|1815| For Arguments (like Children) should be like,
The subiect that begets them; I must striue
To crowne _Bald heades_, therefore must baldlie thriue;
But be it as it can: To what before,
Went arm’d at table, this force bring I more,
|1820| If a _Bare head_ (being like a dead-mans scull)
Should beare vp no praise els but this, it sets
Our end before our eyes; should I dispaire,
From giuing _Baldnes_ higher place then haire?
_Mini._ Nay perdie, haire has the higher place.
|1825| _Cri._ The goodliest & most glorious strange-built wonder,
Which that great Architect hath made, is heauen;
For there he keepes his Court, It is his Kingdome,
That’s his best Master-piece; yet tis the roofe,
And Seeling of the world: that may be cal’d
|1830| The head or crowne of Earth, and yet that’s balde,
All creatures in it balde; the louely _Sunne_,
Has a face sleeke as golde; the full-cheekt _Moone_,
As bright and smooth as siluer: nothing there
Weares dangling lockes, but sometime blazing Starres,
|1835| Whose flaming curles, set realmes on fire with warres.
Descend more low; looke through mans fiue-folde sence,
Of all, the _Eye_, beares greatest eminence;
And yet that’s balde, the haires that like a lace,
Are sticht vnto the liddes, borrow those formes,
|1840| Like Pent-houses to saue the eyes from stormes.
_Sir Adam._ Right, well said.
_Cris._ A head and face ore-growne with Shaggie drosse,
O, tis an Orient pearle hid all in Mosse,
But when the head’s all naked and vncrown’d,
|1845| It is the worlds _Globe_, euen, smooth and round;
_Baldnes_ is natures But, at which our life,
Shootes her last Arrow: what man euer lead
His age out with a staffe, but had a head
Bare and vncouer’d? hee whose yeares doe rise,
|1850| To their full height, yet not balde, is not wise.
The _Head_ is Wisedomes house, _Haire_ but the thatch,
_Haire_? It’s the basest stubble; in scorne of it,
This Prouerbe sprung, _he has more haire then wit_:
Marke you not in derision how we call,
|1855| A head growne thicke with haire, _Bush-naturall_?
_Min._ By your leaue (Master Poet) but that Bush-naturall, is one a the
trimmest, and most intanglingst beautie in a woman.
_Cris._ Right, but beleeue this (_pardon me most faire_)
You would haue much more wit, had you lesse haire:
|1860| I could more wearie you to tell the proofes,
(As they passe by) which fight on _Baldnes_ side,
Then were you taskt to number on a head,
The haires: I know not how your thoughts are lead,
On this strong Tower shall my opinion rest,
|1865| _Heades thicke of haire are goode, but balde the best_.
_Whilst this Paradox is in speaking_, Tucca _Enters with_ Sir Vaughan
_at one doore, and secretly placeth him: then Exit and brings in_
Horace _muffled, placing him:_ Tucca _sits among them._
_Tuc._ Th’art within a haire of it, my sweete _Wit whether wilt thou_?
|1870| my delicate Poeticall Furie, th’ ast hit it to a haire.
Sir Vaughan _steps out_.
_Sir Vau._ By your fauour Master Tucky, his balde reasons are wide
aboue two hayres, I besees you pardon mee Ladies, that I thrust in so
malepartly among you, for I did but mych heere, |1875| and see how this
cruell Poet did handle bald heades.
_Sir Ad._ He gaue them but their due Sir Vaughan; Widdow did he not?
_Mini._ By my faith he made more of a balde head, than euer I shall be
able: he gaue them their due truely.
|1880| _Sir Vaugh._ Nay vds bloud, their due is to bee a the right
haire as I am, and that was not in his fingers to giue, but in God a
Mighties: Well, I will hyre that humorous and fantasticall Poet Master
Horace, to breake your balde pate Sir Adam.
_Sir Ada._ Breake my balde pate?
|1885| _Tuc._ Dost heare my worshipfull block-head?
_Sir Vaug._ Patience Captaine Tucky, let me absolue him; I meane he
shal pricke, pricke your head or sconce a little with his goose-quils,
for he shal make another Thalimum, or crosse-stickes, or some
Polinoddyes, with a fewe Nappy-grams in them, |1890| that shall lift vp
haire, and set it an end, with his learned and harty commendations.
_Hor._ This is excellent, all will come out now.
