The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Select Collection Of Old English Plays, by W. Carew Hazlitt..

Pan be as cruel to his flocks and him
As he has been to me!

Mir. Go, leave your cursing,
And follow her; let me alone with him.

Char. Ha! have I found you? Ho! Nerina, stay!
Your father calls you; was not that my daughter
That made away so fast?

Mir. Who, she that's gone?
Believe your eyes no more, they are false to you.
Could you take one for her that's nothing like her?
'Twas Chloris went from us.

Char. Is't possible?

Mir. 'Tis true.

Daph. I thought that it had been my love.

Char. I durst have sworn that she had been my daughter.
What made she here? 'Twill ne'er be otherwise;
Young women will be chatting with young men,
Whate'er their fathers say. It was not so
When I was young—a boy, as you are, shepherds.

Mir. We are not men with him till after fifty.

Char. We never durst keep company with women,
Nor they with us: each one did carefully
Attend his charge. And when the time was come,
That we grew ripe in years, and were staid youths,
Our fathers would provide us wives: we did not
Carve for ourselves, as nowadays they do.
But now our children think themselves as wise,
Nay, wiser than their fathers, and will rule 'em:
They can no sooner peep out of the shell,
But they must love, forsooth. I would fain know,
Whether 'twere fit a maid should be in love—
I speak now of that skittish girl, my daughter—
Before she ask her father's leave and liking?

Daph. Tis true, Charinus, 'twere not fit indeed.
Who should bestow the daughter but the father?

Mir. But, shepherds, did you never hear that once
There was an age, the nearest to the gods:
An age we rather praise than imitate;
When no man's will nor woman's was enforc'd
To any bent but its own motion?
Each follow'd nature's laws, and by instinct
Did love the fairest, and enjoy their wishes:
Love then, not tied to any interest
Of blood or fortune, hasten'd to his end
Without control, nor did the shepherd number
Her sheep that was his choice, but every grace
That did adorn her beauteous mind or face.
Riches with love then were not valued—
Pure, uncompounded love—that could despise
The whole world's riches for a mistress' eyes.
Pray tell me, Daphnis—you are young and handsome,
The lover of our fairest nymph Nerina—
Would you, for all that fruitful Sicily
Can yield, or all the wealth of Persia,
Change one poor lock of your fair mistress' hair,
Whilst she is yours, and you her shepherd are?

Daph. Would she were mine, I'd ask no portion.

Mir. Spoke like a lover of the ancient stamp!

Char. Son, son, she shall be yours: why, am not I
Her father, she my daughter? May not I
Bestow her where I please?

Mir. Yes, if she like
The man, she will bestow herself, ne'er fear it.

Char. What! she bestow herself without my leave?
No, no, Mirtillus, you mistake my daughter.
I cannot get her once to think of marriage,
And truly I do muse to see a wench,
That in all other things (although I say it)
Has wit at will: can pin her sheep in fold
As well as any: knows when to drive them home;
And there she can do twenty things as well:
Yet when I speak to her of marriage,
She turns the head: she'll be a Dryad, she,
Or one of those fond nymphs of Dian's train.

Mir. Old man, believe her not, she means not so;
She loves to keep the thing for which she is
So much belov'd—I mean her maidenhead—
Which, whilst she has, she knows to play the tyrant,
And make us slaves unto her scornful looks:
For beauty then itself most justifies,
When it is courted; if not lov'd, it dies.

Char. Well, we will think of this. Come, Daphnis, come,
I see you love my daughter, and you only
Shall have her; it is I that tell you so,
That am her father.

Daph. Thank you, good Charinus;
But I had rather she had told me so. [Aside.

ACTUS II., SCÆNA 1.

[Thyr.] This day the sun shot forth his beams as fair
As e'er he did, and through the trembling air
Cool Zephyrus with gentle murmuring
Breath'd a new freshness on each tree and plant:
My kids are gamesome too, as e'er they were;
All show a face of gladness but myself.

Mon. And why not you as well by their example?

Thyr. Not in this life: here joy would be untimely:
The gods reserve for me their comforts in
Th' Elysian fields, or else they mock my sorrows.

Mon. O, say not so, they're just and pitiful.

