The sun doth beat upon the plain fields. Wherefore let us sit down, Galatea, under this fair oak, by whose broad leaves being defended from the warm beams we may enjoy the fresh air, which softly breathes from Humber floods.

Father, you have devised well. And whilst our flock doth roam up and down this pleasant green, you shall recount to me, if it please you, for what cause this tree was dedicated unto Neptune, and why you have thus disguised me.

I do agree thereto, and, when thy state and my care be considered, thou shalt know this question was not asked in vain.

I willingly attend.

In times past, where thou see’st a heap of small pebble stood a stately temple of white marble, which was dedicated to the God of the Sea, and in right, being so near the sea. Hither came all such as either ventured by long travel to see countries or by great traffic to use merchandise, offering sacrifice by fire to get safety by water, yielding thanks for perils past and making prayers for good success to come. But Fortune, constant in nothing but inconstancy, did change her copy, as the people their custom; for, the land being oppressed by Danes — who instead of sacrifice committed sacrilege, instead of religion rebellion, and made a prey of that in which they should have made their prayers, tearing down the temple even with the earth, being almost equal with the skies — enraged so the god who binds the winds in the hollows of the earth that he caused the seas to break their bounds sith men had broke their vows, and to swell as far above their reach as men had swerved beyond their reason. Then might you see ships sail where sheep fed, anchors cast where ploughs go, fishermen throw their nets where husbandmen sow their corn, and fishes throw their scales where fowls do breed their quills. Then might you gather froth where now is dew, rotten weeds for sweet roses, and take view of monstrous mermaids instead of passing fair maids.

To hear these sweet marvels I would mine eyes were turned also into ears.

But at the last our countrymen repenting, and not too late, because at last Neptune, either weary of his wroth or wary to do them wrong, upon condition consented to ease their miseries.

What condition will not miserable men accept?

The condition was this: that at every five years’ day, the fairest and chastest virgin in all the country should be brought unto this tree, and, here being bound (whom neither parentage shall excuse for honor, nor virtue for integrity), is left for a peace-offering unto Neptune.

Dear is the peace that is bought with guiltless blood.

I am not able to say that, but he sendeth a monster called the Agar, against whose coming the waters roar, the fowls fly away, and the cattle in the field for terror shun the banks.

And she bound to endure that horror?

And she bound to endure that horror.

Doth this monster devour her?

Whether she be devoured of him, or conveyed to Neptune, or drowned between both, it is not permitted to know, and incurreth danger to conjecture. Now, Galatea, here endeth my tale and beginneth thy tragedy.

Alas, father! And why so?

I would thou hadst been less fair or more fortunate. Then shouldst thou not repine that I have disguised thee in this attire, for thy beauty will make thee to be thought worthy of this god. To avoid therefore destiny (for wisdom ruleth the stars), I think it better to use an unlawful means, your honor preserved, than intolerable grief, both life and honor hazarded; and to prevent, if it be possible, thy constellation by my craft. Now hast thou heard the custom of this country, the cause why this tree was dedicated unto Neptune, and the vexing care of thy fearful father.

Father, I have been attentive to hear, and by your patience am ready to answer. Destiny may be deferred, not prevented; and therefore it were better to offer myself in triumph than to be drawn to it with dishonor. Hath nature (as you say) made me so fair above all, and shall not virtue make me as famous as others? Do you not know, or doth overcarefulness make you forget, that an honorable death is to be preferred before an infamous life? I am but a child, and have not lived long, and yet not so childish as I desire to live ever. Virtues I mean to carry to my grave, not grey hairs. I would I were as sure that destiny would light on me as I am resolved it could not fear me. Nature hath given me beauty, virtue courage; nature must yield me death, virtue honor. Suffer me therefore to die, for which I was born, or let me curse that I was born, sith I may not die for it.

Alas, Galatea, to consider the causes of change thou art too young, and that I should find them out for thee, too too fortunate.

The destiny to me cannot be so hard as the disguising hateful.

To gain love, the gods have taken shapes of beasts, and to save life art thou coy to take the attire of men?

They were beastly gods, that lust could make them seem as beasts.

In health it is easy to counsel the sick, but it’s hard for the sick to follow wholesome counsel. Well, let us depart. The day is far spent.

Fair nymph, are you strayed from your company by chance, or love you to wander solitarily on purpose?

Fair boy, or god, or whatever you be, I would you knew these woods are to me so well known that I cannot stray though I would, and my mind so free that to be melancholy I have no cause. There is none of Diana’s train that any can train, either out of their way or out of their wits.

What is that Diana, a goddess? What her nymphs, virgins? What her pastimes, hunting?

A goddess? Who knows it not? Virgins? Who thinks it not? Hunting? Who loves it not?

I pray thee, sweet wench, amongst all your sweet troop is there not one that followeth the sweetest thing, sweet love?

Love, good sir? What mean you by it? Or what do you call it?

A heat full of coldness, a sweet full of bitterness, a pain full of pleasantness, which maketh thoughts have eyes and hearts ears, bred by desire, nursed by delight, weaned by jealousy, killed by dissembling, buried by ingratitude; and this is love. Fair lady, will you any?

If it be nothing else, it is but a foolish thing.

Try, and you shall find it a pretty thing.

I have neither will nor leisure, but I will follow Diana in the chase, whose virgins are all chaste, delighting in the bow that wounds the swift hart in the forest, not fearing the bow that strikes the soft heart in the chamber. This difference is between my mistress Diana and your mother (as I guess) Venus: that all her nymphs are amiable and wise in their kind, the other amorous and too kind for their sex. And so farewell, little god.

Diana, and thou, and all thine, shall know that Cupid is a great god. I will practice awhile in these woods, and play such pranks with these nymphs that, while they aim to hit others with their arrows, they shall be wounded themselves with their own eyes.

Come, Phillida, fair Phillida, and I fear me too fair, being my Phillida: thou knowest the custom of this country, and I the greatness of thy beauty; we both the fierceness of the monster Agar. Everyone thinketh his own child fair, but I know that which I most desire and would least have, that thou art fairest. Thou shalt therefore disguise thyself in attire, lest I should disguise myself in affection, in suffering thee to perish by a fond desire whom I may preserve by a sure deceit.

Dear father, nature could not make me so fair as she hath made you kind, nor you more kind than me dutiful. Whatsoever you command I will not refuse, because you command nothing but my safety and your happiness. But how shall I be disguised?

In man’s apparel.

It will neither become my body nor my mind.

Why, Phillida?

For then I must keep company with boys, and commit follies unseemly for my sex; or keep company with girls, and be thought more wanton than becometh. Besides, I shall be ashamed of my long hose and short coat, and so unwarily blab out something by blushing at everything.

Fear not, Phillida. Use will make it easy; fear must make it necessary.

I agree, since my father will have it so, and fortune must.

Come let us in, and, when thou art disguised, roam about these woods till the time be past and Neptune pleased.

Now, mariner, what callest thou this sport on the sea?

It is called a wreck.

I take no pleasure in it. Of all deaths. I would not be drowned. One’s clothes will be so wet when he is taken up.

What call’st thou the thing we were bound to?

A rafter.

I will rather hang myself on a rafter in the house than be so haled in the sea; there one may have a leap for his life. But I marvel how our master speeds.

I’ll warrant by this time he is wetshod. Did you ever see water bubble as the sea did? But what shall we do?

You are now in Lincolnshire, where you can want no fowl, if you can devise means to catch them. There be woods hard by, and at every mile’s end, houses, so that if you seek on the land you shall speed better than on the sea.

Sea? Nay, I will never sail more. I brook not their diet. Their bread is so hard that one must carry a whetstone in his mouth to grind his teeth; the meat so salt that one would think after dinner his tongue had been powdered ten days.

