Seven Minor Epics of the English Renaissance (1596-1624) Part 26

And now she doth her enterprise repent, And wish she might vnknowne returne againe, Vnto his bed the pawsing Nurse then went; And cal'd the King & told him thus much plaine Dread King awake, of pleasures take thy fill, This Ladie's thine, then vse her as you will.

The cursed father then his bowels takes Into his bed, o filthy blob and staine, His daughter s.h.i.+uers in his armes, and quakes, This being done, the nurse returnes againe And said, make much of her, to weepe forbeare None wold weepe for that which you now feare.

The King then cheeres his daughter, in his arme, Why dost thou weep? be still my sweete, be stil, Come clip thy loue I meane to do no harme, My Kingly bed with pleasures shall thee fill, And to hide all that idle heads may moue, Hence-forth I call thee daughter and not loue.

Come kisse thy father, gentle daughter then, _A_nd learne to sport thee in a wanton bed; Is this the tricks (she softly said) of men?

And counterfeiting speech vnknowne, she said, A daughters name, me thinkes, doth not agree, Ist well with your owne child in loue to be?

The King, not deeming who lay by his side, Replies, what hurt deere Lady can it be?

No ill I know by that meanes can betide, The loue more firme thereby we common see: It is not ill though men the same not craue, For we want daughters till a wife we haue.

She did reply, and said, why put the case That I were _Myrha_ for as men do say, My countenance resembleth much her face; Were't not offence, think you, with me to play?

Misdeeming nought, againe, he doth reply; No more th[=e] 'tis with thee, sweet wench, to lie.

O would, quoth _Myrha_, you could likewise proue Whereby I might but know some reafon why, It were not ill to grant to you my loue, That loue should then alone to you apply; Were I your daughter I might well consent, Say halfe so much for me I am content.

The King replies, my sweete, my will is law, And may command my subiects when I will, Besides all this, you furthermore do know You must obey, I call you daughter still; Then talke no more, she said, I do agree Thy daughter and thy subiect yeelds to thee.

Oh! now the father his owne child doth take, And of his owne he doth his owne beget, Of his owne loines another child doth make, Repugnant to the Law that nature set; May ones owne seed to procreation moue?

No sure, unlesse it doth a monster proue.

Their musicke is the scriking of the Ow'es, As if the fiends came for to sunder them, The rauing dogs affright them with their howles, As all the fiends came forth to iniure them; The stars behind the clouds, a great way hence, Like spies lie peeping to disclose the offence.

Their bed doth shake and quauer as they lie, As if it groan'd to beare the weight of sinne, The fatall night-crowes at their windowes flie, And cries out at the shame they do liue in: And that they may perceiue they heauens frown, The Poukes & Goblins pul the couerings down.

The pillow that her cursed head doth beare, Which is a castle of accursed ill, The weighty burthen of the same doth feare, And therefore shrinketh inwards from her stil: Whilst both the ends high swelling with disdaine Like angry foe-men raise themselues amaine.

The bed, more kind then they religious are, Doth seeke to shroud their foule defiled act, And therefore lets them fall into it farre As in some vale for to conceale the fact: Like bulwarkes rising to defend their names, Or swelling mountains to obscure their shames.

O there they lie and glut themselues with sin, A iocund sin that doth the flesh delight, A filthy flesh that can reioyce herein, A silly ioy that gainst the soule doth fight, A fasting sport, a pleasure soone forgot, That bringeth shame with an eternall blot.

Thrice happy now, had wicked _Myrha_ bene, If some foule swelling _Eban_ cloud would fall, For her to hide her selfe eternall in, Or had the bed bene burnt with wilde fire all, And thereby moult the heauens golden frame That al things might haue ended with her shame.

And now reuenge, a souldier vnto l.u.s.t, Comes scouring in, as it had bene beguil'd Accompanied with fame and foule distrust, And with disgrace, blacke luxures basest child, These threaten them and blaze abroad the fact, And like to Trumpets thunder out the act.

Not many nights they spending in this sort, But _Cyneras_ at length desir'd to know Who 'twas affoorded him this pleasant sport, And freely did the curtesy bestow: And hauing done this taske vs'd euery night.

Forth he doth steale and goes to seek the light.

O hide thee _Myrha_, 'tis not time to sleepe, A thunderbolt is leuel'd at thy head, Vnlesse thy eies prepare them for to weepe, With fire and sword thou art betrai'd in bed, Awaken wench, the day of doome bewray, And see the father his owne child betray.

And whither steales thou furious _Cynaras_?

Why seekes a light to open thy owne shame?

Who hop'st to finde in this accursed place?

Make not such hast to spy thy ign.o.ble game, Stay, stay thy feete, thou wilt repent to late, Mischiefe itselfe comes in with speedy gate.

What, sleepst thou _Myrha_? why th[=e] sleep thou long Or else awake and welcome in thy woes, Another happy day will neuer come, Pale misery thy pleasure ouer-goes; Dreame sleeping, thou didst with thy father lie, Or wake, and see him reuenge the villany.