Thyr. They are, but, father—so I still must call you—
When in the sadness of my soul I ask'd
Before the altar of our great Apollo,
What should become of me, or where my love,
Bright Sylvia, was, whether alive or dead,
Why should the oracle reply: Go home,
Thou shall enjoy thy Sylvia?

Mon. What more could you
Desire to hear?

Thyr. Ay, but when greedily
I ask'd the time, the answer was, That day
Thou art not Thyrsis, nor she Sylvia.
Then in this life I'm sure it must not be,
For I was Thyrsis ever call'd, and she
Known by no other name than Sylvia.

Mon. It may be, for your importunity
You might deserve this answer, or else is it
Because the gods speak not their mysteries
To be conceiv'd by every vulgar sense?
I now remember what Acrisius,
The wise and virtuous Acrisius,
Was wont to say.

Thyr. Why, what said he?
Does it concern me aught?

Mon. It may do, son;
He bid us fly all curiosity,
Seeking to know what future time may bring
To us, which only gods above do know;
And if at any time they do impart
This knowledge unto us, it is enwrapp'd
In such a mist, as we shall ne'er see through it:
Because, said he, we have enough to do
With what is present; the celestial powers
Would not cut off our hopes, nor multiply
Our cares, by showing us our destiny.

Thyr. O, this discourse to a despairing lover
What comfort does it bring? for heaven's sake, leave it
And me; for I am best, I find, alone.
Yet stay, there's something that I fain would ask you:
You said this circle here about my neck
Has so continued from my infancy,
When first you took me up.

Mon. 'Tis true, that circle
Hung loosely then about your neck, which since
Is fill'd with it. I left it there, because
I saw some letters that were wrought about it.

Thyr. And may they not be read?

Mon. I think they may:
But I could never find so great a clerk
As could tell how t' expound the meaning of them.

Thyr. My life is nothing but a mystery;
That which I was, and that which I shall be,
Is equally unknown. Now, if you'll leave me
Unto my thoughts, they'll keep me company.

Mon. I will; but here is one come to supply me.

Mir. Ay, let me alone.

He that mourns for a mistress,
When he knows not where she is,
Let him kiss her shadow fair,,
Or engender with the air;
Or see, if with his tears he can
Swell at an ebb the ocean:
Then, if he had not rather die,
Let him love none, or all, as I.

This is the doctrine that I ever taught you,
And yet you profit not: these scurvy passions
Hang on you still. You that are young and active,
That may have all our nymphs at your devotion,
To live a whining kind of life as this,
How ill it does become you!

Thyr. True, Mirtillus;
And yet I do not envy thee the pleasure
Thou hast in thy dispers'd affections.

Mir. You would, if your head were right once; but love—
Your love does make an ass of all your reason.

Thyr. Sure, a true lover is more rational
Than you, that love at random everywhere.

Mir. I do not think so; all the reason love
Has left you to employ in this discourse
Will hardly bring me to confess it to you.

Thyr. Why, all men's actions have some proper end,
Whereto their means and strict endeavours tend:
Else there would be nought but perplexity
In human life, and all uncertainty.

Mir. Well, what will you infer on this?

Thyr. That you,
Who know no end at all of wild desire,
Must in your wand'ring fancy see this way
Leads unto madness, when too late you find
That nothing satisfies a boundless mind.

Mir. Ay, but I do confine myself to two
Or three at most; in this variety
I please myself; for what is wanting in
One, I may find it in another.

Thyr. No.
Not in another; one is the only centre
The line of love is drawn to, must have all
Perfections in her, all that's good and fair,
Or else her lover must believe her so.

Mir. Ay, there's your error, that's the ground of all
Your tears and sighs, your fruitless hopes and fears,
When she perhaps has not so much t' adorn her
As the least grace your thoughts bestow upon her.

Thyr. Well, be it so; and yet this fair idea,
Which I have fram'd unto myself, does argue
Virtue in me; so that, if she be lost,
Or dead—ah me! the sad remembrance of
My Sylvia causes this—yet I must love,
Because the character is indelibly
Writ in my heart, and heaven is witness to it.

Mir. Well, I'll no more of this, I'll be converted
Rather than call this grief to your remembrance.

Thyr. Why, dost thou think I ever shall forget her?
Or that where'er I set my careful foot,
As in this place, will it not tell me that
Here Sylvia and I walk'd hand in hand,
And here she pluck'd a flower, and anon
She gave it me; and then we kiss'd, and here
We mutually did vow each other's love?

