the grasse about the buckett.
And round about it there was grasse,
As learned lines of poets showe,
Which by next water nourisht was;
[Sprinkle water.
Neere to it too a wood did growe,
[Sets down the bowes.
To keep the place, as well I wott,
With too much sunne from being hott.
And thus least you should have mistooke it,
The truth of all I to you tell:
Suppose you the well had a buckett,
And so the buckett stands for the well;


And 'tis, least you should counte mee for a sot O,
A very pretty figure cald pars pro toto.

Enter Dorastus, Eccho answeringe him within.
Kisse us.

Kisse you; who are you, with a botts take you?
Botts take you.
Botts take mee, you rogue?
You rogue.
Slidd, hee retortes woord for woord.
Woord for woord.
Clinias, prethy, where art thou, Clinias?
In, yee asse.
In where—in a ditch?
What is his businesse?
At his businesse.
You don't tell mee trulye.
You lye.
Say so againe, ile cudgell you duely.
You doe lye.
Of your tearmes you are very full.
Your a very foole.
Doe you crowe, I shall cracke your coxcombe.
I shall make you whine & blubber.
Youle make an end & dispatch.
Goe to, youle let these woordes passe.


If I come to you Ile make you singe a palinodye.
Foole, coxcombe, lubber, patch, & noddye,
Are these good woords to give a bodye?
Doe not provoke me, I shall come.
Meete mee if you dare.
If you dare.
I come, despaire not.
Spare not.

Enter Clinias, Eccho answeringe within.
Dorastus, where art thou, Dorastus?
Asse to vs.

Asse to you, whose that's an asse to you?
Know mee for what I am, as good as your selfe.
Elfe! Why I hope you ben't so malaparte.
All a parte.
All apart, yes, wee ar alone; but you doe not meane to fight, I trust in Jove?
Trust in Jove.
Jove helpes then if wee fight, but wee trust to our swoordes.
Woordes; why, doe you thinke tis your woordes shall vs affright?
'Tis noe such matter, you are mightely out.


Lout, dost abuse mee so? Goe to, y'are a scall scabbe.
Rascall scabbe.
Rascall scabbe, why thou groome base & needye!
Slidd, if I meete you Ile bange you.
Hange you.
Ist so; nay then, Ile bee at hand, kee pickpurse.
Dare you vse mee thus to my face, spidar
I dare.
But will you stand too't & not flintch?
Not flinch.
Well, meete mee, I am like iron & steele, trustye.
Rusty, what, mocke mee to my face againe?
Asse againe.
Out of dowbt, if wee meete I shall thee boxe.
Why, the foole rides mee, I am spurrgald & iolted.
Jolthead! this is more then I can brooke.
Rooke too, nay then, as farr as a knockinge goes I am yours to commaund, sir.
Come on, sir.

Enter Narcissus.
O, I am weary; I have runne to daye
Ten miles, nay, 10 & a quarter I dare saye.
You may beleeve it, for my ioyntes are numme,
And every finger truly is a thumbe.


For my younge hunters, Clinias & Dorastus,
Surely so farre to day they have out past vs,
That heere I am encompast round about,
And doe not knowe the way nor in nor out.
What Holla, holla!
Holla, holla.

Is any body nye?
Come neere.
Come neere.
I prethy helpe mee foorth, els I am the rude woods forfeiture.
Faire feature.
O lord, sir, tis but your pleasure to call it soe.
Its soe.
I had rather have your counsell how to gett out of this laborinthe.
Labour in't.
Labour in't, why soe I doe, sore against my will, but to labour out of it what shall I doe?
Nay, pray helpe mee out if you love mee.
Love mee.
Come neere, then, why doe you flye?
Why doe you flye?
Where b'ye?
Let vs come together.
Let vs come together.
I prethy come.
I come.


Let mee dye first ere thou meddle with mee.
Meddle with mee.

Enter Dorastus, Clinias, at 2 doores.
Wast you, Dorastus, mockt mee all this season?

Pray, Clinias, hold your tounge, y'haue little reason
To make a foole of mee & mocke mee too.

Nay, sir, twas you that mockt mee, so you doe;
While heere I cald for you by greenwood side,
You gibde on mee, which you shall deare abide.

Nay, you did call mee, that I was loath to heare,
Truly such woords as a dogg would not beare.
But as I scorne so to bee ast & knaved,
Soe truly doe I scorne to bee outbraved.

O frieng panne of all fritters of fraud,
My scindifer, that longe hath beene vndrawde,
Shall come out of his sheath most fiery hott,
And slice thee small, even as hearbes to pott.

Thou huge & humminge humblebee, thou hornett,
Come doe thy worst, I say that I doe scorne it.

O with thy bloud Ile make so redd my whineard,
As ripest liquor is of grapes in vineyearde.

