With papists, atheists, tyrants, and apostates.
When lawyers mask 'tis time for honest men
To strip their vizor from their purposes.

FOURTH SPEAKER (a pursuivant.)

Give place, give place!

You torch-bearers, advance to the great gate,
And then attend the Marshal of the Masque
Into the Royal presence.

FIFTH SPEAKER (a law student.)

What thinkest thou

Of this quaint show of ours, my aged friend?

FIRST SPEAKER.

I will not think but that our country's wounds May yet be healed-The king is just and gracious, Though wicked councils now pervert his will: These once cast off

SECOND SPEAKER.

As adders cast their skins

And keep their venom, so kings often change;
Councils and councillors hang on one another,
Hiding the loathsome [ ]

Like the base patchwork of a leper's rag.

THIRD SPEAKER.

Oh, still those dissonant thoughts-List, loud music Grows on the enchanted air! And see, the torches

Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided
Like waves before an admiral's prow.

ANOTHER SPEAKER.

Give place

To the Marshal of the Masque !

THIRD SPEAKER.

How glorious! See those thronging chariots
Rolling like painted clouds before the wind:

Some are

Like curved shells dyed by the azure depths
Of Indian seas; some like the new-born moon;
And some like cars in which the Romans climbed
(Canopied by Victory's eagle-wings outspread)
The Capitolian-See how gloriously

The mettled horses in the torchlight stir

Their gallant riders, while they check their pride, Like shapes of some diviner element !

SECOND SPEAKER.

Ay, there they are

Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees,
Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm,
On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows.
Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan,
Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart.
These are the lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin,-unless

It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal.
Here is the surfeit which to them who earn
The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves
The tithe that will support them till they crawl
Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health
Followed by grim disease, glory by shame,
Waste by lank famine, wealth by squalid want
And England's sin by England's punishment.
And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone,
Lo, giving substance to my words, behold
At once the sign and the thing signified-
A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts,
Horsed upon stumbling shapes, carted with dung,
Dragged for a day from cellars and low cabins
And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral
Of this presentiment, and bring up the rear
Of painted pomp with misery!

SPEAKER.

'Tis but

The anti-masque, and serves as discords do
In sweetest music. Who would love May flowers
If they succeeded not to Winter's flaw;
Or day unchanged by night; or joy itself
Without the touch of sorrow ?

SCENE II.

A Chamber in Whitehall.

Enter the KING, QUEEN, LAUD, WENTWORTH, and ARCHY.

KING.

Thanks, gentlemen. I heartily accept
This token of your service: your gay masque
Was performed gallantly.

QUEEN.

And, gentlemen,

Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your quaint

pageant

Rose on me like the figures of past years,
Treading their still path back to infancy,
More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer
The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept
To think I was in Paris, where these shows
Are well devised-such as I was ere yet
My young heart shared with [

the task,

The careful weight of this great monarchy.

There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure

And that which it regards, no clamour lifts

Its proud interposition.

KING.

My lord of Canterbury.

ARCHY.

The fool is here.

LAUD.

I crave permission of your Majesty

To order that this insolent fellow be

Chastised he mocks the sacred character,
Scoffs at the stake, and—

KING.

What, my Archy.

He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears,
Yet with a quaint and graceful license-Prithee
For this once do not as Prynne would, were he
Primate of England.

He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot,
Hung in his gilded prison from the window
Of a queen's bower over the public way,
Blasphemes with a bird's mind :-his words, like

arrows

Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit,
Strike sometimes what eludes philosophy.

QUEEN.

Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence

Ten minutes in the rain: be it your penance

To bring news how the world goes there. Poor

Archy!

He weaves about himself a world of mirth

Out of this wreck of ours.