Wel. Ay, ay, 'tis the rich face that keeps us
from poverty. If the tailor's countenance were in
fashion now, and all that had fiery faces were
counted comets, what a decay would there be
amongst our houses of good fellowship. How our
cans would rot and jugs grow musty for want
of use! I would the whole city were jugs and cans,
that they might never be in good case but when
they're full of good liquor. I fear this will be a
bad year for all of our profession; salt meats are
grown out of fashion, and Lent will be forgotten
this year, and, for aught I know, the next Papist
that's drunk may make the people condemn it for
superstition because he uses it. Forbid, thou who
ever art patron of good fellowship!
Enter Bung.
Bung. [To some one within.] I'll be with you
presently. Master, can you give me a groat and
sixpence for a twopence.
Wel. Who is't for?
Bung. For a couple of strangers i' th' King's
Head; they have sat preaching this two hours
over two cans, and called me rogue and rascal for
not giving attendance, and setting a chamber-pot
for 'um. They've twopence to pay.
Wel. Then thou'dst have me give 'um eightpence
to be gone, ha!
Bung. A groat and twopence for a sixpence, I
mean.
Wel. There 'tis; go, be nimble. [Exit Bung.]
We have had but small takings to-day; men have
got the squincy or stopping of the throat, I think—they
drink so slowly. May it turn to the dropsy,
that they may never be weary of drinking, but
that every draught may but make room for two
more! 'Twill never be a good world while there's
any but Welsh taverns, such as sell nothing but
ale and tobacco; these French and Spanish ones
will be the undoing of us all; men are grown such
dottrels, that they had rather give five or six shillings
to be drunk, like the Spaniard, with canary, or
the Frenchman, with claret, than so many pence to
be foxed with their own native beer.
Enter Bung.
Bung. O master, master, yonder's Ditty and
Budget come in with two doxies! Ditty swears
he'll have one of 'um, though she cuckold him the
first night, and clap a pair of horns upon his head,
that will confine him to his chamber till rutting-time
come, and he shed 'um.
Wel. Who are they which they're enamoured
so with?
Bung. The one's Nancy Curds and the other
Hanna Jenniting; Ditty and Jenniting are agreed
already; now, if you'll go promote Budget's suit,
and make a conclusion between him and Curds,
the wedding will be kept at our house, and we shall,
besides the getting by the victuals, put off the barrel
of sour beer by and by. [Exit.
Wel. Well said, Bung: the crafti'st knave alive!
I should be glad to see both Budget and Ditty in
the way of multiplying; all their progeny cannot
choose but be friends to the black pot, and will be
notable tipplers, I warrant 'um, as soon as they
come to the sucking-bottle. I'll go myself and
contract 'um. [Exit.
SCENE XIV.
Enter Bristle, Heath, Gum.
Bris. Pox o' the ugly baboon! she has got a face
like a Bartholomew Fair baby, and a mouth like
the whale that swallowed a whole fleet. Her fingers
are rolling-pins, and her arms coal-staves!
Hang her, what should women do with money, or
anything that's good?
Heath. You say true. If we had let 'um alone,
I warrant these boxes had been kept till they were
mouldy, visited but once a quarter, and at last bequeathed
by will and testament to some silly sober
well-wisher of hers in her lifetime.
Bris. One that never drank above four-shilling
beer but once at a christening, and then had like
to have got a red nose by it, cannot distinguish
between a jug and a flagon, never was in an alehouse,
knows not what a bush means, nor ever
spent above twopence in his life, and that was upon
a prayer-book.
Gum. Your tongues, methinks, run very glib; I
wonder they do not screek for want of liquor.
What, tapster? attendance here.
Bung. Anon, anon, sir; I have it in my hand.
Enter Tapster.
Tap. You're welcome, gentlemen; here's a cup
of the best ale in London.
Bris. How? gentlemen? untutored slave, saucy
villain! Gentlemen? why, sirrah, do I look like a
gentleman? I scorn thy terms, and let this kick
put thee in mind of better language.
Bung. Cry you mercy, I mistook you indeed.
Heath. Sirrah, we'll make you know who you
mistake; call one of your master's best customers
gentleman!
Bung. [To some one outside.] Anon, anon, sir;
I'll be with you presently.
Bris. Sirrah, bid your master come in.
[Exit Tapster.
Gum. Come, here's a round to the first inventor
of the famous art of drinking.
