Coun. He hath sworn me by the name of God To break a vow made in the name of God. What if I swear by this right hand of mine To cut this right hand off? the better way Were to profane the idol, than confound it. Flattery.
O thou World, great nurse of flattery,
Why dost thou tip men's tongues with golden words,
And poise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,
That fair performance cannot follow promise?
O that a man might hold the heart's close book
And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter
The breath of falsehood, not character'd there !
Sin, worst in High Place.
grave is more esteemed,
Than the polluted closet of a king;
The greater man, the greater is the thing,
Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake.
An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,
Presents a greater substance than it is;
The freshest summer's day doth soonest taint
The loathed carrion, that it seems to kiss ;
Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe;
That sin does ten times aggravate itself,
That is committed in a holy place;
An evil deed done by authority
Is sin, and subornation; deck an ape
In tissue, and the beauty of the robe
Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast;
The poison shews worst in a golden cup ;
Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
And every Glory, that inclines to Sin,
The shame is treble by the opposite.
DOCTOR DODYPOL: A COMEDY. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 1600.
Earl Lassenburgh, as a Painter, painting his Mistress al grotesco.
Lass. Welcome bright Morn, that with thy golden
Reveal'st the radiant colours of the world;
Look here, and see if thou canst find dispers'd
The glorious parts of fair Lucilia !
Take them, and join them in the heavenly spheres ;
And fix them there as an eternal light,
For lovers to adore and wonder at.
Luc. You paint your flattering words, Lord Lassenburgh,
Making a curious pencil of your tongue;
And that fair artificial hand of yours
Were fitter to have painted Heaven's fine story,
Than here to work on antics, and on me:
Thus for my sake you of a noble Earl
Are glad to be a mercenary Painter.
Lass. A Painter, fair Lucilia: why, the world
With all her beauty was by PAINTING made.
Look on the heavens, colour'd with golden stars,
The firmamental part of it all blue.
Look on the air, where with an hundred changes
The watery rainbow doth embrace the earth.
Look on the summer fields, adorn'd with flowers.
How much is Nature's painting honour'd there.
Look in the mines, and on the eastern shore,
Where all our metals and dear gems are drawn;
Though fair themselves, made better by their foils.
Look on that little world, the Two-fold Man,
Whose fairer parcel is the weaker still;
And see what azure veins in stream-like form
Divide the rosy beauty of the skin.
I speak not of the sundry shapes of beasts;
The several colours of the elements,
Whose mixture shapes the world's variety,
In making all things by their colours known.
And, to conclude-Nature herself divine
In all things she has made is a mere Painter.
Luc. Now by this kiss, the admirer of thy skill,
Thou art well worthy th' honour thou hast given
With thy so sweet words to thy eye-ravishing Art;
Of which my beauties can deserve no part.
Lass. From these base antics, where my hand hath 'spersed
Thy several parts, if I, uniting all,
Had figured there the true Lucilia,
Then might thou justly wonder at my art;
And devout people would from far repair,
Like pilgrims, with their duteous sacrifice,
Adorning thee as Regent of their loves.
Here in the center of this Marigold
Like a bright diamond I enchased thine eye.
Here underneath this little rosy bush
Thy crimson cheeks peer forth, more fair than it.
Here Cupid hanging down his wings doth sit,
Comparing cherries to thy rosy lips.
Here is thy brow, thy hair, thy neck, thy hand,
Of purpose in all several shrouds dispersed !
Lest ravish'd I should dote on mine own work,
Or envy-burning eyes should malice it.
A Cameo described.
see this Agate, that contains
The image of the Goddess and her Son,
Whom ancients held the Sovereigns of Love.
See naturally wrought out of the stone,
Besides the perfect shape of every limb,
Besides the wondrous life of her bright hair,
A waving mantle of celestial blue,
Embroidering itself with flaming stars;
Most excellent! and see besides,-
How Cupid's wings do spring out of the stone,
As if they needed not the help of Art.
Earl Lassenburgh, for some distaste, flees Lucilia, who follows
Lass. Wilt thou not cease then to pursue me still? Should I entreat thee to attend me thus,
Then thou would'st pant and rest; then your soft feet
Would be repining at these niggard stones:
Now I forbid thee, thou pursuest like wind;
No tedious space of time, nor storm can tire thee.
But I will seek out some high slippery close,
Where every step shall reach the gate of death,
That fear may make thee cease to follow me.
Luc. There will I bodiless be, when you are there; For love despiseth death, and scorneth fear.
Lass. I'll wander where some desperate river parts
The solid continent, and swim from thee.
Luc. And there I'll follow, though I drown for thee.
Lass. O weary of the way, and of my life,
Where shall I rest my sorrow'd, tired limbs?
Luc. Rest in my bosom, rest you here, my Lord;
A place securer you can no way
Lass. Nor more unfit for my unpleased mind.
A heavy slumber calls me to the earth;
Here will I sleep, if sleep will harbour here.
Luc. Unhealthful is the melancholy earth;
O let my Lord rest on Lucilia's lap.
I'll help to shield you from the searching air,
And keep the cold damps from your gentle blood.
Lass. Pray thee away; for, whilst thou art so near,
No sleep will seize on my suspicious eyes.
Luc. Sleep then; and I am pleased far off to sit,
Like to a poor and forlorn centinel,
Watching the unthankful sleep, that severs me
From my due part of rest, dear Love, with thee.
An Enchanter, who is enamoured of Lucilia, charms the Earl to a dead sleep, and Lucilia to a forgetfulness of her past love.
Enchanter (to Lassenburgh). Lie there; and lose the memory of her,
Who likewise hath forgot the love of thee
By my enchantments :-come, sit down, fair Nymph,
And taste the sweetness of these heav'nly cates,
Whilst from the hollow crannies of this rock
Music shall sound to recreate my Love.
But tell me, had you ever Lover yet?
Lucilia. I had a Lover, I think; but who it was,
Or where, or how long since, aye me! I know not:
Yet beat my timerous thoughts on such a thing.
I feel a passionate heat, yet find no flame;
Think what I know not, nor know what I think.
Ench. Hast thou forgot me then? I am thy Love,Whom sweetly thou wert wont to entertain
With looks, with vows of love, with amorous kisses. Look'st thou so strange? dost thou not know me yet? Luc. Sure I should know you.
Ench. Why, Love, doubt you that?
'Twas I that led you thro' the painted meads, Where the light fairies danced upon the flowers,
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