Playes written by the thrice noble, illustrious and excellent princess, the Lady Marchioness of Newcastle.

Scene 27.

Enter the Lady Contemplation, and the Lady Visitant.

Visitant.

What makes you look so sad?

Contempl.

Why Monsieur Amorous's visit hath been the cause of the death of one of the finest Gentlemen of this Age.

Visitant.

How, pray?

Contempl.

Why thus; my Imagination (for Imagination can Create both Masculine and Feminine Lovers) had Created a Gentleman that was handsomer and more beautiful than Leander, Adonis, or Narcissus; vali∣anter than Tamberlain, Scanderbeg, Hannibal, Caesar, or Alexander; sweeter-natur'd than Titus, the delight of mankinde; better-spoken, and more e∣loquent than Tully, or Demosthenes; wittyer than Ovid, and a better Poet than Homer. This man to fall desperately in love with me, as loving my Vertues, honouring my Merits, admiring my Beauty, wondring at my Wit, doting on my Person, adoring me as an Angel, worshipping me as a God∣dess; I was his Life, his Soul, his Heaven. This Lover courted my affe∣ction: with all the industry of Life, gifts of Fortune, and actions of Ho∣nour; sued for my favour, as if he had sued to Heaven for mercy; but I, as many cruel goddesses do, would neither receive his obligations, nor regard his vowes, nor pity his tears, nor hearken to his complaints, but rejected his Sute, and gave him an absolute denyal; whereupon he was resolved to dye, as believing no torments could be compared to those of my disdain; and since I would not love him living, he hoped by dying, his death might move my pity, and so beget a compassionate remembrance from me; wher∣upon he got secretly neer my chamber-door, and hung himself just where I must go out, which when I saw, I starred back in a great fright, but at last running forth to call for help to cut him down, in came Monsieur Amorous, which hinderance made me leave him hanging there, as being ashamed to own my cruelty; and he hath been talking, or rather prating here so long, as by this time my kind Love is dead.

Visitant.

O no, for Lovers will hang a long time before they dye; for their necks are tuff, and their hearts are large and hot.

Contempl.

Well, pray leave me alone, that I may cut him down, and give him Cordials to restore life.

Visitant.

Faith you must let him hang a little time longer; for I have un∣dertaken to make you a sociable Lady this day; wherefore you must goe a∣broad to a friends house with me.

Contempl.

Who I? what do you think I will goe abroad, and leave my Lover in a twisted string? his legs hanging daugling down, his face all black and swelled, and his eyes almost started out of his head; no, no, pray goe alone by your self, and leave me to my Contemplation.

Visitant.

Well, if you will not goe, I will never see you, nor be friends with you again.

Contempl.

Pray be not angry, for I will go, if you will have me, although I shall be but a dull companion; for I shall not speak one word; for where∣soever I am, my thoughts will use all their Industry to cut the string, and take him down, and rub and chafe him against a hot fire.

Visitant.

Come, come, you shall heat your self with dancing, and let your Lover hang.

Contempl.

That I cannot; for active bodies and active brains are never at once, the one disturbs the other.

Visitant.

Then it seems you had rather have an active brain, than an active body.

Contempl.

Yes; for when the brain doth work, the understanding is in∣riched, and knowledge is gained thereby: whereas the body doth oft-times waste the life with too much exercise.

Visitant.

Take heed you do not distemper your brain with too much exer∣cising your thoughts.

Contempl.

All distempers proceed from the body, and not from the minde; for the minde would be well, did not the humours and appetites of the body force it into a distemper.

Visitant.

Well, upon the condition you will goe, you shall sit still, and your wit shall be the Musick.

Contempl.

Prethee let me rest at home; for to day the strings of my wit are broken, and my tongue, like a fiddle, is out of tune: Besides, Contem∣plative persons are at all times dull speakers, although they are pleasant thinkers.

Exeunt.