Chapter IV: Act III: Scene I.34

[_Enter_] CYNTHIA, TELLUS, [SEMELE, EUMENIDES, CORSITES, PANELION, _and_ ZONTES.]

_Cynthia._ Is the report true, that Endymion is stricken into such a
dead sleep that nothing can either wake him or move him?

_Eum._ Too true, madam, and as much to be pitied as wondered at. 5

_Tellus._ As good sleep and do no harm as wake and do no good.

_Cynth._ What maketh you, Tellus, to be so short? The time was
Endymion only was.

_Eum._ It is an old saying, madam, that a (10) waking dog doth afar
off bark at a sleeping lion.

_Sem._ It were good, Eumenides, that you took a nap with your friend,
for your speech beginneth to be heavy. (15)

_Eum._ Contrary to your nature, Semele, which hath been always
accounted light.

_Cynth._ What, have we here before my face these unseemly and
malapert overthwarts![35] I will tame your tongues and your thoughts,
(20) and make your speeches answerable to your duties, and your
conceits fit for my dignity, else will I banish you both my person
and the world.

_Eum._ Pardon, I humbly ask; but such is my unspotted faith to
Endymion that whatsoever (25) seemeth a needle to prick his finger
is a dagger to wound my heart.

_Cynth._ If you be so dear to him, how happeneth it you neither go to
see him, nor search for remedy for him? 30

_Eum._ I have seen him to my grief, and sought recure with despair,
for that I cannot imagine who should restore him that is the wonder
to all men. Your Highness, on whose hands the compass of the earth
is at command, though (35) not in possession, may show yourself both
worthy your sex, your nature, and your favour, if you redeem that
honourable Endymion, whose ripe years foretell rare virtues, and
whose unmellowed conceits promise ripe counsel. 40

_Cynth._ I have had trial of Endymion, and conceive greater assurance
of his age than I could hope of his youth.

_Tellus._ But timely, madam, crooks that tree that will be a
cammock,[36] and young it pricks (45) that will be a thorn; and
therefore he that began without care to settle his life, it is a sign
without amendment he will end it.

_Cynth._ Presumptuous girl, I will make thy tongue an example of
unrecoverable displeasure. (50) Corsites, carry her to the castle in
the desert, there to remain and weave.

_Cors._ Shall she work stories or poetries?

_Cynth._ It skilleth[37] not which. Go to, in both; for she shall
find examples infinite in either (55) what punishment long tongues
have. Eumenides, if either the soothsayers in Egypt, or the
enchanters in Thessaly, or the philosophers in Greece, or all the
sages of the world can find remedy, I will procure it; therefore,
dispatch (60) with all speed: you, Eumenides, into Thessaly; you,
Zontes, into Greece, because you are acquainted in Athens; you,
Panelion, to Egypt; saying that Cynthia sendeth, and if you will,
commandeth. (65)

_Eum._ On bowed knee I give thanks, and with wings on my legs, I fly
for remedy.

_Zon._ We are ready at your highness’ command, and hope to return to
your full content.

_Cynth._ It shall never be said that Cynthia, (70) whose mercy and
goodness filleth the heavens with joys and the world with marvels,
will suffer either Endymion or any to perish, if he may be protected.

_Eum._ Your Majesty’s words have been always (75) deeds, and your
deeds virtues. _Exeunt._

SCENE II.[38]

[_Enter_] CORSITES _and_ TELLUS.

_Cors._ Here is the castle, fair Tellus, in which you must weave,
till either time end your days, or Cynthia her displeasure. I am
sorry so fair a face should be subject to so hard a fortune, and that
the flower of beauty, which is honoured (5) in courts, should here
wither in prison.

_Tellus._ Corsites, Cynthia may restrain the liberty of my body, of
my thoughts she cannot; and therefore do I esteem myself most free,
though I am in greatest bondage. 10

_Cors._ Can you then feed on fancy, and subdue the malice of envy by
the sweetness of imagination?