Mir. Nay leave, good Thyrsis: I did come to tell you
This holiday our royal Prince Euarchus,
Being remov'd to his house here near adjoining,
Sent to command us to attend his person,
With all our sports and wonted merriment,
Wherein you always bore the chiefest part.
And I have heard ('tis not to make you blush)
The princess has commended your rare art
And handsome graces, which you gave your music.
Come, you must go with us, for Hylas is
So far engag'd in love, and near his hopes,
He will not stir unless his mistress go.

Thyr. Alas, Mirtillus! I have broke my pipe,
My sighs are all the music which I now
Can make, and how unfit I am t' attend
So great an expectation, you may see.
Yet give me leave to think on it; at night
Perhaps I'll go with you.

Mir. Till then farewell. [Exit Thyrsis.
The gentlest youth that ever play'd on pipe,
But see, who's here? O, 'tis my other lover,
His mistress with him; I will not disturb him.

SCENA II.

Ner. Shepherd, I would you'd leave to follow me.

Hyl. How can I, sweetest, when my heart is with you?

Ner. With me? Then tell me where, and see how soon
I shall restore it you.

Mir. O, this is fine! [Aside.

Hyl. It hangs upon your eyes where, being scorch'd
With their disdain, and dazzl'd with their lustre,
It flies for ease unto your rosy lips.
But, beaten thence with many a harsh denial,
Fain would it come for better harbour here;
But here for ever it must be an exile.
For pity then, fair nymph, receive it you;
And if you can, teach it the hardness of
Your own, and make it marble, as yours is.

Mir. I see he is not such a novice as
I took him for; he can tell how to speak. [Aside.

Ner. Well, if my heart be such as you will make it,
I am so much the gladder that it is
Of strength to be a fence unto my honour.

Hyl. In vain a fence is made to guard the sheep,
Where no wolf ever came.

Ner. What, if within
It keep a dog of prey, would they be safe?
For my part, I'll not cherish in my breast
The man that would undo my chastity.

Hyl. Then cherish me, for you best know I never
Attempted anything to cast a spot
On that white innocence, to which I am
A most religious votary.

Mir. More fool you!
It may be, if you had, it needed not
Ha' come to this. [Aside.

Ner. Yes, yes, you may remember,
I blush to tell it you, when first my thoughts
Were pure and simple—as I hope they are
Still, and will so continue, whilst I fly
Such company as you—- I thought you one
Whom never any flame impure had touch'd:
Then we convers'd without suspect together.

Hyl. And am I not so still? why do you now
Fly from me thus?

Ner. The cause I shall tell you,
Since you will not remember; though it be
Unfit for me to speak, yet you shall know
How just my anger is.

Hyl. Ah me most wretched!
What have I done?

Ner. When tending of my flocks
Under the shade of yonder myrtle-tree.
Which bears the guilt of your foul misdemeanour,
My maid Corisca cried out for my help,
Because a bee had stung her in the face:
You heard me speak in pity of her smart,
A charm my mother taught me, that, being said
Close to the place affected, takes away
The pain: which gave her ease. But you, uncivil,
Turning my courtesy to your vile ends,
Feign'd you were stung too, and cried out your lips
Had from the same sharp point receiv'd a wound:
Pray'd me to say the same charm over there.
I charitably lent my help to you,
Mistrusting nothing of your purposes,
When with ungentle hands you held me fast,
And for my thanks gave me a lustful kiss.
Canst thou remember this, and yet not blush?
O impudence!

Hyl. You will excuse the heat
Of my desires; still I feel that sting,
But dare not ask the cure, nor did I then
Do any hurt: but since you think it was
A fault, I do repent it, and am sorry
I did offend you so.

Mir. Better and better!
He'll cry anon, he has already ask'd
Forgiveness of her. [Aside.

Ner. Well, shepherd, look
You never see me more: I cannot love
At all, or if at all, not you: let this
Settle your thoughts.

Hyl. O, it distracts them more:
But since my presence is offensive to you,
I must obey, yet, if I thought you would,
When I am dead—the martyr of your beauty,
Shed one poor tear on my untimely grave,
And say that Hylas was unfortunate,
To love where he might not be lov'd again,
My ashes would find rest. And so farewell:
The fairest, but the cruel'st nymph alive!