Bris. No, no; to the first finder out of the noble
art of brewing; for we should be forced to drink
water else.
Heath. To neither; but to the first most commendable
alehouse-keeper that sold three cans for
twopence; he is the chief benefactor we have.
Come, three cans to his health!
Gum, Bris. A match!
Enter Welcome, Ditty, Budget, Jenniting,
Curds.
Wel. Set you merry, my merry, merry lads;
what, do the cans dance nimbly?
Heath. Yes, but we want a pipe or two; good
mine host, let's have some whiff.
Wel. Here's a musician; honest Ditty and
Budget too: if they do not make up the consort,
they are very much out of tune.
Ditty. O Gum, have we found you out? my
box, you slave!
Bud. And my budget!
Wel. Come, set about, set about, my boon
companions.
Bris. A devil on your snout! oatmeal face and
tallow-chops, how came you hither with a pox,
trow?
Heath. Look here, Bristle, how like shorn
sheep they look. Where shall we run? they have
cast me into a fit o' th' shaking palsy.
Bris. Come, we'll outface 'um.
Wel. Come, sit down, my jovial boys, and roar.
This night we'll suck up all the dew.
Enter Bung, with tobacco.
Bung. Here's a pipe o' th' best tobacco that
Christendom affords; it grew under the King of
Spain's own window. [To other customers.] By and
by; what do you want, sirs? [Exit.
Ditty. And I warrant he used to fling pisspots
out on't.
Wel. We'll drink ourselves into fish, and eat
ourselves into cormorants; we'll not fast, though
it be an eve to a surfeiting gawdy day.
Heath. Is't an eve, say you? pray, what holiday
is to-morrow?
Wel. Budget's and Ditty's nuptials. Drink
freely; all is paid already, and you are Ditty's
guests to-night as well as mine. There sit the
brides. You shall not leave my house to-night,
that I may be sure of you to-morrow morning at
the solemnities; be merry then, and free. I'll pardon
you your groats to-morrow, and none shall
forfeit but he that is not drunk. [Exit Welcome.
Heath, Bris, Gum. Joy to the brides and
bridegrooms!
Ditty. Gentlemen, you may see how quickly a
man may be shuffled into a wedding; we liked at
first sight, and why should we then defer our joys
any longer?
Bud. Like the Spanish, I was beaten into love;
but at last have overcome, thanks to mine host,
that took my part.
Curds. And I cheated into a bride; he that
stole away my box made up the match between
you and me.
Bris. Is't so, i' faith? then, mistress bride, pray
take this box. You know it, I believe, and me
too.
Heath. And you this bundle.
Jen. The thing I was cheated of! Art thou the
thief too? O, the very villain!
Curds. Lay hold of 'um, sweet Budget—the
slaves that cheated us in a disguise.
Ditty. Come, what's the matter? we'll have no
quarrelling to-night; we forgive all.
Gum. Then your books may be freed for eighteen-pence;
that's all they are engaged for yet, and the
budget but for two shillings.
Ditty, Bud. We forgive most willing.
Ditty. A porter would not have carried 'um so
far for the price.
Bris. Here's a health to the brides, then, out of
an extinguisher. I'll find 'um in mice-traps, brushes,
steel and tinder-box all their lifetime.
Heath. And I with brooms.
Gum. I'll cut their corns for nothing, and draw
their teeth for a touch of their lips.
Ditty. Defer that health till to-morrow; in
the meanwhile let's have on[e] to the genius of good
ale.
Omnes. Begin't, begin't!
Ditty. Submit, bunch of grapes,
To the strong barley ear:
The weak vine no longer
The laurel shall wear.
Bud. Sack and all drinks else,
Desist from the strife,
Ale's th' only aqua vitæ
And liquor of life.
All Tog. Then come, my boon fellows,
Let's drink it around;
It keeps us from th' grave,
Though it lays us o' th' ground.
Bud. Ale's a physician,
No mountebank bragger,
Can cure the chill ague,
Though't be with the stagger.
Ditty. Ale's a strong wrestler,
Flings all it hath met,
And makes the ground slippery,
Though't be not wet.
Omnes. But come, my boon, &c.
Ditty. Ale is both Ceres
And good Neptune too;
Ale's froth was the sea,
From whence Venus grew.
Bud. Ale is immortal,
And be there no stops,
In bonny lads quaffing,
Can live without hops,
Omnes. Then come, my boon fellows,
Let's drink it around,
It keeps us from th' grave,
Though it lays us o' th' ground.
