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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

rays
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 Lassen-

burgh,
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 bath

'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

him.
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 here, my

Lord;
A place securer you can no way find-

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 ;

you

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0 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 :

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,

• lo charmed visions.

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Hanging on every leaf an orient pearl,
Which, struck together with the silken wind
Of their loose mantles, made a silver chime.
"Twas I that, winding my shrill bugle horn,
Made a gilt palace break out of the hill,
Filld suddenly with troops of knights and dames,
Who danced and reveld; whilst we sweetly slept
Upon a bed of roses, wrapt all in gold.
Dost thou not know me now?

Luc. Yes, now I know thee.
Ench. Come then, confirm this knowledge with a kiss.
Luc. Nay, stay; you are not he: how strange is this!

Ench. Thou art grown passing strange, my Love,
To him that made thee so long since his Bride.

Luc. O was it you? come then. O stay awhile.
I know not where I am, nor what I am ;
Nor you, nor these I know, nor any thing.

THE GENTLEMAN OF VENICE: A TRAGI-COMEDY.

BY JAMES SHIRLEY, 1665.

Giovanni, of noble extraction, but brought up a Gardener, and

ignorant of any greater birth, loves Bellaura, a Princess ; and
is beloved again.

BELLAURA. GIOVANNI.
Bell. How now, Giovanni ;
What, with a sword! You were not used to appear
Thus arm’d. Your weapon is a spade, I take it.

Gio. It did become my late profession, Madam;
But I am changed

Bell. Not to a soldier ? Gio. It is a title, Madam, will much grace me ;

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