_Dica._ That same Horace me thinkes has the most vngodly face, by my
Fan; it lookes for all the world, like a rotten russet |1895| Apple,
when tis bruiz’d: Its better then a spoonefull of Sinamon water next
my heart, for me to heare him speake; hee soundes it so i’ th nose,
and talkes and randes for all the world, like the poore fellow vnder
Ludgate: oh fye vpon him.
_Min._ By my troth sweet Ladies, it’s Cake and pudding to me, |1900| to
see his face make faces, when hee reades his Songs and Sonnets.
_Hor._ Ile face some of you for this, when you shall not budge.
_Tuc._ Its the stinckingst dung-farmer--foh vpon him.
_Sir Vau._ Foh? oundes you make him vrse than olde herring: foh? by
Sesu I thinke he’s as tidy, and as tall a Poet as euer |1905| drew out
a long verse.
_Tuc._ The best verse that euer I knew him hacke out, was his white
necke-verse: noble Ap Rees thou wouldst scorne to laye thy lippes to
his commendations, and thou smeldst him out as I doe, hee calles thee
the burning Knight of the Salamander.
|1910| _Sir Vaugh._ Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but
Peter is neuer burnt: howe now? so, goe too now.
_Tucca._ And sayes because thou Clipst the Kinges English.
_Sir Vaughan._ Oundes mee? that’s treason: clip? horrible treasons,
Sesu holde my handes; clip? he baites mouse-trappes for |1915| my life.
_Tucca._ Right little _Twinckler_, right: hee sayes because thou
speak’st no better, thou canst not keepe a good tongue in thy head.
_Sir Vaug._ By God tis the best tongue, I can buy for loue or |1920|
money.
_Tuc._ He shootes at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrowes stickes heere;
he calles thee bald-pate.
_Sir Vaugh._ Oundes make him prooue these intollerabilities.
_Tuc._ And askes who shall carry the vineger-bottle? & then he |1925|
rimes too’t, and sayes Prickshaft: nay Miniuer hee cromples thy Cap
too; and----
_Cri._ Come Tucca, come, no more; the man’s wel knowne, thou needst not
paint him, whom does he not wrong?
_Tuc._ Mary himselfe, the vglie Pope Boniface, pardons himselfe, |1930|
and therefore my iudgement is, that presently he bee had from hence to
his place of execution, and there bee Stab’d, Stab’d, Stab’d.
_He stabs at him._
_Hor._ Oh gentlemen, I am slaine, oh slaue art hyr’d to murder me, to
murder me, to murder me?
|1935| _Ladies._ Oh God!
_Sir Vaugh._ Ounds Capten, you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of
sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue
smocks, teare off peeces, to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and
buried? is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, |1940| rub, rub, rub.
_Tu._ If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him:
if I had kil’d him, I could ha pleas’d the great foole with an Apple.
_Cris._ How now? be well good Horace, heer’s no wound;
|1945| Y’are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man?
Come, put thy heart into his place againe;
Thy out-side’s neither peir’st, nor In-side slaine.
_Sir Vau._ I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking.
_Ho._ Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate.
|1950| _Tuc._ Breadth of a groate? there’s a teston, hide thy
infirmities, my scuruy Lazarus; doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in
time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst I cannot be sharpe
set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon.
|1955| _Mi._ O most pittifull as blunt as my great thumbe.
_Sir Vau._ By Sesu, as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding.
_Tuc._ As blunt as the top of Poules; tis not like thy Aloe, Cicatrine
tongue, bitter: no, tis no stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious
nose, blunt, blunt, blunt: dost roare bulchin? dost |1960| roare? th’
ast a good rounciuall voice to cry Lanthorne & Candlelight.
_Sir Va._ Two vrds Horace about your eares: how chance it passes, that
you bid God boygh to an honest trade of building Symneys, and laying
downe Brickes, for a worse handicraftnes, |1965| to make nothing but
railes; your Muse leanes vpon nothing but filthy rotten railes, such as
stand on Poules head, how chance?
_Hor._ Sir Vaughan.
_Sir Va._ You lye sir varlet sir villaine, I am sir Salamanders,
ounds, is my man Master Peter Salamanders face as vrse as |1970| mine?
Sentlemen, all and Ladies, and you say once or twice Amen, I will lap
this little Silde, this Booby in his blankets agen.
_Omnes._ Agree’d, agree’d.
