That I would lose to save the little finger
Of this your noble burthen from least hurt,
Because your blood is in 't but since your love
Made poor incompatible me the parent,
Being we are not married, your dear blood
Falls under the same cruel penalty;
And can Heaven think fit ye die for me?
For Heaven's sake, say I ravish'd you! I'll swear it,
To keep your life safe, and repute unstain'd.
Viol. Oh, Gerrard, thou 'rt my life and faculties,
(And if I lose thee, I 'll not keep mine own,)
The thought of whom sweetens all miseries!
Wouldst have me murder thee beyond thy death ?
Unjustly scandal thee with ravishment?
It was so far from rape, that, Heaven doth know,
If ever the first lovers, ere they fell,
Knew simply in the state of innocence,
Such was this act, this, that doth ask no blush.
Ger. Oh, but, my rarest Violante, when
My lord Randulpho, brother to your father,
Shall understand this, how will he exclaim
At my poor aunt and me, which his free alms
Hath nurs'd, since Milan by the duke of Mantua,
Who now usurps it, was surpris'd! that time
My father and my mother both were slain,
With my aunt's husband, as she says, their states
Despoil'd and seiz'd; 'tis past my memory,
But thus she told me: only thus I know,
Since I could understand, your honour'd uncle
Hath given me all the liberal education
That his own son might look for, had he one;
Now will he say, "Dost thou requite me thus?"
Oh, the thought kills me!
Viol. Gentle, gentle Gerrard,
Be cheer'd and hope the best. My mother, father, And uncle, love me most indulgently,
Being the only branch of all their stocks:
But neither they, nor he thou wouldst not grieve
With this unwelcome news, shall ever hear
Violante's tongue reveal, much less accuse,
Gerrard to be the father of his own;
I'll rather silent die, that thou mayst live
To see thy little offspring grow and thrive.
VIOLANTE is attended in childbed by her mother ANGELINA.
Viol. Mother, I'd not offend you,―might not Gerrard Steal in, and see me in the evening?
Angel. Well;
Bid him do so.
Viol. Heaven's blessing o' your heart!
Do you not call child-bearing travel, mother?
Angel. Yes.
Viol. It well may be the barefoot traveller,
That 's born a prince, and walks his pilgrimage,
Whose tender feet kiss the remorseless stones
Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it.
Alas, dear mother, you groan'd thus for me!
And yet how disobedient have I been !
Angel. Peace, Violante; thou hast always been
Gentle and good.
Viol. Gerrard is better, mother :
Oh, if you knew the implicit innocency
Dwells in his breast, you'd love him like your prayers!
I see no reason but my father might
Be told the truth, being pleas'd for Ferdinand
To woo himself; and Gerrard ever was
His full comparative: my uncle loves him,
As he loves Ferdinand.
Angel. No, not for the world,
Since his intent is cross'd; lov'd Ferdinand Thus ruin'd, and a child got out of wedlock, His madness would pursue you both to death. Viol. As you please, mother. I am now, methinks, Even in the land of ease; I'll sleep.
The bed nearer the fire.-Silken rest
Tie all thy cares up! 1
VIOLANTE describes how her love for GERRARD began.
Viol. Gerrard's and my affection began
In infancy; my uncle brought him oft
In long coats hither.
The little boy would kiss me being a child,
And say he lov'd me, give me all his toys,
Bracelets, rings, sweetmeats, all his rosy smiles:
I then would stand and stare upon his eyes,
Play with his locks, and swear I lov'd him too,
For, sure, methought he was a little Love;
He woo'd so prettily in innocence,
That then he warm'd my fancy.
THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS:
CLORIN, a Shepherdess, watching by the Grave of her Lover, is found by a Satyr.
Clor. Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
The truest man that ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly!
Thus I salute thy grave; thus do I pay
My early vows and tribute of mine eyes
To thy still loved ashes; thus I free
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires
Of love all sports, delights, and jolly games,
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.
1 Violante's prattle is so very pretty and so natural in her situation, that I could not resist giving it a place. Juno Lucina was never invoked with more elegance. Pope has been praised for giving dignity to a game of cards. It required at least as much address to ennoble a lying-in.
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful,
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves: all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat crown'd with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,
And hanging scrip of finest cordevan.
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memory;
That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing.
And here will I, in honour of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes;
Only remembering what my youth did gain
In the dark, hidden virtuous use of herbs:
That will I practise, and as freely give
All my endeavours as I gained them free.
Of all green wounds I know the remedies
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes,
Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art,
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild or lunatic; their eyes or ears
Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum;
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit
Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine;
On these I'll feed with free content, and rest,
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest.
Satyr. Through yon same bending plain,
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods, have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun
Since the lusty spring began;
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
Το get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains, this coming night,
His paramour, the Syrinx bright.—
But, behold, a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live therefore on this mould
Lowly do I bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells :
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good,
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them ;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them!
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