I'll follow you, boldly, about these woods, O'er mountains, thorough brambles, pits, floods.

Heaven, I hope, will ease me. I am sick.

Enter BELLARIO.

Bel. Yonder's my lady: Heaven knows I want nothing,

Because I do not wish to live; yet I

Will try her charity. Oh, hear, you that have plenty!

From that flowing store, drop some on dry ground. See,

The lively red is gone to guard her heart!

I fear she faints. Madam, look up! She breathes

not.

Open once more those rosy twins, and send Unto my lord your latest farewell. Oh, she stirs How is it, madam? Speak comfort.

Are. 'Tis not gently done,
To put me in a miserable life,

And hold me there: I prithee, let me go;
I shall do best without thee; I am well.

Enter PHILASTER.

Phi. I am to blame to be so much in rage:
I'll tell her coolly, when and where I heard
This killing truth. I will be temperate
In speaking, and as just in hearing.

Oh, monstrous! Tempt me not, ye gods! good gods,

Tempt not a frail man! What's he, that has heart,

But he must ease it here?

Bel. My lord, help the princess.
Are. I am well: Forbear.

Bel. Alas, my lord, your pulse keeps madman's time,

So does your tongue.

Phi. You will not kill me, then?
Are. Kill you?

Bel. Not for a world.

Phi. I blame not thee,

a

Phi. Let me love lightning, let me be embraced
And kissed by scorpions, or adore the eyes
Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues
Of hell-bred women! Some good gods look down,
And shrink these veins up; stick me here a stone,
Lasting to ages, in the memory

Of this damned act! Hear me, you wicked ones!
You have put hills of fire into this breast,
Not to be quenched with tears; for which may
guilt

Sit on your bosoms! at your meals, and beds,
Despair await you! What, before my face?
Poison of asps between your lips! Diseases
Be your best issues! Nature make a curse,
And throw it on you!

Are. Dear Philaster, leave
To be enraged, and hear me.

Phi. I have done;

Forgive my passion. Not the calmed sea,
When Folus locks up his windy brood,
Is less disturbed than I: I'll make you know it.
Dear Arethusa, do but take this sword,
And search how temperate a heart I have;
Then you, and this your boy, may live and reign
In sin, without controul: Wilt thou, Bellario?
I prithee, kill me: Thou art poor, and may'st

Are. If my fortune be so good to let me fall
Upon thy hand, I shall have peace in death.
Yet tell me this, will there be no slanders,
No jealousy, in the other world; no ill there?
Phi. No.

Are. Shew me then the way.
Phi. Then guide

My feeble hand, you, that have power to do it,
For I must perform a piece of justice. If your youth
Have any way offended heaven, let prayers
Short and effectual reconcile you to it.
Are. I am prepared.

Enter a country fellow.

Coun. I'll see the king, if he be in the forest; I have hunted him these two hours; if I should come home and not see him, my sisters would laugh at me. I can see nothing but people better horsed than myself, that out-ride me; I can hear nothing but shouting. These kings had need of good brains; this whooping is able to put a mean man out of his wits. There's a courtier with his sword drawn; by this hand, upon a woman, I think,

Phi. Are you at peace?

Are. With heaven and earth.

Phi. May they divide thy soul and body! Coun. Hold, dastard, strike a woman! Thou'rt

a craven, I warrant thee: Thou would'st be loth to play half a dozen of venies at wasters with a good fellow for a broken head.

Phi. Leave us, good friend.

Are. What ill-bred man art thou, to intrude thyself

Upon our private sports, our recreations?
Coun. God uds, I understand you not; but, I
know, the rogue has hurt you.

Phi. Pursue thy own affairs: It will be ill
To multiply blood upon my head;
Which thou wilt force me to.

Coun. I know not your rhetorick; but I can lay it on, if you touch the woman. [They fight.

I need not counterfeit to fall; Heaven knows
That I can stand no longer.

Enter PHARAMOND, DION, CLEREMONT, and
THRASILINE.

Pha. To this place we have tracked him by his blood.

Cle. Yonder, my lord, creeps one away.
Dion. Stay, sir! what are you?

Bel. A wretched creature, wounded in these woods

By beasts: Relieve me, if your names be men, Or I shall perish.

Dion. This is he, my lord,

Upon my soul, that hurt her: 'Tis the boy,
That wicked boy, that served her.

Pha. Oh, thou damned in thy creation!

What cause could'st thou shape to hurt the princess?

Bel. Then I am betrayed.

Dion. Betrayed! no, apprehended.

Bel. I confess,

Urge it no more, that, big with evil thoughts,
I set upon her, and did take my aim,
Her death. For charity, let fall at once

The punishment you mean, and do not load
This weary flesh with tortures.