_Tuc._ A blanket, these crackt Venice glasses shall fill him out, they
shall tosse him, holde fast wag-tailes: so, come, in, take |1975|
this bandy with the racket of patience, why when? dost stampe mad
Tamberlaine, dost stampe? thou thinkst th’ast Morter vnder thy feete,
dost?
_Ladies._ Come, a bandy ho.
_Hor._ O holde most sacred beauties.
|1980| _Sir Vau._ Hold, silence, the puppet-teacher speakes.
_Ho._ Sir Vaughan, noble Capten, Gentlemen,
Crispinus, deare Demetrius ô redeeme me,
Out of this infamous---- by God by Iesu----
_Cri._ Nay, sweare not so good Horace, now these Ladies,
|1985| Are made your executioners: prepare,
To suffer like a gallant, not a coward;
Ile trie t’ vnloose, their hands, impossible.
Nay, womens vengeance are implacable.
_Hor._ Why, would you make me thus the ball of scorne?
|1990| _Tuc._ Ile tell thee why, because th’ ast entred Actions of
assault and battery, against a companie of honourable and worshipfull
Fathers of the law: you wrangling rascall, law is one of the pillers
ath land, and if thou beest bound too’t (as I hope thou shalt bee)
thou’t prooue a skip-Jacke, thou’t be whipt. Ile tell |1995| thee why,
because thy sputtering chappes yelpe, that Arrogance, and Impudence,
and Ignoraunce, are the essentiall parts of a Courtier.
_Sir Vau._ You remember Horace, they will puncke, and pincke, and pumpe
you, and they catch you by the coxcombe: on I |2000| pray, one lash, a
little more.
_Tuc._ Ile tell thee why, because thou cryest ptrooh at worshipfull
Cittizens, and cal’st them Flat-caps, Cuckolds, and banckrupts,
and modest and vertuous wiues punckes & cockatrices. Ile tell thee
why, because th’ast arraigned two Poets against all |2005| lawe and
conscience; and not content with that, hast turn’d them amongst a
company of horrible blacke Fryers.
_Sir Vau._ The same hand still, it is your owne another day, M. Horace,
admonitions is good meate.
_Tuc._ Thou art the true arraign’d Poet, and shouldst haue been |2010|
hang’d, but for one of these part-takers, these charitable Copperlac’d
Christians, that fetcht thee out of Purgatory, (Players I meane)
Theaterians pouch-mouth, Stage-walkers; for this Poet, for this, thou
must lye with these foure wenches, in that blancket, for this----
|2015| _Hor._ What could I doe, out of a iust reuenge,
But bring them to the Stage? they enuy me
because I holde more worthy company.
_Deme._ Good Horace, no; my cheekes doe blush for thine,
As often as thou speakst so, where one true
|2020| And nobly-vertuous spirit, for thy best part
Loues thee, I wish one ten, euen from my heart.
I make account I put vp as deepe share
In any good mans loue, which thy worth earnes,
As thou thy selfe; we enuy not to see,
|2025| Thy friends with Bayes to crowne thy Poesie.
No, heere the gall lyes, we that know what stuffe
Thy verie heart is made of; know the stalke
On which thy learning growes, and can giue life
To thy (once dying) basenes; yet must we
|2030| Dance Antickes on your Paper.
_Hor._ Fannius.
_Cri._ This makes vs angry, but not enuious,
No, were thy warpt soule, put in a new molde,
Ide weare thee as a Iewell set in golde.
|2035| _Sir Vau._ And Iewels Master Horace, must be hang’d you know.
_Tuc._ Good Pagans, well said, they haue sowed vp that broken
seame-rent lye of thine, that Demetrius is out at Elbowes, and
Crispinus is falne out with Sattin heere, they haue; but bloate-herring
dost heare?
|2040| _Hor._ Yes honour’d Captaine, I haue eares at will.
_Tuc._ Ist not better be out at Elbowes, then to bee a bond-slaue, and
to goe all in Parchment as thou dost?
_Horace._ Parchment Captaine? tis Perpetuana I assure you.
_Tuc._ My Perpetuall pantaloone true, but tis waxt ouer; th’art |2045|
made out of Wax; thou must answere for this one day; thy Muse is a
hagler, and weares cloathes vpon best-be-trust: th’art great in some
bodies books for this, thou knowst where; thou wouldst bee out at
Elbowes, and out at heeles too, but that thou layest about thee with a
Bill for this, a Bill--
|2050| _Ho._ I confesse Capten, I followed this suite hard.
