University of Virginia Library

Scena Prima.

Satyr
solus.
Small is the Bee; but yet with his small sting
Does greater mischiefe, then a greater thing.
But what of all things can be lesse then Loue,
That through so narrow passages can pierce,
And in so narrow roome lye hid? sometime
Vnder the shaddow of an eye-lids foult,
Now in the small curle of a shining tresse,
Now in the little pitts which forme sweet smiles
In an inamo'ring checke; yet makes so deepe,
So deadly and immedicable wounds.
Ay me my brest is all one bleeding wound;
A thousand armed darts alas are lodg'd
By that fell tyrant Loue in Siluia's eyes;
Cruell Loue, cruell Siluia, sauadger
Then the wilde desarts; O how well thy name
Sutes with thy nature (Siluan as thou art)
The woods vnder their greene roofes hide the Snake,
The Beare, the Lyon; and thou in thy brest
Hydest disdaine, hate, and impietie,
More balefull then the Lion, Beare, or Snake;
For they will some way be reclaim'de; thou neither
With prayers or gifts; Alas when I present thee
Fresh floures, thou frowardly refusest them;
Perhaps because th'hast in thy louely face,
Fairer then those; Alas when I present thee
Faire Apples, thou do'st scornfully reiect them;
Perhaps because thy bosome beares a paire
Fairer then those; Ay mee when I present thee
Sweet honey, thou disdainfully deny'st it,
Perhaps because thy lips breathe sweeter honey
Then the Bee makes; but if my pouerty
Can giue thee nought that thou hast not more faire,
And louely in thy selfe, my selfe I giue thee;
But thou vniust scorn'st, and abhorr'st the gift.
Yet I'me not so fowle, to be so dispiz'de,
If well I mark'd my selfe, when th'other day
I view'd my shadowe in the watry mayne,
When the winde blew not, and the sea lay still.
The manly tincture of my sanguine brow,
These muscled armes, and shoulders large enough;
This hairy brest of mine, and hory thyes
Proclaime my able force, and manlyhood;
Make triall of mee if thou doubt'st of it.
What wilt thou do with these same tenderlings,
On whose bare cheeke the young downe scarsely springs?
With what an art they place their haire in order?
Women in shew, and women in their strength.
Tell mee, who wilt thou haue to follow thee
O're the bald hills, and through the leauy woods,
And fight for thee with Beare, and armed Bore?
No no, my shape's not it thou hat'st mee for,
But 'tis my pouerty thou dost abhorre.
Ah that poore Cottages will follow still
Great Townes example in what ere is ill;
This may be truely call'd the Golden age,
For gould alone preuailes, gould only raynes.
O thou (who ere thou wert) that first didst teach
To sell loue thus, accursed be thy dust.
And thy colde buried bones; nor euer may
Shepherd or Nimphe say to them, rest in peace;
But be they washt with raines, and tost with windes,
And may the passers by, and all the rout
Of beasts with fowle feete spurne them all about.
Base mercinary loue, thou hast deflour'd
Loues noblenesse; and turn'd his happy ioyes
Into such bitternesse, and sharpe annoyes.
Loue to be slaue to golde? O miracle
More odious, and abominable farre
Then the large earth produces, or the Mayne.
But why alas, why do I vexe my selfe
Thus all in vaine? no, let each creature vse
Those armes that Nature for his ayde hath giu'n him,
The Hart his speede, the Lyon his strong pawe,
The foaming Bore his tuske; the womans armes
And powre lye in her beauty', and gracefull shape;
I, since my strength is the best helpe I haue,
And am by nature fit for deedes of force,
Will for reward of all my loue mispent,
Force this proud cruell to my owne content.
And by so much as I can vnderstand,
(As yon Goteherd that hath obseru'd her wayes
Hath lately tolde me) she doth oft repaire
To' a water-fount to wash her selfe; the place
He made me knowe, and there I meane to lye
Close in a thickett neere, t'attend her comming,
And as occasion fits, I'le make her myne,
What can she do then, what auayle alas
Can her hands giue her, or her leggs to flye
(Poore wretch) from me so forcible, and swift?
Let her a good yeere weepe, and sigh, and rayle,
And put on all the powre her beauty hath;
If once I catch her by the snary curles,
We will not part in hast, till I haue bath'd
(For my reuenge) my armes in her warme bloud.