[All drink.
Enter Welcome.
Wel. Well said, my whistling birds; 'tis spring
with you all the year long, while the ale flourishes.
Come, I have provided a supper will tire your
teeth; 'tis but a prologue, though, of to-morrow's
feast. I hope your appetites need no provocations.
It now waits for you, but will not be ready till you
concoct it. Come then, cheer up, my buxom girls;
the cakes and posset my wife shall provide, and
I'll engage myself to be father to you both.
Ditty's ballads and his budget shall be cut out into
favours and gloves. [Exeunt.
Welcome the Host.
Gentlemen and ladies, I am sent to you,
Not to beg cast-by sheets, a shirt or two,
Or clouts for th' teeming women, nor bespeak
Gossips or guests against the christ'ning week:
No off'ring for the married couple. What, then?
Only to bid you welcome, gentlemen,
Before your parting; and for th' women, beg
That, when they travail, you'ld not sit cross-leg.
But when their notes are turn'd to childbirth cries,
You'd cry good speed to their deliveries;
And if our cries have wanted mirth or wit,
There's one more left, We cry you mercy yet!
EDITION.
The Shepheards Holy-day. A pastorall tragi-Comœdie.
Acted before their Majesties at Whitehall by the Queenes
Servants. With an Eligie on the death of the most
Noble Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby. London, Printed
by N. and I. Okes for Iohn Benson.... 1635. 8o.
[This is one of the pieces which Isaac Reed did not
retain in the edition of 1780, nor is it in that of 1825.
Yet there is no apparent ground for its exclusion.
A piece bearing the same title as Rutter's was written
by Sir W. Denny at a later date, and is printed from
the original MS. in "Inedited Poetical Miscellanies,"
1870.
It seems to be a hypothesis sufficiently plausible to
justify a passing notice, in that one of the suppressed
printed at the end of the "Private Memoirs of
Sir Kinelm Digby," 1827, the intimacy of Digby with
a royal personage is described in very warm terms and
colours, and that Rutter, who was in Digby's family at
one time, may have founded on what came to his ears
the episode of Sylvia and Thyrsis in this production.]
This author wrote in the reign of Charles the First.
He lived with the Earl of Dorset, as tutor to his son,
and translated, at the desire of his patron, the Cid of
Corneille, a tragi-comedy, in two parts [1640-50, 8o].
It appears, from his dedication of this pastoral to Sir
Kenelm Digby, that he lived also with that gentleman
for some time, but in what capacity I cannot tell. The
plainness and simplicity of this pastoral is commended
by Thomas May, author of "The Heir" and "The Old
Couple;" and also by Ben Jonson in the following
lines—
"I have read
And weigh'd your play; untwisted every thread,
And know the woof and warp thereof; can tell
Where it runs round and even; where so well,
So soft, and smooth it handles, the whole piece,
As it were, spun by nature off the fleece."
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
- Thyrsis, the lover of Sylvia.
- Hylas, the lover of Nerina.
- Mirtillus, the common lover.
- Daphnis, the rich shepherd.
- Montanus, an ancient shepherd.
- Charinus, father to Nerina.
- Alcon, an ancient shepherd.
- Nuntius.
Chorus of Shepherds.
- Sylvia, beloved of Thyrsis.
- Nerina, a huntress, beloved of Hylas and of Daphnis.
- Dorinda, enamoured of Daphnis.
- Delia, a court lady.
- Euarchus, king of Arcady.
- Eubulus, his councillor.
- Cleander, son to Eubulus.
- Attendants.
The Scene, Arcady.
To this fair company I am to say,
You're welcome all to a well-meaning play;
For such our author made it, with intent
To defame none. His muse is innocent:
A virgin yet, that has not found the ways
Out of foul crimes to raise herself a praise;
And therefore she desires you would excuse
All bitter strains, that suit a satire muse:
And that which so much takes the vulgar ear—
Looseness of speech, which they for jests do hear.
She hopes none such are here, therefore she dares
Venture this story, purg'd from lighter airs:
A piece entire, without or patch or maim,
Round in itself, and everywhere the same.
And if there be not in't what they call wit,
There might have been, had it been thought so fit.
A shepherd's muse gently of love does sing,
And with it mingles no impurer thing.
Such she presents unto your ears and eyes,
And yet your Christian freedom not denies
Of liking or disliking what you will:
You may say this is well, or that is ill,
Without dispute; for why should you that pay
For what you have, be taught what you should say?
