University of Virginia Library

SCENE 2.

Enter Menander, and six of his Servants in Mourning, bringing Artemi'as Corps in a Black Coffin under a Velvet Herse; And advance it in the midst of the Roome.
Mon.
Now cleare the place, and all your selves disperse,
My obsequies I offer at this Herse.
[He kneeles before it.
Here ly her Corps, which when she fed on breath
Led the best life, had the most wofull death.
She was not faire to take a Wantons eyes,
But comely, for to please the heart of th'wise.
She was not witty with the froth of Braine,
But her rich Brest did solid worth containe.
She ever did adore a private life,
I lov'd the Court, Hence oft arose our strife.
Sometimes good Counsel she'd to me commend,
And therin both her selfe and sex transcend.
I would not yeeld, yet could not truth oppose,
With her my Judgment, not my Will did close.
I lik'd the Counsel well, had I first found it,
But Scorn'd to take it from her hand rebounded.
How sweetly shee my anger would decline,
Request my pardon, when the fault was mine.
I'me vext oft time, she would not leave me vext,
I wanting a just cause to be perplext.
I must smile at Her innocent deceit,
Whereby she me did into mirth so cheat.
Sweet Soule, which now doest dwell in endlesse Blisse,
Oh pardon what to thee I've done amisse!
Alas! It was my passion, 'twas not I.
I'le now do Pennance to thy Memory,
I will not vow that I will never wedd,
Those which forsware first clime the Marriage-Bed.
So ill anothers minde to us is knowne,
Than we our selves are strangers to our owne.
And our meandrous hearts so full of turning,
Where's now a sparke, may quickly be a burning
But I'me resolved, and hope it, that no other
Shall by my Children be saluted Mother.
I have farre off an unsuspected home,
Where safely dwells, and Warre can scarsely come.
Thither I'le hast, and all the Counsel grave,
Which this dear Saint, me in her life-time gave.
Il'e in my heart record with lasting letter,
She's withered, but her words now'l grow the better.
Nor wonder at this drought, because no shower
Of brackish Teares downe on my Cheekes do powre.
They which mourne much, are seldome mourning long,
Besides Teares in my eyes, stick in a throng.
The lesse my Soul grieves, there's the more greif in't,
My Heart's a Fountaine, though my Eyes be flint.