_Tellus._ Corsites, there is no sweeter music to the miserable than
despair; and therefore (15) the more bitterness I feel, the more
sweetness I find; for so vain were liberty, and so unwelcome the
following of higher fortune, that I choose rather to pine in this
castle than to be a prince in any other court. 20

_Cors._ A humour contrary to your years and nothing agreeable to your
sex; the one commonly allured with delights, the other always with
sovereignty.

_Tellus._ I marvel, Corsites, that you being (25) a captain, who
should sound nothing but terror and suck nothing but blood, can find
in your heart to talk such smooth words, for that it agreeth not with
your calling to use words so soft as that of love. 30

_Cors._ Lady, it were unfit of wars to discourse with women, into
whose minds nothing can sink but smoothness; besides, you must not
think that soldiers be so rough-hewn, or of such knotty mettle, that
beauty cannot allure, (35) and you, being beyond perfection, enchant.

_Tellus._ Good Corsites, talk not of love, but let me to my labour.
The little beauty I have shall be bestowed on my loom, which I now
mean to make my lover. 40

_Cors._ Let us in, and what favor Corsites can show, Tellus shall
command.

_Tellus._ The only favour I desire is now and then to walk. _Exeunt._

SCENE III.[39]

[_Enter_] Sir TOPHAS _and_ EPITON.

_Tophas._ Epi!

_Epi._ Here, sir.

_Tophas._ Unrig me. Heigho!

_Epi._ What’s that?

_Tophas._ An interjection, whereof some are (5) of mourning: as _eho,
vah_.[40]

_Epi._ I understand you not.

_Tophas._ Thou seest me.

_Epi._ Ay.

_Tophas._ Thou hearest me. 10

_Epi._ Ay.

_Tophas._ Thou feelest me.

_Epi._ Ay.

_Tophas._ And not understand’st me?

_Epi._ No. 15

_Tophas._ Then am I but three-quarters of a noun substantive. But
alas, Epi, to tell thee the troth. I am a noun adjective.

_Epi._ Why?

_Tophas._ Because I cannot stand without (20) another.

_Epi._ Who is that?

_Tophas._ Dipsas.

_Epi._ Are you in love?

_Tophas._ No; but love hath, as it were, (25) milk’d my thoughts and
drained from my heart the very substance of my accustomed courage;
it worketh in my head like new wine, so as I must hoop my sconce
with iron, lest my head break, and so I bewray[41] my brains. But, I
(30) pray thee, first discover me in all parts, that I may be like a
lover, and then will I sigh and die. Take my gun and give me a gown:
_Cedant arma togæ_.[42]

_Epi._ Here. 35

_Tophas._ Take my sword and shield and give me beard-brush and
scissors: _Bella gerant alii, tu Pari semper ama._[43]

_Epi._ Will you be trimm’d, sir?

_Tophas._ Not yet; for I feel a contention (40) within me whether I
shall frame the bodkin beard or the bush. But take my pike and give
me pen: _Dicere quæ puduit, scribere jussit amor_.[44]

_Epi._ I will furnish you, sir.

_Tophas._ Now, for my bow and bolts give (45) me ink and paper, for
my smiter a pen-knife; for

_Scalpellum, calami, atramentum, charta, libelli,
Sint semper studiis arma parata meis._[45]

_Epi._ Sir, will you give over wars and play (50) with that bauble
called love?

_Tophas._ Give over wars? No, Epi, _Militat omnis amans, et habet sua
castra Cupido_.[46]

_Epi._ Love hate made you very eloquent, but your face is nothing
fair. 55

_Tophas. Non formosus erat, sed erat facundus Ulysses._[47]

_Epi._ Nay, I must seek a new master if you can speak nothing but
verses.