Or made to judge by any square or rule,
As if you came not to a stage, but school?
No, he that made it says, if you will eat,
He will not force your stomachs: there's your meat;
Which if you like, 'tis well; if not, all's one;
There must be difference in opinion.
Besides, he's sure, whatever he could wish,
Your taste, and not his art, must praise the dish.
The Shepherds' Holiday.
Thyrsis, Montanus.
Thyr. Here in this grove I left her, here amongst
These poplars, laurels, and these sycamores,
Guilty of her sad loss: and yet behold
They do appear as fresh and full of verdure,
As when my love, clothed in her clearest looks,
Did give them grace and lustre. Why do we,
Poor silly men, bred up in cares and fear,
The nurse of our religion, stoop to Nature,
That only knows to form, not to preserve
What she has made; since, careless of her work,
She leaves to giddy Fortune the whole power
Of ruling us? These senseless trees stand still,
And flourish too, and in their pride upbraid
My loss to me; but my dear Sylvia being
Nature's best piece, made to excuse the rest
Of all her vulgar forms, ah me! was left
To desolation, till some horrid satyr,
Bred in these woods, and furious in his lusts,
Made her his prey; and now has carried her
Into his dark retirings, or some cave,
Where her poor Thyrsis never more shall see her.
But I will be reveng'd: this wood, that now
Is so bedeck'd with leaves and fresh array,
I'll level with the ground, until it be
As desolate as I.
Mon. Alas, poor shepherd! [Aside.
Thyr. It shall afford no shade to anything,
That hither us'd to come for its relief;
But henceforth be for ever infamous:
That, when some gentle shepherd passes by,
And sees this ground rent with the crooked plough:
Here, he may say, here 'twas that Sylvia
Was lost, and then shall turn another way.
Mon. Good Thyrsis, do not make so much of grief,
Y' have fed it with too many tears already;
Take comfort now.
Thyr. What has my present state
To do with comfort? If you see the trees
Widow'd of leaves, the earth grown hard, and spoil'd
Of the green mantles which she wont to wear,
You wonder not if winter then appear.
Mon. By these we know that season.
Thyr. And must I,
When she is gone, whose sun-like eyes did cherish
An everlasting summer in my life,
Feel any spring of joy to comfort me?
No, father, grief with me is best in season.
Mon. But whilst you mourn thus, who looks to your flock?
Thyr. All as the shepherd is, such be his flocks,
So pine and languish they, as in despair
He pines and languishes; their fleecy locks
Let hang disorder'd, as their master's hair,
Since she is gone that deck'd both him and them.
And now what beauty can there be to live,
When she is lost that did all beauty give?
Mon. But yet, methinks, for one that is a stranger,
Scarce known to any here, but by her name,
These plaints are overmuch. Besides, there are
In fruitful Arcady as fair as she:
I'm sure more rich and wise: make out of them
A choice. Nerina is as fair as she,
Dorinda's flocks are more than Sylvia's,
And carry on their backs more wool than hers.
Thyr. Let such base peasants as the gods do hate
Admire their wealth and them for what they have,
Their bodies' and their souls material
Alike of drossy substance are compounded,
And can contemplate nothing but the earth.
No, Sylvia, whom some better god, perhaps
For the reward of my well-tuned pipe,
Sent down to me, made up of air and fire;
Though since, because I knew not how to use
With fair respect a gift so great as she,
Has justly reft her from me,—is so much,
So great a part of me, that in her absence
Amidst my grief I feel some little joy,
To see how much of me each minute wasteth,
And gives me hope, that when I shall dissolve
This earthly substance, and be pure as she
(For sure the gods have ta'en her undefil'd),
I may enjoy her looks, and though it be
Profane to touch a hallowed thing like her,
I may adore her yet, and recompense
With my religion the proud thoughts I had
Once to enjoy her.
Mon. See how fond you are
T'embrace a shadow, and to leave the substance!
The love of Hylas to Nerina has
More hopes than yours; though she be young and coy,
Yet whilst Nerina is and Hylas too,
One time or other they may both have joy.
Thyr. May they prove happy in each other's love,
And nothing please, but what each other do;
For so liv'd Thyrsis and his Sylvia:
Whilst Sylvia was, and Thyrsis was her love.
Whatever Thyrsis pip'd, pleas'd Sylvia;
Thyrsis admir'd whatever Sylvia sung,
And both their joys were equal or but one.
