The fountaine of selfe-loue. Or Cynthias reuels As it hath beene sundry times priuately acted in the Black-Friers by the Children of her Maiesties Chappell. Written by Ben: Iohnson.
Jonson, Ben, 1573?-1637.
SCENA. 3.
Cynthia. Arete. Criticus.
Cynthia.
Not without wounder, nor with out delight,
Mine eyes haue veiwd in Contemplations depth,
This worke of wit, diuine, and excellent:
What Shape? what Substance? or what vnknowne Power
In virgins habit crown'd with Lawrell leaues
And Oliue branches wouen in betweene,
On Sea-girt Rocke like to a Goddesse shin•s?
O front! O face! O all celestiall sure
And more then mortall! Arete, behould
Another Cynthia, and another Queene,
Whose glory (like a lasting Plenilun•)
Seems ignorant of what it is to wane.
Not vnder heauen an Obiect could be found
More fit to please; let Criticus approach,
Page [unnumbered]Bounty forbids to paull our thankes with stay,
Or to deferre our fauour after view:
" The time of Grace is, when the Cause is new.
Arete.
Lo heere the man (coelestiall Delia)
Who (like a Circle bounded in it selfe,)
Containes asmuch, as Man in fulnesse may.
Lo here the man; who, not of vsuall earth,
But of that nobler, and more precious mould
Which Phoebus selfe doth temper, is compos'd;
And, who (though all were wanting to reward,
Yet, to himselfe he would not wanting be:
Thy Fauors gaine is his Ambitions most,
And labours best; who (humble in his height)
Stands fixed silent in thy glorious sight.
Cynthia.
With no lesse pleasure, then we haue beheld,
This pretious Christall, worke of rarest wit,
Our eye doth reade thee, now, our Criticus;
Whom Learning, Vertue, and our Fauour last,
Exempteth from the gloomy Multitude.
" With common eye the Supreme should not see.
Hence forth be ours, the more thy selfe to be.
Crit.
Heauens purest light, whose Orbe may be eclips'd,
But not thy Praise; (diuinest Cynthia)
How much too narrow for so high a grace,
Thy (saue therein) vnworthy Criticus:
Doth finde himselfe? for euer shine thy Fame;
Thine Honours euer, as thy Beauties do;
In me they must, my darke worldes chiefest Lights;
By whose propitious beames my powres are rais'd
To hope some part of those most lofty points,
Which blessed Arete hath pleas'd to name
As markes, which my'ndeuors steps should bend:
Mine, as begunne at thee, in thee must end.