_Tuc._ I know thou didst, and therefore whilst we haue Hiren heere,
speake my little dish-washers, a verdit Pisse-kitchins.
_Omnes._ Blancket.
_Sir Vau._ Holde I pray, holde, by Sesu I haue put vpon my |2055|
heade, a fine deuice, to make you laugh, tis not your fooles Cap Master
Horace, which you couer’d your Poetasters in, but a fine tricke, ha,
ha, is iumbling in my braine.
_Tuc._ Ile beate out thy braines, my whorson hansome dwarfe, but ile
haue it out of thee.
|2060| _Omnes._ What is it good Sir Vaughan?
_Sir Vau._ To conclude, tis after this manners, because Ma. Horace is
ambition, and does conspire to bee more hye and tall, as God a mightie
made him, wee’ll carry his terrible person to Court, and there before
his Masestie Dub, or what you call it, |2065| dip his Muse in some
licour, and christen him, or dye him, into collours of a Poet.
_Omnes._ Excellent.
_Tuc._ Super Super-excellent Reuellers goe, proceede you Masters of
Arte in kissing these wenches, and in daunces, bring you |2070| the
quiuering Bride to Court, in a Maske, come Crumboll, thou shalt Mum
with vs; come, dogge mee skneakes-bill.
_Hor._ O thou my Muse!
_Sir Vau._ Call vpon God a mighty, and no Muses, your Muse I warrant
is otherwise occupied, there is no dealing with your |2075| Muse now,
therefore I pray marse, marse, marse, oundes your Moose?
_Exeunt._
_Cri._ We shal haue sport to see them; come bright beauties,
The Sunne stoops low, and whispers in our eares,
To hasten on our Maske, let’s crowne this night,
|2080| With choise composed wreathes of sweet delight.
_ Exeunt._
_Enter_ Terrill _and_ Cælestine _sadly_, Sir Quintilian _stirring
and mingling a cup of wine_.
_Ter._ O Night, that Dyes the Firmament in blacke,
|2085| And like a cloth of cloudes doth stretch thy limbes;
Vpon the windy Tenters of the Ayre:
O thou that hang’st vpon the backe of Day,
Like a long mourning gowne: thou that art made
Without an eye, because thou shouldst not see
|2090| A Louers Reuels: nor participate
The Bride-groomes heauen; ô heauen, to me a hell:
I haue a hell in heauen, a blessed cursse;
All other Brides-groomes long for Night, and taxe
The Day of lazie slouth; call Time a Cripple,
|2095| And say the houres limpe after him: but I
Wish Night for euer banisht from the skie,
Or that the Day would neuer sleepe: or Time,
Were in a swound; and all his little Houres,
Could neuer lift him vp with their poore powers.
|2100| _Enter_ Cælestine.
But backward runnes the course of my delight;
The day hath turn’d his backe, and it is night;
This night will make vs odde; day made vs eeuen,
All else are damb’d in hel, but I in heauen.
|2105| _Cæ._ Let loose thy oath, so shall we still be eeuen.
_Ter._ Then am I damb’d in hell, and not in heauen.
_Cæl._ Must I then goe? tis easie to say no,
Must is the King himselfe, and I must goe;
Shall I then goe? that word is thine; I shall,
|2110| Is thy commaund: I goe because I shall;
Will I then goe? I aske my selfe; ô ill,
King, saies I must; you, I shall; I, I will.
_Ter._ Had I not sworne. _Cæl._ Why didst thou sweare?
_Ter._ The King
|2115| Sat heauvy on my resolution,
Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath.
_Cæl._ An oath? why, what’s an oath? tis but the smoake,
Of flame & bloud; the blister of the spirit,
Which rizeth from the Steame of rage, the bubble
|2120| That shootes vp to the tongue, and scaldes the voice,
(For oathes are burning words) thou swor’st but one,
Tis frozen long agoe: if one be numbred,
What Countrimen are they? where doe they dwell,
That speake naught else but oathes?
|2125| _Ter._ They’re men of hell.
