Rhodon and Iris· A pastorall, as it vvas presented at the florists feast in Norwich, May 3. 1631.

ACT. 1. SCEN. 2.

Rhodon, Acanthus.

Aga.

(RHodon) my honor'd, soule-united friend, Cast oft that dusky melancholy veyle. Too vile a robe for thy majesticke brow, Blast not the pride of Hyblas happinesse With thy offensive passion.

Rho.

Nay, good Acanthus, did love ere offend any?

Aca.

And art not thou the map of loves calamity? Witnesse those cristall bowles of thy bright eyne, Which I have seene sweld up with brinish teares, Prepar'd for sorrowes bitter beverage: Witnesse those frequent tempests of thy sighes, Which made thy brest a fiery fea of dolour: Witn esse those palled cheekes, whose glorious hue Aurora late envy'd, and quite despairing

To reach thy beauties height, with Cupid treated, And him suborn'd to wound thy generous heart, (Which no base passion ever durst assault) That now like pale Narcissus on the brinke Of the beguilding streame, thou lyest a dying.

Rho.

I tell thee (brazen Colosse) marble statue, Whose heart loues darts could never penetrate; Love is the Prince of all affections, And like the element of fire transcends His brothers in activity and splendour.

Aca.

It is a fire indeed, that doth consume All vertuous actions; that feeds upon mens soules Like the fiend Eurynomus upon dead carkases; That makes the microcosmus a meere Chaos. It is the Remora of all noble enterprises, And the Lernaean fenne which breeds a Hydra, Crested with a thousand inconueniences. Let me nere inherit more then my Fathers hempland, Or nere be owner of more wit then some elder brothers, If I thinke not Cupid the most pernicious deity Among all the Olympian Senators. Oh that I had but Stentors lungs, To thunder out the vanity of that idoll.

Rho.

Now I hope you have rail'd your self out of breath, And therefore I may now have time to speake: Thus 'tis, deare friend Acanthus, I confesse That once I lov'd the Lady Eglantine, Whose rare endowments both of art and nature, Well corresponding with high birth and fortune, Did moderately attract my sincere love, Which love conspiring with a strong desire, To see the Customes of some forraine Nations,

And know the manners of people farre remote, Made me to greet the Princely Dame With a personall visitation. Then my indulgent starres did me advise, For to suspend my suit: whose Counsell I obey'd. But trust me, friend, thou wert too much mistaken, To thinke that love had scorch'd or sing'd so much The wings of reason; that I must needs fall, And perish in the fornace of despaire. Thou art a bad constructer of my thoughts, If that thou think'st 'tis love which makes me sad: Yea, thou, oft-times, dost take thy marks amisse, To thinke me sad; perhaps, when as my minde (Uprais'd above the sphere of terrene things) Is ravish'd with Celestiall Contemplation; For earthly passion hath no power at all To worke upon an elevated soule. Passions are starres to lower orbs confin'd; Scorching an earthly, not a heavenly mind. Yet am I not so much a Stoicke, or a Stocke, To plume the pinions of th'immortall soule, Who while she's Cloyster'd in this Cell of Clay, Moves with the wings of the affections: But lest she, like to heedlesse Icarus, Should soare too high a pitch; or like young Phaeton, Should shape her Course too low, Iove hath appointed Wise Vertue for to regulate her flight. Of these affections, love the Empresse is; Who, while she stands submisse to reasons lore, Doth keepe the Fabricke of the little world in frame. Love is the geniall goddesse, the Lucina Which doth produce each honourable atchievement,

Which this true axiome evidently proves, Nobilitas sub amore iacet. Had not the spritefull flames of love, egg'd on That Thehan Kilcrow mighty Hercules, To brave adventures; he, perhaps, had dy'd As much inglorious as did base Thersites. Had not the faire Andromache beheld, From Troian Towers, Hectors valiant acts Among the Greeks, amid the Phrygian fields; The gallant Dames of Troy then might, perchance, Most justly have preferr'd Achilles farre before him. Tis this heroicall passion that incends The sparkes of honour in each noble minde; Making dull sluggards study industry; And animating each unlearned head To toyle in Arts and liberall Sciences, Even to the high degree of rare proficience. Then cease Acanthus with thy lawlesse tongue, True loves Condition to maligne or wrong.

Ac.

Thou zealous patron of the winged Boy, Well hast thou pleaded thy blind Archers Case; Pray Iove thou maist deserve a lusty fee For this Herculean labour of thy tongue.

Rho.

Surcease these malapert invectives, friend, Cupid is arm'd with fire and arrowes keene, To be avenc'd on those that shall him spleene.

Ac.

When Sol shall make the Easterne Seas his bed, When Wolves and Sheepe shall be together fed; When Starres shall fall, and planets cease to wander, When Iuno proves a Bawd, and Iupiter a Pander; When Venus shalturn Chast, and Bacchus become sober, When fruit in April's ripe, that blossom'd in October;

When Prodigals shall money lend on use, And Vsurers prove lavish and profuse; When Art shal be esteem'd, and golden pelfe laid down, When Fame shal tel all truth, & Fortune cease to frown, To Cupids yoke then I my necke will bow; Till then, I will not feare loves fatall blow.

Rho.

Wert thou a meere spirit, then I confesse, And thinke, this resolution might endure; But so long as thy soule weares robes of earth, Lac'd all with veynes, that o're a Crimson deepe, Set forth an Azure bright; needs must thy heart Yeeld to the force of Cupids golden dart.