University of Virginia Library

SCENA 1.

MELISSO, SIRENO.
Mel.
Behold the dawning light, give ear unto
The gentle murmurings of the morning Air,
Which is high Heavens sacring Bell, that calls
The drowsie birds, to pay their homage to
The rising Sun.
And tell me then, if ever man yet saw,
So fair a morning, breath so sweet a gale,
Out of the gloomy bosome of so foul a night?
See with what dear delight it seems to steal
The Stars from Heaven, and store the earth with Flowers,
O blessed Banks! do not these Roses look,
Like stars sent from their sphere to adorn this Brook?

Sir.
It seems a dream Melisso, for of late
The world was out of course; the troubled Clouds
Labour'd, as over-whelmed with the Sea;
And the bright Heavens as darkned with her Waves,
Thunder-bolts shot themselves through furious Gusts,
Which threatned nothing but a boisterous storm,
And ever now, and then, a fearfull light,
Blaz'd from the skies; which by those flashing beams,
Seem'd in a triumph to shew forth their power.
The blustring winds strove by their whirling blasts,
To shake the deep foundations of the earth:
Instead of rain, the rivers swoln with pride,
And scorning to be kept within the Banks,
Of muddy clay, seem'd to out-face the Air;
And I amazed cried, shall then the earth,
Be by another Sea from Heaven o're-whelm'd?
To tell the truth, I durst not then presume,
To stir out of my Cell surpris'd with fear,
To look upon the Weather-beaten fields:
Or see these flowers all torn up by the roots,
And view the Corn lie shaken with the storm,
Here boughs torn from the trees, there trees rent up,
And every where th'unhappy Trophies then
Of Heaven warring against sinfull men.
And yet, behold I see these gentle Plants
Adorn'd, and deckt, with their green tresses still.
There's not a leaf, which faln from off a Bow,
Lies withered by the tree, from which it fell.
Each Valley, Meadow, and each fertile field,
More fruitful now then ever, do I see,
Enamel'd with fair flowers, mixt with green hearbs,
And braging as it were, of heavens high Grace.
O Wonderfull! shall then the injuries
Of heaven, become Earths greatest happiness?
And such foul stormes produce such fruitfulness?

Mel.
Sireno, heaven never varies from these Laws,
And these Eternall bounds, to which its ty'd;
But it foretels some fearful prodigie;
For 'tis the Master of all future chance.
And all the lights, and all the turns it brings,
Are tongues which talk in a celestial tone:
And if it Thunder, or send lightning forth,
Even that's a muttering language, which it speaks.
And haply, this vain terrour, which the night
Brought upon us fond men, to which succeeds,
Beyond all humane hope, so blith a morn,
Is sent from thence, to tell us that we may,
After a short tempestuous storm of sad annoy,
Hope for the chearfull beams of unexpected joy.

Sir.
Alas, Melisso, can it be beleev'd?
If Heaven had care of us, the Sun would sure;
Rather then thus display his glorious beams,
Conceal himself under those watry clouds,
From looking on these certain miseries,
Which now attend us.
Know'st thou not then, that on this wofull shore,
Oronte is arriv'd, the Minister
Of the Great King, and of our endlesse Woe?

Mel.
I know it not, who came but yesternight,
Just at the setting of the evening Sun,
With Cloris my dear daughter from the holy Isle,
Whither we went, as you know very well,
At the beginning of the youthfull spring:
And since in Scyros I have made abode,
Where I already have beheld the fields,
Three times wax yellow with the Summers heat
And thrice grow hoary with the Winters Frost.
I cannot call to mind, that ere I saw,
Any such man come here.

Sir.
'Tis true he comes not, but each fifteen years,
Yet leaves a sad remembrance here behind
Of an eternal Woe.
O Melisso, Melisso, ere thou see'st
Th' unlucky Batt, flie through the dusky air,
Or hear'st the night Owl shriek, thou yet shalt hear,
The wofull plaints of silly Infants, sound
The deep laments of Scyros.
But I must go, for time calls me, to hast
Unto the Temple, to adore the Gods.

