HE wreath of pleasure and delicious sweetes,
Begirt the gentle front of this faire troope;
Select and most respected auditours,
For wit's sake doe not dreame of miracles.
Alas! we shall but falter, if you lay
The least sad weight of an unused hope
Upon our weaknesse; onely we give up
The worthlesse present of slight idlenesse
your authentick censure. O! that our Muse Had those abstruse and synowy faculties, That, with a straine of fresh invention. She might presse out the raritie of Art; The pur'st elixed juyce of rich conceipt your attentive cares; that with the lip Of gratious elocution we might drinke A sound carouse unto your health of wit. But O! the heathy drynesse of her braine, Foyle to your fertile spirits, is asham'd To breath her blushing numbers to such eares; Yet (most ingenious) deigne to vaile our wants. With sleek acceptance polish these rude sceanes; And if our slightnesse your large hope beguiles, Check not with bended brow, but dimpled smiles. [Exit Prologue.
The Cornets sound a battle within.
¶ Enter ANTONIO, disguised like an Amazon.
EART, wilt not break? and thou abhorred life,
Wilt thou still breath in my enraged bloud? Vaines, synewes, arteries, why crack yee not? Burst and divul'st with anguish of my griefe. Can man by no meanes creepe out of himselfe, And leave the slough of viperous griefe behinde ? Antonio, hast thou seene a fight at sea, As horrid as the hideous day of doome, Betwixt thy father, Duke of Genoa,
And proud Piero, the Venetian Prince?
In which the sea hath swolne with Genoa's bloud,
And made spring tydes with th' warme reeking gore,
That gusht from out our gallies scupper
In which thy father, poore Andrugio,
Lyes sunk, or leapt into the armes of chaunce,
Choakt with the laboring ocean's brackish fome,
Who even, despite Pietro's cancred hate,
Would with an armed hand have seized thy love,
And linkt thee to the beautious Mellida.
Have I outlived the death of all these hopes?
Have I felt anguish pour'd into my heart,
Burning like balsamum in tender wounds,
And yet dost live? Could not the fretting sea
Have rowl'd me up in wrinkles of his browe?
Is death growen coy? or grim confusion nice?
That it will not accompany a wretch,
But I must needs be cast on Venice shoare,
And try new fortunes with this strange disguise?
To purchase my adored Mellida.
[The Cornets sound a flourish; cease.
Harke how Piero's triumphs beat the ayre;
O, rugged mischiefe, how thou grat'st my heart!
Take spirit, blood; disguise, be confident;
Make a firme stand; here rests the hope of all,-
Lower than hell, there is no depth to fall.
The Cornets sound a synnet.
ALBERTO, CASTILIO and FOROBOSCO, a Page carry-
ing a shield; PIERO in armour; CATZO and DILDO
and BALURDO. All these (saving PIERO) armed
with petronels. Beeing entred, they make a stand
Pie. Victorious Fortune, with tryumphant hand,
Hurleth my glory 'bout this ball of earth,
Whil'st the Venetian Duke is heaved up,
On wings of faire successe, to over-looke
The low cast ruines of his enemies,
To see my selfe ador'd and Genoa quake;
My fate is firmer than mischance can shake.
Feli. Stand; the ground trembleth.
Pie. Hah! an earthquake?
Bal. Oh! I smell a sound.
Feli. Piero, stay, for I descry a fume
Creeping from out the bosome of the deepe,
The breath of darknesse, fatall when 'tis whist
In greatnes stomacke; this same smoake, call'd pride,
Take heede; shee'le lift thee to improvidence,
And breake thy neck from steepe securitie;
Shee❜le make thee grudge to let Jehova share
In thy successful battailes. O! shee's ominous;
Inticeth princes to devour heaven,
Swallow omnipotence, out-stare dread fate,
Subdue eternitie in giant thought,—
Heaves up their hurt with swelling, puft conceit,
Till their soules burst with venom'd arrogance.
Beware Piero, Rome itselfe hath tried,
Confusions traine blowes up this babell pride.
Pie. Pish! Dimitto superos, summa votorum attigi.
Alberto, hast thou yeelded up our fixt decree
Unto the Genoan embassadour?
Are they content, if that their duke returne,
To sende his and his sonne Antonio's head
As pledges steept in bloud to gaine their peace?
Alb. With most obsequious sleek-brow'd intertain,
They all embrace it as most gratious.
Pie. Are proclamations sent through Italy,
That whosoever brings Andrugio's head,
Or young Anthonio's, shall be guerdoned
With twentie thousand double pistolets,
And be endeered to Piero's love?
Foro. They are sent every way. Sound policy; sweete
Feli. Confusion to these limber sycophants.
No sooner mischief's borne in regency,
But flattery christens it with policy.
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