MERTILLA, FLORIMEL.

With nymphs and foresters.

Poetic raptures, sacred fires,
With which Apollo his inspires,
This Nymphal gives you; and withal
Observes the Muses' festival.

AMONGST th' Elysians' many mirthful feasts,
At which the Muses are the certain guests,
Th' observe one day with most imperial state,
To wise Apollo which they dedicate,
The poets' god, and to his altars bring

Th' enamel'd bravery of the beauteous spring,
And strew their bowers with every precious sweet,
Which still wax fresh, most trod on with their feet;
With most choice flowers each nymph doth braid

her hair,

And not the mean'st but bauldric wise doth wear
Some goodly garland, and the most renown'd
With curious roseate anadems are crown'd.
These being come into the place where they
Yearly observe the orgies to that day,
The Muses from their Heliconian spring
Their brimful mazers to the feasting bring:
When with deep draughts out of those plenteous
bowls,

The jocund youth have swill'd their thirsty souls,
They fall enraged with a sacred heat,
And when their brains do once begin to sweat,
They into brave and stately numbers break,
And not a word that any one car speak
But 'tis prophetic; and so strangely far
In their high fury they transported are,
As there's not one, on any thing can strain,
But by another answered is again

In the same rapture, which all sit to hear;
When as two youths, that soundly liquor'd were,
Dorilus and Doron, two as noble swains
As ever kept on the Elysian plains,
First by their signs attention having won,
Thus they the revels frolicly begun.

DORON. Come Dorilus, let us be brave,
In lofty numbers let us rave,

With rhymes I will enrich thee.

DORILUS Content, say I, then bid the base,
Our wits shall run the wildgoose-chace,
Spur up, or I will switch thee.

DORON. The Sun out of the east doth peep,
And now the day begins to creep

Upon the world at leisure.

DORILUS. The air enamour'd with the greaves, The west wind strokes the velvet leaves,

And kisses them at pleasure.

DORON. The spinners' webs 'twixt spray and spray The top of every bush make gay,

By filmy cords there dangling.

DORILUS. For now the last day's evening dew Even to the full itself doth shew,

Each bough with pearl bespangling,

DORON. O boy, how thy abundant vein, Even like a flood breaks from thy brain, Nor can thy Muse be gaged.

DORILUS. Why Nature forth did never bring. A man that like to me can sing,

If once I be enraged.

DORON Why, Dorilus, I in my skill Can make the swiftest stream stand still, Nay, bear back to his springing.

DORILUS. And I into a trance most deep Can cast the birds, that they shall sleep When fain'st they would be singing.

DORON. Why, Dorilus, thou mak'st me mad, And now my wits begin to gad,

But sure. I know not whither.
DORILUS O, Doron, let me hug thee then,
There never was two madder men,
Then let us on together.

And thorow thick and thin he rid,

DORON. Hermes the winged horse bestrid,

And flounder'd through the fountain. DORILUS. He spurr'd the tit until he bled, So that at last he run his head

Against the forked mountain.

DORON. How say'st thou, but py'd Iris got Into great Juno's chariot,

I spake with one that saw her.

DORILUS. And there the pert and saucy elf Behav'd her as 'twere Juno's self,

And made the peacocks draw her.

DORON. I'll borrow Phœbus' fiery jades,
With which about the world he trades,
And put them in my plough.

DORILUS. O thou most perfect frantic man,
Yet let thy rage be what it can,
I'll be as mad as thou.

DORON. I'll to great Jove, hap good, hap ill,
Though he with thunder threat to kill,
And beg of him a boon,

DORILUS. To swerve up one of Cynthia's beams, And there to bathe thee in the streams, Discover'd in the Moon.

DORON. Come, frolic youth, and follow me,
My frantic boy, and I'll show thee
The country of the fairies.

DORILUS. The fleshy mandrake where 't doth grow, In noonshade of the misletoe,

And where the phenix airies.

DORON. Nay more, the swallow's winter bed,
The caverns where the winds are bred,
Since thus thou talk'st of showing.

DORILUS. And to those indraughts I'll thee bring That wonderous and eternal spring

Whence th' ocean hath its flowing.

DORON. We'll down to the dark house of sleep, Where snoring Morpheus doth keep,

And wake the drowsy groom.

DORILUS. Down shall the doors and windows go, The stools upon the floor we'll throw, And roar about the room.

The Muses here commanded them to stay,
Commending much the carriage of their lay;
As greatly pleas'd at this their madding bout,
To hear how bravely they had borne it out
From first to last, of which they were right glad,
By this they found that Helicon still had
That virtue it did anciently retain

When Orpheus, Lynus, and th' Ascrean swain
Took lusty rouses, which hath made their rhymes
To last so long to all succeeding times.
And now amongst this beautious bevy here,
Two wanton nymphs, tho' dainty ones they were,
Naiis and Cloe in their female fits,

Longing to show the sharpness of their wits,
Of the nine sisters special leave do crave

That the next bout they two might freely have ;
Who having got the suffrages of all,
Thus to their rhyming instantly they fall.