To the Mariner Oh, thou hast a sweet life, mariner, to be pinned in a few boards, and to be within an inch of a thing bottomless. I pray thee, how often hast thou been drowned?

Fool, thou see’st I am yet alive.

Why, be they dead that be drowned? I had thought they had been with the fish, and so by chance been caught up with them in a net again. It were a shame a little cold water should kill a man of reason, when you shall see a poor minnow lie in it that hath no understanding.

Thou art wise from the crown of thy head upwards. Seek you new fortunes now; I will follow mine old. I can shift the moon and the sun, and know by one card what all you cannot do by a whole pair. The loadstone that always holdeth his nose to the north, the two-and-thirty points for the wind, the wonders I see would make all you blind. You be but boys. I fear the sea no more than a dish of water. Why, fools, it is but a liquid element. Farewell.

It were good we learned his cunning at the cards, for we must live by cozenage. We have neither lands, nor wit, nor masters, nor honesty.

Nay, I would fain have his thirty-two, that is, his three dozen lacking four points, for you see betwixt us three there is not two good points.

. Let us call him a little back that we may learn those points. To the Mariner Sirrah, a word. I pray thee show us thy points.

Will you learn?

Ay.

Then as you like this I will instruct you in all our secrets, for there is not a clout, nor card, nor board, nor post that hath not a special name or singular nature.

Well, begin with your points, for I lack only points in this world.

North. North and by east. North north-east. North-east and by north. North-east. North-east and by east. East north-east. East and by north. East.

I’ll say it. North. North-east. North-east. Nore-nore and by nore-east. I shall never do it.

. This is but one quarter.

I shall never learn a quarter of it. I will try. North. North-east, is by the west side. North and by north.

Passing ill!

Hast thou no memory? To Rafe Try thou.

North. North and by north. I can go no further.

O dullard! Is thy head lighter then the wind, and thy tongue so heavy it will not wag? I will once again say it.

I will never learn this language. It will get but small living, when it will scarce be learned till one be old.

Nay then, farewell. And if your fortunes exceed not your wits, you shall starve before ye sleep.Exit.

. Was there ever such cozening? Come, let us to the woods and see what fortune we may have before they be made ships. As for our master, he is drowned.

I will this way.

I, this.

I, this, and this day twelvemonth let us all meet here again. It may be we shall either beg together or hang together.

It skills not, so we be together. But let us sing now, though we cry hereafter.

Blush, Galatea, that must frame thy affection fit for thy habit, and therefore be thought immodest because thou art unfortunate! Thy tender years cannot dissemble this deceit, nor thy sex bear it. Oh, would the gods had made me as I seem to be, or that I might safely be what I seem not! Thy father doteth, Galatea, whose blind love corrupteth his fond judgment, and, jealous of thy death, seemeth to dote on thy beauty; whose fond care carrieth his partial eye as far from truth as his heart is from falsehood. But why dost thou blame him, or blab what thou art, when thou shouldst only counterfeit what thou art not? But whist! Here cometh a lad. I will learn of him how to behave myself.

To herself I neither like my gait nor my garments: the one untoward, the other unfit, both unseemly. O Phillida! But yonder stayeth one, and therefore say nothing. But O Phillida!

Aside, seeing Phillida I perceive that boys are in as great disliking of themselves as maids. Therefore, though I wear the apparel, I am glad I am not the person.

Aside It is a pretty boy and a fair. He might well have been a woman, but because he is not, I am glad I am; for now, under the color of my coat, I shall decipher the follies of their kind.

Aside I would salute him, but I fear I should make a curtsy instead of a leg.

Aside If I durst trust my face as well as I do my habit, I would spend some time to make pastime; for, say what they will of a man’s wit, it is no second thing to be a woman.

Aside All the blood in my body would be in my face, if he should ask me (as the question among men is common), Are you a maid?

Aside Why stand I still? Boys should be bold. But here cometh a brave train that will spill all our talk.

To Galatea God speed, fair boy.

You are deceived, lady.

Why, are you no boy?

No fair boy.

But I see an unhappy boy.

Saw you not the deer come this way? He flew down the wind, and I believe you have blanched him.

Whose deer was it, lady?

Diana’s deer.

I saw none but mine own dear.

To Diana This wag is wanton or a fool! Ask the other, Diana.

Aside I know not how it cometh to pass, but yonder boy is in mine eye too beautiful. I pray the gods the ladies think him not their dear!

To Phillida Pretty lad, do your sheep feed in the forest, or are you strayed from your flock, or on purpose come ye to mar Diana’s pastime?

I understand not one word you speak.

What, art thou neither lad nor shepherd?

My mother said I could be no lad till I was twenty year old, nor keep sheep till I could tell them; and therefore, lady, neither lad nor shepherd is here.

To Diana These boys are both agreed. Either they are very pleasant or too perverse. You were best, lady, make them tusk these woods, whilst we stand with our bows, and so use them as beagles since they have so good mouths.

I will. To Phillida Follow me without delay or excuse, and, if you can do nothing, yet shall you halloo the deer.

I am willing to go — Aside not for these ladies’ company, because myself am a virgin, but for that fair boy’s favor, who I think be a god.

To Galatea You, sir boy, shall also go.

I must if you command — Aside and would if you had not.

Now, Cupid, under the shape of a silly girl show the power of a mighty god. Let Diana and all her coy nymphs know that there is no heart so chaste but thy bow can wound, nor eyes so modest but thy brands can kindle, nor thoughts so staid but thy shafts can make wavering, weak, and wanton. Cupid, though he be a child, is no baby. I will make their pains my pastimes, and so confound their loves in their own sex that they shall dote in their desires, delight in their affections, and practice only impossibilities. Whilst I truant from my mother, I will use some tyranny in these woods, and so shall their exercise in foolish love be my excuse for running away. I will see whether fair faces be always chaste, or Diana’s virgins only modest; else will I spend both my shafts and shifts; and then, ladies, if you see these dainty dames entrapped in love, say softly to yourselves, we may all love.

Do silly shepherds go about to deceive great Neptune in putting on man’s attire upon women, and Cupid, to make sport, deceive them all by using a woman’s apparel upon a god? Then, Neptune, that hast taken sundry shapes to obtain love, stick not to practice some deceit to show thy deity, and, having often thrust thyself into the shape of beasts to deceive men, be not coy to use the shape of a shepherd to show thyself a god. Neptune cannot be overreached by swains. Himself is subtle, and, if Diana be overtaken by craft, Cupid is wise. I will into these woods and mark all, and in the end will mar all.

Call you this seeking of fortunes, when one can find nothing but birds’ nests? Would I were out of these woods! For I shall have but wooden luck. Here’s nothing but the skreeking of owls, croaking of frogs, hissing of adders, barking of foxes, walking of hags. But what be these? Enter Fairies, dancing and playing, and so exeunt. I will follow them, To hell I shall not go, for so fair faces never can have such hard fortunes. What black boy is this?

To himself What a life do I lead with my master! Nothing but blowing of bellows, beating of spirits, and scraping of crosslets. It is a very secret science, for none almost can understand the language of it: sublimation, almigation, calcination, rubification, incorporation, circination, cementation, albification, and fermentation, with as many terms unpossible to be uttered as the art to be compassed.

Aside Let me cross myself. I never heard so many great devils in a little monkey’s mouth.

Then our instruments: crosslets, sublimatories, cucurbits, limbecks, decensors, vials, manual and mural, for imbibing and conbibing, bellows molificative and indurative.

Aside What language is this? Do they speak so?