Confound thy head, and all thy parts with feare, And thinke the fiends incompa.s.se thee about, Striuing with burning tongs thy flesh to teare, Pulling thy tongue and eies with tortures out; O thinke with raizors they do flea thy skin, _A_dding new tortures vnto euery sin.

Now comes the father, being fully bent For to disclose his loue with his faire light, Sleepe _Myrha_, thou hast time for to repent, Arise in care, pa.s.se many a weary night; Looke _Cyneras_, and spy disgrace too soone, _Myrha_ awake, see what thy l.u.s.t hath done.

Blush l.u.s.tfull King, and see the end of l.u.s.t, Behold thy owne dishonour and disgrace, Learne what it is to vse thy wife vniust, And lay a Strumpet in her Princely place, Sham follows th[=e] reu[=e]ge hangs o're their heads That basely do defile their marriage bed.

It's like a tender flower nipt with frost, It euer after hangs his drooping head, And hath her wonted prime of glory lost, Or like the cup that hath his _Nectar_ shed: Cracke you the richest pointed Diamond, And all his prise and glory's lost and gone.

Old _Cynaras_ his daughter knowing well, For very anger could not speake a word, But into most outragious fury fell, And would have kil'd the Lady with a sword, But nimbly she, by helpe of cloudy night, Conueyes her selfe out of her fathers sight.

Most like a Lyon, ranging for a pray, Each corner of the house he madly lookes, No barre, or stop, doth hinder him, or stay, He rifles chambers, beds, and secret nookes.

This Lyon seekes for her, the dart did throw, And quietly lets all the other go.

By this the Lady's in the _Arabian_ fields, And fearefully doth range about the same, Which plenteously the bearing _Date-tree_ yeelds, At length she also through _Paenchaia_ came, Her fathers rage being something over-past, At _Saba_ land she doth arriue at last.

The King not finding her, begins to fret, And vex himselfe with anguish, care & griefe, He scoulds with fortune, that this trap did set, _A_nd chides the Fates for yeelding no reliefe: Small sorrowes grew till they to greater came, Like little sparkes increasing into flame.

Euen as a river swelling ore her bounds, By daily falling of small drops of raine, Likewise his care continually abounds, By howerly thinking of his his fault againe, Content were found soone in calamity, The thought thereof raz'd out of memory.

Daughter, quoth he, with eyes full fraught with teares, What hast thou done? o foule accursed child!

Why hast deceiu'd my aged blosom'd haires?

Why didst thy Princely Father so beguile?

_A_la.s.se! I erre, thou art no childe to me, Nor longer Il'e thy louing father be.

Go seeke some hole eternall to lye in, _A_nd neuermore behold the heauens light, Thou hast disgraced all thy name and kin, Then hide thee euerlasting from my sight, Thou hast not onely brought vs both to shame, But made thy father actor of the same.

How will thy mother thinke her selfe abus'd, That hast made her a quot-queane shamefully, Of filthy incest I do thee accuse, That Lemmon-like didst with thy father lye, Then hye to h.e.l.l, haste to the Furies there, When raging parets witnesse gainst thee beare.

Oh but the fault thy owne was most of all, Poore _Myrha_ thou didst meane no hurt to me, It wot: thou said'st (my selfe I witnesse call) Twas ill with your owne childe in loue to be.

And vrg'd againe, what if she _Myrha_ were, I basely said, there was no fault in her.

Then rent thy braines with terror of the deed, Confused thoughts burst thine accursed breast, As if thou did'st on deadly poyson feed, And in _Elisium_ let thy soule nere rest, Rore seas, quake earth, till you deuoure him That hath defil'd his daughter with foule sin.

Yet she did know I was her father deere, What meant she then to seeke me in such sort?

I did not know my daughter to be there, And therefore wished her no kind of hurt.

She sin'd, and knew her father she abused, I sin'd, uncertaine who it was I vsed.

By this the Sunne neere past the Zodiaque ore, And thrice three signes had fully ouer-run, Returning tow'rd the point he was before, Ninty degrees wanting thereto to come, He had the Cliptike and one quadre gone, And in that s.p.a.ce the child ripes in the womb.

When _Myrha_ weeping much her barne to beare, Tired with wandring in the wood so long, Weary of life beginneth for to feare What shall hereafter on herselfe become.

Now she perceiues the folly l.u.s.t did bring, And may take time of penitence to sing.

Things done in haste, haue leasure to repent, A hasty braine is neuer wanting woe, Youth with _Decorum_ seldome is content, Yong yeares and l.u.s.t a.s.sociat-like do goe, Youth hath no wit till it be deerely bought, And often times then it is good for nought.

Ala.s.se! quoth _Myrha_, bursting out with cryes, What shall I do that haue so vilely erred?

Let bellowing grones pierce vp into the skyes, That all the G.o.ds to pitty may be stirred, O let some Trumpets voice from thee be driuen To waken mighty _Iupiter_ in heauen.

You gentle G.o.ds, that wonted were to heare The suppliant praiers of distressed soules, Now open wide your gracious listning eare, That I may win some pitty with my houles.

O let it stand with your omnipotence, For to remit the sorrowfuls offence.

I do confesse my wickednesse is much, And there's no hope that I should fauour win.