то

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THOMAS WRIOTHESLEY,

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON,

LORD WRIOTHESLEY, OF TITCHFIELD, &c.'

MY LORD!

HERODOTUS reports, that the Ægyptians, by wrapping their dead in glass, present them lively to all posterity; but your lordship will do more, by the vivifying beams of your acceptation revive the parents of this orphan poem, and make them live to eternity. While the stage flourished, the POEM lived by the breath of general applauses, and the virtual fervour of the court; but since hath languished for want of heat, and now, near shrunk up with cold, creeps, with a shivering fear, to extend itself at the flames of your benignity. My lord, though it seems rough and forlorn, it is the

'Lord Wriothesley, of Titchfield, &c.] Thomas, fourth Earl of Southampton, eminent for his rare virtues; more eminent for those of his daughter, the admirable Lady Rachael Russell. He succeeded his father Henry, third Earl, the friend and patron of Shakspeare, in 1624, and died in 1667. If more be wanting to his fame, it may be added, that he enjoyed the friendship, and merited the praise of the Earl of Clarendon.

THE SUN'S DARLING.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Temple with an Altar.-RAYBRIGHT discovered

asleep.

Enter the PRIEST of the Sun.

Priest. LET your tunes, you sweet voiced spheres,

O'ertake him :

Charm his fancies, ope his ears;

Now wake him!

[Music within.

SONG.

Fancies are but streams

Of vain pleasure :

They, who by their dreams

True joys measure,

Feasting starve, laughing weep,
Playing smart; whilst in sleep

Fools, with shadows smiling,
Wake and find
Hopes like wind,

Idle hopes, beguiling.

Thoughts fly away; Time hath passed them:
Wake now, awake! see and taste them!

Ray. (waking.) That I might ever slumber, and enjoy

Contents as happy as the soul's best wishes
Can fancy or imagine! 'tis a cruelty
Beyond example, to usurp the peace

I sat enthroned in; who was't pluck'd me from it?
Priest. Young man, look hither!
Ray. Good, I envy not

The pomp of your high office; all preferment
Of earthly glories are to me diseases,

Infecting those sound parts which should preserve
The flattering retribution to my thankfulness.
The times are better to me; there's no taste
Left on the palate of my discontent

To catch at empty hopes, whose only blessedness
Depends on being miserable.

Priest. Raybright,

Thou draw'st thy great descent from my grand

patron,

The Sun, whose priest I am.

Ray. For small advantage.

He who is high-born never mounts yon battle

ments

Of sparkling stars, unless he be in spirit
As humble as the child of one that sweats
To eat the dear-earn'd bread of honest thrift.
Priest. Hast thou not flow'd in honours?
Ray. Honours?

fears

I'd not be baited with my

Of losing them, to be their monstrous creature
An age together: 'tis besides as comfortable
To die upon the embroidery of the grass,
Unminded, as to set a world at gaze,

Whilst from a pinnacle I tumble down.

And break my neck, to be talk'd of and wonder'd at.

Priest. You have worn rich habits.

[Ray.] Fine ass-trappings!

A pedlar's heir turn'd gallant, follows fashion,
Can, by a cross-legg'd tailor, be transform'd
Into a jack-an-apes of passing bravery.
'Tis a stout happiness to wear good clothes,
Yet live and die a fool!-mew!

Priest. You have had choice

Of beauties to enrich your marriage-bed.
Ray. Monkies and paraquitoes are as pretty
To play withal, though not indeed so gentle.
Honesty's indeed a fine jewel, but the Indies
Where't grows is hard to be discover'd: 'troth,

sir,

I care for no long travels with lost labour.

Priest, Pleasures of every sense have been your servants,

Whenas you have commanded them.