NAITS. Amongst you all let us see
Who is't opposes me,
Come on the proudest she
To answer my ditty.

CLOE. Why, Naiis, that am I,
Who dares thy pride defy;
And that we soon shall try
Though thou be witty.

NAIIS. Cloe, I scorn my rhyme
Should observe feet or time,
Now I fall, then I climb,

What is't I dare not.

CLOE. Give thy invention wing,
And let her flirt and fling,
Till down the rock she ding,
For that I care not,

NAIIS. This presence delights me,
My freedom invites mé,
The season excites me

In rhyme to be merry.

CLOB. And I beyond measure,
Am ravish'd with pleasure,
To answer each ceasure,

Until thou be'st weary.

NAIIS. Behold the rosy dawn,

Rises in tinsel'd lawn,

And smiling seems to fawn
Upon the mountains.

CLOE. Awaked from her dreams
Shooting forth golden beams,
Dancing upon the streams
Courting the fountains.

NAIIS. These more than sweet showrets, Entice up these flowrets,

To trim up our bowrets,
Perfuming our, coats.

CLOE. Whilst the birds billing
Fach one with his dilling,
The thickets still filling

With amorous notes.

NAIIS. The bees up in honey roll'd More than their thighs can hold, Lapp'd in their liquid gold,

Their treasure us bringing

CLOE. To these rillets purling,
Upon the stones curling,
And oft about whirling,

Dance tow'rd their springing.

NAIIS. The wood-nymphs sit singing, Each grove with notes ringing, Whilst fresh Ver is flinging

Her bounties abroad.

CLOE. So much as the turtle
Upon the low myrtle,
To the meads fertile,
Her cares doth unload.

NAIIS. Nay, 'tis a world to see
In every bush and tree,

The birds with mirth and glee
Woo'd as they woo.

CLOE. The robin and the wren,

Every cock with his hen,

Why should not we and men

Do as they do.

NAIIS. The fairies are hopping,
The small flowers cropping,
And with dew dropping,

Skip thorow the greaves.

CLOE. At barley-break they play
Merrily all the day,

At night themselves they lay
Upon the soft leaves.

NAIS. The gentle winds sally
Upon every valley,
And many times dally

And wantonly sport.

CLOE. About the fields tracing,
Each other in chasing,
And often embracing,
In amorous sort.

NAIIS. And Echo oft doth tell
Wondrous things from her cell,
As her what chance befel,
Learning to prattle.

CLOE. And now she sits and mocks The shepherds and their flocks, And the herds from the rocks Keeping their cattle.

We'll rob the brim of every fountain,
Strip the sweets from every mountain,
We will sweep the curled valleys,
Brush the banks that mound our allies,
We will muster Nature's dainties,
When she wallows in her plenties,
The luscious smell of every flower,
New wash'd by an April shower,

The mistress of her store we'll make thee,
That she for herself shall take thee;
Can there be a dainty thing,
That's not 'hine, if thou wilt sing?

MERTILLA. When the dew in May distilleth,
And the Earth's rich bosom filleth,
And with pearl embrouds each meadow,
We will make them like a widow,
And in all their beauties dress thee,
And of all their spoils possess thee,
With all the beauties Zephyr brings,
Breathing on the yearly springs,
The gaudy blooms of every tree
In their most beauty when they be,
What is here that may delight thee,
Or to pleasure may excite thee,
Can there be a dainty thing
That's not thine, if thou wilt sing?
But Florimel still sullenly replies,
"I will not sing at all, let that suffice:"
When as a nymph, one of the merry ging,
Seeing she no way could be won to sing;
"Come, come," quoth she, "ye utterly undo her
With your entreaties, and your reverence to her;
For praise nor prayers she careth not a pin ;
They that our froward Florimel would win,
Must work another way: let me come to her,
Either I'll make her sing, or I'll undo her."

CLAIA. Florimel, I thus conjure thee,
Since their gifts cannot allure thee;
By stamp'd garlic that doth stink
Worse than common sewer or sink;
By henbane, dogsbane, wolfsbane, sweet
As any clown's or carrier's feet;
By stinking nettles, pricking teasels,
Raising blisters like the measles ;
By the rough burbreeding docks,
Ranker than the oldest fox;

By filthy hemloc, pois'ning more
Than any ulcer or old sore;

By the cockle in the corn,

That smells far worse than doth burnt horn:

By hemp in water that hath fain,

By whose stench the fish are slain ;

By toadflax which your nose may taste,
If you have a mind to cast;
May all filthy stinking weeds

That e'er bore leaf, or e'er had seeds;
Florimel, be given to thee,

If thou'lt got sing as well as we.
At which the nymphs to open laughter fell,
Amongst the rest the beauteous Florimel,
(Pleas'd with the spell from Claia that came,
A mirthful girl, and given to sport and game)
As gamesome grows as any of them all,
And to this ditty instantly doth fall.

