University of Virginia Library

SCENA. III.

Oenone entreth with a wreath of popular on her heade. Manent Pastores.
Oen.
Beguilde, disdayned, and out of loue: liue longe thou Poplar-tree,
And let thy letters growe in length, to witnes this with mee.
A Venus, but for reuerence, vnto thy sacred name,
To steale a sylly maydens loue, I might account it blame.
And if the tales be true I heare, and blushe for to receite,
Thou dost me wrong to leaue the playnes, and dally out of sight.
False Paris, this was not thy vow, when thou and I were one,
To raung & chaung old loue for new: but now those dayes be gone.
But I will finde the goddesse out, that shee thy vow may reade,
And fill these woods with my lamentes, for thy vnhappy deede.

Hob.
So faire a face, so foule a thought to harbour in his breast,
Thy hope consum'd, poore Nymphe, thy hap is worse then all the rest.

Oen.
A sheepeherdes, you bin full of wiles, & whet your wits on bookes,
And wrap poore maydes with pypes and songes, and sweete alluring lookes.

Dig.
Mispeake not al, for his amisse, there bin that keepen flocks,
That neuer chose but once, nor yet beguiled loue with mockes.

Oen.
False Paris he is none of those, his trothles doble deede,
Will hurte a many sheepeherds else that might go nigh to speede.

The.
Poore Colin, that is ill for thee, that art as true in trust
To thy sweete smerte, as to his Nymphe Paris hath bin vniust.

Oen.
A well is she hath Colin wonne, that nill no other loue:
And woo is me, my lucke is losse, my paynes no pytie mooue.

Hob.
Farewell faire Nymphe, sith he must heale alone that gaue the wound.
There growes no herbe of such effect vpon dame natures ground.

Exeunt Pastores.
Manet Oenone. Mercu. entr. with Vulcans Cyclops.
Mer.
Here is a Nymphe that sadlie sittes, and shee belike
Can tell some newes, Pyracmon, of the iolly swaine we seeke.
Dare wage my winges the lasse doth loue, she lookes so bleak & thin,
And tis for anger or for griefe: but I will talke beginne.

Oen.
Breake out poore harte, & make complaint the mountaine flocks to moue,
What proude repulse & thanckles scorne thou hast receiued of loue.

Mer.
She singeth, sires, be husht awhile.
Oenone singeth as shee suts.

OENONES
COMPLAINT.

The songe ended, Oenone sitting still. Mercurie speaketh.
Mer.
Good-day fayre mayde, werie belike with following of your game,
I wish thee cunning at thy will, to spare or strike the same.

Oen.
I thanke you sir, my game is quick and rids a length of grounde,
And yet I am deceaued or else a had a deadlie wounde.

Mer.
Your hand perhaps did swarue awarte.

Oeu.
Or else it was my harte.

Mer.
Then sure a plyed his fotemanship.

Oen.
a played a raunging parte.

Mer.
You should haue giuen a deeper woūd.

Oen.
I could not that for pity.

Mer.
You should haue eyd him better thē.

Oen.
blind loue was not so witty.

Mer.
why tell me, sweete, are you in loue.

Oen.
or would I were not so.

Mer.
Yee meane because a does ye wrong.

Oen.
perdie the more my woe.

Mer.
Why meane ye loue, or him ye loued?

Oen.
wel may I meane thē both.

Mer.
Is loue to blame?

Oen.
the queene of loue hath made him false his troth.

Mer.
Meane ye indeede the queene of loue.

Oen.
euē wanton Cupids dame.

Mer.
Why was thy loue so louely then?

Oen.
his beautie hight his shame,
The fairest sheepeherde one our greene.

Mer.
is he a sheepeherd thā.

Oen.
And sometime kept a bleating flock.

Mer.
enough, this is the man.

Mer.
Where woons he thā?

Oen.
about these woods: far from the Poplar tree.

Mer.
What Poplar meane ye?

Oen.
witnes of the vowes betwixt him & me.
And come and wend a little way and you shall see his skill.

Mer.
Sirs tarrie you.

Oen.
nay let them goe.

Mer.
nay not vnles you will.
Stay Nymphe, and harke what I say of him thou blamest so,
And credit me, I haue a sad discourse to tell thee ere I go.
Know then, my pretie mops, that I hight Mercurie,
The messenger of heauen, and hether flie
To cease vpon the man whon thou dost loue,
To summon him before my father Ioue,
To answere matter of great consequence,
And Ioue himselfe will not be longe from hence.

Oen.
Sweete Mercurie, and haue poore Oenons cryes,
For Paris fault, ypeircest th'unpertiall skyes.

Mer.
The same is he, that iolly sheepeherdes swaine.

Oen.
His flocke do grase vpon Auroras plaine,
The colour of his coate is lustie greene,
That would these eyes of mine had neuer seene,
His tycing curled hayre, his front of yvorie,
Then had not I poore I bin vnhappie.

Mer.
No maruell wench, although we cannot finde him,
When all to late the queene of heauen doth minde him.
But if thou wilt haue physicke for thy sore,
Minde him who list, remember thou him no more:
And find some other game, and get thee gon,
For here will lustie suters come anon,
To hoat and lustie for thy dyeing vaine,
Such as were monte to make their sutes in vaine.

Exit Merc. cum Cyclop.
Oen.
I will goe sit and pyne vnder the Poplar tree,
And write my answere to his vow, that euerie eie may see.

Exit.