Fifty comedies and tragedies written by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, Gentlemen ; all in one volume, published by the authors original copies, the songs to each play being added.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Perithous, Hippolita, Emilia.

Pir.

No further.

Hip.

Sir farewel; repeat my wishes To our great Lord, of whose success I dare not Make any timerous question; yet I wish him Excess, and overflow of power, and't might be To dure ill-dealing fortune; speed to him, Store never hurts good Governors.

Pir.

Though I know His Ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they Must yield their tribute there: My precious Maid, Those best affections that the heavens infuse In their best temper'd pieces, keep enthron'd In your dear heart.

Emil.

Thanks Sir; remember me To our all-Royal Brother, for whose speed The great Bellona I'll solicite; and Since in our terrene State, petitions are not Without gifts understood: I'll offer to her What I shall be advis'd she likes; our hearts Are in his Army, in his Tent.

Hip.

In's bosom: We have been Soldiers, and we cannot weep When our Friends do'n their helms, or put to Sea, Or tell of Babes broach'd on the Launce, or Women That have sod their Infants in (and after eat them) The brine, they wept at killing 'em; Then if You stay to see of us such Spinsters, we Should hold you here for ever,

Pir.

Peace be to you As I pursue this war, which shall be then Beyond further requiring.

Exit Pit.

Emil.

How his longing Follows his friend; since his depart, his sports Though craving seriousness, and skill, past slightly His careless execution, where nor gain Made him regard, or loss consider, but Playing o'er business in his hand, another Directing in his head, his mind, nurse equal To these so diff'ring Twins; have you observ'd him. Since our great Lord departed?

Hip.

With much labour: And I did love him sor't, they two have Cabin'd In many as dangerous, as poor a corner, Peril and want contending, they have skift Torrents, whose roaring tyranny and power I'th' least of these was dreadful, and they have Fought out together, where Death's-self was lodg'd, Yet Fate hath brought them off, their knot of love Ti'd, weav'd, intangl'd, with so true, so long, And with a finger of so deep a cunning May be out-worn, never undone. I think Theseus cannot be umpire to himself Cleaving his conscience into twain, and doing Each side like Justice, which he loves best.

Emil.

Doubtless There is a best, and reason has no manners

To say it is not you I was acquainted Once with a time, when I enjoy'd a Play-fellow; You were at wars, when she the grave enrich'd, Who made too proud the Bed, took leave o'th' Moon (Which then lookt pale at parting) when our count Was each eleven.

Hip.

'Twas Flavia. Two Hearses ready with Palamon, and Arcite: The three Queens. Theseus, and his Lords ready.

Emil.

Yes, You talk of Pirithous and Theseus love; Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season'd, More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs The one of th' other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love, but I And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent, Lov'd for we did, and like the Elements That know not what, nor why, yet do effect Rare issues by their operance; our souls Did so to one another; what she lik'd, Was then of me approv'd, what not condemn'd No more arraignment; the flower that I would pluck And put between my breasts, oh (then but beginning To swell about the blossom) she would long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent Cradle, where Phenix-like They di'd in perfume: on my head no toy But was her pattern, her affections (pretty Though happily, her careless were, I followed For my most serious decking, had mine ear Stol'n some new air, or at adventure humm'd on From musical Coynage, why, it was a Note Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell on) And sing it in her slumbers; This rehearsal (Which fury innocent wots well) comes in Like old importments-bastard, has this end; That the true love 'tween Maid, and Maid, may be More than in sex individual.

Hip.

Y'are out of breath And this high speeded-pace, is but to say That you shall never (like the Maid Flavina) Love any that's call'd Man

Emil.

I 'm sure I shall not.

Hip.

Now alack weak Sister, I must no more believe thee in this point (Though in't I know thou dost believe thy self) Then I will trust a sickly appetite, That loaths even as it longs, but sure my Sister If I were ripe for your perswasion, you Have said enough to shake me from the Arm Of the all noble Theseus, for whose fortunes, I will now in, and kneel with great assurance, That we, more than his Pirathous, possess The high Throne in his heart.

Ewil.

I am not against your saith, Yet I continue mine.

Exeunt.

Cornets.