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SCENE V.
The Country.Enter Flavia, Pascentius, and Fool.
Pas.
Why sister thus shou'd grief usurp thy cheek?
O mingle not so much of lily die
With thy sweet rosy blood, thou'rt cold as death,
Pine not in silence thus!
Fla.
I'll sit me down and court sweet music's aid.
[I.]
She sang while from her eye ran downThe silvery drop of sorrow,
From grief she stole away the crown,
Sweet patience too did borrow.
Pensive she sat while fortune frown'd,
And smiling woo'd sad melancholy.
II.
Keen anguish fain wou'd turn her heart,And sour her gentle mind;
But charity still kept her part,
And meekness to her soul did bind.
She bow'd content,
Heav'd forth one sigh,
Sang, wept, then turn'd to melancholy.
III.
Careless her locks around her hung,And strove to catch each dewy tear,
The plaintive bird in pity sung,
And breath'd his sorrow in her ear.
Amaz'd she look'd,
And thank'd his care,
Then sunk once more to melancholy.
Pas.
O! why sing thus? thou dost join woe to woe,
Thy grief methinks demands more cheering notes.
Fla.
Oh! brother, this strange frame that keeps in life,
Is almost sick and weary of its tenant.
Hath with it wanton made, and blown it
To and fro, a toy for this merc'less world.
Pas.
Listen, I pray thee now, to reason's voice;
Were it not strange, if thou alone shou'd'st 'scape
The numerous ills and buffets of the world?
Fool.
I'troth, thou hast wisely spoken.
Pas.
Dost think so, my good Fool?
Fool.
Marry, aye, do I; an I'll tell thee why,
thy speech hath not wearied the Fool, therefore
'tis a wise speech.
Pas.
Thou'rt then a judge?
Fool.
Aye, and a righteous one too, dost mark
me, 'tis your Fool alone will make a true report.
Pas.
I understand thee not.
Fool.
The more's the pity. He that doth, or
well speak, or write, will be prais'd by fools
only, for look ye, envy doth sting those that have
knowledge, and makes them fear lest their wise
heads should be outwitted, therefore again, 'tis
your Fool alone that is your upright judge, cause
forsooth, his brains are not in plenty; but those
which he hath are at's own disposal.
Pas.
This road methinks shou'd lead us on our way
To the Prince's camp! Fool, go you on before.
[As they retire, enter Captain and Soldiers.
Capt.
Not quite so fast, good master, prithee halt.
Fla.
What, guards! O brother, now we are undone.
Pas.
Be calm, be calm, the troops are not my father's.
Wil't please you, sir, inform us whence ye came?
Capt.
From Scotland, sir.
Then O good heav'ns protect me!
Pas.
And who is your commander?
Capt.
One whose merit
Outweighs whatever yet did breathe on earth;
If ye be Britons, as your looks bespeak,
Then shew your wonted quality of justice;
Did ye not 'fore the awful face of Heaven,
Proclaim Constantius as your lawful King,
When on his head was pour'd the sacred oil?
Pas.
But he is now no more.
Capt.
Yet hath he two sons living,
Whose souls, for purity, I can compare
Unto this bright unspotted canopy.
Pas.
Are ye bound towards the camp?
Capt.
We are, and if you're upright men and true,
Thither you'll follow, and there wield the sword
For justice, truth, and your anointed King.
Yet in this hallow'd cause we wou'd not force you,
But lead into the fold with gentleness,
Each sheep that may unknowingly have strayed,
And broke from out its bounds, and flowery pasture.
Pas.
Proceed then, and we'll follow; tell me, sister,
Doth not your heart beat high?
Fla.
Yea, it swells so, this little breast in truth.
Can scarce contain it.—
How shall we bear the meeting?
Fool.
I troth, merrily, merrily as I do; 'tis true
I am a Briton, but then am I not a Fool? And
ne'er will I put my folly to the test. Think'st
thou I'll risk my brains for mine anointed King?
guide, and quick teach me the way to run.
[Exeunt.
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