The Welcoming Song.

Country Gods. O Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill! This honour done to Ida may it continue still! Muses. Ye Country Gods, that in this Ida wonne, Bring down your gifts of welcome,

For honour done to Ida.

Gods. Behold in sign of joy we sing, And signs of joyful welcome bring,

For honour done to Ida.

Pan. The God of Shepherds, and his mates,
With country cheer salutes your States:
Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be!
And thank the gracious Ladies Three,
For honour done to Ida.

PARIS. NONE.

Par. Enone, while we bin disposed to walk,
Tell me, what shall be subject of our talk?
Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store;
'Dare say no nymph in Ida's woods hath more.
Again, beside thy sweet alluring face,
In telling them thou hast a special grace.
Then prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing,
Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring.
En. Paris, my heart's contentment, and my choice
Use thou thy pipe, and I will use my voice;

So shall thy just request not be denied,
And time well spent, and both be satisfied.

Par. Well, gentle nymph, although thou do me wrong,
That can ne tune my pipe unto a song,
Me list this once, Enone, for thy sake,
This idle task on me to undertake.

(They sit under a tree together.)

En. And whereon then shall be my roundelay;
For thou hast heard my store long since, 'dare say-
How Saturn did divide his kingdom tho'
To Jove, to Neptune, and to Dis below:
How mighty men made foul successless war
Against the Gods, and State of Jupiter:
How Phorcyas' 'ympe, that was so trick and fair
That tangled Neptune in her golden hair,
Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed;—
A pretty fable, Paris, for to read;

A piece of cunning, trust me for the nonce,
That wealth and beauty alter men to stones :
How Salmacis, resembling Idleness,

Turns men to women all thro' wantonness :
How Pluto raught Queen Pluto's daughter thence,
And what did follow of that love-offence:
Of Daphne turn'd into the Laurel Tree,
That shews a myrror of virginity:
How fair Narcissus, tooting on his shade,
Reproves disdain, and tells how form doth vade:
How cunning Philomela's needle tells,

What force in love, what wit in sorrow, dwells:
What pains unhappy Souls abide in Hell,

They say, because on Earth they lived not well,-
Ixion's wheel, proud Tantal's pining woe,
Prometheus' torment, and a many moe;
How Danaus' daughters ply their endless task;

What toil the toil of Sysiphus doth ask.

All these are old, and known, I know; yet, if thou wilt

have any,

Chuse some of these; for, trust me else, Enone hath

not many.

Par. Nay, what thou wilt; but since my cunning not

compares with thine,

Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine.

En. There is a pretty Sonnet then, we call it CUPID'S

CURSE:

They that do change old love for new, pray Gods they change for worse."

En. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be,

The fairest shepherd on our green,
A Love for any Lady.

Par. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair,

As fair as any may be,

Thy Love is fair for thee alone,

And for no other Lady.

En. My Love is fair, my

(They sing.)

Love is gay,

And fresh as bin the flowers in May,
And of my love my roundelay,
My merry, merry, merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid's Curse:

They that do change old love for new,
Pray Gods they change for worse.

(Fair, and fair, &c.

Both.

(repeated.)

Fair, and fair, &c. f

En. My Love can pipe, my Love can sing,

My Love can many a pretty thing,

And of his lovely praises ring

My merry, merry, merry roundelays.

Amen to Cupid's Curse:

They that do change old love for new,

Pray Gods they change for worse.

Both.

(Fair, and fair, &c. I

Fair, and fair, &c.

(repeated.)

To my esteemed Friend, and excellent Musician, V. N., Esq. DEAR SIR,

I conjure you, in the name of all the Sylvan Deities, and of the Muses, whom you honour, and they reciprocally love and honour you,-rescue this old and passionate Ditty-the very flower of an old forgotten Pastoral, which had it been in all parts equal, the Faithful Shepherdess of Fletcher had been but a second name in this sort of Writing- -rescue it from the profane hands of every common Composer: and in one of your tranquillest moods, when you have most leisure from those sad thoughts, which sometimes unworthily beset you; yet a mood, in itself not unallied to the better sort of melancholy; laying by for once the lofty Organ, with which you shake the Temples; attune, as to the Pipe of Paris himself, to some milder and more love-according instrument, this pretty Courtship between Paris and his (then-not as yet-forsaken) Enone. Oblige me; and all more knowing Judges of Music and of Poesy; by the adaptation of fit musical numbers, which it only wants to be the rarest Love Dialogue in our language. Your Implorer,

C. L.

THE CITY NIGHT-CAP: A TRAGI-COMEDY. BY
ROBERT DAVENPORT, 1651.

Lorenzo Medico suborns three Slaves to swear falsely to an adultery between his virtuous Wife Abstemia, and his Friend Philippo. They give their testimony before the Duke of Verona, and the Senators.

Two souls, more precious than a pair of worlds,

Are levell'd below death!

Abst. Oh hark! did you not hear it?

Sen. What, Lady?

Abst. This hour a pair of glorious towers is fallen.

Two godly buildings beaten with a breath

Beneath the grave: you all have seen this day
A pair of souls both cast and kiss'd away.
Sen. What censure gives your Grace?
Duke. In that I am kinsman

To the accuser, that I might not appear
Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder,
If unto your Gravities I leave

The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands
A kinsman to Verona, so forget not,
Abstemia still is sister unto Venice.

Phil. Misery of goodness!

Abst. Oh Lorenzo Medico,

Abstemia's Lover once, when he did vow,
And when I did believe; then when Abstemia

Denied so many princes for Lorenzo,

Then when you swore:-Oh maids, how men can weep, Print protestations on their breasts, and sigh,

And look so truly, and then weep again,

And then protest again, and again dissemble !—
When once enjoy'd, like strange sights, we grow stale ;
And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail.

Phil. Oh Lorenzo !

Look upon tears, each one of which well-valued
Is worth the pity of a king; but thou
Art harder far than rocks, and canst not prize
The precious waters of truth's injured eyes.

Lor. Please your Grace, proceed to censure.

Duke. Thus 'tis decreed, as these Lords have set down,

Against all contradiction: Signor Philippo,

In that you have thus grossly, Sir, dishonour'd
Even our blood itself in this rude injury
Lights on our kinsman, his prerogative
Implies death on your trespass; but, (your merit
Of more antiquity than is your trespass,)