Poems, viz. 1. A panegyrick to the king. 2. Songs and sonnets. 3. The blind lady, a comedy. 4. The fourth book of Virgil, 5. Statius his Achilleis, with annotations. 6. A panegyrick to Generall Monck. / By the Honorable Sr Robert Howard.

ACT 1. SCEN 2.

Enter two Huntsmen.

1.

COme, the Princesse is hard at hand: And if we haste not, she may overtake us. To night too, we must lodge the Deer.

2.

We need not care for that; this Forrest Is so well stor'd, that Game's in every Thicket. It causes the Princesse constant progresse

Into these parts—But who are these?

Enter Mironault, Hyppasus, Pysander.

1.

'Tis the brave Mironault.

Mir.

Well overtaken, Huntsmen, Is the Princesse Yet far behind?

2.

No, my Lord, he is almost in sight.

Exeunt Hunts.

Mir.

I thank you— —Whither does Love thus hurry me? A Tyrant that denies the smallest hopes, Where he gives largest wishes! The greatest Beauties are like greatest Wealths, Subjects for all mens wishes, not their hopes. Fears share with Love the Empire of the heart, Rendring alike the Lover and the Coward. Danger's the awfull Mistresse of the one, Who fears to tempt her, lest he should endure That fate too quickly, which he knowes is sure. So, whilst the other's Mistress too is ignorant, Onely more slow, the pining Lover dies, And that sure fate but hastes, if she denies.

Hyp.

Dear Sir, let not grief thus torment you. You should have there a nobler Guest, your Reason; And were that there, there hardly could be room For such disorders. Passions are like Thieves, That watch to enter undefended places, And rob you too of all that put's a difference Between Wild-beasts and Man. Yet, mistake not; Your grief, if not dispair, is the fond passion I speak against, and not the love they spring from: That were her injury, to whom alone

All is due, as Rivers to the Ocean. Yet Nature has decreed, that she must love: Believe your worth and your devotion then As great as any—

Mir.

O Hyppasus— 'Tis easier far to counsell than to act; And every one's provided with the wisdom, That has not interest in the misfortune. And those that in Feavors, though 'tis their ruine, Wish Rivers of drink; the standers by, That then advise, and, may be, wonder at them, Would, in the same disease, do just so too.

Pysan.

You know not, Sir, but this great goddesse May be a little mercifull: by this hand, If she be not, I'le be revenged, On half the Sex at least, by proving rigorous To those poor Wenches I have prated to; That's every one almost that e're I saw—Then for∣sooth Will the poor creatures wish their amorous heads Fill'd with Romances, pine, and die, With Willow-garlands under Myrtle-shades: And grief for them will kill the Mothers too. Your Princesse shall not have many Female Subjects.

Mir.

I thank thee, good Pysander, for attempting To mix thy mirth with my opposing griefs. But they are contraries, and cannot meet in one. —but let it perish withme—I must again Desire your secresies.

Hyp.

Nay that's—

Mir.

Pardon me, Hyppasus—

I know it's needlesse to repeat A wish of mine to either of you: But what men's thoughts are full with, issue forth, With too much haste and freedom.

Pysan.

Will you take my advice, Sir?

Hyp.

Nay pray, Sir, hear him.

Mir.

Come, what is't, Pysander?

Pysan.

Wholsom extreamly! For the kind consti∣tution Of a decaying Lover; this is the short Receipt. In the first place, make your self—very—drunck. Nay, nay, you need not wonder; by divine Bacchus, 'Tis a rare expression of passion to court disorderly, To make a meer Chaos of one's self, and then give her▪ The honor of Creating you; then, besides, All truth and all good nature will appear. If this be not the way to be consider'd, I'l be judg'd—

Hyp.

How do you like it, Sir?

Mir.

There's kindnesse in't to me, I know, Hyppa∣sus; And were I capable of mirth, it might produce it. But Grief and Love are throng'd together, And have scarce room enough.

Hyp.

Have either Joy or Grief, wee'l share with you; Nor was't our fears of having part That made us wish you none; we value you And our own lives at the same rate: We wish them free from all misfortunes, Yet share all willingly rather than part. But we must alter now that shew of trouble Which we have given our selves; for the Princesse

Must needs be neer.

