Beaumont and Fletcher's Works. Volume 9. Beaumont Francis

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      Alb. Courteous Zephyrus,

      On his dewy wings, carries perfumes to cheer us;

      The air clears too;

      And now, we may discern another Island,

      And questionless, the seat of fortunate men:

      Oh that we could arrive there.

      Amint. No Albert, 'tis not to be hop'd;

      This envious Torrent's cruelly interpos'd;

      We have no vessel that may transport us;

      Nor hath nature given us wings to flie.

      Alb. Better try all hazards,

      Than perish here remediless; I feel

      New vigor in me, and a spirit that dares

      More than a man, to serve my fair Aminta;

      These Arms shall be my oars, with which I'll swim;

      And my zeal to save thy innocent self,

      Like wings, shall bear me up above the brackish waves.

      Amint. Will ye then leave me?

      Alb. Till now I ne'er was wretched.

      My best Aminta, I swear by goodness

      'Tis nor hope, nor fear, of my self that invites me

      To this extream; 'tis to supply thy wants; and believe me

      Though pleasure met me in most ravishing forms,

      And happiness courted me to entertain her,

      I would nor eat nor sleep, till I return'd

      And crown'd thee with my fortunes.

      Amin. Oh but your absence.

      Alb. Suppose it but a dream, and as you may,

      Endeavour to take rest; and when that sleep

      Deceives your hunger with imagin'd food,

      Think you have sent me for discovery

      Of some most fortunate Continent, yet unknown,

      Which you are to be Queen of.

      And now ye Powers, that e'er heard Lovers Prayers,

      Or cherisht pure affection; look on him

      That is your Votary; and make it known

      Against all stops, you can defend your own.

      Hip. How did we lose Clarinda?

      Cro. When we believ'd the Stag was spent, and would take soil,

      The sight of the black lake which we suppos'd

      He chose for his last refuge, frighted him more

      Than we that did pursue him.

      Jul. That's usual; for, death it self is not so terrible

      To any beast of chase.

      Hip. Since we liv'd here, we ne'er could force one to it.

      Cro. 'Tis so dreadful,

      Birds that with their pinions cleave the air

      Dare not flie over it: when the Stag turn'd head,

      And we, even tir'd with labor, Clarinda, as if

      She were made of Air and Fire,

      And had no part of earth in her, eagerly pursu'd him;

      Nor need we fear her safety, this place yields not

      Fawns nor Satyrs, or more lustful men;

      Here we live secure,

      And have among our selves a Common-wealth,

      Which in our selves begun, with us must end.

      Jul. I, there's the misery.

      Cro. But being alone,

      Allow me freedom but to speak my thoughts;

      The strictness of our Governess, that forbids us,

      On pain of death, the sight and use of men,

      Is more than tyranny: for her self, she's past

      Those youthful heats, and feels not the want

      Of that which young maids long for: and her daughter

      The fair Clarinda, though in few years

      Improv'd in height and large proportion,

      Came here so young,

      That scarce remembring that she had a father,

      She never dreams of man; and should she see one,

      In my opinion, a would appear a strange beast to her.

      Jul. 'Tis not so with us.

      Hip. For my part, I confess it, I was not made

      For this single life; nor do I love hunting so,

      But that I had rather be the chace my self.

      Cro. By Venus (out upon me) I should have sworn

      By Diana, I am of thy mind too wench;

      And though I have ta'en an oath, not alone

      To detest, but never to think of man,

      Every hour something tels me I am forsworn;

      For I confess, imagination helps me sometimes,

      And that's all is left for us to feed on,

      We might starve else, for if I have any pleasure

      In this life, but when I sleep, I am a Pagan;

      Then from the Courtier to the Countrey-clown,

      I have strange visions.

      Jul. Visions Crocale?

      Cro. Yes, and fine visions too;

      And visions I hope in dreams are harmless,

      And not forbid by our Canons; the last night

      (Troth 'tis a foolish one, but I must tell it)

      As I lay in my Cabin, betwixt sleeping and waking.

      Hip. Upon your back?

      Cro. How should a young Maid lie, fool,

      When she would be intranc'd?

      Hip. We are instructed; forward I prethee.

      Cro. Methought a sweet young man

      In years some twenty, with a downy chin,

      Promising a future beard, and yet no red one,

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