Well, I can now remember (and it is
Some comfort to remember what I moan)
That, when our loves began, how first I gaz'd
On her, and she was pleas'd that I should look,
Till greedily I had devour'd the hook.
Love gave me courage then to speak my thoughts,
And gave her pity to receive my words,
They link'd our hearts together: from that time,
Whene'er she saw me strike the furious boar,
Though then my case she ru'd, and sigh'd full oft,
Yet was she pleas'd to see my victory,
And I receiv'd my vigour from her eye.
Then would she make me chaplets of the best
And choicest flowers, to adorn my head:
Which when I wore, methought I did then grasp
The empire of the world. But what of that?
The more I then enjoy'd of heavenly bliss,
The more my present grief and passion is.
Mon. Well, Thyrsis, since my words do but renew
The story of your grief, I'll leave to use
Persuasions to you; for 'tis time, I see,
And not my words, must cure your malady. [Exit.
Thyr. That time must put a period to my life,
Or else it never will unto my grief:
Come, boy, and under this same hanging bough
The note, which thou attemper'st to my words,
Sing, and be happier than thy master, boy.
1.
Boy. Shall I, because my love is gone,
Accuse those golden darts,
Which to a blessed union
Struck our two loving hearts,
Since fortune, and not love, hath caus'd my moan?
2.
No, her pure image I shall prize,
Imprinted in my breast,
More than the fairest mistress' eyes,
That ever swain possessed,
Which in eternal bonds my fancy ties.
3.
Come then, you sharpest griefs, and try
If you can pierce my heart,
But use, if you would have me die,
The best you can of art,
To wound a breast so arm'd with constancy.
Thyr. Enough: I'll sigh the rest out. Go, my boy,
Be careful of thy tender lambs, whilst I
Seek out some hidden place to pine and die.
SCENA II.
Hylas, Mirtillus.
Believe, Mirtillus, never any love
Was bought with other price than love alone,
Since nothing is more precious than itself:
It being the purest abstract of that fire
Which wise Prometheus first indu'd us with;
And he must love that would be lov'd again.
Mir. Why, who can say Mirtillus does not love?
Mirtillus, he who has employ'd his youth
Ever in service of the fairest nymphs.
Hyl. Mirtillus cannot love.
Mir. No, gentle Hylas?
This riband and this hair you see me wear,
Are they not ensigns of a lover? Say,
What shepherdess whom ever swain thought fair,
Has not Mirtillus courted, and obtain'd
Some favour from. But you will think, because
I do not fold my arms, and sigh, and spend
The days, the gods have given me to rejoice,
In whining passion, walking still alone,
Now proud with hopes, then cast down with despair,
Unequal to myself in everything,
I cannot love. No, Hylas, know I love
Dorinda, Chloris, Amarillis, all
Whom ever love did to his altars call:
And when this mistress frowns, I am content
To take another; when that flame is spent
By time, or put out by a rival, straight
A third supplies her place, perhaps more worthy;
If less, because she loves, I'll think her so.
Hyl. Alas, Mirtillus! I do pity thee—
Pity the error which thou wander'st in,
That think'st thou lov'st, and know'st not what it is.
Mir. Why, what is love, say you, if mine be not?
Hyl. I know, Mirtillus, that no lover yet
Purchas'd a lasting pleasure without grief;
For love has gall in it as well as honey,
And so compounded that, whosoe'er will taste
The sweets of it, must take the bitter too,
Out of both which is made our constancy.
You, that embrace the false delights alone,
Are a feign'd lover or (more truly) none.
Mir. I know not what you mean by constancy:
I'm sure I love the fairest.
Hyl. Still you err;
For, if you lov'd the fairest, none had been
The object of your choice but my Nerina;
Nerina, she the glory of these woods,
The only subject of all shepherds' song.
Mir. She has her share of beauty with the rest,
And I confess she's fit for love as any;
But why she only should take up your breast,
And shut out all that have a right as good,
Whose equal or transcendent beauty pleads
As just a title to't as hers can do,
I cannot reach the reason, but admire
Your faith and (what you praise) your constancy.
Hyl. Mirtillus, though I know your stubborn heart
Could never entertain a lover's thought,
Yet did I think you would have been more tender
How you profan'd a name so sacred as
Nerina's is, whom never any swain,
Nor rural god, nor satyr, though he be
Of savage kind, would ever violate:
Nerina, in whose form love ever dwells,
Attended by the Graces, which do range
Themselves in order 'bout her comely face:
Whose breasts without are hills of whitest snow,
Within, the seat of blameless modesty,
Regard of honour and pure chastity;
Nor may a loose thought ever harbour there
To tempt such lovers as you seem to be:
Is it for that you slight her?