Then our metals: saltpeter, vitriol, sal tartar, sal preparat, argoll, resagar, sal ammoniac, agrimony, lunary, brimstone, valerian, tartar alum, breemwort, glass, unslaked lime, chalk, ashes, hair, and what not, to make I know not what.

Aside My hair beginneth to stand upright. Would the boy would make an end!

And yet such a beggerly science it is, and so strong on multiplication that the end is to have neither gold, wit, nor honesty.

Aside Then am I just of thy occupation. Coming forward What, fellow, well met!

Fellow? Upon what acquaintance?

Why, thou say’st the end of thy occupation is to have neither wit, money, nor honesty; and methinks, at a blush, thou shouldst be one of my occupation.

Thou art deceived. My master is an alchemist.

What’s that? A man?

A little more than a man, and a hair’s breadth less than a god. He can make of thy cap gold, and, by multiplication of one groat, three old angels. I have known him of the tag of a point to make a silver bowl of a pint.

That makes thee have never a point; they be all turned to pots. But if he can do this, he shall be a god altogether.

If thou have any gold to work on, thou art then made forever, for with one pound of gold he will go near to pave ten acres of ground.

How might a man serve him and learn his cunning?

Easily. First, seem to understand the terms, and specially mark these points. In our art there are four spirits.

Nay, I have done, if you work with devils!

Thou art gross. We call those spirits that are the grounds of our art, and, as it were, the metals more incorporative for domination. The first spirit is quicksilver.

That is my spirit, for my silver is so quick that I have much ado to catch it; and when I have it, it is so nimble that I cannot hold it. I thought there was a devil in it.

The second, orpiment.

That’s no spirit, but a word to conjure a spirit.

The third, sal ammoniac.

A proper word.

The fourth, brimstone.

That’s a stinking spirit, I thought there was some spirit in it because it burnt so blue. For my mother would often tell me that when the candle burnt blue, there was some ill spirit in the house, and now I perceive it was the spirit brimstone.

Thou canst remember these four spirits?

Let me alone to conjure them.

Now are there also seven bodies — but here cometh my master.

This is a beggar.

No, such cunning men must disguise themselves as though there were nothing in them, for otherwise they shall be compelled to work for princes, and so be constrained to bewray their secrets.

I like not his attire, but am enamored of his art.

Aside An ounce of silver limed, as much of crude mercury, of spirits four, being tempered with the bodies seven, by multiplying of it ten times, comes for one pound eight thousand pounds, so that I may have only beechen coals.

Is it possible?

It is more certain then certainty.

I’ll tell thee one secret: I stole a silver thimble. Dost thou think that he will make it a pottle pot?

A pottle pot? Nay, I dare warrant it a whole cupbord of plate. Why, of the quintessence of a leaden plummet he hath framed twenty dozen of silver spoons. Look how he studies. I durst venture my life he is now casting about how of his breath he may make golden bracelets, for oftentimes of smoke he hath made silver drops.

What do I hear?

Didst thou never hear how Jupiter came in a golden shower to Danae?

I remember that tale.

That shower did my master make of a spoonful of tartar alum, but with the fire of blood and the corrosive of the air he is able to make nothing infinite. — But whist! He espieth us.

Coming forward What, Peter, do you loiter, knowing that every minute increaseth our mine?

I was glad to take air, for the metal came so fast that I feared my face would have been turned to silver.

Indicating Rafe But what stripling is this?

One that is desirous to learn your craft.

Craft, sir boy? You must call it mystery.

All is one: a crafty mystery, and a mystical craft.

Canst thou take pains?

Infinite.

But thou must be sworn to be secret, and then I will entertain thee

I can swear, though I be a poor fellow, as well as the best man in the shire. But, sir, I much marvel that you, being so cunning, should be so ragged.

O my child, gryphs make their nests of gold, though their coats are feathers, and we feather our nests with diamonds, though our garments be but frieze. If thou knewest the secret of this science, the cunning would make thee so proud that thou wouldst disdain the outward pomp.

To Rafe My master is so ravished with his art that we many times go supperless to bed, for he will make gold of his bread, and such is the drought of his desire that we all wish our very guts were gold.

I have good fortune to light upon such a master.

When in the depth of my skill I determine to try the uttermost of mine art, I am dissuaded by the gods. Otherwise, I durst undertake to make the fire, as it flames, gold; the wind, as it blows, silver; the water, as it runs, lead; the earth, as it stands, iron; the sky, brass; and men’s thoughts, firm metals.

I must bless myself, and marvel at you.

Come in, and thou shalt see all.

I follow, I run, I fly. They say my father hath a golden thumb. You shall see me have a golden body.

I am glad of this, for now I shall have leisure to run away. Such a bald art as never was! Let him keep his new man, for he shall never see his old again. God shield me from blowing gold to nothing, with a strong imagination to make nothing anything!

How now, Galatea? Miserable Galatea, that, having put on the apparel of a boy, thou canst not also put on the mind. O fair Melebeus! Ay, too fair, and therefore, I fear, too proud. Had it not been better for thee to have been a sacrifice to Neptune then a slave to Cupid? To die for thy country than to live in thy fancy? To be a sacrifice than a lover? Oh, would, when I hunted his eye with my heart, he might have seen my heart with his eyes! Why did Nature to him, a boy, give a face so fair, or to me, a virgin, a fortune so hard? I will now use for the distaff the bow, and play at quoits abroad that was wont to sew in my sampler at home. It may be, Galatea. — Foolish Galatea, what may be? Nothing. Let me follow him into the woods, and thou, sweet Venus, be my guide!

Poor Phillida, curse the time of thy birth and rareness of thy beauty, the unaptness of thy apparel and the untamedness of thy affections. Art thou no sooner in the habit of a boy but thou must be enamored of a boy? What shalt thou do, when what best liketh thee most discontenteth thee? Go into the woods, watch the good times, his best moods, and transgress in love a little of thy modesty. I will. — I dare not. Thou must — I cannot. Then pine in thine own peevishness. I will not — I will. Ah, Phillida, do something, nay, anything, rather then live thus! Well, what I will do, myself knows not, but what I ought I know too well. And so I go, resolute either to bewray my love or suffer shame.

How now? What new conceits, what strange contraries, breed in thy mind? Is thy Diana become a Venus, thy chaste thoughts turned to wanton looks, thy conquering modesty to a captive imagination? Beginnest thou with piralis to die in the air and live in the fire, to leave the sweet delight of hunting and to follow the hot desire of love? O Telusa, these words are unfit for thy sex, being a virgin, but apt for thy affections, being a lover. And can there in years so young, in education so precise, in vows so holy, and in a heart so chaste, enter either a strong desire or a wish or a wavering thought of love? Can Cupid’s brands quench Vesta’s flames, and his feeble shafts headed with feathers pierce deeper than Diana’s arrows headed with steel? Break thy bow, Telusa, that seekest to break thy vow, and let those hands that aimed to hit the wild hart scratch out those eyes that have wounded thy tame heart. O vain and only naked name of chastity, that is made eternal and perisheth by time; holy, and is infected by fancy; divine, and is made mortal by folly! Virgins’ hearts, I perceive, are not unlike cotton trees, whose fruit is so hard in the bud that it soundeth like steel, and, being ripe, poureth forth nothing but wool; and their thoughts like the leaves of lunary, which, the further they grow from the sun, the sooner they are scorched with his beams. O Melebeus, because thou art fair, must I be fickle and false my vow because I see thy virtue? Fond girl that I am, to think of love! Nay, vain profession that I follow, to disdain love! But here cometh Eurota. I must now put on a red mask and blush, lest she perceive my pale face and laugh.

Telusa, Diana bid me hunt you out, and saith that you care not to hunt with her; but if you follow any other game than she hath roused, your punishment shall be to bend all our bows and weave all our strings. Why look ye so pale, so sad, so wildly?

Eurota, the game I follow is the thing I fly: my strange disease, my chief desire.

I am no Oedipus to expound riddles, and I muse how thou canst be Sphinx to utter them. But I pray thee, Telusa, tell me what thou ailest. If thou be sick, this ground hath leaves to heal; if melancholy, here are pastimes to use; if peevish, wit must wean it, or time, or counsel. If thou be in love (for I have heard of such a beast called Love), it shall be cured. Why blushest thou, Telusa?

To hear thee in reckoning my pains to recite thine own. I saw, Eurota, how amorously you glanced your eye on the fair boy in the white coat, and how cunningly, now that you would have some talk of love, you hit me in the teeth with love.

I confess that I am in love, and yet swear that I know not what it is. I feel my thoughts unknit, mine eyes unstayed, my heart I know not how affected or infected, my sleeps broken and full of dreams, my wakeness sad and full of sighs, myself in all things unlike myself. If this be love, I would it had never been devised.

Thou hast told what I am in uttering what thyself is. These are my passions, Eurota, my unbridled passions, my intolerable passions, which I were as good acknowledge and crave counsel as to deny and endure peril.

How did it take you first, Telusa?

By the eyes, my wanton eyes, which conceived the picture of his face and hanged it on the very strings of my heart. O fair Melibeus! O fond Telusa! But how did it take you, Eurota?

By the ears, whose sweet words sunk so deep into my head that the remembrance of his wit hath bereaved me of my wisdom. O eloquent Tyterus! O credulous Eurota! But soft, here cometh Ramia. But let her not hear us talk. We will withdraw ourselves and hear her talk.

I am sent to seek others, that have lost myself.

Aside to Telusa You shall see Ramia hath also bitten on a love-leaf.

To herself Can there be no heart so chaste but love can wound? Nor vows so holy but affection can violate? Vain art thou, virtue, and thou, chastity, but a byword, when you both are subject to love, of all things the most abject. If Love be a god, why should not lovers be virtuous? Love is a god, and lovers are virtuous.

Coming forward with Telusa Indeed, Ramia, if lovers were not virtuous, then wert thou vicious.

What, are you come so near me?

I think we came near you when we said you loved.

Tush, Ramia, ’tis too late to recall it; to repent it, a shame. Therefore, I pray thee, tell what is love?

If myself felt only this infection, I would then take upon me the definition, but, being incident to so many, I dare not myself describe it. But we will all talk of that in the woods. Diana stormeth that, sending one to seek another, she loseth all. Servia, of all the nymphs the coyest, loveth deadly, and exclaimeth against Diana, honoreth Venus, detesteth Vesta, and maketh a common scorn of virtue. Clymene, whose stately looks seemed to amaze the greatest lords, stoopeth, yieldeth, and fawneth on the strange boy in the woods. Myself (with blushing I speak it) am thrall to that boy, that fair boy, that beautiful boy!

What have we here, all in love? No other food than fancy? No, no, she shall not have the fair boy.

Nor you, Telusa.

Nor you, Eurota.

I love Melibeus, and my deserts shall be answerable to my desires. I will forsake Diana for him. I will die for him!

So saith Clymene, and she will have him. I care not. My sweet Tityrus, though he seem proud, I impute it to childishness, who, being yet scarce out of swath-clouts, cannot understand these deep conceits. I love him.

So do I, and I will have him!

Immodest all that we are, unfortunate all that we are like to be, shall virgins begin to wrangle for love and become wanton in their thoughts, in their words, in their actions? O divine Love, which art therefore called divine because thou overreachest the wisest, conquerest the chastest, and dost all things both unlikely and impossible, because thou art Love! Thou makest the bashful impudent, the wise fond, the chaste wanton, and workest contraries to our reach, because thyself is beyond reason.

Talk no more, Telusa; your words wound. Ah, would I were no woman!

Would Tityrus were no boy!

Would Telusa were nobody!

It is pity that Nature framed you not a woman, having a face so fair, so lovely a countenance, so modest a behavior.

There is a tree in Tylos whose nuts have shells like fire, and, being cracked, the kernel is but water.

What a toy is it to tell me of that tree, being nothing to the purpose? I say it is pity you are not a woman.

I would not wish to be a woman unless it were because thou art a man.

Nay, I do not wish to be a woman, for then I should not love thee, for I have sworn never to love a woman.

A strange humor in so pretty a youth, and according to mine, for myself will never love a woman.

It were a shame, if a maiden should be a suitor (a thing hated in that sex), that thou shouldst deny to be her servant.

If it be a shame in me, it can be no commendation in you, for yourself is of that mind.

Suppose I were a virgin (I blush in supposing myself one), and that under the habit of a boy were the person of a maid: if I should utter my affection with sighs, manifest my sweet love by my salt tears, and prove my loyalty unspotted and my griefs intolerable, would not then that fair face pity this true heart?

Admit that I were as you would have me suppose that you are, and that I should with entreaties, prayers, oaths, bribes, and whatever can be invented in love desire your favor, would you not yield?

Tush, you come in with admit.

And you with suppose.

Aside What doubtful speeches be these! I fear me he is as I am, a maiden.

Aside What dread riseth in my mind! I fear the boy to be as I am, a maiden.

Aside Tush, it cannot be. His voice shows the contrary.

Aside Yet I do not think it, for he would then have blushed.

Have you ever a sister?

If I had but one, my brother must needs have two. But I pray, have you ever a one?

My father had but one daughter, and therefore I could have no sister.

Aside Ay me! He is as I am, for his speeches be as mine are.

Aside What shall I do? Either he is subtle or my sex simple.

Aside I have known divers of Diana’s nymphs enamored of him, yet hath he rejected all, either as too proud to disdain, or too childish not to understand, or for that he knoweth himself to be a virgin.

I am in a quandary. Diana’s nymphs have followed him, and he despised them, either knowing too well the beauty of his own face or that himself is of the same mold. I will once again try him. To Galatea You promised me in the woods that you would love me before all Diana’s nymphs.

Ay, so you would love me before all Diana’s nymphs.

Can you prefer a fond boy as I am before so fair ladies as they are?

Why should not I as well as you?

Come, let us into the grove, and make much one of another, that cannot tell what to think one of another.

Rafe, my boy is run away. I trust thou wilt not run after.

Aside I would I had a pair of wings that I might fly after!

My boy was the veriest thief, the arrantest liar, and the vilest swearer in the world — otherwise the best boy in the world. He hath stolen my apparel, all my money, and forgot nothing but to bid me farewell.

That will not I forget. Farewell, master!

Why, thou hast not yet seen the end of my art.

I would I had not known the beginning. Did not you promise me of my silver thimble to make a whole cupboard of plate, and that of a Spanish needle you would build a silver steeple?

Ay, Rafe. The fortune of this art consisteth in the measure of the fire, for if there be a coal too much or a spark too little, if it be a little too hot or a thought too soft, all our labor is in vain. Besides, they that blow must beat time with their breaths, as musicians do with their breasts, so as there must be of the metals, the fire, and workers a very harmony.

Nay, if you must weigh your fire by ounces, and take measure of a man’s blast, you may then make of a dram of wind a wedge of gold, and of the shadow of one shilling make another, so as you have an organist to tune your temperatures.

So is it, and often doth it happen, that the just proportion of the fire and all things concur.

Con-cur? Con-dog! I will away.

Then away!

An art, quoth you, that one multiplieth so much all day that he wanteth money to buy meat at night? Seeing the Astronomer But what have we yonder? What devout man? He will never speak till he be urged. I will salute him. — Sir, there lieth a purse under your feet. If I thought it were not yours, I would take it up.

