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Phi. Friends, no more;

Our ears may be corrupted: 'Tis an age

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We dare not trust our wills to. Do you love me? Of love than fear.

Thra. Do we love Heaven and honour?

Phi. My lord Dion,

Are. Of love to whom? to you!

Did you deliver those plain words, I sent,

You had a virtuous gentlewoman called you fa- With such a winning gesture, and quick look,

ther;

Is she yet alive?

Dion. Most honoured sir, she is: And, for the penance but of an idle dream, Has undertook a tedious pilgrimage.

Enter a Lady.

Phi. Is it to me, or any of these gentlemen, you come?

Lady. To you, brave lord: The princess would entreat your present company.

Phi. The princess send for me! You are mis

taken.

Lady. If you be called Philaster, 'tis to you. Phi. Kiss her fair hand, and say I will attend her.

Dion. Do you know what you do? Phi. Yes; go to see a woman. Cle. But do you weigh the danger you are in? Phi. Danger in a sweet face! By Jupiter, I must not fear a woman.

Thra. But are you sure it was the princess sent? It may be some foul train to catch your life.

Phi. I do not think it, gentlemen; she's noble; Her eye may shoot me dead, or those true red And white friends in her face may steal my soul

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That

you have caught him?

Lady. Madam, I mean to you.

Are. Of love to me? alas! thy ignorance Lets thee not see the crosses of our births. Nature, that loves not to be questioned Why she did this, or that, but has her ends, And knows she does well, never gave the world Two things so opposite, so contrary, As he and I am: If a bowl of blood, Drawn from this arm of mine, would poison thee, A draught of his would cure thee. Of love to me? Lady. Madam, I think I hear him.

Are. Bring him in.

Ye gods, that would not have your dooms with

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Phi. Madam, your messenger Made me believe you wished to speak with me. Are. 'Tis true, Philaster; but the words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, And yet am loth to speak them. Have you known, That I have ought detracted from your worth? Have I in person wronged you? or have set

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Phi. I can't endure it. Turn away my face?
I never yet saw enemy, that looked
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast, that I could turn from: Shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life;
Why, I will give it you; for it is to me
A thing so loathed, and unto you, that ask,
Of so poor use, that I will make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.

Are. Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Ph.. I do.

Are. Then know, I must have them, and thee.
Phi. And me?

Are. Thy love; without which, all the land,
Discovered yet, will serve me for no use,
But to be buried in.

Phi. Is't possible?

Are. With it, it were too little to bestow On thee. Now, though thy breath do strike me dead,

(Which, know, it may) I have unript my breast.

Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts, To lay a train for this contemned life,

Which you may have for asking: To suspect Were base, where I deserve no ill. Love you, By all my hopes, I do above my life:

VOL. I.

But how this passion should proceed from you
So violently, would amaze a man,
That would be jealous.

Are. Another soul, into my body shot, Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit,

Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time
In seeking how I came thus: 'Tis the gods,
The gods, that make me so; and, sure, our love
Will be the nobler, and the better blest,
In that the secret justice of the gods

Is mingled with it. Let us leave,

Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us. Phi. 'Twill be ill

I should abide here long.

Are. 'Tis true; and worse

You should come often. How shall we devise
To hold intelligence, that our true loves,
On any new occasion, may agree
What path is best to tread?

Phi. I have a boy,

Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent,
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain side,

Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: But ever when he turned
His tender eyes upon them, he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story.
He told me, that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did shew
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify; and how all, ordered thus,
Expressed his grief: And, to my thoughts, did

read

The prettiest lecture of his country art,
That could be wished; so that, methought, I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained him,
Who was as glad to follow; and have got
The trustiest, lovingest, and gentlest boy,
That ever master kept. Him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.
Enter Lady.

Are. 'Tis well; no more.

Lady. Madam, the prince is come to do his service.

Are. What will you do, Philaster, with yourself? Phi. Why, that, which all the gods have appointed out for me.

Are. Dear, hide thyself. Bring in the prince.
Phi. Hide me from Pharamond!