Pha. I will know

Who hired thee to this deed.

Bel. Mine own revenge.
Pha. Revenge! for what?

Bel. It pleased her to receive

Me as her page, and, when my fortunes ebbed,
That men strid o'er them careless, she did shower
Her welcome graces on me, and did swell
My fortunes, 'till they overflowed their banks,
Threatening the men that crossed them; when, as
swift

As storms arise at sea, she turned her eyes
To burning suns upon me, and did dry
The streams she had bestowed; leaving me worse,
And more contemned, than other little brooks,
Because I had been great. In short, I knew
I could not live, and therefore did desire
To die revenged.

Pha. If tortures can be found,
Long as thy natural life, resolve to feel

The utmost rigour. [Philaster creeps out of a bush.
Cle. Help to lead him hence.

Phi. Turn back, ye ravishers of innocence!
Know ye the price of that you bear away
So rudely?

I may discourse to all the under-world The worth, that dwells in him!

Pha. How's this?

Bel. My lord, some man

Weary of life, that would be glad to die.

Phi. Leave these untimely courtesies, Bellario. Bel. Alas, he's mad! Come, will you lead me on?

Phi. By all the oaths, that men ought most to keep,

And gods to punish most, when men do break,
He touched her not. Take heed, Bellario,
How thou dost drown the virtues thou hast shown,
With perjury. By all that's good, 'twas I!
You know, she stood betwixt me and my right.
Pha. Thy own tongue be thy judge.
Cle. It was Philaster.

Dion. Is't not a brave boy?

Well, sirs, I fear me, we were all deceived.
Phi. Have I no friend here?

Dion. Yes.

Phi. Then shew-it:

Some good body lend a hand to draw us nearer.
Would you have tears shed for you, when you die?
Then lay me gently on his neck, that there
I may weep floods, and breathe out my spirit.
'Tis not the wealth of Plutus, nor the gold
Locked in the heart of carth, can buy away
This armful from me: This had been a ransom
To have redeemed the great Augustus Cæsar,
Had he been taken. You hard-hearted men,
More stony than these mountains, can you see
Such clear pure blood drop, and not cut your
flesh

To stop his life? To bind whose bitter wounds,
Queens ought to tear their hair, and with their

Are. Ah me! I know he will.
King. Did not you know him?

Are. Sir, if it was he, he was disguised."

Phi. I was so. Oh, my stars! that I should live still.

King. Thou ambitious fool!

Thou, that hast laid a train for thy own life!
Now I do mean to do, I'll leave to talk.
Bear him to prison.

Are. Sir, they did plot together to take hence
This harinless life; should it pass unrevenged,
I should to earth go weeping: Grant me, then,
(By all the love a father bears his child)
Their custodies, and that I may appoint
Their tortures, and their death.

Enter PHILASTER, ARETHUSA, and BELLARIO.

Are. Nay, dear Philaster, grieve not; we are well.

Bel. Nay, good my lord, forbear; we are wondrous well.

Phi. Oh, Arethusa! oh, Bellario! leave to be
kind:

I shall be shot from Heaven, as now from earth,
If you continue so. I am a man,
False to a pair of the most trusty ones,
That ever earth bore: Can it bear us all?
Forgive, and leave me! But the king hath sent
To call me to my death: Oh, shew it me,
And then forget me! And for thee, my boy,
I shall deliver words will mollify
The hearts of beasts, to spare thy innocence.

Bel. Alas, my lord, my life is not a thing,
Worthy your noble thoughts: Tis not a life;
'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away.
Should I out-live you, I should then out-live
Virtue and honour; and, when that day comes,
If ever I shall close these eyes but once,
May I live spotted for my perjury,
And waste my limbs to nothing!

Are. And I (the woful'st maid that ever was, Forced with my hands to bring my lord to death) Do, by the honour of a virgin, swear To tell no hours beyond it.

Phi. Make me not hated so.

Are. Come from this prison, all joyful to our deaths.

Phi. People will tear me, when they find ye

true

To such a wretch as I; I shall die loathed.
Enjoy your kingdoms peaceably, whilst I
For ever sleep, forgotten with my faults!
Every just servant, every maid in love,
Will have a piece of me, if ye be true.
Are. My dear lord, say not so.

Bel. A piece of you?

He was not born of woman, that can cut It, and look on.

Phi. Take me in tears betwixt you,

[Exeunt.

For else my heart will break with shame and sor

If

row.

Are. Why, 'tis well.

Bel. Lament no more.

Phi. What would you have done,

you had wronged me basely, and had found My life no price, compared to yours? For love, sirs, Deal with me truly.

Bel. 'Twas mistaken, sir.

Phi. Why, if it were?

Bel. Then, sir, we would have asked you par- ́

don.