Dost thou not know that I was calculating the nativity of Alexander’s great horse?

Why, what are you?

An astronomer .

What, one of those that makes almanacs?

Ipsissimus. I can tell the minute of thy birth, the moment of thy death, and the manner. I can tell thee what weather shall be between this and octgessimus octavus mirabilis annus. When I list I can set a trap for the sun, catch the moon with lime-twigs, and go a-batfowling for stars. I can tell thee things past and things to come, and with my cunning measure how many yards of clouds are beneath the sky. Nothing can happen which I foresee not; nothing shall.

I hope, sir, you are no more than a god.

I can bring the twelve signs out of their zodiacs and hang them up at taverns.

I pray you, sir, tell me what you cannot do? For I perceive there is nothing so easy for you to compass as impossibilities. But what be those signs?

As a man should say, signs which govern the body. The ram governeth the head.

That is the worst sign for the head.

Why?

Because it is a sign of an ill ewe.

Tush, that sign must be there. Then the Bull for the throat, Capricornus for the knees.

I will hear no more signs, if they be all such desperate signs. But seeing you are — I know not who to term you — shall I serve you? I would fain serve.

I accept thee.

Happy am I! For now shall I reach thoughts, and tell how many drops of water goes to the greatest shower of rain. You shall see me catch the moon in the ’clips like a coney in a purse-net.

I will teach thee the golden number, the epact, and the prime.

I will meddle no more with numbering of gold, for multiplication is a miserable action. I pray, sir, what weather shall we have this hour threescore year?

That I must cast by our judicials astronomical. Therefore come in with me, and thou shall see every wrinkle in my astrological wisdom, and I will make the heavens as plain to thee as the highway. Thy cunning shall sit cheek by jowl with the sun’s chariot. Then shalt thou see what a base thing it is to have others’ thoughts creep on the ground, whenas thine shall be stitched to the stars.

Then I shall be translated from this mortality.

Thy thoughts shall be metamorphosed and made hail-fellows with the gods.

O fortune! I feel my very brains moralized, and as it were a certain contempt of earthly actions is crept into my mind by an ethereal contemplation. Come, let us in.

What news have we here, ladies? Are all in love? Are Diana’s nymphs become Venus’s wantons? Is it a shame to be chaste because you be amiable? Or must you needs be amorous because you are fair? O Venus, if this be thy spite I will requite it with more then hate. Well shalt thou know what it is to drib thine arrows up and down Diana’s leas. There is an unknown nymph that straggleth up and down these woods, which I suspect hath been the weaver of these woes, I saw her slumbering by the brook-side. Go search her and bring her. If you find upon her shoulder a burn, it is Cupid; if any print on her back like a leaf, it is Medea; if any picture on her left breast like a bird, it is Calypso. Whoever it be, bring her hither, and speedily bring her hither.

I will go with speed.

Go you, Larissa, and help her.

I obey.

Now, ladies, doth not that make your cheeks blush that makes mine ears glow? Or can you remember that without sobs which Diana cannot think on without sighs? What greater dishonor could happen to Diana, or to her nymphs shame, than that there can be any time so idle that should make their heads so addle? Your chaste hearts, my nymphs, should resemble the onyx, which is hottest when it is whitest; and your thoughts, the more they are assaulted with desires, the less they should be affected. You should think love like Homer’s moly: a white leaf and a black root, a fair show and a bitter taste. Of all trees the cedar is greatest and hath the smallest seed; of all affections, love hath the greatest name and the least virtue. Shall it be said, and shall Venus say it — nay, shall it be seen, and shall wantons see it — that Diana, the goddess of chastity, whose thoughts are always answerable to her vows, whose eyes never glanced on desire, and whose heart abateth the point of Cupid’s arrows, shall have her virgins to become unchaste in desires, immoderate in affection, untemperate in love, in foolish love, in base love? Eagles cast their evil feathers in the sun, but you cast your best desires upon a shadow. The birds ibes lose their sweetness when they lose their sights, and virgins all their virtues with their unchaste thoughts. Unchaste, Diana calleth that that hath either any show or suspicion of lightness. O my dear nymphs, if you knew how loving thoughts stain lovely faces, you would be as careful to have the one as unspotted as the other beautiful. Cast before your eyes the loves of Venus’s trulls, their fortunes, their fancies, their ends. What are they else but Silenus’s pictures — without, lambs and doves; within, apes and owls — who, like Ixion, embrace clouds for Juno, the shadows of virtue instead of the substance. The eagle’s feathers consume the feathers of all others, and love’s desire corrupteth all other virtues. I blush, ladies, that you, having been heretofore patient of labors, should now become prentices to idleness and use the pen for sonnets, not the needle for samplers. And how is your love placed? Upon pelting boys, perhaps base of birth, without doubt weak of discretion. Ay, but they are fair. O ladies, do your eyes begin to love colors, whose hearts was wont to loathe them? Is Diana’s chase become Venus’s court? And are your holy vows turned to hollow thoughts?

Madam, if love were not a thing beyond reason, we might then give a reason of our doings; but so divine is his force that it worketh effects as contrary to that we wish as unreasonable against that we ought.

Lady, so unacquainted are the passions of love that we can neither describe them nor bear them.

Foolish girls, how willing you are to follow that which you should fly! But here cometh Telusa.

We have brought the disguised nymph, and have found on his shoulder Psyche’s burn, and he confesseth himself to be Cupid.

To Cupid How now, sir, are you caught? Are you Cupid?

Thou shalt see, Diana, that I dare confess myself to be Cupid.

And thou shalt see, Cupid, that I will show myself to be Diana — that is, conqueror of thy loose and untamed appetites. Did thy mother, Venus, under the color of a nymph, send thee hither to wound my nymphs? Doth she add craft to her malice, and, mistrusting her deity, practice deceit? Is there no place but my groves, no persons but my nymphs? Cruel and unkind Venus, that spiteth only chastity, thou shalt see that Diana’s power shall revenge thy policy and tame this pride. As for thee, Cupid, I will break thy bow and burn thine arrows, bind thy hands, clip thy wings, and fetter thy feet. Thou that fattest others with hopes shalt be fed thyself with wishes, and thou that bindest others with golden thoughts shalt be bound thyself with golden fetters. Venus’s rods are made of roses, Diana’s of briars. Let Venus, that great goddess, ransom Cupid, that little god. These ladies here, whom thou hast infected with foolish love, shall both tread on thee and triumph over thee. Thine own arrow shall be shot into thine own bosom, and thou shalt be enamored, not on Psyches, but on Circes. I will teach thee what it is to displease Diana, distress her nymphs, or disturb her game.

Diana, what I have done cannot be undone, But what you mean to do shall. Venus hath some gods to her friends, Cupid shall have all.

Are you prating? I will bridle thy tongue and thy power, and in spite of mine own thoughts I will set thee a task every day which, if thou finish not, thou shalt feel the smart. Thou shalt be used as Diana’s slave, not Venus’s son. All the world shall see that I will use thee like a captive, and show myself a conqueror. To her nymphs Come, have him in, that we may devise apt punishments for his proud presumptions.

To Cupid We will plague ye for a little god.

We will never pity thee, though thou be a god.

Nor I.

Nor I.