An oath? why tis the trafficke of the soule,
Tis law within a man; the seale of faith,
The bond of euery conscience; vnto whom,
We set our thoughts like hands: yea, such a one
|2130| I swore, and to the King: A King containes
A thousand thousand; when I swore to him,
I swore to them; the very haires that guard
His head, will rise vp like sharpe witnesses
Against my faith and loyalty: his eye
|2135| Would straight condemne me: argue oathes no more,
My oath is high, for to the King I swore.
_Enter_ Sir Quintilian _with the cup._
_Cæ._ Must I betray my Chastity? So long
Cleane from the treason of rebelling lust;
|2140| O husband! O my Father! if poore I,
Must not liue chast, then let me chastly dye.
_S. qui._ I, heer’s a charme shall keep thee chaste, come, come,
Olde Time hath left vs but an houre to play
Our parts; begin the Sceane, who shall speake first?
|2145| Oh, I, I play the King, and Kings speake first;
Daughter stand thou heere, thou Sonne Terrill there,
O thou standst well, thou lean’st against a poast,
(For thou’t be posted off I warrant thee:)
The King will hang a horne about thy necke,
|2150| And make a poast of thee; you stand well both,
We neede no Prologue, the King entring first,
He’s a most gracious Prologue: mary then
For the Catastrophe, or Epilogue,
Ther’s one in cloth of Siluer, which no doubt,
|2155| Will please the hearers well, when he steps out;
His mouth is fil’d with words: see where he stands;
He’ll make them clap their eyes besides their hands.
But to my part; suppose who enters now,
A King, whose eyes are set in Siluer; one
|2160| That blusheth golde, speakes Musicke, dancing walkes,
Now gathers neerer takes thee by the hand,
When straight thou thinkst, the very Orbe of heauen,
Mooues round about thy fingers, then he speakes,
Thus--thus--I know not how.
|2165| _Cæl._ Nor I to answer him.
_Sir Quint._ No girle? knowst thou not how to answer him?
Why then the field is lost, and he rides home,
Like a great conquerour; not answer him?
Out of thy part already? foylde the Sceane?
|2170| Disranckt the lynes? disarm’d the action?
_Ter._ Yes yes, true chastity is tongu’d so weake,
Tis ouer-come ere it know how to speake.
_Sir qui._ Come, come, thou happy close of euery wrong,
Tis thou that canst dissolue the hardest doubt;
|2175| Tis time for thee to speake, we are all out.
Daughter, and you the man whom I call Sonne,
I must confesse I made a deede of gift;
To heauen and you, and gaue my childe to both:
When on my blessing I did charme her soule,
|2180| In the white circle of true Chastity,
Still to run true, till death: now Sir if not,
She forfeyts my rich blessing, and is Fin’d
With an eternall cursse; then I tell you,
She shall dye now, now whilst her soule is true.
|2185| _Ter._ Dye?
_Cæl._ I, I am deaths eccho.
_Sir quin._ O my Sonne,
I am her Father; euery teare I shed,
Is threescore ten yeere olde; I weepe and smile
|2190| Two kinde of teares: I weepe that she must dye,
I smile that she must dye a Virgin: thus
We ioyfull men mocke teares, and teares mocke vs.
_Ter._ What speakes that cup?
_Sir quin._ White wine and poison.
|2195| _Ter._ Oh:
That very name of poison, poisons me;
Thou Winter of a man, thou walking graue,
Whose life is like a dying Taper: how
Canst thou define a Louers labouring thoughts?
|2200| What Sent hast thou but death? what taste but earth?
The breath that purles from thee, is like the Steame
Of a new-open’d vault: I know thy drift,
Because thou art trauelling to the land of Graues,
Thou couetst company, and hether bringst,
|2205| A health of poison to pledge death: a poison
For this sweete spring; this Element is mine,
This is the Ayre I breath; corrupt it not;
This heauen is mine, I bought it with my soule,
Of him that selles a heauen, to buy a soule.
|2210| _Sir quin._ Well, let her goe; she’s thine thou cal’st her thine,
Thy Element, the Ayre thou breath’st; thou knowst
The Ayre thou breath’st is common, make her so:
Perhaps thou’t say; none but the King shall weare
Thy night-gowne, she that laps thee warme with loue;
|2215| And that Kings are not common: Then to shew,
By consequence he cannot make her so,
Indeede she may promoote her shame and thine,
And with your shames, speake a good word for mine:
The King shining so cleare, and we so dim,
|2220| Our darke disgraces will be seene through him.
