To large confessors, and have hotly ask'd them
If they had mothers? I had one, a woman,
And women 'twere they wrong'd: I knew a man
Of eighty winters, this I told them,—who
A lass of fourteen brided; 'twas thy power
To put life into dust; the agèd cramp
Had screw'd his square foot round,
The gout had knit his fingers into knots,
Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes
Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life
In him seem'd torture; this anatomy

Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I
Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was,
And who would not believe her? Brief, I am
To those that prate, and have done, no companion;
To those that boast, and have not, a defier;
To those that would, and cannot, a rejoicer:
Yea, him I do not love, that tells close offices
The foulest way, nor names concealments in
The boldest language; such a one I am,
And vow that lover never yet made sigh
Truer than I. O, then, most soft-sweet goddess,
Give me the victory of this question, which
Is true love's merit, and bless me with a sign
Of thy great pleasure.

[Here music is heard, and doves are seen to flutter: they fall again upon their faces, then on their

knees.

O thou that from eleven to ninety reign'st

In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world,
And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks
For this fair token; which being laid unto
Mine innocent-true heart, arms in assurance
My body to this business.-Let rise,
And bow before the goddess: time comes on.

[They bow, and then exeunt. Still music of records. Enter EMILIA in white, her hair about her shoulders, and wearing a wheaten wreath; one in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers; one before her carrying a silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odours, which

being set upon the altar of Diana, her Maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it; then they curtsy and kneel.

Emi. O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen,
Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative,
Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure

As wind-fann'd snow, who to thy female knights
Allow'st no more blood than will make a blush,
Which is their order's robe; I here, thy priest,
Am humbled 'fore thine altar: O, vouchsafe,
With that thy rare green eye(134)—which never yet
Beheld thing maculate-look on thy virgin;
And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear-
Which ne'er heard scurril term, into whose port
Ne'er enter'd wanton sound-to my petition,
Season'd with holy fear. This is my last
Of vestal office; I'm bride-habited,

But maiden-hearted: a husband I have 'pointed,
But do not know him; out of two I should
Choose one, and pray for his success; but I
Am guiltless of election of mine eyes

Were I to lose one,-they are equal precious,

I could doom neither; that which perish'd should

Go to 't unsentenc'd: therefore, most modest queen,

He, of the two pretenders, that best loves me

And has the truest title in 't, let him

Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant

The file and quality I hold I may

Continue in thy band.

[Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose-tree, having one rose upon it.

See what our general of ebbs and flows

Out from the bowels of her holy altar

With sacred act advances; but one rose!

If well inspir'd, this battle shall confound

Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flower,

Must grow alone, unpluck'd.

[Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree, which vanishes under the

altar.

The flower is fall'n, the tree descends.—O mistress,

Thou here dischargest me; I shall be gather'd,
I think so; but I know not thine own will:
Unclasp thy mystery.-I hope she's pleas'd;
Her signs were gracious.

[They curtsy, and then exeunt.

her?

SCENE II. Athens. A room in the prison.

Enter Doctor, Gaoler, and Wooer in the habit of PALAMON.

Doctor. Has this advice I told you done any good upon

Wooer. O, very much; the maids that kept her company Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon;

Within this half-hour she came smiling to me,

And ask'd me what I'd eat, and when I'd kiss her:

I told her presently, and kiss'd her twice.

Doctor. 'Twas well done: twenty times had been far better; For there the cure lies mainly.

Then she told me

Wooer.
She'd watch with me to-night, for well she knew

What hour my fit would take me.

Doctor.

Let her do so;

And, when your fit comes, fit her home and presently.

Wooer. She would have me sing.

Doctor. You did so?

y!

make a noise:

I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way

if ye If she entreat again, do any thing;

Lie with her, if she ask you.

Gaoler.

Doctor. Yes, in the way of cure.

Gaoler.

I' the way of honesty.

Doctor.

Ho, there,(135) doctor!

But first, by your leave,

That's but a niceness;

Ne'er cast your child away for honesty:

Cure her first this way; then, if she 'll be honest,

She has the path before her.

Gaoler.

Doctor. Pray, bring her in,

And let's see how she is.

Gaoler.

Thank ye, doctor.

I will, and tell her

[Exit.

Go, go;

Her Palamon stays for her: but, doctor,
Methinks you are i' the wrong still.

Doctor.

You fathers are fine fools: her honesty!

An we should give her physic till we find that—
Wooer. Why, do you think she is not honest, sir?
Doctor. How old is she?

Wooer.

Doctor.

She's eighteen.

She may be ;

But that's all one, 'tis nothing to our purpose:
Whate'er her father says, if you perceive
Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of,
Videlicet, the way of flesh-you have me?
Wooer. Yes, very well, sir.

Doctor.

Please her appetite,

And do it home; it cures her, ipso facto,

The melancholy humour that infects her.
Wooer. I am of your mind, doctor.

Doctor. You'll find it so. She comes: pray, humour(136)
her.

Re-enter Gaoler, with his Daughter and Maid.

you, child,

Gaoler. Come; your love Palamon stays for
And has done this long hour, to visit you.
Daugh. I thank him for his gentle patience;
He's a kind gentleman, and I'm much bound to him.
you ne'er see the horse he gave me?

Did

And, for a jig, come cut and long tail to him;

He turns ye like a top.

Gaoler.

That's fine indeed.

Daugh. He'll dance the morris twenty mile an hour, And that will founder the best hobby-horse,

If I have any skill, in all the parish ;

And gallops to the tune of Light o' Love:*

What think you of this horse?

Gaoler.

Having these virtues,

I think he might be brought to play at tennis.

Daugh. Alas, that's nothing.

Gaoler.

Can he write and read too?

Daugh. A very fair hand; and casts himself th' accounts

Of all his hay and provender; that hostler

Must rise betime that cozens him.

The chestnut mare the duke has?

Gaoler.

You know

Very well.

Daugh. She's horribly in love with him, poor beast; But he is like his master, coy and scornful.

Gaoler. What dowry has she?

Daugh.

Some two hundred bottles,

And twenty strike of oats; but he 'll ne'er have her:

He lisps in 's neighing, able to entice

A miller's mare; he 'll be the death of her.

Doctor. What stuff she utters!

Gaoler. Make curtsy; here your love comes. Wooer. Pretty soul, How do ye? That's a fine maid; there's a curtsy! Daugh. Yours to command, i' the way of honesty. How far is 't now to th' end o' the world, my masters? Doctor. Why, a day's journey, wench.

*Light o' Love:] Of this song, so often mentioned by early writers, the words have not been discovered. "In Much Ado about Nothing, in the scene between Hero, Beatrice, and Margaret [vol. ii. p. 114], the last says, 'Clap us into Light o' Lore, that goes without a burden [there being no man or men on the stage to sing one]. Do you sing it, and I'll dance it.' Light o' Love was, therefore, strictly a ballet, to be sung and danced. . . . . . The air was found by Sir J. Hawkins in an 'ancient manuscript;' it is also contained in William Ballet's Ms. Lute-Book, and in Musick's Delight on the Cithren, 1666." Chappell's Popular Music of the Olden Time, &c. vol. i. pp. 222, 3, sec. ed. (This foot-note ought to have been inserted in vol. i. p. 269.)