When thunder speaks, which is the voice of Jove

C

Though I do reverence, yet I hide me not; And shall a stranger prince have leave to brag Unto a foreign nation, that he made

Philaster hide himself?

Are. He cannot know it.

Pha. You are gone: By Heaven, I'll fetch you

back.

Phi. You shall not need. Pha. What now?

Phi. Know, Pharamond,

Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to theI loath to brawl with such a blast as thou,

world,

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Enter PHILASTER and BELLARIO.

ACT II.

Phi. AND thou shalt find her honourable, boy, Full of regard unto thy tender youth, For thine own modesty; and, for my sake, Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, Ay, or deserve.

Bel. Sir, you did take me up, when I was nothing;

And only yet am something, by being yours. You trusted me unknown; and that, which you were apt

To construe a simple innocence in me,
Perhaps, might have been craft; the cunning of a
boy

Hardened in lies and theft: Yet ventured you
To part my miseries and ine; for which
I never can expect to serve a lady
That bears more honour in her breast than you.
Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee. Thou art

young,

And bear'st a childish overflowing love
To them, that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee fair.
But, when thy judganent comes to rule those pas-
sions,

Thou wilt remember best those careful friends,
That placed thee in the noblest way of life.
She is a princess I prefer thee to.

Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world,

I never knew a man hasty to part
With a servant, he thought trusty : - I remember,
My father would prefer the boys he kept
To greater men than he; but did it not,
Till they were grown too saucy for himself.
Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all
In thy behaviour.

Bel. Sir, if I have made

A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth :
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn;
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge: And, if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
For once.
What master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning? Let me be corrected,
To break my stubbornness, if it be so,
Rather than turn me off; and I shall mend.

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay,

That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee.
Alas! I do not turn thee off; thou knowest
It is my business, that doth call thee hence;
And, when thou art with her, thou dwell'st with

me.

Think so, and 'tis so. And, when time is full,
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust,
Laid on so weak a one, I will again

With joy receive thee; as I live, I will.
Nay, weep not, gentle boy! 'Tis more than time
Thou didst attend the princess.

Bel. I am gone.

But since I am to part with you, my lord,
And none knows, whether I shall live to do
More service for you, take this little prayer;
Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your
signs!

your grace means growing to fatness; and then
your only remedy (upon my knowledge, prince)
is, in a morning, a cup of neat white-wine, brewed
with carduus; then fast till supper; about eight
you may eat; use exercise, and keep a sparrow-
hawk; you can shoot in a tiller: But, of all, your
grace must fly phlebotomy, fresh pork, conger,
and clarified whey: They are all dullers of the
vital spirits.

Pha. Lady, you talk of nothing all this while.
Gal. 'Tis very true, sir; I talk of you.

Pha. This is a crafty wench; I like her wit well; 'twill be rare to stir up a leaden appetite. She's a Danäe, and must be courted in a shower of gold. Madam, look here: All these, and more de-than

May sick men, if they have your wish, be well;
And Heaven hate those, you curse, though I be
one!
[Erit.
Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is strange;
I have read wonders of it: Yet this boy,
For my sake (if a man may judge by looks
And speech) would out-do story. I may see
A day to pay him for his loyalty. [Exit Phi.
Enter PHARAMOND.

Pha. Why should these ladies stay so long? They must come this way: I know the queen employs them not; for the reverend mother sent me word, they would be all for the garden. If they should all prove honest now, I were in a fair | taking. Here's one bolted.

Enter GALATEA.

Gal. Your grace!

Pha. Shall I not be a trouble?
Gal. Not to me, sir.

Pha. Nay, nay, you are too quick. By this sweet hand

Gal. You'll be forsworn, sir; 'tis but an old glove. If you will talk at distance, I am for you: And then, I think, I shall have sense enough to answer all the weighty apothegms your royal blood shall manage.

Pha. Dear lady, can you love?

Gal. Dear, prince! how dear? I ne'er cost you a coach yet, nor put you to the dear repentance of a banquet. Here's no scarlet, sir, to blush the sin out it was given for. This wire mine own hair covers; and this face has been so far from being dear to any, that it ne'er cost penny painting: And, for the rest of my poor wardrobe, such as you see, it leaves no hand behind it, to make the jealous mercer's wife curse our good doings.