_Tophas. Quicquid conabar dicere, versus (60) erat._[48] Epi, I feel
all Ovid _De Arte Amandi_ lie as heavy at my heart as a load of logs.
Oh, what a fine, thin hair hath Dipsas! What a pretty low forehead!
What a tall and stately nose! What little hollow eyes! What great 65
and goodly lips! How harmless she is, being toothless,—her
fingers fat and short, adorned with long nails like a bittern! In how
sweet a proportion her cheeks hang down to her breasts like dugs and
her paps to her waist like bags! (70) What a low stature she is, and
yet what a great foot she carrieth! How thrifty must she be in whom
there is no waist! How virtuous is she like to be, over whom no man
can be jealous!

_Epi._ Stay, master, you forget yourself. 75

_Tophas._ O Epi, even as a dish melteth by the fire, so doth my wit
increase by love.

_Epi._ Pithily, and to the purpose! But what, begin you to nod?

_Tophas._ Good Epi, let me take a nap; for (80) as some man may
better steal a horse than another look over the hedge, so divers
shall be sleepy when they would fainest take rest. _He sleeps._

_Epi._ Who ever saw such a woodcock![49] Love Dipsas! Without doubt
all the world will (85) account him valiant, that ventureth on her
whom none durst undertake. But here cometh two wags.

_Enter_ DARES _and_ SAMIAS.

_Sam._ Thy master hath slept his share.

_Dar._ I think he doth it because he would (90) not pay me my
board-wages.

_Sam._ It is a thing most strange: and I think mine will never
return, so that we must both seek new masters, for we shall never
live by our manners. 95

_Epi._ If you want masters, join with me and serve Sir Tophas; who
must needs keep more men, because he is toward marriage.

_Sam._ What, Epi, where’s thy master?

_Epi._ Yonder, sleeping in love. 100

_Dar._ Is it possible?

_Epi._ He hath taken his thoughts a hole lower, and saith, seeing it
is the fashion of the world, he will vail[50] bonnet to beauty.

_Sam._ How is he attired? 105

_Epi._ Lovely.

_Dar._ Whom loveth this amorous knight?

_Epi._ Dipsas.

_Sam._ That ugly creature? Why, she is a fool, a scold, fat, without
fashion, and quite (110) without favour.

_Epi._ Tush, you be simple; my master hath a good marriage.

_Dar._ Good! As how?

_Epi._ Why, in marrying Dipsas he shall (115) have every day twelve
dishes of meat to his dinner, though there be none but Dipsas with
him: four of flesh, four of fish, four of fruit.

_Sam._ As how, Epi?

_Epi._ For flesh these: woodcock, goose, (120) bittern, and rail.

_Dar._ Indeed, he shall not miss, if Dipsas be there.

_Epi._ For fish these: crab, carp, lump, and pouting. 125

_Sam._ Excellent, for of my word she is both crabbish, lumpish, and
carping.

_Epi._ For fruit these: fritters, medlars, hartichokes, and
lady-longings. Thus you see he shall fare like a king, though he be
but a (130) beggar.

_Dar._ Well, Epi, dine thou with him, for I had rather fast than see
her face. But see, thy master is asleep; let us have a song to wake
this amorous knight. 135

_Epi._ Agreed.

_Sam._ Content.

THE FIRST SONG.[51]

_Epi._ Here snores Tophas,
That amorous ass,
Who loves Dipsas, 140
With face so sweet,
Nose and chin meet.

_All three._ { At sight of her each Fury skips
{ And flings into her lap their whips.

_Dar._ Holla, holla in his ear. 145

_Sam._ The witch, sure, thrust her fingers there.

_Epi._ Cramp him, or wring the fool by th’ nose;

_Dar._ Or clap some burning flax to his toes.

_Sam._ What music’s best to wake him?

_Epi._ Bow-wow, let bandogs shake him! 150

_Dar._ Let adders hiss in ’s ear;

_Sam._ Else earwigs wriggle there.

_Epi._ No, let him batten[52]; when his tongue
Once goes, a cat is not worse strung.

_All three._ { But if he ope nor mouth nor eyes, 155
{ He may in time sleep himself wise.

