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

ACT. 4: SCEN. 1.

Iris, Panace, Violetta.

Ir.

CVrst was the wight that did in murther first Embrue his guilty hands: curst was that hand Which first was taught by damned hellish art To forge the killing blade in Vulcans flames: What raging fury raignes in mortall brests, That man should man pursue with deadly hate; Oh what maglignant power hath defac'd, That specious image of the gods above? Who hath inspir'd man with that bestiall quality Of murderous revenge? The Lybian Lyons seldome are at oddes, The Tygers of Hyrcania doe agree, But man to man's become a very divell: That Thracian god which is delighted most With humane sacrifices, is now ador'd; Blood-thirsty Mars now beares the onely sway, Who direfull devastations doth affect, Peace hath forsooke the earth, and fell debate

Shaking his batter'd armes, now stalketh every where. I hop'd for nuptials sweet, of late, but now I may have cause to feare a funerall. Hymen affrighted with the confus'd noyse Of brutish warre, is fled I know not whither. My dearest Rhodon must depart from me, And in the field ingage his tender Corps To all extremities of death, of wounds, of danger, Of sicknesse and unrest:

Vi.

Strike not the ayre with this vaine language, Iris, Wound not thy soule with these unseemely plaints, But be content to wait the will of Iove, Who will crowne our designes with blest successe. For in a cause that's honest, iust, and right, The gods themselves will take up armes and fight.

Ir.

Then oh ye powers, that are the grand protectors Of Hyblas happinesse and welfare; Whether ye doe delight in our flower-crown'd mountaines, Our od'rous vales, or in our Christall fountains, Your gracious favour I implore, besceching you To gard the person of my dearest Rhodon; Fond woman, how forgetfull have I bin? Here is a gemme whose price doth farre transcend All estimation: my faithfull Panace Deliver't thou unto my gentle Shepheard, And pray him weare it for my sake.

Pa.

Madam, I will.

Ir.

It from the bowels of a Cocke was tane, And whoso weares the same (as wise men say) Shall ever be victorious in warre.

Vio.

Commend me to my brother, gentle nymph, And beare this token of my love to him:

It is the precious herbe call'd Latice, Which whosoever weares shall never want Sufficient sustenance both for himselfe and his; Besides, it frustrates quite the divellish force Of strongest poysons or enchantments.

exit Pan.

Now Iris, let us haste to Floras fane, With our devotions let's importune her, These horrid sturs and troublous broiles to cease, That we againe may live in happy peace.

exeunt.