This is the day wherein you must satisfy Neptune and save yourselves. Call together your fair daughters, and for a sacrifice take the fairest; for better it is to offer a virgin than suffer ruin. If you think it against nature to sacrifice your children, think it also against sense to destroy your country. If you imagine Neptune pitiless to desire such a prey, confess yourselves perverse to deserve such a punishment. You see this tree, this fatal tree, whose leaves, though they glister like gold, yet it threateneth to fair virgins grief. To this tree must the beautifullest be bound until the monster Agar carry her away, and, if the monster come not, then assure yourselves that the fairest is concealed; and then your country shall be destroyed. Therefore consult with yourselves, not as fathers of children, but as favorers of your country. Let Neptune have his right if you will have your quiet. Thus have I warned you to be careful, and would wish you to be wise, knowing that whoso hath the fairest daughter hath the greatest fortune, in losing one to save all. And so I depart to provide ceremonies for the sacrifice, and command you to bring the sacrifice.

They say, Tityrus, that you have a fair daughter. If it be so, dissemble not, for you shall be a fortunate father. It is a thing holy to preserve one’s country, and honorable to be the cause.

Indeed, Melibeus, I have heard you boast that you had a fair daughter, than the which none was more beautiful. I hope you are not so careful of a child that you will be careless of your country, or add so much to nature that you will detract from wisdom.

I must confess that I had a daughter, and I know you have; but alas! My child’s cradle was her grave and her swath-clout her winding sheet. I would she had lived till now. She should willingly have died now; for what could have happened to poor Melibeus more comfortable than to be the father of a fair child and sweet country?

Oh, Melibeus, dissemble you may with men; deceive the gods you cannot. Did not I see (and very lately see) your daughter in your arms, whenas you gave her infinite kisses with affection I fear me more then fatherly? You have conveyed her away that you might cast us all away, bereaving her the honor of her beauty and us the benefit, preferring a common inconvenience before a private mischief.

It is a bad cloth, Tityrus, that will take no color, and a simple father that can use no cunning. You make the people believe that you wish well when you practice nothing but ill, wishing to be thought religious towards the gods when I know you deceitful towards men. You cannot overreach me, Tityrus; overshoot yourself you may. It is a wily mouse that will breed in the cat’s ear, and he must halt cunningly that will deceive a cripple. Did you ever see me kiss my daughter? You are deceived; it was my wife. And if you thought so young a piece unfit for so old a person, and therefore imagined it to be my child, not my spouse, you must know that silver hairs delight in golden locks, and the old fancies crave young nurses, and frosty years must be thawed by youthful fires. But this matter set aside, you have a fair daughter, Tityrus, and it is pity you are so fond a father.

You are both either too fond or too froward, for, whilst you dispute to save your daughters, we neglect to prevent our destruction.

Come, let us away and seek out a sacrifice. We must sift out their cunning, and let them shift for themselves.

Boy, give ear!

Come, Cupid, to your task. First you must undo all these lovers’ knots, because you tied them.

If they be true love-knots, ’tis unpossible to unknit them; if false, I never tied them.

Make no excuse, but to it.

Love-knots are tied with eyes and cannot be undone with hands, made fast with thoughts and cannot be unlosed with fingers. Had Diana no task to set Cupid to but things impossible?

I will to it.

Why how now? You tie the knots faster.

I cannot choose. It goeth against my mind to make them loose.

Let me see, now. She tries. ’Tis unpossible to be undone.

. It is the true love knot of a woman’s heart, therefore cannot be undone.

That falls in sunder of itself.

It was made of a man’s thought, which will never hang together.

You have undone that well.

Ay, because it was never tied well.

To the rest, for she will give you no rest. Cupid resumes his task. These two knots are finely untied!

It was because I never tied them. The one was knit by Pluto, not Cupid, by money, not love; the other by force, not faith, by appointment, not affection.

Why do you lay that knot aside?

For death.

Why?

Because the knot was knit by faith, and must only be unknit of death.

Why laugh you?

Because it is the fairest and the falsest, done with greatest art and least truth, with best colors and worst conceits.

Who tied it?

A man’s tongue.

Why do you put that in my bosom?

Because it is only for a woman’s bosom.

. Why, what is it?

A woman’s heart.

Come, let us go in and tell that Cupid hath done his task. Stay you behind, Larissa, and see he sleep not, for love will be idle. And take heed you surfeit not, for love will be wanton.

Let me alone. I will find him somewhat to do.

Lady, can you for pity see Cupid thus punished?

Why did Cupid punish us without pity?

Is love a punishment?

It is no pastime.

To the absent Venus O Venus, if thou sawest Cupid as a captive, bound to obey that was wont to command, fearing ladies’ threats that once pierced their hearts, I cannot tell whether thou wouldst revenge it for despite or laugh at it for disport. To the absent Diana The time may come, Diana, and the time shall come, that thou that settest Cupid to undo knots shalt entreat Cupid to tie knots. To the ladies in the audience, perhaps also to the absent nymphs And you ladies that with solace have beheld my pains shall with sighs intreat my pity.

How now, Cupid, begin you to nod?

Come, Cupid, Diana hath devised new labors for you that are god of loves. You shall weave samplers all night, and lackey after Diana all day. You shall shortly shoot at beasts for men because you have made beasts of men, and wait on ladies’ trains because thou entrappest ladies by trains. All the stories that are in Diana’s arras which are of love you must pick out with your needle, and in that place sew Vesta with her nuns and Diana with her nymphs. How like you this, Cupid?

I say I will prick as well with my needle as ever I did with mine arrows.

Diana cannot yield. She conquers affection.

Diana shall yield. She cannot conquer destiny.

Come, Cupid, you must to your business.

You shall find me so busy in your heads that you shall wish I had been idle with your hearts.

This day is the solemn sacrifice at this tree, wherein the fairest virgin (were not the inhabitants faithless) should be offered unto me. But so over-careful are fathers to their children that they forget the safety of their country, and, fearing to become unnatural, become unreasonable. Their sleights may blear men; deceive me they cannot. I will be here at the hour, and show as great cruelty as they have done craft, and well shall they know that Neptune should have been entreated, not cozened.

I marvel what virgin the people will present. It is happy you are none, for then it would have fallen to your lot, because you are so fair.

If you had been a maiden too, I need not to have feared, because you are fairer.

I pray thee, sweet boy, flatter not me. Speak truth of thyself, for in mine eye of all the world thou art fairest.

These be fair words, but far from thy true thoughts. I know mine own face in a true glass, and desire not to see it in a flattering mouth.

Oh, would I did flatter thee, and that fortune would not flatter me! I love thee as a brother, but love not me so.

No I will not, but love thee better, because I cannot love as a brother.

Seeing we are both boys, and both lovers, that our affection may have some show and seem as it were love, let me call thee mistress.

I accept that name, for divers before have called me mistress.

For what cause?

Nay, there lie the mysteries.

Will not you be at the sacrifice?

No.

Why?

Because I dreamt that if I were there I should be turned to a virgin, and then being so fair (as thou say’st I am) I should be offered, as thou knowest one must. But will not you be there?

Not unless I were sure that a boy might be sacrificed, and not a maiden.

Why, then you are in danger.

But I would escape it by deceit. But seeing we are resolved to be both absent, let us wander into these groves till the hour be past.

I am agreed, for then my fear will be past.

Why, what dost thou fear?

Nothing but that you love me not.

I will. — Poor Phillida, what shouldst thou think of thyself, that lovest one that, I fear me, is as thyself is? And may it not be that her father practiced the same deceit with her that my father hath with me, and, knowing her to be fair, feared she should be unfortunate? If it be so, Phillida, how desperate is thy case! If it be not, how doubtful! For if she be a maiden, there is no hope of my love; if a boy, a hazard. I will after him or her, and lead a melancholy life, that look for a miserable death.