_Top._ Sleep is a binding of the senses, love a loosing.

_Epi._ [_Aside._] Let us hear him awhile.

_Top._ There appeared in my sleep a goodly (160) owl, who, sitting
upon my shoulder, cried “Twit, twit”; and before mine eyes presented
herself the express image of Dipsas. I marvelled what the owl said,
till at the last I perceived “Twit, twit,” “To it, to it,” only 165
by contraction admonished by this vision to make account of my sweet
Venus.

_Sam._ Sir Tophas, you have overslept yourself.

_Top._ No, youth, I have but slept over (170) my love.

_Dar._ Love? Why, it is impossible that into so noble and unconquered
a courage love should creep, having first a head as hard to pierce as
steel, then to pass to a heart (175) arm’d with a shirt of mail.

_Epi._ Ay, but my master yawning one day in the sun, Love crept into
his mouth before he could close it, and there kept such a tumbling
in his body that he was glad to untruss[53] (180) the points of his
heart and entertain Love as a stranger.

_Top._ If there remain any pity in you, plead for me to Dipsas.

_Dar._ Plead! Nay, we will press her to it. (185) [_Aside to_
SAMIAS.] Let us go with him to Dipsas, and there shall we have good
sport.—But, Sir Tophas, when shall we go? For I find my tongue
voluble, and my heart venturous, and all myself like myself. 190

_Sam._ [_Aside to_ DARES.] Come, Dares, let us not lose him until we
find our masters, for as long as he liveth, we shall lack neither
mirth nor meat.

_Epi._ We will traverse.[54] Will you go, sir? 195

_Top. I præ, sequar._[55] _Exeunt._

SCENE IV.[56]

[_Enter_] EUMENIDES _and_ GERON.

_Eum._ Father, your sad music being tuned on the same key that my
hard fortune is, hath so melted my mind that I wish to hang at your
mouth’s end till my life end.

_Ger._ These tunes, gentleman, have I been (5) accustomed with these
fifty winters, having no other house to shroud myself but the broad
heavens; and so familiar with me hath use made misery that I esteem
sorrow my chiefest solace, and welcomest is that guest to me (10)
that can rehearse the saddest tale or the bloodiest tragedy.

_Eum._ A strange humour. Might I inquire the cause?

_Ger._ You must pardon me if I deny to tell (15) it, for knowing that
the revealing of griefs is, as it were, a renewing of sorrow, I have
vowed therefore to conceal them, that I might not only feel the depth
of everlasting discontentment, but despair of remedy. But whence are
you? (20) What fortune hath thrust you to this distress?

_Eum._ I am going to Thessaly, to seek remedy for Endymion, my
dearest friend, who hath been cast into a dead sleep almost these
twenty years, waxing old and ready for the grave, (25) being almost
but newly come forth of the cradle.

_Ger._ You need not for recure travel far, for whoso can clearly see
the bottom of this fountain shall have remedy for anything.

_Eum._ That methinketh is impossible. Why, (30) what virtue can there
be in water?

_Ger._ Yes, whosoever can shed the tears of a faithful lover shall
obtain anything he would. Read these words engraven about the brim.

_Eum._ Have you known this by experience, (35) or is it placed here
of purpose to delude men?

_Ger._ I only would have experience of it, and then should there be
an end of my misery; and then would I tell the strangest discourse
that ever yet was heard. (40)

_Eum._ Ah, Eumenides!

_Ger._ What lack you, gentleman; are you not well?

_Eum._ Yes, father, but a qualm that often cometh over my heart doth
now take hold of (45) me. But did never any lovers come hither?

_Ger._ Lusters, but not lovers; for often have I seen them weep, but
never could I hear they saw the bottom.

_Eum._ Came there women also? 50

_Ger._ Some.

_Eum._ What did they see?

_Ger._ They all wept, that the fountain overflowed with tears, but
so thick became the water with their tears that I could scarce 55
discern the brim, much less behold the bottom.