Mir. What, will you leave her thus?

Hyl. I prythee, come,
The sentence of my banishment is pass'd,
Never to be recall'd.

Mir. Are these the hopes
You fed upon? O, what a thing in nature
Is a coy woman! or how great a fool
The man is that will give her leave to rule! [Exit Hylas.

SCENA III.

Ner. Alas! my Hylas, my beloved soul,
Durst she whom thou hast call'd cruel Nerina
But speak her thoughts, thou wouldst not think her so;
To thee she is not cruel, but to herself:
That law, which nature hath writ in my heart,
Taught me to love thee, Hylas, and obey
My father too, who says I must not love thee.
O disproportion'd love and duty, how
Do you distract me? If I love my choice,
I must be disobedient; if obedient,
I must be link'd to one I cannot love.
Then either, Love, give me my liberty,
Or, Nature, from my duty set me free. [Exit.

SCENA IV.

Daph. Nerina, since nor tears nor prayers can move
Thy stubborn heart, I'll see what gifts can do:
They of my rank, whom most do deem unworthy
Of any virgin's love, being rough, and bred
To manage the estates our fathers left us,
Unskill'd in those hid mysteries, which Love's
Professors only know, have yet a way
To gain our wishes. First we get the father:
He knows our pleasure, and gives his consent.
The daughter's eyes being blinded with our gifts,
Cannot so soon spy our deformities,
But we may catch her too. This Alcon says,
A man whom age and observation taught
What I must learn; yet though most women be
Such as he has deliver'd, my Nerina
Seems not to have regard to what I give,
But holds me and my gifts both at one rate.
What can I hope, then, out of this poor present:
A looking-glass which, though within our plains
'Tis seldom seen, yet I have heard in cities
They are as common as a lock of wool.
However, if she take it, I am happy,
So Alcon tells me; and he knows full well
(He gave it me) that, whose'er shall look
Her face in it, shall be at my dispose.
In confidence of this, I will present it,
And see my fortune; sure, I must needs speed:
My friend, her father, comes along with her.
But, O my fate! is not that nymph Dorinda
Which keeps them company? Yes, sure, 'tis she;
A curse light on her importunity!
Her father urges something, and I hope
On my behalf; let me observe a little.

SCENA V.

Char. And as I oft have told you, I do wish
To see you wise.

Dor. Is she not so, Charinus?
Does she say anything that's out of reason?

Char. Do not tell me of reason; I would hear
Of her obedience: therefore I say, be wise,
And do as I would have you.

Dor. What would you
Have her to do? you see she answers not
To contradict you.

Char. I will have her answer
To what I now demand, that is, to marry
Daphnis, and I will have her love him too.

Dor. Love him, Charinus! that you cannot do:
Her body you may link i' th' rites of Hymen;
Her will she must bestow herself, not you.

Daph. O, she was born to be a plague unto me. [Aside.

Char. Why should she wish or hope for anything,
But what I'd have her wish or hope for only?
Come, to be short, answer me, and directly;
Are you content to marry Daphnis, say?

Ner. What is your pleasure, father?

Char. You do not hear,
It seems, but what you list; I ask you once
Again, if you will marry Daphnis? speak.

Ner. Sir, I would marry whom you please to give me;
I neither can nor ought to make my choice,
I would refer that to you: but you know
My inclination never lay to marry.

Char. I know you shall do that which I command.

Ner. Now heaven forbid that I, who have thus long
Vow'd to Diana my virginity,
To follow her a huntress in these woods,
Should yield myself to the impure delights
Of Hymen, and so violate my faith.

Char. A fine devotion, is it not? to make
A vow, and never ask your father leave!
The laws will not permit it to be so.

Dor. The vow, Charinus, is not made to men:
The laws have not to do with that which is
Seal'd and recorded in the court of heaven.

Char. Do not tell me of vows: I'll have her marry,
And marry Daphnis: is he not rich and handsome?

Dor. Ah me! I would he were not rich nor handsome:
It may be then he would regard my sufferings. [Aside.

Char. No, daughter, do not you believe you can
Catch me with shifts and tricks: I see, I tell you,
Into your heart.

Ner. Alas! I would you did;
Then your discourse would tend another way.