FLORIMEL. How in my thoughts shall I con-
The image I am framing,

Which is so far superlative,

As 'tis beyond all naming?

[trive

I would Jove of my counsel make,
And have his judgment in it,
But that I doubt he would mistake
How rightly to begin it :

It must be builded in the air,
And 'tis my thoughts must do it,
And only they must be the stair
From earth to mount me to it:
For of my sex I frame my lay,
Each hour ourselves forsaking,
How should I then find out the way,
To this my undertaking?

When our weak fancies working still,
Yet changing every minute,

Will show that it requires some skill,
Such difficulty's in it.

We would things, yet we know not what,
And let our will be granted,

Yet instantly we find in that
Something unthought of wanted:

Our joys and hopes such shadows are,
As with our motions vary,

Which when we oft have fetch'd from far,

With us they never tarry:

Some worldly cross doth still attend

What long we have been spinning,

And ere we fully get the end,

We lose of our beginning.
Our policies so peevish are,

That with themselves they wrangle,
And many times become the snare,
That soonest us entangle ;

For that the love we bear our friends,
Though ne'er so strongly grounded,
Hath in it certain oblique ends,

If to the bottom sounded:
Our own well wishing making it
A pardonable treason;

For that it is deriv'd from wit,
And underpropp'd with reason.
For our dear selves' beloved sake,
(Even in the depth of passion)

Our centre though ourselves we make,
Yet is not that our station;

For whilst our brows ambitious be
And youth at hand awaits us,
It is a pretty thing to see

How finely beauty cheats us.
And whilst with time we trifling stand
To practise antique graces,

Age, with a pale and wither'd hand,
Draws furrows in our faces.

That well prepared for this business were,
Become the Chorus, and thus sung they there.

NYMPHS. Clio, thou first of those celestial nine
That daily offer to the sacred shrine
Of wise Apollo; queen of stories,
Thou that vindicat'st the glories
Of past ages, and renew'st

Their acts, which every day thou view'st,
And from a lethargy dost keep

Old nodding Time, else prone to sleep.

CHORUS. Clio, O crave of Phœbus to inspire Us for his altars with his holiest fire, And let his glorious ever-shining rays Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

NYMPHS. Melpomene, thou melancholy maid,
Next, to wise Phoebus, we invoke thy aid,
In buskins that dost stride the stage,
And in thy deep distracted rage,
In bloodshed that dost take delight,
Thy object the most fearful sight,

That lov'st the sighs, the shrieks, and sounds
Of horrour, that arise from wounds.

CHORUS. Sad Muse, O crave of Phoebus to in

Us for his altars with his oliest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining rays
Give life and birth to our Elysian bays.

[spire

NYMPHS. Comic Thalia, then we come to thee,
Thou mirthful maiden, only that in glee
And love's deceits thy pleasure tak'st,
Of which thy varying scene that mak'st,
And in thy nimble sock doth stir
Loud laughter through the theatre,
That with the peasant mak'st thee sport,
As well as with the better sort.

CHORUS. Thalia, crave of Phoebus to inspire
Us for his altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining rays
Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

NYMPHS. Euterpe, next to thee we will proceed,
That first found'st out the music on the reed,
With breath and fingers giving life
To the shrill cornet and the fife,
Teaching every stop and key

To those upon the pipe that play,

Those which wind-instruments we call,
Or soft, or loud, or great, or small.

CHORUS. Euterpe, ask of Phoebus to inspire
Us for his altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining rays
Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

NYMPHS. Terpsichore, thou of the lute and lyre, And instruments that sound with cords and wire, That art the mistress to command

The touch of the most curious hand,
When every quaver doth embrace
His like, in a true diapase;

And every string his sound doth fill,
Touch'd with the finger or the quill.

་་

Which, neatly, with thy staff and bow,
Dost measure, and proportion show;
Motion and gesture that dost teach,
That every height and depth can'st reach;
And dost demonstrate by thy art
What nature else would not impart.

CHORUS. Dear Erato, crave Phoebus to inspire
Us for his altars with his holiest fire
And let his glorious ever-shining rays
Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

NYMPHS. To thee, thou brave Calliope, we come,
Thou that maintain'st the trumpet and the drum,
The neighing-steeds that lov'st to hear,
Clashing of arms doth please thine ear;
In lofty lines that dost rehearse
Things worthy of a thund'ring verse,
And at no time art heard to strain
On aught that suits a common vein.