Phi. And have hope to enjoy it?
Are. Enjoy it? ay.

Phi. Would you, indeed? Be plain.
Bel. We would, my lord.

Phi. Forgive me, then.

Are. So, so.

Bel. 'Tis as it should be now.

Phi. Lead to my death.

[Exeunt

Enter KING, DION, CLEREMONT, and
THRASILINE.

King. Gentlemen, who saw the prince?
Cle. So please you, sir, he's gone to see the
city,

And the new platform, with some gentlemen
Attending on him.

King. Is the princess ready
To bring her prisoner out?
Thra. She waits your grace.
King. Tell her we stay.

Dion. King, you may be deceived yet: The head, you aim at, cost more setting on Than to be lost so lightly. If it must off, Like a wild overflow, that swoops before him A golden stack, and with it shakes down bridges, Cracks the strong hearts of pines, whose cable

roots

Held out a thousand storms, a thousand thunders,

And, so made mightier, takes whole villages
Upon his back, and, in that heat of pride,
Charges strong towns, towers, castles, palaces,
And lays them desolate; so shall thy head,
Thy noble head, bury the lives of thousands.
That must bleed with thee, like a sacrifice,
In thy red ruins.

Enter PHILASTER, ARETHUSA, and BELLARIO in a robe and garland.

King. How now! what masque is this? Bel. Right royal sir, I should Sing you an epithalamium of these lovers, But, having lost my best airs with my fortunes, And wanting a celestial harp to strike This blessed union on, thus in glad story I give you all. These two fair cedar-branches, The noblest of the mountain, where they grew Straitest and tallest, under whose still shades The worthier beasts have made their layers, and slept,

Free from the Sirian star, and the fell thunderstroke,

Free from the clouds, when they were big with humour,

And delivered, in thousand spouts, their issues to the earth:

Oh, there was none but silent quiet there !
Till never-pleased Fortune shot up shrubs,
Base under-brambles, to divorce these branches;
And for a while they did so; and did reign
Over the mountain, and choak up his beauty
With brakes, rude thorns and thistles, till the sun
Scorched them even to the roots, and dried them
there :

And now a gentle gale hath blown again,
That made these branches meet, and twine toge-
ther,

Never to be divided. The god, that sings
His holy numbers over marriage-beds,

Hath knit their noble hearts, and here they stand
Your children, mighty king; and I have done.
King. How, how?

Are. Sir, if you love it in plain truth, (For there's no masquing in't) this gentleman, The prisoner that you gave me, is become My keeper, and through all the bitter throes Your jealousies and his ill fate have wrought him, Thus nobly hath he struggled, and at length Arrived here, my dear husband.

King. Your dear husband! Call in The captain of the citadel; there you shall keep Your wedding. I'll provide a masque shall make Your Hymen turn his saffron into a sullen coat, And sing sad requiems to your departing souls: Blood shall put out your torches; and, instead Of gaudy flowers about your wanton necks, An axe shall hang like a prodigious meteor, Ready to crop your loves' sweets. gods!

Hear, ye

From this time do I shake all title off
Of father to this woman, this base woman;
And what there is of vengeance, in a lion
Cast among dogs, or robbed of his dear young,
The same, enforced more terrible, more mighty,
Expect from me!

Are. Sir, by that little life I have left to swear by, There's nothing that can stir me from myself.

VOL. I.

What I have done, I've done without repentance; For death can be no bugbear unto me,

So long as Pharamond is not my headsman. Dion. Sweet peace upon thy soul, thou worthy maid,

Whene'er thou diest! For this time I'll excuse thee,

Or be thy prologue.

Phi. Sir, let me speak next;

And let my dying words be better with you
Than my dull living actions. If you aim
At the dear life of this sweet innocent,
You are a tyrant and a savage monster;
Your memory shall be as foul behind you,
As you are, living; all your better deeds
Shall be in water writ, but this in marble;
No chronicle shall speak you, though your own,
But for the shame of men. No monument
(Though high and big as Pelion) shall be able
To cover this base murder: Make it rich
With brass, with purest gold, and shining jasper,
Like the Pyramids; lay on epitaphs,
Such as make great men gods; my little marble
(That only clothes my ashes, not my faults)
Shall far out-shine it. And, for after issues,
Think not so madly of the heavenly wisdoms,
That they will give you more for your mad rage
To cut off, unless it be some snake, or something
Like yourself, that in his birth shall strangle you.
Remember my father, king! There was a fault,
But I forgive it. Let that sin persuade you
To love this lady: If you have a soul,
Think, save her, and be saved. For myself,
I have so long expected this glad hour,
So languished under you, and daily withered,
That, heaven knows, it is my joy to die:
I find a recreation in it.