With his iron fist: good heart, it seemeth then,
They laugh to see grief kill me. O fond men,
You laugh at others' tears; when others smile,
You tear yourselves in pieces: vile vile! vile!
Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of fools
Crowding together to be counted wise,

I laugh because sweet Agripyne 's not there,
But weep because she is not anywhere,

And weep because whether she be or not,

My love was ever, and is still forgot: forgot, forgot, forgot.

Gall. Draw back this stream; why should my Orleans

mourn

ܕ܂

Orl. Look yonder, Galloway, dost thou see that sun?
Nay, good friend, stare upon it, mark it well;
Ere he be two hours older, all that glory
Is banish'd heaven, and then for grief this sky,
That's now so jocund, will mourn all in black;
And shall not Orleans mourn? alack! alack!
O what a savage tyranny it were

T'enforce care laugh, and woe not shed a tear !
Dead is my Love; I am buried in her scorn;
That is my sunset, and shall I not mourn?
Yes, by my troth I will.

Gall. Dear friend, forbear;

Beauty, like sorrow, dwelleth everywhere.
Rase out this strong idea of her face,
As far as hers shineth in any place.

Is

Orl. Thou art a traitor to that white and red,
Which sitting on her cheeks, being Cupid's throne,
my heart's soveraine: O when she is dead,
This wonder, beauty, shall be found in none.
Now Agripyne's not mine, I vow to be
In love with nothing but deformity.

O fair Deformity, I muse all eyes

Are not enamour'd of thee: thou didst never
Murder men's hearts, or let them pine like wax

Melting against the sun of thy destiny ;
Thou art a faithful nurse to chastity;
Thy beauty is not like to Agripyne's,
For cares, and age, and sickness hers deface,
But thine 's eternal: oh, Deformity,
Thy fairness is not like to Agripyne's,
For, dead, her beauty will no beauty have,
But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.

[The humour of a frantic lover is here done to the life. Orleans is as passionate an Inamorato as any which Shakspeare ever drew. He is just such another adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the world are with him

a swarm of fools

Crowding together to be counted wise.

He talks "pure Biron and Romeo," he is almost as poetical as they, quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, Love's sectaries are a "reason unto themselves." We have gone retrograde in the noble heresy since the days when Sydney proselyted our nation to this mixed health and disease; the kindliest symptom yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklish state of youth; the nourisher and the destroyer of hopeful wits; the mother of twin-births, wisdom and folly, valour and weakness; the servitude above freedom; the gentle mind's religion; the liberal superstition.]

SATIRO-MASTIX, OR THE UNTRUSSING OF THE HUMOROUS POET.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 1602.

The King exacts an oath from SIR WALTER TERILL to send his bride CELESTINA to court on the marriage night. Her father, to save her honour, gives her a poisonous mixture which she swallows.

TERILL. CÆLESTINA.

Cal. Why didst thou swear?

Ter. The king

Sat heavy on my resolution,

FATHER.

Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath.

Cal. An oath! why, what's an oath? 'tis but the smoke

Of flame and blood; the blister of the spirit Which rises from the steam of rage, the bubble That shoots up to the tongue, and scalds the voice, (For oaths are burning words); thou swor'st but one,

'Tis frozen long ago: if one be number'd,

What countrymen are they, where do they dwell, That speak naught else but oaths?

Ter. They're men of hell.

An oath? why 'tis the traffic of the soul, 'Tis law within a man; the seal of faith, The bond of every conscience; unto whom We set our thoughts like hands: yea, such a one I swore, and to the king: a king contains A thousand thousand; when I swore to him, I swore to them; the very hairs that guard His head, will rise up like sharp witnesses Against my faith and loyalty: his eye Would straight condemn me: argue oaths no more, My oath is high, for to the king I swore. Cal. Must I betray my chastity, so long Clean from the treason of rebelling lust? O husband! O my father! if poor I

Must not live chaste, then let me chastely die. Fath. Ay, here's a charm shall keep thee chaste,

come, come,

Old time hath left us but an hour to play

Our parts; begin the scene, who shall speak first?
Oh, I, I play the king, and kings speak first;
Daughter stand thou here, thou son Terill there:
We need no prologue, the king entering first,
He's a most gracious prologue: marry, then
For the catastrophe, or epilogue,

There's one in cloth of silver, which no doubt
Will please the hearers well when he steps out;

His mouth is fill'd with words: see where he stands:

He'll make them clap their eyes besides their hands.
But to my part: suppose who enters now,

A king, whose eyes are set in silver; one
That blusheth gold, speaks music, dancing walks,
Now gathers nearer, takes thee by the hand,
When straight thou thinkst the very orb of heaven
Moves round about thy fingers; then he speaks,
Thus-thus-I know not how.

Cal. Nor I to answer him.

Fath. No, girl? know'st thou not how to answer him?

Why then the field is lost, and he rides home Like a great conqueror; not answer him? Out of thy part already? foil'd the scene? Disrank'd the lines? disarm'd the action? Ter. Yes, yes, true chastity is tongu'd so weak, 'Tis overcome ere it know how to speak. Fath. Come, come, thou happy close of every wrong, 'Tis thou that canst dissolve the hardest doubt; 'Tis time for thee to speak, we all are out. Daughter, and you the man whom I call son, I must confess I made a deed of gift

To heaven and you, and gave my child to both;
When on my blessing I did charm her soul
In the white circle of true chastity,

Still to run true till death: now sir, if not,
She forfeits my rich blessing, and is fin'd
With an eternal curse; then I tell you,
She shall die now, now whilst her soul is true.
Ter. Die!

Cal. Ay, I am death's echo.

Fath. O my son,

I am her father; every tear I shed

Is threescore ten years old; I weep and smile
Two kinds of tears: I weep that she must die,

I smile that she must die a virgin: thus
We joyful men mock tears, and tears mock us.
Ter. What speaks that cup?

Fath. White wine and poison.

Ter. Oh!

That very name of poison, poisons me;
Thou winter of a man, thou walking grave,
Whose life is like a dying taper, how

Canst thou define a lover's labouring thoughts?

What scent hast thou but death? what taste but

earth?

The breath that purls from thee is like the steam
Of a new-open'd vault: I know thy drift,
Because thou 'rt travelling to the land of graves,
Thou covet'st company, and hither bring'st
A health of poison to pledge death: a poison
For this sweet spring; this element is mine,
This is the air I breathe; corrupt it not :
This heaven is mine, I bought it with my soul
Of him that sells a heaven to buy a soul.

Fath. Well, let her go; she 's thine, thou call'st her thine,

Thy element, the air thou breath'st; thou know'st
The air thou breath'st is common, make her so :
Perhaps thou 'lt say none but the king shall wear
Thy night-gown, she that laps thee warm with
love;

And that kings are not common: then to show
By consequence he cannot make her so;

Indeed she may promote her shame and thine,
And with your shames speak a good word for mine,
The king shining so clear, and we so dim,
Our dark disgraces will be seen through him.
Imagine her the cup of thy moist life,

What man would pledge a king in his own wife? Ter. She dies that sentence poisons her: O life! What slave would pledge a king in his own wife?