Imagine her the cup of thy moist life,
What man would pledge a King in his owne wife?
_Ter._ She dyes: that sentence poisons her: O life!
What slaue would pledge a King in his owne wife?
|2225| _Cæl._ Welcome, ô poyson, phisicke against lust,
Thou holesome medicine to a constant bloud;
Thou rare Apothecary that canst keepe,
My chastity preseru’d, within this boxe;
Of tempting dust, this painted earthen pot,
|2230| That stands vpon the stall of the white soule,
To set the shop out like a flatterer,
To draw the customers of Sinne: come, come,
Thou art no poison, but a dyet-drinke,
To moderate my bloud: White-innocent Wine,
|2235| Art thou made guilty of my death? oh no,
For thou thy selfe art poison’d, take me hence,
For Innocence, shall murder Innocence.
_Drinkes._
_Ter._ Holde, holde, thou shalt not dye, my Bride, my wife,
O stop that speedy messenger of death;
|2240| O let him not run downe that narrow path,
Which leades vnto thy heart; nor carry newes
To thy remoouing soule, that thou must dye.
_Cæl._ Tis done already, the Spirituall Court,
Is breaking vp; all Offices discharg’d,
|2245| My soule remooues from this weake standing house,
Of fraile mortallity; Deare Father, blesse
Me now and euer: Dearer Man, farewell,
I ioyntly take my leaue of thee and life,
Goe, tell the King thou hast a constant wife.
|2250| _Ter._ I had a constant wife, Ile tell the King;
Vntill the King--what dost thou smile? art thou
A Father?
_Sir quin._ Yea, smiles on my cheekes arise,
To see how sweetly a true virgin dyes.
|2255| _Enter_ Blunt, Crispinus, Fannius, Philocalia, Dicache,
Petula, _lights before them_.
_Cris._ Sir Walter Terrill, gallants are all ready?
_Ter._ All ready.
_Dem._ Well said, come, come, wher’s the Bride?
|2260| _Ter._ She’s going to forbid the Banes agen.
She’ll dye a maide: and see, she keeps her oath.
_All the men._ Faire Cælestine!
_Ladies._ The Bride!
_Ter._ She that was faire,
|2265| Whom I cal’d faire and Cælestine.
_Omnes._ Dead!
_Sir quin._ Dead, sh’s deathes Bride, he hath her maidenhead.
_Cri._ Sir Walter Terrill.
_Omnes._ Tell vs how.
|2270| _Ter._ All cease,
The subiect that we treate of now is _Peace_,
If you demaund how: I can tell: if why,
Aske the King that; he was the cause, not I.
Let it suffice, she’s dead, she kept her vow,
|2275| Aske the King why, and then Ile tell you how:
Nay giue your Reuels life, tho she be gone,
To Court with all your preparation;
Leade on, and leade her on; if any aske
The mistery, say death presents a maske,
|2280| Ring peales of Musicke, you are Louers belles,
The losse of one heauen, brings a thousand hels.
_Exeunt._
_Enter an arm’d Sewer, after him the seruice of a Banquet: the
King at another doore meetes them, they Exeunt._
_Kin._ Why so, euen thus the Mercury of Heauen,
|2285| Vshers th’ ambrosiate banquet of the Gods,
When a long traine of Angels in a ranke,
Serue the first course, and bow their Christall knees,
Before the Siluer table; where Ioues page
Sweet Ganimed filles Nectar: when the Gods
|2290| Drinke healthes to Kings, they pledge them; none but Kings
Dare pledge the Gods; none but Gods drinke to Kings.
Men of our house are we prepar’d?
_Enter Seruants._
_Ser._ My Leige,
|2295| All waite the presence of the Bride.
_Kin._ The Bride?
Yea, euery senceles thing, which she beholdes,
Will looke on her agen, her eyes reflection,
Will make the walles all eyes, with her perfection:
|2300| Obserue me now, because of Maskes and Reuels,
And many nuptiall ceremonies: Marke,
This I create the Presence, heere the State,
Our Kingdomes seate, shall sit in honours Pride,
Like pleasures Queene, there will I place the Bride:
|2305| Be gone, be speedy, let me see it done.
_Exeunt._
A King in Loue, is Steward to himselfe,
And neuer scornes the office, my selfe buy,
All glances from the Market of her eye.
_Soft Musicke, chaire is set vnder a Canopie._