Mel.
The Temple is yet shut; and is not far
Distant from hence, here we may stay a while,
Under this bright and spacious Hemisphere,
Untill the Sun send out his golden raies,
To gild the silver skies, and so extract
The morning beams, out of this dawning light:
Then with the rising Sun, and not before,
The sacred Priest sets ope the Temple dore:
And in the interim, thou may'st here inform
Me, who this man is, what those ills he brings,
From whence and wherefore he arrived here.
For loves-sake, let me know, our common greeves,
That whilest all others mourn, I may not be
Carelesse alone to wail our misery.

Sir.
I'le tell thee then Meliss' and thou shalt hear,
In two short sighs, our long continued woes;
Thou canst not but already understand,
That when the Thracian bold, Grand Signior first

Mel.
O sad beginning from a Tyrants name!

Sir.
Subdu'd unto his barbarous Empire all,
The Towns and Cities seated round the Coasts
Of the Ægean Sea.
He a most cruel tribute then impos'd.
Not of fine Wool, nor of our woolly flocks,
Not of our horned Heards, of Gold or Gems,
The baser off-spring, of Dame Natures Womb;
But of our proper Children, which to us
Are the dear gifts of Heaven, of those sweet Imps,
And tender Infants, which from two years old
Had not yet breath'd out five years of their Age.

Mel.
I know it well.

Sir.
He then doth every fifteen years imploy
A Captain, from these Coasts, to bear away
Those pretty little slaves, who from each place,
Some ten, a hundred, or a thousand takes;
According as the place abounds in store.
And from this most unhappy Island here,
Great onely in the sorrows which it feels,
Twenty, and twenty, he exacts by course,
Such as amongst a thousand chosen first
By his own will, shall by a cursed lot,
Be destin'd to his power:
That cursed lot, which fifteen years agone
Made poor Ormino, and my self, become,
Above all forlorn Parents, most forlorn;
(Alas I cannot hold from sad laments,
Each minute that I think on't.)
Then, then, I say, this self same man, this same
Oronte, snatcht from him Thirsis his son,
From me my daughter Phillis, and from both
Our very hearts; O me most wretched man!

Mel.
Could not the children of Ormino then,
And of Siren, which are descended from
The great Achilles, those young Imps of love
Through whom all Scyros is so famous grown
Be spar'd in Scyros? Is there no regard
In Kings, to those that are deriv'd from Kings?

Sir.
O no Melisso, no; Kings Royal blood,
Without a Royal Scepter brings smal good:
And who dos't thou beleeve, would think to find
Under a lowly Hut, a Shepheards Weed
Amidst our simple manners, Royal Seed?

Mel.
If men cannot, Sireno, yet Heaven should,
Bright Heaven, which sees, what yet the Sun nere saw
And Heaven may one day yet some pitty take,
And some Compassion of our Misery:
But tell me then, is he that's here arriv'd,
A Thracian Captain, and a Thracian born?

Sir.
A Thracian of Bisantium, and the great
Servant, and Favorite of the Thracian King
(If all be true, which when his fatal foot
Last trode in Scyros, I was made beleeve)
And his great charge it is to take a care,
Of all these tributes upon which his thoughts
Are so intentive, as he hath not past
One day of his due time since fifteen yeers
Are this day just compleat, and he return'd
Hither again, to renovate our woes.
As if both Winds and Waters had conspir'd,
To bring him flying hither.

Mel.
No more, new cares even now suggest themselves
Unto my thoughts, and bid me hast away.

Sir.
Go, and be happy, as thy heart can wish,
And I will to the Temple bend my steps:
And thence unto the place, where under Tents
Oronte lies lodg'd by the Ocean shore,
To learn at least, if my poor Phillis came
Alive unto the Thracian strand.