Without the Beauty of a Woman's Face;
From Womens Eyes this Doctrine I derive,
They are the Ground, the Books, the Academs,
From whence doth fpring the true Promethean Fire:
Why, univerfal plodding poifons up
The nimble Spirits in the Arteries;
As Motion and long Action tires
The finnewy Vigour of the Traveller.
Now for not looking on a Woman's Face,
You have in that forfworn the use of Eyes:
And Study too, the caufer of your Vow.
For where is any Author in the World,
Teaches fuch Beauty as a Woman's Eye:
Learning is but an Adjunct to our felf,
And where we are, our Learning likewife is..
Then when our felves we fee in Lady's Eyes,
Do we not likewife fee our Learning there?
O, we have made a Vow to ftudy, Lords,
And in that Vow we have forfworn our Books:
For when would you, my Liege, or you, or you,
In Leaden Contemplation have found out
Such fiery Numbers as the prompting Eyes
Of Beauties Tutors have enrich'd you with?
Other flow Arts entirely keep the Brain;
And therefore finding barren Practifers,
Scarce fhew a Harveft of their heavy Toil.
But Love firft learned in a Lady's Eyes,
Lives not alone imured in the Brain:
But with the motion of all Elements,
Courses as swift as Thought in every Power,
And gives to every Power a double Power,
Above their Functions and their Offices.
It adds a precious Seeing to the Eye:
A Lover's Eyes will gaze an Eagle blind.
A Lover's Ear will hear the lowest Sounds
When the fufpicious Head of Theft is stopt.
Love's feeling is more foft and fenfible,
Than are the tender Horns of cockled Snails:
Love's Tongue proves dainty Bacchus grofs in Tafte;
For Valour, is not Love a Hercules?

Still climing Trees in the Hefperides.

Subtle as a Sphinx, as fweet and mufical

As bright Apollo's Lute, ftrung with his Hair:
And when Love speaks, the Voice of all the Gods,
Make Heav'n drowfie with the Harmony.
Never durft Poet touch a Pen to write,
Until his Ink were temper'd with Love's Sighs;
O then his Lines would ravish Savage Ears,
And plant in Tyrants mild Humility.

From Womens Eyes this Doctrine I derive :
They fparkle ftill the right Promethean Fire,
They are the Books, the Arts, the Academes,
That fhew, contain, and nourish all the World;
Elfe none at all in ought proves excellent.
Then Fools you were, these Women to forfwear:
Or keeping what is fworn, you will prove Fools.
For Wisdom's fake (a Word that all Men love)
Or for Love's fake, a Word that loves all Men:
Or for Mens fake, the Author of these Women,
Or Womens fake, by whom we Men are Men;
Let us once lose our Oaths, to find our felves;
Or else we lose our felves, to keep our Oaths.
It is Religion to be thus forfworn,

For Charity it felf fullfils the Law;

And who can fever Love from Charity?

King. Saint Cupid then, and Soldiers to the Field. Biron. Advance your Standards, and upon them, Lords; Pell, mell, down with them: But be firft advis'd,

In Conflict that you get the Sun of them.

Long. Now to Plain-dealing, lay these Gloffes by,

Shall we refolve to woo these Girls of France.

King. And win them too; therefore let us devife
Some Entertainment for them at their Tents.

Biron. First from the Park let us conduct them thither,
Then homeward every Man attach the Hand
Of his fair Miftrefs; inthe Afternoon

We will with some strange Paftime folace them,
Such as the shortness of the time can shape:
For Revels, Dances, Masks, and merry Hours,
Forerun fair Love, ftrewing her Way with Flowers.
King. Away, away, no time fhall be omitted,
That will be time, and may by us be fitted.

VOL. I.

Ff

Biros

Away, the Gentles are at their Game, and we will to our Recreation.

[Exeunt Enter Biron with a Paper in his Hand, alone, Bian. The King he is hunting the Deer.

I am courfing my felf.

They have pitcht a Toyl, I am toyling in a Pitch, Pitch that defiles; defile, a foul Word: Well, fet thee down Sor row; for fo they fay the Fool faid, and fo fay I, and I the Fool, Well prov'd Wit. By the Lord this Love is as mad as Ajax, itkills Sheep, it kills me, I a Sheep. Well prov'd again on my Side. I will not love; if I do, hang me: I'faith I will not. O but her Eye: By this Light, but for her Eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two Eyes. Well, I do nothing in the World but lie, and lie in my Throat. By Heaven I do love, and it hath taught me to Rhime, and to be Melancholly; and here is part of my Rhime, and here my Melancholly. Well, the hath one a'my Sonnets already; the Clown bore it, the Fool fent it, and the Lady hath it: Sweet Clown, fweeter Fool, fweeteft Lady. By the World, I would not care a Pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a Paper, God give him Grace to groan. [He ftands afide.