_Eum._ Be faithful lovers so scant?

_Ger._ It seemeth so, for yet heard I never of any.

_Eum._ Ah, Eumenides, how art thou perplexed! (60) Call to mind
the beauty of thy sweet mistress and the depth of thy never-dying
affections. How oft hast thou honoured her, not only without spot,
but suspicion of falsehood! And how hardly hath she rewarded thee
without (65) cause or colour of despite. How secret hast thou been
these seven years, that hast not, nor once darest not to name her,
for discontenting her. How faithful, that hast offered to die for
her, to please her! Unhappy Eumenides! 70

_Ger._ Why, gentleman, did you once love?

_Eum._ Once? Ay, father, and ever shall.

_Ger._ Was she unkind and you faithful?

_Eum._ She of all women the most froward, and I of all creatures the
most fond. 75

_Ger._ You doted then, not loved, for affection is grounded on
virtue, and virtue is never peevish; or on beauty, and beauty loveth
to be praised.

_Eum._ Ay, but if all virtuous ladies should (80) yield to all
that be loving, or all amiable gentlewomen entertain all that be
amorous, their virtues would be accounted vices, and their beauties
deformities; for that love can be but between two, and that not
proceeding of him (85) that is most faithful but most fortunate.

_Ger._ I would you were so faithful that your tears might make you
fortunate.

_Eum._ Yea, father, if that my tears clear not this fountain, then
may you swear it is but a (90) mere mockery.

_Ger._ So saith every one yet that wept.

_Eum._ Ah, I faint, I die! Ah, sweet Semele, let me alone, and
dissolve, by weeping, into water. [_He gazes into the fountain._] 95

_Ger._ This affection seemeth strange: if he see nothing, without
doubt this dissembling passeth, for nothing shall draw me from the
belief.

_Eum._ Father, I plainly see the bottom, (100) and there in white
marble engraven these words: _Ask one for all, and but one thing at
all_.

_Ger._ O fortunate Eumenides, (for so have I heard thee call
thyself,) let me see. I cannot discern any such thing. I think thou
dreamest. (105)

_Eum._ Ah, father, thou art not a faithful lover, and therefore canst
not behold it.

_Ger._ Then ask, that I may be satisfied by the event, and thyself
blessed.

_Eum._ Ask? So I will. And what shall I (110) do but ask, and whom
should I ask but Semele, the possessing of whose person is a pleasure
that cannot come within the compass of comparison; whose golden locks
seem most curious when they seem most careless; whose sweet looks 115
seem most alluring when they are most chaste; and whose words
the more virtuous they are, the more amorous they be accounted? I
pray thee. Fortune, when I shall first meet with fair Semele, dash
my delight with some light disgrace, (120) lest embracing sweetness
beyond measure, I take a surfeit without recure. Let her practise her
accustomed coyness that I may diet myself upon my desires; otherwise
the fulness of my joys will diminish the sweetness, and (125) I shall
perish by them before I possess them.

Why do I trifle the time in words? The least minute being spent in
the getting of Semele is more worth than the whole world; therefore
let me ask. What now, Eumenides! Whither (130) art thou drawn? Hast
thou forgotten both friendship and duty, care of Endymion, and the
commandment of Cynthia? Shall he die in a leaden sleep because thou
sleepest in a golden dream? Ay, let him sleep ever, so I slumber
(135) but one minute with Semele. Love knoweth neither friendship nor
kindred. Shall I not hazard the loss of a friend for the obtaining of
her for whom I would often lose myself? Fond[57] Eumenides, shall the
enticing beauty of a (140) most disdainful lady be of more force than
the rare fidelity of a tried friend? The love of men to women is a
thing common and of course; the friendship of man to man infinite and
immortal. Tush! Semele doth possess my love. Ay, (145) but Endymion
hath deserved it. I will help Endymion. I found Endymion unspotted in
his truth. Ay, but I shall find Semele constant in her love. I will
have Semele. What shall I do? Father, thy gray hairs are embassadors
of (150) experience. Which shall I ask?