No more masters now, but a mistress, if I can light on her. An astronomer! Of all occupations that’s the worst. Yet well fare the Alchemist, for he keeps good fires though he gets no gold; the other stands warming himself by staring on the stars, which I think he can as soon number as know their virtues. He told me a long tale of octogessimus octavus, and the meeting of the conjunctions and planets, and in the meantime he fell backward himself into a pond. I asked him why he foresaw not that by the stars. He said he knew it but contemned it. But soft, is not this my brother Robin?

Yes, as sure as thou art Rafe.

What, Robin? What news? What fortune?

Faith, I have had but bad fortune, but I prithee tell me thine.

I have had two masters, not by art but by nature. One said that by multiplying he would make of a penny ten pound.

Ay, but could he do it?

Could he do it, quoth you? Why, man, I saw a pretty wench come to his shop, where with puffing, blowing, and sweating, he so plied her that he multipled her.

How?

Why he made her of one, two.

What, by fire?

No, by the philosopher’s stone.

Why, have philosopher’s such stones?

Ay, but they lie in a privy cupboard.

Why then thou art rich if thou have learned this cunning.

Tush, this was nothing. He would of a little fasting spittle make a hose and doublet of cloth of silver.

Would I had been with him! For I have had almost no meat but spittle since I came to the woods.

How then didst thou live?

Why, man, I served a fortune-teller, who said I should live to see my father hanged and both my brothers beg. So I conclude the mill shall be mine, and I live by imagination still.

Thy master was an ass, and looked on the lines of thy hands. But my other master was an astronomer, which could pick my nativity out of the stars. I should have half a dozen stars in my pocket if I have not lost them, but here they be: Sol, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus.

Why, these be but names.

Ay, but by these he gathereth that I was a Jovalist born of a Thursday, and that I should be a brave Venerian and get all my good luck on a Friday.

’Tis strange that a fish day should be a flesh-day.

Robin, Venus orta mari: Venus was born of the sea, the sea will have fish, fish must have wine, wine will have flesh, for caro carnis genus est muliebre. But soft, here cometh that notable villain that once preferred me to the Alchemist.

To himself So I had a master, I would not care what became of me.

Aside to Robin Robin, thou shalt see me fit him. So I had a servant, I care neither for his conditions, his qualities, nor his person.

Seeing them What, Rafe? well met. No doubt you had a warm service of my master the alchemist?

’Twas warm indeed, for the fire had almost burnt out mine eyes, and yet my teeth still watered with hunger, so that my service was both too hot and too cold. I melted all my meat and made only my slumber thoughts, and so had a full head and an empty belly. But where hast thou been since?

With a brother of thine, I think, for he hath such a coat, and two brothers (as he saith) seeking of fortunes.

’Tis my brother Dick. I prithee, let’s go to him.

Sirrah, what was he doing that he came not with thee?

He hath gotten a master now, that will teach him to make you both his younger brothers.

Ay, thou passest for devising impossibilities. That’s as true as thy master could make silver pots of tags of points.

Nay, he will teach him to cozen you both, and so get the mill to himself.

Nay, if he be both our cozens, I will be his great grandfather, and Robin shall be his uncle. But, I pray thee, bring us to him quickly, for I am great-bellied with conceit till I see him.

Come then and go with me, and I will bring ye to him straight.

Bring forth the virgin, the fatal virgin, the fairest virgin, if you mean to appease Neptune and preserve your country.

Here she cometh, accompanied only with men, because it is a sight unseemly (as all virgins say) to see the misfortune of a maiden, and terrible to behold the fierceness of Agar the monster.

Miserable and accursed Hebe, that, being neither fair nor fortunate, thou shouldst be thought most happy and beautiful! Curse thy birth, thy life, thy death, being born to live in danger and, having lived, to die by deceit. Art thou the sacrifice to appease Neptune and satisfy the custom, the bloody custom, ordained for the safety of thy country? Ay, Hebe, poor Hebe: men will have it so, whose forces command our weak natures. Nay, the gods will have it so, whose powers dally with our purposes. The Egyptians never cut their dates from the tree, because they are so fresh and green; it is thought wickedness to pull roses from the stalks in the garden of Palestine, for that they have so lively a red; and whoso cutteth the incense tree in Arabia before it fall committeth sacrilege.

Shall it only be lawful amongst us in the prime of youth and pride of beauty to destroy both youth and beauty, and what was honored in fruits and flowers as a virtue to violate in a virgin as a vice? But alas! Destiny alloweth no dispute. Die, Hebe, Hebe, die! Woeful Hebe, and only accursed Hebe! Farewell the sweet delights of life, and welcome now the bitter pangs of death! Farewell, you chaste virgins, whose thoughts are divine, whose faces fair, whose fortunes are agreeable to your affections! Enjoy, and long enjoy, the pleasure of your curled locks, the amiableness of your wished looks, the sweetness of your tuned voices, the content of your inward thoughts, the pomp of your outward shows. Only Hebe biddeth farewell to all the joys that she conceived and you hope for, that she possessed and you shall. Farewell, the pomp of princes’ courts, whose roofs are embossed with gold and whose pavements are decked with fair ladies; where the days are spent in sweet delights, the nights in pleasant dreams; where chastity honoreth affections and commandeth, yieldeth to desire and conquereth!

Farewell, the sovereign of all virtue and goddess of all virgins, Diana, whose perfections are impossible to be numbered and therefore infinite, never to be matched and therefore immortal! Farewell, sweet parents, yet, to be mine, unfortunate parents! How blessed had you been in barrenness! How happy had I been if I had not been! Farewell, life, vain life, wretched life, whose sorrows are long, whose end doubtful, whose miseries certain, whose hopes innumerable, whose fears intolerable! Come, Death, and welcome, Death, whom nature cannot resist, because necessity ruleth, nor defer because destiny hasteth! Come, Agar, thou unsatiable monster of maidens’ blood and devourer of beauty’s bowels. Glut thyself till thou surfeit, and let my life end thine. Tear these tender joints with thy greedy jaws, these yellow locks with thy black feet, this fair face with thy foul teeth. Why abatest thou thy wonted swiftness? I am fair; I am a virgin; I am ready. Come, Agar, thou horrible monster, and farewell, world, thou viler monster!

The monster is not come, and therefore I see Neptune is abused, whose rage will, I fear me, be both infinite and intolerable. Take in this virgin, whose want of beauty hath saved her own life and destroyed all yours.

We could not find any fairer.

Neptune will. Go deliver her to her father.

Fortunate Hebe, how shalt thou express thy joys? Nay, unhappy girl, that art not the fairest. Had it not been better for thee to have died with fame than to live with dishonor, to have preferred the safety of thy country and rareness of thy beauty before sweetness of life and vanity of the world? But alas! Destiny would not have it so. Destiny could not, for it asketh the beautifullest. I would, Hebe, thou hadst been beautifullest.

Come, Hebe, here is no time for us to reason. It had been best for us thou hadst been most beautiful.

We met the virgin that should have been offered to Neptune. Belike either the custom is pardoned or she not thought fairest.

I cannot conjecture the cause, but I fear the event.

Why should you fear? The god requireth no boy.

I would he did. Then should I have no fear.

I am glad he doth not, though, because if he did I should have also cause to fear. But soft, what man or god is this? Let us closely withdraw ourselves into the thickets.Exeunt ambo. Enter Neptune alone.

And do men begin to be equal with gods, seeking by craft to overreach them that by power oversee them? Do they dote so much on their daughters that they stick not to dally with our deities? Well shall the inhabitants see that destiny cannot be prevented by craft nor my anger be appeased by submission. I will make havoc of Diana’s nymphs. My temple shall be dyed with maidens’ blood, and there shall be nothing more vile then to be a virgin. To be young and fair shall be accounted shame and punishment, insomuch as it shall be thought as dishonorable to be honest as fortunate to be deformed.