King. Ay me.

Enter the King.

Biron. Shot, by Heav'n! Proceed, fweet Cupid; thou haft thumpt him with thy Birdbolt under the left Pap: In faith Secrets.

King. So fweet a Kifs the golden Sun gives not,
To those fresh Morning Drops upon the Rofe,
As thy Eye-beams when their fresh Rays have fmote
The Night of Dew that on my Cheeks down flows;
Nor shines the filver Moon one half so bright,
Through the tranfparent Bofom of the Deep,
As doth thy Face through Tears of mine give Lights
Thou fhin'ft in every Tear that I do weep;
No Drop, but as a Coach doth carry thee,
So rideft thou triumphing in my Woe.
Do but behold the Tears that fwell in me,
And they thy Glory through my Grief will fhew:
But do not love thy felf, then thou wilt keep
My Tears for Glaffes, and ftill make me weep.

O Queen of Queens, how far do'st thou excel !
No Thought can think, nor Tongue of Mortal tell.
How the fhall know my Griefs? I'll drop the Paper;
Sweet Leaves fhade Folly. Who is he comes here?
Enter Longavile.

[The King fteps afide. What! Longavile! and reading: Liften Ear.

Biron. Now in thy Likeness one more Fool appears.
King. Ay me, I am forfworn.

(know,

Biron. Why he comes in like a Perjur'd, wearing Papers. Long. In Love I hope, fweet Fellowship in Shame. Biron. One Drunkard loves another of the Name.. Long, Am I the first that have been perjur'd fo? Biron, I could put thee in Comfort: Not by two that I Thou mak'ft the Triumvirat the three Corner-Cap of Society, The Shape of Loves Tiburs, that hangs up Simplicity.

Long. I fear these stubborn Lines' lack Power to move: O fweet Maria, Emprefs of my Love,

Thefe Numbers will I tear, and write in Profe.

Biron. O Rhimes are Guards on wanton Cupid's Hose: Disfigure not his Shop.

Long. This fame fhall go,

[He reads the Sonnet,

Did not the heavenly Rhetorick of thine Eye,
'Gainft whom the World cannot hold Argument';
Perfuade my Heart to this false Perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not Punishment :
A Woman I forfwore, but I will prove,
Thon being a Goddess, I forfwore not thee.
My Vow was earthy, then a heav'nly Love:
Thy Grace being gain'd, cures all Difgrace in me.
Vows are but Breath, and Breath a Vapour is,
Then thou fair Sun, which on my Earth doft fbine,
Exhalft this Vapour-Vow; in thee it is;
If broken then, it is no Fault of mine;
If by me broke, what Foal is not fo wise,
To lose an Oath to win a Paradife?

Biron. This is the Liver-veir, which makes Fleih a Deity; A green Goose a Goddefs, pure, pure Idolatry. God amend us, God amend, we are much out o'th'

way.

Enter

Enter Dumain.

Long. By whom fhall I fend this! (Company?) Stay. Biron. All hid, all hid, an old infant Play; Like a Demy God, here fit I in the Sky; And wretched Fools Secrets heedfully o'er eye: More Sacks to the Mill! O Heav'ns I have my Wish, Dumain transform'd; four Woodcocks in a Dish. Dum. O moft divine Kate.

·Biron. O most prophane Coxcomb.

Dum. By Heav'n the Wonder of a mortal Eye.
Biron. By Earth fhe is not; Corporal, there you

lie.

Dum. Her Amber Hairs for Fowl have Amber coted. Biron. An Amber-colour'd Raven was well noted.

Dum. As upright as the Cedar.

Biron. Stoop I fay, her Shoulder is with Child.
Dum. As fair as Day.

Biron. Ay as fome Days; but then no Sun must shine.
Dum. O that I had my Wish?

Long. And I had mine.

King. And mine too, good Lord.

Biron. Amen, fo I had mine. Is not that a good Word? Dum. I would forget her, but a Feaver the Reigns in my Blood, and will remembred be.

Biron. A Feaver in your Blood! Why then Incifion Would let her out in Sawcers, fweet Mifprifion.

Dum. Once more I'll read the Ode that I have writ. Biron. Once more I'll mark how Love can vary Wit. Dumain reads his Sonnet.

On a Day, alack the Day:

Love, whofe Month is every May,

Spy'd a Bloom paffing fair,

Playing in the wanton Air:

Through the Velvet Leaves, the Wind,

All unfeen, can Paffage find.
That the Lover fick to death,
Wish'd himself the Heav'n's Breath.
Air, (quoth he) thy Cheeks to blow,
Air, would I might triumph so.
But alack my Hand is fworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy Throne :