Pie. Why then; O me Celitum excelsissimum !
The intestine malice and inveterate hate

I alwaies bore to that Andrugio,
Glories in triumph ore his misery ;

Nor shall that carpet-boy Antonio

Match with my daughter, sweet-cheekt Mellida.
No; the publick power makes my faction strong.

Feli. Ill; when public power strengthneth private wrong. Pie. 'Tis horse-like not for a man to know his force. Feli. "Tis god-like for a man to feele remorse. Pie. Pish! I prosecute my families revenge, Which I'le pursue with such a burning chace, Till I have dri'd up all Andrugio's bloud; Weake rage that with slight pittie is withstoode

[The Cornets sound a flourish.

What meanes that fresh triumphall florish sound?
Alb. The prince of Millane, and young Florence heir,
Approach to gratulate your victorie.

Pie. Weele girt them with an ample waste of love;
Conduct them to our presence royally.

Let vollies of the great artillery

From of our gallies banks play prodigall,

And sound lowd welcome from their bellowing mouths.

¶ The Cornets sound a cynet. ROSSALINE, and FLAVIA.

Exit Piero tantum.

Enter above, MELLIDA, Enter belowe, GALEATZO

with Attendants; PIERO meeteth him, embraceth ; at which the Cornets sound a florish; PIERO and GALEATZO exeunt; the rest stand still.

[guard?

Mel. What prince was that passed through my father's Fla. 'Twas Galeatzo, the young Florentine.

Ros. Troth, one that will besiege thy maidenhead;

Enter the wals, yfaith (sweet Mellida)

If that thy flankers be not canon-proofe.

Mel. Oh, Mary Ambree! good, thy judgement, wench ; Thy bright elections cleere: what will he proove? Ros. Hath a short finger and a naked chinne, A skipping eye; dare lay my judgement (faith) His love is glibbery; there's no hold ont, wench. Give me a husband whose aspect is firme; A full cheekt gallant with a bouncing thigh: Oh, he is the paradizo dell madonne contento. Mel. Even such a one was my Antonio.

[The Cornets sound a cynet. Ros By my nine and thirteth servant (sweete) Thou art in love, but stand on tiptoed faire; Here comes Saint Tristram Tirlery Whiffe, yfaith.

Enter MATZAGENTE; PIERO meetes him; embraceth; at which the Cornets sound a florish: they two stand, using seeming complements, whilst the sceane passeth above.

Mel. S. Marke, S. Marke! what kind of thing appears? Ros. For fancies passion, spit upon him; figh! His face is varnisht. In the name of love, What country bred that creature?

Mel. What is he, Flavia?

Fla. The heire of Millane, Segnior Matzagent.
Ros. Matzagent! now, by my pleasures hope,
He is made like a tilting staffe; and lookes
For all the world like an ore-roasted pigge:
A great tobacco taker too, that's flat;
For his eyes looke as if they had bene hung
In the smoake of his nose.

Mel. What husband wil he proove, sweete Rossaline? Ros. Avoid him; for he hath a dwindled legge, A lowe forehead, and a thinne cole-black beard; And will be jealous too, beleeve it, sweete; For his chin sweats, and hath a gander neck, A thinne lippe, and a little monkish eye; Pretious, what a slender waste he hath! He lookes like a may-pole, or notched stick; Heele snap in two at every little straine. Give me a husband that will fill mine armes, Of steddie judgement, quicke and nimble sense; Fooles relish not a ladies excellence.

[Exeunt all on the lower Stage; at which the Cornets sound a flourish, and a peale of shot is given.

Mel. The tryumph's ended, but looke, Rossaline, What gloomy soule in strange accustrements

Walkes on the pavement.

Ros. Good sweete, let's to her; pree thee, Mellida.

Mel. How covetous thou art of novelties!

Ros. Pish! 'tis our nature to desire things

That are thought strangers to the common cut.
Mel. I am exceedingly willing, but▬▬

Ros. But what? pree thee goe downe; let's see her face: God send that neither wit nor beauty wants

Those tempting sweets, affections adamants.

[Exeunt.

Ant. Come downe, she comes like-O, no simile

Is pretious, choyce, or elegant enough

To illustrate her descent; leape heart she comes,

She comes! smile heaven, and softest southern winde
Kisse her cheeke gently with perfumed breath.

She comes creations puritie, admir'd,

Ador'd amazing raritie,-she comes!

O, now, Antonio, presse thy spirit forth
In following passion, knit thy senses close,
Heape up thy powers, double all thy man.

eyes

heart!

Enter MELLIDA, ROSSALINE, and FLAVIA,
She comes! O, how her dart wonder on my
Mount bloode, soule to my lips, taste Hebe's cup;
Stand firme on decke, when beauties close fight's up.
Mel. Ladie, your strange habit doth beget
Our pregnant thoughts, even great of much desire,
To be acquaint with your condition.

Ros. Good, sweete lady, without more ceremonies, What country claims your birth? and, sweet, your name? Ant. In hope your bountie will extend itselfe

In selfe same nature of faire curtesie;

I'le shunne all nicenesse; my nam's Florizell,
My country Scythia; I am Amazon

Cast on this shore by furie of the sea.

[names.

Ros. Nay, faith, sweete creature, weele not vaile our

It pleas'd the font to dip me Rossaline;

That ladie beares the name of Mellida,

The Duke of Venice daughter.

Ant. Madam, I am oblig'd to kisse your hand,

By imposition of a now dead man.

[To Mellida, kissing her hand.

Ros. Now, by my troth, I long, beyond all thought, To know the man; sweete beauty, deigne his name. Ant. Ladie, the circumstance is tedious.

Ros. Troth, not a whit; good faire, let's have it all:

I love not, I, to have a jot left out,

If the tale come from a lov'd orator.

Ant. Vouchsafe me, then, your hush't observances. Vehement in pursuite of strange novelties,

After long travaile through the Asian maine,
I shipt my hopefull thoughts for Brittany;
Longing to viewe great Nature's miracle,
The glorie of our sex, whose fame doth strike
Remotest eares with adoration.

Sayling some two monthes with inconstant winds,
We view'd the glistering Venetian forts,

To which we made: when loe! some three leagues off,
We might descry a horred spectacle ;
The issue of black fury strow'd the sea
With tattered carcasses of splitting ships,
Halfe sinking, burning, floating, topsie turvie.
Not farre from these sad ruines of fell rage,
We might behold a creature presse the waves;
Senseless he sprauld, all notcht with gaping wounds;
To him we made, and (short) we tooke him up;
The first thing he spake was,-Mellida !

And then he swooned.

Mel. Aye me!

Ant. Why sigh you, faire?

Ros. Nothing but little humours; good sweet, on. Ant. His wounds being drest, and life recovered, We gan discourse; when loe! the sea grewe mad, His bowels rumbling with winde passion; Straight swarthy darknesse popt out Phœbus eye, And blurd the jocund face of bright cheekt-day; Whilst crudl'd fogges masked even darknesse brow: Heaven bad's good night, and the rocks gron'd At the intestine uprore of the maine.

Now gustie flawes strook up the very heeles

Of our maine mast, whilst the keene lightning shot
Through the black bowels of the quaking ayre;