![]() ![]() You, my Sports, may here abide Till I call to light the bride. CUPID: Hymen's presence bids away 'Tis already at his night He can give you farther light. What might your glorious cause of triumph be? Ha' you shot Minerva or the Thespian dames? Heat aged Ops again with youthful flames? Or have you made the colder Moon to visit Once more a sheepcote? Say, what conquest is it Can make you hope such a renown to win? Is there a second Hercules brought to spin? Or, for some new disguise, leaves Jove his thunder?ĬUPID: Nor that, nor those, and yet no less a wonder- Which to tell, I may not stay. VENUS: What feat, what honor is it that you boast, My little straggler? I had given you lost, With all your games here. CUPID: Well done, antics! Now my bow And my quiver bear to show That these Beauties here may know By what arms this feat was done, That hath so much honor won Unto Venus and her son. With your revel fill the room, That our triumphs be not dumb. CUPID: Come, my little jocund Sports, Come away the time now sorts With your pastime. All his practice is deceit, Every gift it is a bait, Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears.ģ GRACE: Idle minutes are his reign Then the straggler makes his gain By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think hem joys 'Tis the ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself.ġ GRACE: If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him.Ģ GRACE: Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him-ģ GRACE: Since ye hear his falser play, And that he is Venus' runaway. Naught but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to Reason.Ģ GRACE: Trust him not his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. When his days are to be cruel, Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood. From the center to the sky Are his trophies rearéd high.Ģ GRACE: Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip, Over liver, lights, and heart, But not stay in any part And, if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself with kisses.ģ GRACE: He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows that outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.ġ GRACE: Still the fairest are his fuel. All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That being shot, like lightning, in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.ġ GRACE: At his sight, the sun hath turned Neptune in the waters burned Hell hath felt a greater heat Jove himself forsook his seat. He is Venus' runaway.Ģ GRACE: She that will but now discover Where the wingéd wag doth hover, Shall tonight receive a kiss, How or where herself would wish But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another.ģ GRACE: H' hath of marks about him plenty You shall know him among twenty. Speak to be heard.ġ GRACE: Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Calléd Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say. Begin, soft Graces, and proclaim reward To her that brings him in. I will have him cried, And all his virtues told, that, when they know What sprite he is, she soon may let him go, That guards him now, and think herself right blessed To be so timely rid of such a guest. Perchance he hath got some simple heart to hide His subtle shape in. Look all these ladies' eyes, And see if there he not concealéd lies, Or in their bosoms twixt their swelling breasts (The wag affects to make himself such nests). ![]() VENUS: Stay, nymphs, we then will try A nearer way. But he not yet returning, I am in fear Some gentle Grace or innocent Beauty here Be taken with him, or he hath surprised A second Psyche, and lives here disguised. Spy, if you can, his footsteps on this green, For here, as I am told, he late hath been, With divers of his brethren, lending light From their best flames to gild a glorious night, Which I not grudge at, being done for her Whose honors to mine own I still prefer. Love late is fled away, my eldest birth, Cupid, whom I did joy to call my son And, whom long absent, Venus is undone. VENUS: It is no common cause, ye will conceive, My lovely Graces, makes your goddess leave Her state in heaven, tonight to visit earth. The following one-act play was originally published in 1616 and is now in the public domain. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |