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.

Scaena Secunda.

Enter Emilia alone, with two Pictures.

Emil.

Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must open And bleed to death for my sake else; I'll choose, And end their strife: two such young handsome men Shall never fall for me, their weeping Mothers, Following the dead cold ashes of their Sons Shall never curse my cruelty: Good Heaven; What a sweet face has Arcite, if wise nature With all her best endowments, all those beauties She shews into the births of noble bodies, Were here a mortal woman, and had in her The coy denials of young Maids, yet doubtless, She would run mad for this man: what an eye? Of what a fiery sparkle, and quick sweetness: Has this young Prince? here Love himself sits smiling, Just such another wanton Ganimead, Set Love a fire with, and enforc'd the god Snatch up the goodly Boy, and set him by him A shining constellation: what a brow, Of what a spacious Majesty he carries? Arch'd like the great ey'd Juno's, but far sweeter, Smoother than Pelops Shoulder? Fame and Honor Methinks from hence, as from a Promontory Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings, and sing To all the under world, the Loves, and Fights Of gods, and such men near 'em. Palamon, Is but his soil, to him, a mere dull shadow, He's swarth, and meagre, of an eye as heavy As if he had lost his mother; a still temper, No stirring in him, no alacrity, Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile; Yet these that we count errors, may become him Narcissus was a sad Boy, but a heavenly: Oh who can find the bent of womans fancy? I'm a fool, my reason is lost in me, I have no choice, and I have ly'd so lewdly That Women ought to beat me. On my knees I ask thy pardon: Palamon, thou art alone, And only beautiful, and these thy eyes, These the bright lamps of Beauty that command And threaten Love, and what young Maid dare cross 'em What a bold gravity, and yet inviting Has this brown manly face? Oh Love, this only From this hour is complexion: lye there Arcite, Thou art a changling to him, a mere Gipsie. And this the noble Bodie: I am sotted, Utterly lost: My Virgins faith has fled me. For if my Brother, but even now had ask'd me Whether I lov'd, I had run mad for Arcite. Now if my Sister; More for Palamon, Stand both together: now, come ask me Brother, Alas, I know not: ask me now sweet Sister, I may go look; what a mere child is Fancie, That having two fair gawds of equal sweetness, Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both.

Enter Emil. and Gent.

Emil.

How now Sir?

Gent.

From the Noble Duke your Brother Madam, I bring you news: the Knights are come.

Emil.

To end the quarrel?

Gent.

Yes.

Emil.

Would I might end first: What sins have I committed, chaste Diana, That my unspotted youth must now be soil'd With bloud of Princes? and my Chastity Be made the Altar, where the Lives of Lovers, Two greater, and two better never yet Made Mothers joy, must be the sacrifice To my unhappy Beauty?

Enter Theseus, Hippolita, Perithous, and Attendants

Thes.

Bring'em in quickly, By any means I long to see 'em. Your two contending Lovers are return'd, And with them their fair Knights: Now my fair Sister, You must love one of them.

Emil.

I had rather both, So neither for my sake should fall untimely.

Enter Messenger. Curtis,

Thes.

Who saw 'em?

Per.

I a while.

Gent.

And I.

Thes.

From whence come you, Sir?

Mess.

From the Knights.

Thes.

Pray speak You that have seen them, what they are.

Mess.

I will Sir, And truly what I think: six braver spirits Than those they have brought, (if we judge by the outside) I never saw, nor read of: he that stands In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming Should be a stout man, by his face a Prince, (His very looks so say him) his complexion, Nearer a brown, than black; stern, and yet noble, Which shews him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers: The circles of his eyes, shew fair within him. And as a heated Lion, so he looks: His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining Like Ravens wings: his shoulders broad, and strong, Arm'd long and round, and on his Thigh a Sword Hung by a curious Bauldrick: when he frowns To seal his Will with, better o' my conscience Was never Soldiers friend.

Thes.

Thou hast well describ'd him.

Per.

Yet, a great deal short Methinks, of him that's first with Palamon.

Thes.

Pray speak him friend.

Per.

I ghess he is a Prince too, And if it may be, greater; for his show Has all the ornament of honor in't: He's somewhat bigger than the Knight he spoke of, But of a face far sweeter; his complexion Is (as a ripe Grape) ruddy: he has felt Without doubt, what he fights for, and so apter To make this cause his own: in's face appears All the fair hopes of what he undertakes, And when he's angry, then a setled valour (Not tainted with extreams) runs through his body, And guides his arm to brave things: Fear he cannot, He shews no such soft temper, his head's yellow, Hard hai••'d, and curl'd, thick twin'd, like Ivy tops, Nor to undoe with thunder; in his face The Livery of the warlike Maid appears, Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blest him. And in his rowling eyes sits victory, As if she ever meant to correct his valour: His Nose stands high, a Character of honor, His red Lips, after sights, are sit for Ladies.

Emil.

Must these men die too?

Per.

When he speaks, his tongue Sounds like a Trumpet; all his lineaments Are as a man would wish 'em, strong and clean, He wears a well-steel'd Axe, the staffe of Gold, His age some five and twenty.

Mess.

There's another, A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming As great as any, fairer promises In such a Body yet I never look'd on.

Per.

Oh he that's freckle fac'd?

Mess.

The same my Lord, Are they not sweet ones?

Per,

Yes, they are well.

Mess.

Methinks. Being so few, and well dispos'd, they shew Great, and fine Art in nature, he's white hair'd, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an aborn, tough, and nimble set, Which shows an active soul: his arms are brawny Lin'd with strong sinews: to the shoulder-piece, Gently they swell, like Women new conceiv'd, Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting Under the weight of Arms, stout-hearted still, But when he stirs, a Tiger; he's grey ey'd, Which yields compassion where he conquers: sharp To spie advantages, and where he finds 'em, He's swift to make 'em his: He does no wrongs, Nor takes none; he's round fac'd, and when he smiles He shows a Lover, when he frowns, a Soldier: About his head he wears the winners oak, And in it stuck the favour of his Lady: His age, some six and thirty. In his hand He bears a Charging Staffe, emboss'd with Silver

Thes.

Are they all thus?

Per.

They are all the sons of honor.

Thes.

Now as I have a soul, I long to see 'em, Lady, you shall see men fight now.

Hip.

I wish it, But not the cause my Lord; They would shew Bravely about the Titles of two Kingdoms; 'Tis pity Love should be so tyranno••••: Oh my soft-hearted Sister, what think you? Weep not, till they weep bloud: Wench it must be.

Thes.

You have steel'd 'em wi••h your Beauty: honor'd friend To you I give the Field; pray order it, Fitting the persons that must use it.

Per.

Yes Sir.

Thes.

Com••, I'll go visit 'em: I cannot stay, Their ••ame has sir'd me so; till they appear, Good friend be royal.

Per.

There shall want no bravery.

Emil.

Poor wench go weep, for whosoever wins, Looses a noble Cosin, for thy sins.

Exeunt.