O Neptune, hast thou forgotten thyself, or wilt thou clean forsake me? Hath Diana therefore brought danger to her nymphs because they be chaste? Shall virtue suffer both pain and shame, which always deserveth praise and honor?

Praise and honor, Neptune; nothing less, except it be commendable to be coy and honorable to be peevish. Sweet Neptune, if Venus can do anything, let her try it in this one thing: that Diana may find as small comfort at thy hands as Love hath found courtesy at hers. This is she that hateth sweet delights, envieth loving desires, masketh wanton eyes, stoppeth amorous ears, bridleth youthful mouths, and, under a name or a word constancy, entertaineth all kind of cruelty. She hath taken my son Cupid — Cupid, my lovely son — using him like a prentice, whipping him like a slave, scorning him like a beast. Therefore, Neptune, I entreat thee by no other god than the god of love that thou evil entreat this goddess of hate.

I muse not a little to see you two in this place, at this time, and about this matter. But what say you, Diana, have you Cupid captive?

I say there is nothing more vain than to dispute with Venus, whose untamed affections have bred more brawls in heaven than is fit to repeat in earth or possible to recount in number. I have Cupid, and will keep him — not to dandle in my lap, whom I abhor in my heart, but to laugh him to scorn that hath made in my virgins’ hearts such deep scars.

Scars, Diana, call you them that I know to be bleeding wounds? Alas, weak deity! It stretcheth not so far, both to abate the sharpness of his arrows and to heal the hurts. No, love’s wounds, when they seem green, rankle, and, having a smooth skin without, fester to the death within. Therefore, Neptune, if ever Venus stood thee in stead, furthered thy fancies, or shall at all times be at thy command, let either Diana bring her virgins to a continual massacre or release Cupid of his martyrdom .

It is known, Venus, that your tongue is as unruly as your thoughts, and your thoughts as unstayed as your eyes. Diana cannot chatter; Venus cannot choose.

It is an honor for Diana to have Venus mean ill, when she so speaketh well. But you shall see I come not to trifle. Therefore once again, Neptune, if that be not buried which can never die — fancy — or that quenched which must ever burn — affection — show thyself the same Neptune that I knew thee to be when thou wast a shepherd, and let not Venus’s words be vain in thine ears, since thine were imprinted in my heart.

It were unfit that goddesses should strive, and it were unreasonable that I should not yield. And therefore to please both, both attend. Diana I must honor; her virtue deserveth no less. But Venus I must love; I must confess so much. Diana, restore Cupid to Venus, and I will forever release the sacrifice of virgins. If therefore you love your nymphs as she doth her son, or prefer not a private grudge before a common grief, answer what you will do.

I account not the choice hard, for, had I twenty Cupids, I would deliver them all to save one virgin, knowing love to be a thing of all the vainest, virginity to be a virtue of all the noblest. I yield. — Larissa, bring out Cupid. Exit Larissa. And now shall it be said that Cupid saved those he thought to spoil.

I agree to this willingly, for I will be wary how my son wander again. But Diana cannot forbid him to wound.

Yes. Chastity is not within the level of his bow.

But beauty is a fair mark to hit.

Well, I am glad you are agreed, and say that Neptune hath dealt well with beauty and chastity.

To Venus Here, take your son.

To Cupid Sir boy, where have you been? Always taken, first by Sappho, now by Diana. How happeneth it, you I unhappy elf?

Coming through Diana’s woods, and seeing so many fair faces with fond hearts, I thought for my sport to make them smart, and so was taken by Diana.

I am glad I have you.

And I am glad I am rid of him.

Alas, poor boy! Thy wings clipped? Thy brands quenched? Thy bow burnt? And thy arrows broke?

Ay, but it skilleth not. I bear now mine arrows in my eyes, my wings on my thoughts, my brands in mine ears, my bow in my mouth, so as I can wound with looking, fly with thinking, burn with hearing, shoot with speaking.

Well, you shall up to heaven with me, for on earth thou wilt lose me.

But soft, what be these?

Those that have offended thee to save their daughters.

To Tityrus Why, had you a fair daughter?

Ay, and Melibeus a fair daughter.

Where be they?

In yonder woods; and methinks I see them coming.

Well, your deserts have not gotten pardon, but these goddesses’ jars.

This is my daughter, my sweet Phillida.

And this is my fair Galatea.

Unfortunate Galatea, if this be Phillida!

Accursed Phillida, if that be Galatea!

To herself And wast thou all this while enamored of Phillida, that sweet Phillida?

To herself And couldst thou doat upon the face of a maiden, thyself being one, on the face of fair Galatea?

Do you both, being maidens, love one another?

I had thought the habit agreeable with the sex, and so burned in the fire of mine own fancies.

I had thought that in the attire of a boy there could not have lodged the body of a virgin, and so was inflamed with a sweet desire which now I find a sour deceit.

Now things falling out as they do, you must leave these fond-found affections. Nature will have it so; necessity must.

I will never love any but Phillida. Her love is engraven in my heart with her eyes.

Nor I any but Galatea, whose faith is imprinted in my thoughts by her words.

An idle choice, strange and foolish, for one virgin to dote on another, and to imagine a constant faith where there can be no cause of affection. — How like you this, Venus?

I like well and allow it. They shall both be possessed of their wishes, for never shall it be said that Nature or Fortune shall overthrow Love and Faith.To Galatea and Phillida Is your love unspotted, begun with truth, continued with constancy, and not to be altered till death?

Die, Galatea, if thy love be not so!

Accursed be thou, Phillida, if thy love be not so!

Suppose all this, Venus, what then?

Then shall it be seen that I can turn one of them to be a man, and that I will.

Is it possible?

What is to Love or the mistress of love unpossible? Was it not Venus that did the like to Iphis and Ianthes? To Galatea and Phillida How say ye? Are ye agreed? One to be a boy presently?

I am content, so I may embrace Galatea.

I wish it, so I may enjoy Phillida.

To Phillida Soft, daughter, you must know whether I will have you a son.

To Galatea Take me with you, Galatea: I will keep you as I begat you, a daughter.

Tityrus, let yours be a boy, and, if you will, mine shall not.

Nay, mine shall not, for by that means my young son shall lose his inheritance.

Why then, get him to be made a maiden, and then there is nothing lost.

If there be such changing, I would Venus could make my wife a man.

Why?

Because she loves always to play with men.

Well, you are both fond. Therefore agree to this changing, or suffer your daughters to endure hard chance.

How say you, Tityrus, shall we refer it to Venus?

I am content, because she is a goddess.

Neptune, you will not dislike it?

Not I.

Nor you, Diana?

Not I.

Cupid shall not.

I will not.

Then let us depart. Neither of them shall know whose lot it shall be till they come to the church door. One shall be. Doth it suffice?

And satisfy us both. Doth it not, Galatea?

Yes, Phillida.

Come, Robin, I am glad I have met with thee, for now we will make our father laugh at these tales.

What are these that so malepartly thrust themselves into our companies?

Forsooth, madam, we are fortune tellers.

Fortune-tellers? Tell me my fortune.

We do not mean fortune-tellers, we mean fortune tellers. We can tell what fortune we have had these twelve months in the woods.

Let them alone. They be but peevish.

Yet they will be as good as minstrels at the marriage, to make us all merry.

Ay, ladies, we bear a very good consort.

To Rafe Can you sing?

Basely.

To Dick And you?

Meanly.

To Robin And what can you do?

If they double it, I will treble it.

Then shall ye go with us, and sing Hymen before the marriage. Are you content?

Content? Never better content! For there we shall be sure to fill our bellies with capons’ rumps, or some such dainty dishes.

Then follow us.