Pha. You mistake me, lady.

Gal. Lord, I do so: 'Would you, or I, could help it!

Pha. Do ladies of this country use to give no more respect to men of my full being?

Gal. Full being! I understand you not, unless

Gal. What have you there, my lord? Gold! Now, as I live, 'tis fair gold! You would have silver for it, to play with the pages: You could not have taken me in a worse time; but, if you have present use, my lord, I'll send my man with silver, and keep your gold for you.

Pha. Lady, lady!

Gal. She's coming, sir, behind, will take white money. Yet, for all this I'll match you. [Exit Gal. behind the hangings.

Pha. If there be but two such more in this kingdom, and near the court, we may even hang up our harps.

Enter MEGRA.

Here's another: If she be of the same last, the devil shall pluck her on. Many fair mornings, lady.

Meg. As many mornings bring as many days, Fair, sweet, and hopeful to your grace.

Pha. She gives good words yet;

If your more serious business do not call you,
Let me hold quarter with you; we'll talk an hour
Out quickly.

Meg. What would your grace talk of?

Pha. Of some such pretty subject as yourself.
I'll go no further than your eye, or lip;
There's theme enough for one man for an age.
Meg. Sir, they stand right, and my lips are yet

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Such pretty begging blanks, I should commend Your forehead, or your cheeks, and kiss you too. Pha. Do it in prose; you cannot miss it, madam. Meg. I shall, I shall.

Pha. By my life, you shall not. But we lose time. Can you love?

Meg. Love you, my lord? How would you have me love you? Has your grace seen the courtstar, Galatea?

Pha. Out upon her! She's as cold of her favour as an apoplex: She sailed by but now.

Meg. And how do you hold her wit, sir?

Pha. I hold her wit? The strength of all the guard cannot hold it, if they were tied to it; she would blow them out of the kingdom. They talk of Jupiter; he is but a squib-cracker to her: Look well about you, and you may find a tongue-bolt. But speak, sweet lady, shall I be freely welcome? Meg. Whither?

Pha. Make your own conditions, my purse shall seal them; and what you dare imagine you can want, I'll furnish you withal: Give two hours to your thoughts every morning about it. Come, I know you are bashful; speak in my ear, will you be mine? Keep this, and with it me: Soon I will visit you.

Meg. My lord, my chamber's most unsafe; but when 'tis night, I'll find some means to slip into your lodging; till when

Pha. Till when, this, and my heart go with thee! [Exeunt several ways.

Enter GALATEA from behind the hangings. Gal. Oh, thou pernicious petticoat-prince! are these your virtues? Well, if I do not lay a train to blow your sport up, I am no woman: And, lady Dowsabel, I'll fit you for't.

Enter ARETHUSA and a Lady.

Are. Where's the boy?

Lady. Within, madam.

[Exit.

Are. Gave you him gold to buy him cloaths? Lady. I did.

Are. And has he done it?

Lady. Yes, madam.

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Hadst thou a curst master, when thou went'st to school?

Thou art not capable of other grief.
Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be,
When no breath troubles them: Believe me, boy,
Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes,
And builds himself caves, to abide in them.
Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me?
Bel. Love, madam? I know not what it is.
Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet
knew'st love?

Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me,
As if he wished me well?

Bel. If it be love,

To forget all respect of his own friends,
In thinking of your face; if it be love,
To sit cross armed, and sigh away the day,
Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud
And hastily as men in the streets do fire;
If it be love, to weep himself away,
When he but hears of any lady dead,

Or killed, because it might have been your chance;
If, when he goes to rest (which will not be)
Twixt every prayer he says, to name you once,
As others drop a bead; be to be in love,
Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you.

Are. Oh, you're a cunning boy, and taught to lie,
For your lord's credit; but thou know'st a lie,
That bears this sound, is welcomer to me
Than any truth, that says, he loves me not.
Lead the way, boy. Do you attend me too.
'Tis thy lord's business hastes me thus.

Away. [Exeunt.

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