Mir.

See Hippasus—. I had forgot the subject of my thoughts, How greedily I wish, yet fear to see her! Like some poor Votary, whose holy thoughts Sets off so much, the joyes of Paradise, That it employes as many fears as wishes. —Hark she comes! You Powers above, Lend Love and Fortune now their eyes, To help, or see at least, their sacrifice.

Prin.

You 're well met, my Lord, Was it a chance, Or your designe that brought you?

Enter Princesse Philena & followers.

Mir.

'Tis all I have about me of ambition, And of large wishes, that I may often Have leave thus to present my service.

Prin.

Your service, Sir, has been so much conside∣rable, That I should be alone guilty of folly, Did I not valew it at such a rate, As the whole World have sett upon it.

Miro.

If I had such a power, to oblige As much, as you are pleas'd to say I have; The World's applause, could not so much reward My services, as your receiving of them.

Prin.

My interest, next to my Father's, In this obliged Nation by your valour, Has made it gratitude ever for me, To avow that and more.

Mir.

I have then much of my best wishes crown'd, Yet should you know all that my heart conceals,

Though it be much like this, you'd be displeas'd With what you have pretended to allow.

Prin.

I cannot find this guilt about me, and can lesse guesse. How you should have a thought that should displease me. You cannot but oblige, and I as hardly Can tell what's injury, if you should do it.

Mir.

This is a kindnesse, still admired Princesse, That I must never ask the meaning of; But to my flatter'd fancy, so interpret As you would never do: yet 'tis unjust, That I should use, the least kind word from you, With an advantage to my selfe.

Prin.

Sure, I may give you leave to do it, For such a confidence I justly have Of your great vertues, that you ever Pursue your own advantages with others.

Mir.

'Tis true, to the undeserving World, I can perform all this, only to you I am unjust, that never wish A good to you, when I desire most.

Prin.

I hardly understand you: if I do, The world is more oblig'd to you than I.

Mir.

Such a strange Character, my fate Has thrown upon me, yet my selfe, And all that World, which seems so much Beholding to me more than you, Are as much lesse in my esteem, As are the sands unto the mingled jewells, The Negro brings up from the Deep together.

Prin.

Is there a possibil••y to know, Your meaning then?

Mir.

You should, if I were sure you would for∣give it, Yet thus much take in guesses. Could Shades be sen∣sible, And wish the embraces of the Sun, were not that Lamp, Injur'd by that which lov'd it, could rude beasts Be passionate for Empire, and not injure The Throne because they lov'd it. 'Tis I That am more dark then all those shades, You brighter then that Sun; 'Tis I That am that Beast rob'd of all reason. And you above all Empires; I have acknowledg'd My unsuspected guilt, because t'was so, And though I cannot leave my Love, I may my Life.—

Prin.

You have done more than given me leave to guesse, And since I have my selfe been guilty too, In giving you the occasion I shall forbear Such a displeasure as is due, and let you know. T'was easie too for me to erre, that could so little Imagine you to be so guilty: I shall adde Only thus much, that as you valew My presence or esteem, repeat no more Any thing of this nature—Come let's on:

Exeunt Princess and Atten∣dants.

Mir.

So Merchants for a tempting ven∣ture Bankrupt themselves; yet what wealth had I Before I knew my poverty from her?

'Tis nothing I have lost, the difference is, That I have something now I wish to lose,

Hyp.

She is not, Sir, a greater enemy, To your content, than you are to your selfe: 'Tis you enlarge her frowns by fancied fears,

Mir.

Those that are free from danger, my Hyp∣pasus. May look and wonder at another's fears, That is environd with it: 'tis Concern That is the excuse for Passion; were you my Rivall, The Counsell would be juster if you gave it, —Come we must not stay behind,— Ther's nothing but a Lover pleas'd with sufferings. All other rigors of this World, Our wishes and endeavours still oppose, The Prisoner hates his bolts, whilst he remains Pleas'd not so much with sreedom as his chains.

[Exeunt