Char. Yes, you have made a vow, I know, which is,
Whilst you are young, you will have all the youth
To follow you with lies and flatteries.
Fool, they'll deceive you; when this colour fades,
Which will not always last, and you go crooked,
As if you sought your beauty lost i' th' ground;
Then they will laugh at you, and find some other
Fit for their love; where, if you do as I
Command you, I have one will make you happy.

Ner. Ah me most miserable!

Daph. Now I'll come in,
And see what I can do with this my gift.

Char. Look now, as if the Fates would have it so,
He comes just in the nick of my discourse:
Come, use him kindly now, and then you shall
Redeem what you have lost—my good opinion.

Ner. O most ungrateful chance! how I do hate
The sight of him!

Dor. Were it to me he came,
How happy would this fair encounter be!

Char. Daphnis, you're welcome, very welcome to me,
And to my daughter: what is that you have there?

Daph. A present, which I mean to give my love.

Char. See but how true a lover Daphnis is;
His hand is never empty when he comes.
Welcome him, daughter: look what he has for you.

Daph. O good Charinus! none must look in it,
But she herself to whom it is presented.

Char. I am an old man, I, and therefore care not
To see my wither'd face and hoary hair:
Give it that young thing, she knows what to do with it.
Daughter, come hither; use him courteously
And kindly too: be sure you take his gift. [Aside.
Daphnis, I'll leave you both together here;
My sheep are shearing, I can stay no longer. [Exit.

Daph. Farewell, old man; health to my dearest mistress.

Ner. And to you, shepherd.

Dor. Daphnis, am not I
Worthy to have a share in your salute?

Daph. How can I give thee part of that, whereof
I have no share myself?

Dor. If you would love
There where you are belov'd again, you might
Make your content such as you would yourself.

Daph. If you, Nerina, would vouchsafe to love
Him that loves you, and ever will, you might
Make your content such as you would yourself.

Ner. Shepherd, I oft have wish'd you not to trouble
Me and yourself with words: I cannot love you.

Daph. As oft, Dorinda, have I spoke to you,
To leave to trouble me: I cannot love you.

Dor. Will you then slight my love because 'tis offer'd?

Daph. Will you then slight my love because 'tis offer'd?

Ner. Somebody else may love you, I cannot.

Daph. Somebody else may love you, I cannot.

Dor. O cruel words, how they do pierce my heart!

Daph. O cruel words, how they do pierce my heart!

Ner. How can I help it, if your destiny
Lead you to love where you may not obtain?

Daph. How can I help it, if your destiny
Lead you to love where you may not obtain?

Dor. It is not destiny that injures me;
It is thy cruel will and marble heart.

Daph. It is not destiny that injures me;
It is thy cruel will and marble heart.

Ner. No, Daphnis; 'tis not hardness of my heart,
Nor any cruelty that causes this.

Daph. Then 'tis disdain of me.

Ner. Nor is it that:
I do not see in Daphnis anything
To cause disdain.

Dor. Why do you not reply
In those same words to me, malicious Echo?

Daph. I pray, leave me; I have other business now
To trouble me; if you disdain me not,
Fair nymph, as you pretend, receive my offer.

Ner. What's that?

Daph. My heart.

Dor. I will, gentle Daphnis.

Daph. O importunity!

Ner. Give her thy heart.
She has deserv'd it, for she loves thee Daphnis.

Daph. First, I would tear it piecemeal here before you.

Dor. O me unfortunate! O cruel man!

Ner. Stay, good Dorinda, I'll go with thee; stay.

Daph. Let her go where she will; behold, sweet saint,
This mirror here, the faithful representer
Of that which I adore, your beauteous form;
When you do see in that how lovely are
Your looks, you will not blame my love.

Ner. If I refuse it,
My father will be angry. [Aside.] Let me see it.
Here, take thy glass again: what ails my head?
I know not where I am, it is so giddy:
And something like a drowsiness has seiz'd
My vital spirits.

Daph. How do you, love?

Ner. Heavy o' th' sudden; I'll go home and sleep.

Daph. So, let her go, and let this work awhile.
She cast an eye upon me as she went,
That by its languishing did seem to say,
Daphnis, I'm thine; thou hast o'ercome at last.
Alcon, th' hast made me happy by thy art [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

ACTUS II., SCÆNA 1.

SCENA II.

SCENA III.

SCENA IV.

SCENA V.

ACTUS III, SCENA I.