SCENE I.The Same.Gardens of the Castle.
[Enter Lodowick.]
LODOWICK.
I might perceive his eye in her eye lost,His ear to drink her sweet tongue's utterance,And changing passion,like inconstant clouds That rack upon the carriage of the winds,Increase and die in his disturbed cheeks.
Lo,when she blushed,even then did he look pale,As if her cheeks by some enchanted power Attracted had the cherry blood from his:
Anon,with reverent fear when she grew pale,His cheeks put on their scarlet ornaments;But no more like her oriental red,Than Brick to Coral or live things to dead.
Why did he then thus counterfeit her looks?
If she did blush,twas tender modest shame,Being in the sacred presence of a King;If he did blush,twas red immodest shame,To veil his eyes amiss,being a king;If she looked pale,twas silly woman's fear,To bear her self in presence of a king;If he looked pale,it was with guilty fear,To dote amiss,being a mighty king.
Then,Scottish wars,farewell;I fear twill prove A lingering English siege of peevish love.
Here comes his highness,walking all alone.
[Enter King Edward.]
KING EDWARD.
She is grown more fairer far since I came hither,Her voice more silver every word than other,Her wit more fluent.What a strange discourse Unfolded she of David and his Scots!
'Even thus',quoth she,'he spake',and then spoke broad,With epithites and accents of the Scot,But somewhat better than the Scot could speak:
'And thus',quoth she,and answered then her self--For who could speak like her but she her self--Breathes from the wall an Angel's note from Heaven Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.
When she would talk of peace,me thinks,her tongue Commanded war to prison;when of war,It wakened Caesar from his Roman grave,To hear war beautified by her discourse.
Wisdom is foolishness but in her tongue,Beauty a slander but in her fair face,There is no summer but in her cheerful looks,Nor frosty winter but in her disdain.
I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her,For she is all the Treasure of our land;But call them cowards,that they ran away,Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.--Art thou there,Lodowick?Give me ink and paper.
LODOWICK.
I will,my liege.
KING EDWARD.
And bid the Lords hold on their play at Chess,For we will walk and meditate alone.
LODOWICK.
I will,my sovereign.
[Exit Lodowick.]
KING EDWARD.
This fellow is well read in poetry,And hath a lusty and persuasive spirit;I will acquaint him with my passion,Which he shall shadow with a veil of lawn,Through which the Queen of beauties Queen shall see Her self the ground of my infirmity.
[Enter Lodowick.]
KING EDWARD.
hast thou pen,ink,and paper ready,Lodowick?
LODOWICK.
Ready,my liege.
KING EDWARD.
Then in the summer arbor sit by me,Make it our counsel house or cabinet:
Since green our thoughts,green be the conventicle,Where we will ease us by disburdening them.
Now,Lodowick,invocate some golden Muse,To bring thee hither an enchanted pen,That may for sighs set down true sighs indeed,Talking of grief,to make thee ready groan;And when thou writest of tears,encouch the word Before and after with such sweet laments,That it may raise drops in a Tartar's eye,And make a flintheart Scythian pitiful;For so much moving hath a Poet's pen:
Then,if thou be a Poet,move thou so,And be enriched by thy sovereign's love.
For,if the touch of sweet concordant strings Could force attendance in the ears of hell,How much more shall the strains of poets'wit Beguile and ravish soft and humane minds?
LODOWICK.
To whom,my Lord,shall I direct my stile?
KING EDWARD.
To one that shames the fair and sots the wise;Whose bod is an abstract or a brief,Contains each general virtue in the world.
Better than beautiful thou must begin,Devise for fair a fairer word than fair,And every ornament that thou wouldest praise,Fly it a pitch above the soar of praise.
For flattery fear thou not to be convicted;
For,were thy admiration ten times more,Ten times ten thousand more the worth exceeds Of that thou art to praise,thy praises worth.
Begin;I will to contemplate the while:
Forget not to set down,how passionate,How heart sick,and how full of languishment,Her beauty makes me.
LODOWICK.
Write I to a woman?
KING EDWARD.
What beauty else could triumph over me,Or who but women do our love lays greet?
What,thinkest thou I did bid thee praise a horse?
LODOWICK.
Of what condition or estate she is,Twere requisite that I should know,my Lord.
KING EDWARD.
Of such estate,that hers is as a throne,And my estate the footstool where she treads:
Then maist thou judge what her condition is By the proportion of her mightiness.
Write on,while I peruse her in my thoughts.--Her voice to music or the nightingale--
To music every summer leaping swain Compares his sunburnt lover when she speaks;And why should I speak of the nightingale?
The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong,And that,compared,is too satyrical;For sin,though sin,would not be so esteemed,But,rather,virtue sin,sin virtue deemed.
Her hair,far softer than the silk worm's twist,Like to a flattering glass,doth make more fair The yellow Amber:--like a flattering glass Comes in too soon;for,writing of her eyes,I'll say that like a glass they catch the sun,And thence the hot reflection doth rebound Against the breast,and burns my heart within.
Ah,what a world of descant makes my soul Upon this voluntary ground of love!--Come,Lodowick,hast thou turned thy ink to gold?
If not,write but in letters Capital My mistress'name,and it will gild thy paper:
Read,Lord,read;
Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears With the sweet hearing of thy poetry.
LODOWICK.
I have not to a period brought her praise.
KING EDWARD.
Her praise is as my love,both infinite,Which apprehend such violent extremes,That they disdain an ending period.
