The Maids Tragedy. Beaumont Francis

'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.

      [Enter Amintor.

      Cle. My Lord the Bridegroom!

      Mel. I might run fiercely, not more hastily

                        Upon my foe: I love thee well Amintor,

                        My mouth is much too narrow for my heart;

                         I joy to look upon those eyes of thine;

                        Thou art my friend, but my disorder'd speech cuts off

                        my love.

      Amin. Thou art Melantius;

                        All love is spoke in that, a sacrifice

                        To thank the gods, Melantius is return'd

                        In safety; victory sits on his sword

                        As she was wont; may she build there and dwell,

                        And may thy Armour be as it hath been,

                        Only thy valour and thy innocence.

                        What endless treasures would our enemies give,

                        That I might hold thee still thus!

      Mel. I am but poor in words, but credit me young man,

                        Thy Mother could no more but weep, for joy to see thee

                        After long absence; all the wounds I have,

                        Fetch not so much away, nor all the cryes

                        Of Widowed Mothers: but this is peace;

                        And what was War?

      Amin. Pardon thou holy God

                        Of Marriage bed, and frown not, I am forc't

                        In answer of such noble tears as those,

                        To weep upon my Wedding day.

      Mel. I fear thou art grown too sick; for I hear

                        A Lady mourns for thee, men say to death,

                        Forsaken of thee, on what terms I know not.

      Amin. She had my promise, but the King forbad it,

                        And made me make this worthy change, thy Sister

                        Accompanied with graces above her,

                        With whom I long to lose my lusty youth,

                        And grow old in her arms.

      Mel. Be prosperous.

      [Enter Messenger.

      Messen. My Lord, the Maskers rage for you.

      Lys. We are gone. Cleon, Strata, Diphilus.

      Amin. Wee'l all attend you, we shall trouble you

                       With our solemnities.

      Mel. Not so Amintor.

                       But if you laugh at my rude carriage

                       In peace, I'le do as much for you in War

                      When you