THE TRUE TROJANS, OR FUIMUS
TROES, AN HISTORICAL PLAY:
BY JASPER FISHER.
Invocation of the Druids to the gods of Britain, on the invasion of Cæsar.
DRAW near, ye heavenly Powers,
Who dwell in starry bowers;
And ye, who in the deep
On mossy pillows sleep;
And ye who keep the centre,
Where light did never enter;
And ye whose habitations
Are still among the nations,
To see and hear our doings,
Our births, our wars, our wooings;
Behold our present grief;
Belief doth beg relief.
By the vervain, and lunary,
By fern seed planetary,
By the dreadful misletoe
Which doth on holy oak grow,
Draw near, draw near, draw near.
Help us beset with danger,
And turn away your anger;
Help us begirt with trouble,
And now your mercy double;
Help us oppress'd with sorrow,
And fight for us to-morrow.
Let fire consume the foeman,
Let air infect the Roman,
Let seas entomb their fury,
Let gaping earth them bury,
Let fire, and air, and water,
And earth conspire their slaughter.
By the vervain, &c.
We'll praise then your great power,
Each month, each day, each hour,
And blaze in lasting story
Your honour and your glory.
High altars lost in vapour,
Young heifers free from labour,
White lambs for suck still crying,
Shall make your music dying;
The boys and girls around,
With honeysuckles crown'd;
The bards with harp and rhyming,
Green bays their brows entwining,
Sweet tune, and sweeter ditty,
Shall chant your gracious pity.
By the vervain, &c.
Another, to the moon.
Thou queen of heaven, commandress of the deep,
Lady of lakes, regent of woods and deer,
A lamp, dispelling irksome night, the source
Of generable moisture, at whose feet
Wait twenty thousand Naides !—thy crescent
Brute elephants adore, and man doth feel
Thy force run through the zodiac of his limbs.
O thou first guide of Brutus to this isle,
Drive back these proud usurpers from this isle.
Whether the name of Cynthia's silver globe,
Or chaste Diana with a gilded quiver,
Or dread Proserpina, stern Dis's spouse,
Or soft Lucina, call'd in child-bed throes,
Doth thee delight, rise with a glorious face,
Green drops of Nereus, trickling down thy cheeks,
And with bright horns, united in full orb,
Toss high the seas, with billows beat the banks,
Conjure up Neptune, and the Æolian slaves,
Protract both night and winter in a storm,
That Romans lose their
way, and sooner land
At sad Avernus, than at Albion's strand.
So may'st thou shun the Dragon's head and tail!
So may Endymion snort on Latmian bed!
So may the fair game fall before thy bow!
Shed light on us, but light'ning on our foe.
ADRASTA, A TRAGI-COMEDY:
BY JOHN JONES, 1635.
DIE, die, ah die !
We all must die : 'Tis Fate's decree,
Then ask not why.
When we were fram'd, the Fates consultedly
Did make this law, that all things born should die.
Yet Nature strove
And did deny
We should be slaves
To destiny:
At which, they heap'd
Such misery,
That Nature's self
Did wish to die :
And thank'd their goodness that they would foresee To end our cares with such a mild decree.
Come, Lovers, bring your cares,
Bring sigh-perfumed sweets,
Bedew the grave with teares,
Where death and virtue meets :
Sigh for the hapless hour,
That knit two hearts in one,
And only gave love power
To die when 'twas begun.
THE FLOATING ISLAND, A COMEDY :
BY THE REV. W. STRODE.
Acted by the Students of Christchurch, Oxford, 1636.
ONCE Venus' cheeks, that sham'd the morn,
Their hue let fall ;-
Her lips, that Winter had outborn,
In June look'd pale:
Her heat grew cold, her nectar dry,
No juice she had but in her eye,
The wonted fire and flames to mortify.
When was this so dismal sight?
When Adonis bade good night.
THE SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF
CHRISTENDOM:
BY JOHN KIRKE, 1638.
CALIB, the Witch, in the opening scene, in a storm.
HA! louder a little; so, that burst was well.
Again; ha, ha! house, house your heads, you fear-
Struck mortal fools; when Calib's consort plays
A hunt's-up to her, how rarely doth it languell
In mine ears! these are mine organs; the toad,
The bat, the raven, and the fell whistling bird,
SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF CHRISTENDOM
Are all my anthem-singing quiristers.—
Such sapless roots, and liveless wither'd woods
Are pleasanter to me, than to behold
The jocund month of May, in whose green head of youth,
The amorous Flora strews her various flowers,
And smiles to see how brave she has deck'd her girl.
And pass we May, a game for fangled fools,
That dare not set a foot in Art's dark secret,
And bewitching path as Calib has.
Here is my mansion, within the rugged bowels of this
This crag, this cliff, this den, which to behold
Would freeze to ice the hissing trammels of Medusa. Yet here enthron'd I sit, more richer in my spells And potent charms, than is the stately mountain
Dress'd with the beauty of her sparkling gems,
To vie a lustre 'gainst the heavenly lamps.
And we are sunk in these Antipodes, so chok'd
With darkness in great Calib's cave, that it
Can stifle day, it can and shall, for we do loth
The light, and as our deeds are black, we hug the
night.
But where's this boy, my George, my love, my life,
Whom Calib lately doats on more than life?
I must not have him wander from my love farther
Summons of my eye or beck can call him back again. But 'tis my fiend-gotten, and deformed issue that misleads him,
For which I'll wrap him in a storm of hail, and dash him
'Gainst the pavement on the rocky den;
He must not lead my joy astray from me.
The parents of that boy begetting him,
Begot and bore the issue of their deaths, which done,
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