And with thy bloud Ile make my swoord so ruddye,
As skye at eventide shall not bee soe bloudye.

[They fight & fall.
O, O, about my harte I feele a paine;
Dorastus, hold thy handes, for I am slaine.

This shall thy comfort bee when thou art dead,
That thou hast kild mee too, for I am spedd.


O, I am dead, depart life out of hand,
Stray, soule, from home vnto the Stingian strand.

Goe thou, my ghost, complaine thee vnto Rhadamant
That the 3 sisters hartes are made of adamant.

Since wee must passe ore lake in Charons ferry,
Had wee Narcissus wee should bee more merrye.

My soule doth say that wee must goe before,
Narcisse will overtake vs at the shore;
And that that mockt vs both, deformed dwarfe,
Will er't bee long arive at Charons wharfe.

Lett us, Dorastus, die, departe, decease;
Wee lovd in strife, & lett vs dye in peace.

Stay, take mee with you, letts togither goe.

Vild world adieu, wee die, ô ô ô ô!

Enter Narcissus.
Does the hagg followe? Stay for her never durst I;
Sh'as made mee runne so longe that I am thurstye,
But O, yee gods immortall, by good fortune
Heere is a well in good time & oportune;
Drinke, drinke, Narcissus, till thy belly burst,
Water is Rennish wine to them that thirst.
But oh remaine & let thy christall lippe
Noe more of this same cherrye water sippe;
What deadly beautye or what aerye nimphe
Is heare belowe now seated in the limphe?
Looke, looke, Narcissus, how his eyes are silver,
Looke, least those eyes thy hart from thee doe pilfer,
Yet O looke not, for by these eyes so headye,
Thy hart from thee is filcht away allreadye;


O Well, how oft I kisse thy wholsome liquor,
While on my love kisses I heape a dicker.
O love, come foorth accordinge to my mind,
How deepe I dive yet thee I cannott find;
O love, come foorth, my face is not so foule
That thou shouldst scorne mee; pittye mee, poor soule.
Well, dost thou scorne mee? Nimphes they did not soe,
They had a better thought of mee I trowe.
Not care of Ceres, Morpheus, nor of Bacchus,
That is meate, drinke, & sleepe from hence shall take vs;
Heere will I dye, this well shall bee my tombe,
My webb is spunne; Lachesis, loppe thy loome.
[Lye downe & rise vpp againe.
Tell mee, you woods, tell mee, you oakes soe stronge,
Whether in all your life, your life so longe,
So faire a youth pinde thus, & tell mee trulye
Whether that any man ere lov'd so cruellye.
The thinge I like I see, but what I see
And like, natheles I cannot find perdie,
And that that greives my liver most, no seas
Surging, mountaines, monstrous or weary ways,
Nor walls with gates yshutt doe mee remove;
A little water keepes mee from my love.
Come out, come out, deare boye.

Come out, deare boye.

Thy frend I am, O doe not mee destroye;
Thou dost putt out thy hand as I doe mine,
And thou dost pinke vpon mee with thine eyen,
Smile as I smile; besides I tooke good keepe,
And saw thee eke shedd teares when I did weepe,
And by thy lippes moving, well I doe suppose
Woordes thou dost speake, may well come to our nose;


For to oure eares I am sure they never passe,
Which makes me to crye out, alas!


O delicate pretty youth,
Pretty youth;
Take on my woes pitty, youthe!
Pittye, youthe!
O sweetest boy, pray love mee!
Pray love mee!
Or els I dye for thee,
I dye for thee!

Colour is gone & bloud in face is thinne,
And I am naught left now but bone & skinne;
I dye; but though I dye it shall come to passe,
Certes it shall, that I which whilome was
The flower of youth, shalbee made flower againe.
I dye; farewell, O boy belov'd in vaine.

O boy belov'd in vaine.
[Narcissus risinge vp againe.
And so I died & sunke into my grandam,
Surnamde old earth: lett not your iudgments randome,
For if you take mee for Narcissus y'are very sillye,
I desire you to take mee for a daffa downe dillye;
For so I rose, & so I am in trothe,
As may appeare by the flower in my mouthe.

Now auditors of intelligence quicke,
I pray you suppose that Eccho is sicke;
Sicke at the hart, for you must thinke,
For lacke of love shee could nor eate nor drinke;
Soe that of her nothinge remainde but bone,
And that they say was turn'd into a stone.
Onely her voice was left, as by good happe
You may perceive if you imparte a clappe.



Enter the Porter as Epilogue.
Are those the ladds that would doe the deede?
They may bee gone, & God bee their speede;
Ile take vpp their buckett, but I sweare by the water,
I have seene a farre better play at the theater.
Ile shutt them out of doores, 'tis no matter for their larges;
Thinke you well of my service, & Ile beare the charges.
If there bee any that expecte some dances,
'Tis I must perform it, for my name is Frances.