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Sun. I thy wounds will cure, And lengthen out thy days;' his followers gone, Cupid and Fortune, take you charge of him. Here thou, my brightest queen, must end thy
reign; Some nine months hence I'll shine on thee again.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
The Court of AUTUMN.
Enter PomoNA, RAYBRIGHT, CUPID, and For
Ray. Your entertainments, Autumn's bounteous
Pom. They are but courtings
9 I thy wounds will cure,
And lengthen out thy days.] The Sun takes a strange way to lengthen out the days of Summer, by putting an instant end to them. It must be confessed, that the god acts very capriciously in this scene, and that Summer, considering her short stay, is most ungently treated on all sides.
From whom thou draw'st thy name: the feast of
fruits Our gardens yield are much too coarse for thee; Could we contract the choice of nature's plenty Into one form, and that form to contain All delicacies, which the wanton sense Would relish, or desire to invent, to please it, The present were unworthy far to purchase A sacred league of friendship.
Ray. I have rioted In surfeits of the ear, with various music . Of warbling birds; I have smelt perfumes of roses, And every flower, with which the fresh-trimm'd
earth Is mantled in: the Spring could mock my senses With these fine barren lullabies; the Summer Invited my then ranging eyes to look on Large fields of ripen'd corn, presenting trifles Of waterish petty dainties; but my taste Is only here pleas'd : the other objects claim The style of formal, these are real bounties. Pom. We can transcend thy wishes; whom the
creatures Of every age and quality post, madding, From land to land and sea to sea, to meet, Shall wait upon thy nod, Fortune and Cupid. Love! yield thy quiver and thine arrows up To this great prince of time; before him, Fortune! Pour out thy mint of treasures; crown him sove
reign Of what his thoughts can glory to command :
He shall give payment of a royal prize,
With all store that time is bought for. Cup. Be a lover, I will wait thee
With success in life most sought for. For. Be enamour'd on bright honour,
And thy greatness shall shine glorious, Cup. Chastity, if thou smile on her,
Shall grow servile, thou victorious, For. Be a warrior, conquest ever
Shall triumphantly renown thee, Cup. Be a courtier, beauty never
Shall but with her duty crown thee, For. Fortune's wheel is thine, depose me ;
I'm thy slave, thy power has bound me. Cup. Cupid's shafts are thine, dispose me;
Love loves love ; thy graces wound me. Both. Live, reign! pity is fame's jewel ;
We obey; oh! be not cruel. Ray. You ravish me with infinites, and lay A bounty of more sovereignty and amazement, Than the Atlas of mortality can support.
Enter, behind, Humour and Folly,
Hum. What's here?
my heart's empress, build your kingdom there.
Hum. With what an earnestness he compli
[ments.] Fol. Upon my life he means to turn costermonger, and is projecting how to forestal the market; I shall cry pippins rarely.
Ray. Till now my longings were ne'er satisfied, And the desires my sensual appetite Were only fed with, barren expectations To what I now am fill'd with.
Fol. Yes, we are filled and must be emptied ; these wind-fruits have distended my guts into a lenten pudding, there's no fat in them ; my belly swells, but my sides fall away: a month of such diet would make me a living anatomy. Pom. These are too little; more are due to
him, That is the pattern of his father's glory: Dwell but amongst us, industry shall strive To make another artificial nature, And change all other seasons into ours. Hum. Shall my heart break? I can contain no
longer. [Comes forward, with Folly. Ray. How fares my loved Humour ? Hum. A little stirr’d; - no matter, I'll be
merry; Call for some music-do not ;--I'll be melancholy.
Fol. A sullen humour; and common in a dicer that has lost all his money.
Pom. Lady, I hope 'tis no neglect of courtesy In us, that so disturbs you; if it rise
From any discontent, reveal the cause;
Hum. Oh, my heart!-
Fol. And unlace your petticoat.
To be thus play'd on, staled and foil'd.
Pom. Why, madam?
I have a tender
Fol. A humour in fashion with gallants, and brought out of the Low Countries. Hum. Fie! there's no music in thee ;-let us
sing. Fol. Here's humour in the right trim! a few more such toys would make the little world of man run mad as the puritan that sold his conscience for a maypole
[A flourish.-Shouts within. Ray. The meaning of this mirth? Pom. My lord is coming.