John Fletcher - The Maids Tragedy

Cleon. The rest are making ready Sir.

Strat. So let them, there's time enough.

Diph. You are the brother to the King, my Lord, we'll take your word.

Lys. Strato, thou hast some skill in Poetry, What thinkst thou of a Mask? will it be well?

Strat. As well as Mask can be.

Lys. As Mask can be?

Cle. See, good my Lord, who is return'd!

Lys. Noble Melantius!

Diph. Hail worthy brother!
                 He that rejoyces not at your return
                 In safety, is mine enemy for ever.

Mel. I thank thee Diphilus: but thou art faulty;
                  I sent for thee to exercise thine armes
                 With me at Patria: thou cam'st not Diphilus: 'Twas
                  ill.

Diph. My noble brother, my excuse
                 Is my King's strict command, which you my Lord
                 Can witness with me.

Lys. 'Tis true Melantius,
                 He might not come till the solemnity
                 Of this great match were past.

Diph. Have you heard of it?

Mel. Yes, I have given cause to those that
                 Envy my deeds abroad, to call me gamesome;
                  I have no other business here at Rhodes.

Lys. We have a Mask to night,
                  And you must tread a Soldiers measure.

Mel. These soft and silken wars are not for me;
                  The Musick must be shrill, and all confus'd,
                  That stirs my blood, and then I dance with armes:
                  But is Amintor Wed?

Diph. This day.

Mel. All joyes upon him, for he is my friend:
                  Wonder not that I call a man so young my friend,
                  His worth is great; valiant he is, and temperate,
                  And one that never thinks his life his own,
                  If his friend need it: when he was a boy,
                  As oft as I return'd (as without boast)
                  I brought home conquest, he would gaze upon me,
                  And view me round, to find in what one limb
                  The vertue lay to do those things he heard:
                  Then would he wish to see my Sword, and feel
                  The quickness of the edge, and in his hand
                  Weigh it; he oft would make me smile at this;
                  His youth did promise much, and his ripe years
                  Will see it all perform'd.

Melan. Hail Maid and Wife!
                 Thou fair Aspatia, may the holy knot
                 That thou hast tyed to day, last till the hand
                 Of age undo't; may'st thou bring a race
                 Unto Amintor that may fill the world
                 Successively with Souldiers.

Asp. My hard fortunes
                 Deserve not scorn; for I was never proud
                 When they were good.

Mel. How's this?

Lys. You are mistaken, for she is not married.

Mel. You said Amintor was.

Diph. 'Tis true; but

Mel. Pardon me, I did receive
                  Letters at Patria, from my Amintor,
                  That he should marry her.

Diph. And so it stood,
                  In all opinion long; but your arrival
                  Made me imagine you had heard the change.

Mel. Who hath he taken then?

Lys. A Lady Sir,
                  That bears the light above her, and strikes dead
                  With flashes of her eye; the fair Evadne your
                  vertuous Sister.

Mel. Peace of heart betwixt them: but this is strange.

Lys. The King my brother did it
                  To honour you; and these solemnities
                  Are at his charge.

Mel. 'Tis Royal, like himself;
                  But I am sad, my speech bears so unfortunate a sound
                  To beautiful Aspatia; there is rage
                  Hid in her fathers breast; Calianax
                  Bent long against me, and he should not think,
                  If I could call it back, that I would take
                  So base revenges, as to scorn the state
                  Of his neglected daughter: holds he still his greatness
                  with the King?

Lys. Yes; but this Lady
                  Walks discontented, with her watry eyes
                  Bent on the earth: the unfrequented woods
                  Are her delight; and when she sees a bank
                  Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell
                  Her servants what a pretty place it were
                  To bury lovers in, and make her maids
                  Pluck'em, and strow her over like a Corse.
                  She carries with her an infectious grief
                  That strikes all her beholders, she will sing
                  The mournful'st things that ever ear hath heard,
                  And sigh, and sing again, and when the rest
                  Of our young Ladies in their wanton blood,
                  Tell mirthful tales in course that fill the room
                  With laughter, she will with so sad a look
                  Bring forth a story of the silent death
                  Of some forsaken Virgin, which her grief
                  Will put in such a phrase, that ere she end,
                  She'l send them weeping one by one away.

Mel. She has a brother under my command
                  Like her, a face as womanish as hers,
                  But with a spirit that hath much out-grown
                  The number of his years.