_Ger._ Eumenides, release Endymion, for all things, friendship
excepted, are subject to fortune: love is but an eye-worm, which only
tickleth the head with hopes and wishes; (155) friendship the image
of eternity, in which there is nothing movable, nothing mischievous.
As much difference as there is between beauty and virtue, bodies and
shadows, colours and life, so great odds is there between love and 160
friendship.

Love is a chameleon, which draweth nothing into the mouth but air,
and nourisheth nothing in the body but lungs. Believe me, Eumenides,
desire dies in the same moment that beauty (165) sickens, and beauty
fadeth in the same instant that it flourisheth. When adversities
flow, then love ebbs; but friendship standeth stiffly in storms. Time
draweth wrinkles in a fair face, but addeth fresh colours to a fast
friend, (170) which neither heat, nor cold, nor misery, nor place,
nor destiny, can alter or diminish. O friendship, of all things the
most rare, and therefore most rare because most excellent, whose
comforts in misery is always sweet, (175) and whose counsels in
prosperity are ever fortunate! Vain love, that, only coming near to
friendship in name, would seem to be the same or better in nature!

_Eum._ Father, I allow your reasons, and (180) will therefore conquer
mine own. Virtue shall subdue affections, wisdom lust, friendship
beauty. Mistresses are in every place, and as common as hares on
Athos, bees in Hybla, fowls in the air; but friends to be found 185
are like the phœnix in Arabia, but one; or the philadelphi in Arays,
never above two. I will have Endymion. Sacred fountain, in whose
bowels are hidden divine secrets, I have increased your waters with
the tears of unspotted (190) thoughts, and therefore let me receive
the reward you promise. Endymion, the truest friend to me, and
faithfulest lover to Cynthia, is in such a dead sleep that nothing
can wake or move him. 195

_Ger._ Dost thou see anything?

_Eum._ I see in the same pillar these words: _When she whose figure
of all is the perfectest, and never to be measured; always one, yet
never the same; still inconstant, yet never wavering; (200) shall
come and kiss Endymion in his sleep, he shall then rise, else never._
This is strange.

_Ger._ What see you else?

_Eum._ There cometh over mine eyes either a dark mist, or upon the
fountain a deep (205) thickness, for I can perceive nothing. But how
am I deluded, or what difficult, nay impossible thing is this?

_Ger._ Methinketh it easy.

_Eum._ Good father, and how? 210

_Ger._ Is not a circle of all figures the perfectest?

_Eum._ Yes.

_Ger._ And is not Cynthia of all circles the most absolute? 215

_Eum._ Yes.

_Ger._ Is it not impossible to measure her, who still worketh by her
influence, never standing at one stay?

_Eum._ Yes. 220

_Ger._ Is she not always Cynthia, yet seldom in the same bigness;
always wavering in her waxing or waning, that our bodies might the
better be governed, our seasons the dailier give their increase; yet
never to be removed from her (225) course, as long as the heavens
continue theirs?

_Eum._ Yes.

_Ger._ Then who can it be but Cynthia, whose virtues being all divine
must needs bring things to pass that be miraculous? Go, humble
thyself (230) to Cynthia; tell her the success, of which myself shall
be a witness. And this assure thyself, that she that sent to find
means for his safety will now work her cunning.

_Eum._ How fortunate am I, if Cynthia be (235) she that may do it!

_Ger._ How fond[58] art thou, if thou do not believe it!

_Eum._ I will hasten thither that I may entreat on my knees for
succour, and embrace in (240) mine arms my friend.

_Ger._ I will go with thee, for unto Cynthia must I discover all my
sorrows, who also must work in me a contentment.

_Eum._ May I now know the cause? 245

_Ger._ That shall be as we walk, and I doubt not but the strangeness
of my tale will take away the tediousness of our journey.

_Eum._ Let us go.

_Ger._ I follow. _Exeunt._ 250