CHORUS. Calliope, crave Phoebus to inspire
Us for his altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining rays
Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

NYMPHS. Thou, Polyhymnia, most delicious maid,
In rhetoric's flowers that art array'd;
In tropes and figures richly drest,
The filed phrase that lovest best,
That art all elocution, and

The first that gav'st to understand
The force of words, in order plac'd,
And with a sweet delivery grac'd.

[inspire

CHORUS. Sweet Muse, persuade our Phœbus to Us for his altars with his holiest fire, And let his glorious ever-shining rays Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

NYMPHS. Lofty Urania, then we call to thee,
To whom the Heavens for ever open'd be,
Thou th' asterisms by name dost call,
And show'st when they do rise and fall;
His working, seated in his sign;
Each planet's force, and dost divine
And how the starry frame still rolls
Between the fixed stedfast poles.

CHORUS. Urania, ask of Phoebus to inspire
Us for his altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious ever-shining rays
Give life and growth to our Elysian bays.

THE FOURTH NYMPHAL.

CLORIS, MERTILLA.

ཡིག

CLORIS. O, my Mertilla, do not praise
These lamps, so dimly burning,
Such sad and sullen lights as these
Were only made for mourning :
Their objects are the barren rocks
With aged moss o'ershaded;

Now, whilst the Spring lays forth her locks,
With blossoms bravely braded,

MERTILLA. O, Cloris, can there be a spring,
O my dear nymph, there may not,
Wanting thine eyes it forth to bring,
Without which Nature cannot :
Say what it is that troubleth thee,
Increas'd by thy concealing,
Speak, sorrows many times we see
Are lessen'd by revealing.

CLORIS. Being of late too vainly bent,
And but at too much leisure,

Nor with our groves and downs content,
But surfeiting in pleasure;
Felicia's fields I would go see,
Where fame to me reported,

The choice nymphs of the world to be
From meaner beauties sorted;
Hoping that I from them might draw
Some graces to delight me,

But there such monstrous shapes I saw,

That to this hour affright me.

Thro' the thick hair, that thatch'd their brows,

Their eyes upon me stared,

Like to those raging frantic froes

For Bacchus' feasts prepared;

Their bodies, although straight by kind,

Yet they so monstrous make them,

That for huge bags, blown up with wind,
You very well may take them.
Their bowels in their elbows are,
Whereon depend their paunches,
And their deformed arms, by far,
Made larger than their haunches:
For their behaviour and their grace,
Which likewise should have priz'd them,
Their manners were as beastly base
As th' rags that so disguis'd them;
All antics, all so impudent,
So fashion'd out of fashion,
As black Cocytus up had sent
Her fry into this nation,

Whose monstrousness doth so perplex,
Of reason and deprives me,

That, for their sakes, I loath my sex,
Which to this sadness drives me.

MERTILLA. O, my dear Cloris, be not sad,
Nor with these furies daunted,
But let these female fools be mad
With hellish pride enchanted;

Let not thy noble thoughts descend
So low as their affections,
Whom neither counsel can amend,
Nor yet the gods' corrections;
Such mad folks ne'er let us bemoan,
But rather scorn their folly,
And since we two are here alone,
To banish melancholy,

Leave we this lowly creeping vein,
Not worthy admiration,
And in a brave and lofty strain
Let's exercise our passion,

With wishes of each other's good, From our abundant treasures,

And, in this jocund sprightly mood Thus alter we our measures.

MERTILLA. OI could wish this place were strew'd
with roses,
[grass

And that this bank were thickly thrumb'd with
As soft as sleave or sarcenet ever was,
Whereon my Cloris her sweet self reposes.

CLORIS. O that these dews rose-water were for thee,

These mists perfumes that hang upon these thicks,
And that the winds were all aromatics,
[be.
Which if my wish could make them, they should

MERTILLA. O that my bottle one whole diamond
[were,
So fill'd with nectar that a fly might sup,
And at one draught that thou might'st drink it up,
Yet a carouse not good enough I fear.

CLORIS. That all the pearl, the seas or Indias

thing

Than the pur'st ivory far more crystalline,
Fill'd with the food wherewith the gods do dine,
To keep thy youth in a continual spring.

MERTILLA. O that the sweets of all the flowers
that grow

The labouring air would gather into one,
In gardens, fields, nor meadows leaving none,
And all their sweetness upon thee would throw.

CLORIS. Nay that those sweet harmonious strains
we hear,

Amongst the lively birds' melodious lays,
As they recording sit upon the sprays,
Were hovering still for music at thine ears.

MERTILLA. O that thy name were carv'd on every
tree,

That as these plants still great, and greater grow, Thy name, dear nymph, might be enlarged so, That every grove and coppice might speak thee.

CLORIS. Nay would thy name upon their rinds
were set,

And by the nymphs so oft and loudly spoken,
As that the echoes to that language broken
Thy happy name might hourly counterfeit.