Mir. No, I love her
As I do others, with whom I compare her.
But you, that love with such intemperance,
Make of your love a glass, wherein you see
Each thing much greater than indeed it is:
My love's too cold, you say; but I am sure
Yours is too hot for any to endure:
A mean, perhaps, 'twixt these I might approve.
Hyl. You might, if there were any mean in love.
Mir. But whilst we talk thus, see, the flame has caught you;
Your beauteous flame, Nerina, is at hand,
Dorinda with her: dare you stay th' encounter?
Hyl. No, let's withdraw, and watch her, where she goes.
SCENA III.
Nerina, Dorinda.
Dorinda, I have miss'd the chase to-day,
Such is my chance, and he that lodg'd the deer
Told me it was the fairest in these woods.
Dor. The gods do love you, sure, that thus have left
Your thoughts so free for sport; mine are not so.
Ner. Thou art in love, I warrant, art thou not?
Dor. That angry god pursues me in his fury,
And forces me to love where I am scorn'd.
Hapless Dorinda, why should he despise thee?
Many a swain and many a rural god
Have sought thy favours, and have sought in vain:
Now thou art justly punish'd with disdain.
Ner. Trust me, sweetheart, I cannot choose but wonder,
To think that one of such a comely grace—
I do not flatter you—could sue to any
For love, who are much fitter to be lov'd:
Scorn him as much as he does thee; for men
Love us no more! when we love them again.
Dor. Ah, good Nerina, you have spoken truth:
It may warn other nymphs by my example,
How they profess their loves to any man:
I am past cure, for[248] he that wounded me
Has left me quite disarm'd, and robb'd me of
All those defensive arts which men will say
Are natural and proper to our sex.
I cannot change a face or weep one tear,
Or laugh against my will, so violently
My fate hath thrust me to this love, that all
My faculties confess their weakness; and
My flame is got so much above my reach,
I cannot put it out, nor smother it.
Ner. Alas, poor wench! tell me, who is the man
Made up of so much rigid cruelty,
That I may shun him wheresoe'er I go.
Dor. Do not you know him?
Ner. No.
Dor. I hear he boasts
To every shepherd and to every nymph
How much I love him.
Ner. Then it must be Daphnis.
Dor. Venus forgive me if I do disclose him,
But he will do't himself: 'tis he, Nerina.
Ner. Daphnis, that wooes my father to win me;
He is my daily suitor; now I know
How much he owes to pity and to thee;
Until he pay that debt, I shall despise him.
Dor. Why, do not you love him as much as I?
Ner. Love him! I know no greater misery,
Than to love one that's not of human race—
A tiger rather; but a tiger is more mild
Than he.
Dor. For love's sake, say not so!
He has a manly feature, and does show
As much of grace in his comportment as
The best of shepherds can; him Titan made
Of better clay than he did other men,
Although his heart be flint and hardest rock.
Yet is his heart so hard, or are my parts
Rather unequal to his high deserts?
For he can love, I see, since you he loves,
And you deserve it. Had he thought me worthy,
He would have lov'd me too; but as I am
Worthless Dorinda, I am made his scorn,
And I had rather be so, than Nerina
Should want a servant such as Daphnis is.
Ner. Prythee, no more of him: I hate his name
As much as I would do the loss of honour,
Which he injuriously would rob me of.
No, no, Dorinda, if by love I be
Enthrall'd to any, Daphnis is not he.
Dor. Why, is there any can deserve you more?
Ner. Yes, many, that I could tell how to love
Rather than him: for why should I love him,
Whilst Hylas lives, and languishes for me?
Hylas, who lov'd me in my infancy,
And being then a boy, was never well
If I was absent; nor indeed was I
Content with any but his company.
Our flocks still fed together: I on him,
And he on me did feed his greedy eyes.
Since, though his years have styled him man, he has
Continu'd that first love with such respects,
So full of innocence and simple truth,
That howsoe'er my outward coyness is,
My heart within tells me 'tis only his.
Ah me! my father! prythee, let's away.
Dor. But Daphnis comes with him: for love's sake, stay!
SCENA IV.
Hylas, Mirtillus, Charinus, Daphnis.