The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol. 3 (of 3). Christopher Marlowe

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      That's the grand atheism that reigns in it still.

      Yet singularity she would use no more,

      For she was singular too much before;

      But she would please the world with fair pretext:

      Love would not leave her conscience perplext:

      Great men that will have less do for them, still

      Must bear them out, though th' acts be ne'er so ill;

      Meanness must pander be to Excellence;

      Pleasure atones Falsehood and Conscience:

      Dissembling was the worst, thought Hero then,

      And that was best, now she must live with men.

      O virtuous love, that taught her to do best

      When she did worst, and when she thought it least!

      Thus would she still proceed in works divine,

      And in her sacred state of priesthood shine,

      Handling the holy rites with hands as bold,

      As if therein she did Jove's thunder hold,

      And need not fear those menaces of error,

      Which she at others threw with greatest terror.

      O lovely Hero, nothing is thy sin,

      Weigh'd with those foul faults other priests are in!

      That having neither faiths, nor works, nor beauties,

      T' engender any 'scuse for slubbered81 duties,

      With as much countenance fill their holy chairs,

      And sweat denouncements 'gainst profane affairs,

      As if their lives were cut out by their places,

      And they the only fathers of the graces.

      Now, as with settled mind she did repair

      Her thoughts to sacrifice her ravished hair

      And her torn robe, which on the altar lay,

      And only for religion's fire did stay,

      She heard a thunder by the Cyclops beaten,

      In such a volley as the world did threaten,

      Given Venus as she parted th' airy sphere,

      Descending now to chide with Hero here:

      When suddenly the goddess' waggoners,

      The swans and turtles that, in coupled pheres,82

      Through all worlds' bosoms draw her influence,

      Lighted in Hero's window, and from thence

      To her fair shoulders flew the gentle doves,—

      Graceful Ædone83 that sweet pleasure loves,

      And ruff-foot Chreste84 with the tufted crown;

      Both which did kiss her, though their goddess frown.

      The swans did in the solid flood, her glass,

      Proin85 their fair plumes; of which the fairest was

      Jove-lov'd Leucote,86 that pure brightness is;

      The other bounty-loving Dapsilis.87

      All were in heaven, now they with Hero were:

      But Venus' looks brought wrath, and urgèd fear.

      Her robe was scarlet; black her head's attire:

      And through her naked breast shin'd streams of fire,

      As when the rarifièd air is driven

      In flashing streams, and opes the darken'd heaven.

      In her white hand a wreath of yew she bore;

      And, breaking th' icy wreath sweet Hero wore,

      She forc'd about her brows her wreath of yew,

      And said, "Now, minion, to thy fate be true,

      Though not to me; endure what this portends:

      Begin where lightness will, in shame it ends.

      Love makes thee cunning; thou art current now,

      By being counterfeit: thy broken vow

      Deceit with her pied garters must rejoin,

      And with her stamp thou countenances must coin;

      Coyness, and pure88 deceits, for purities,

      And still a maid wilt seem in cozen'd eyes,

      And have an antic face to laugh within,

      While thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin.

      But since thy lips (least thought forsworn) forswore,

      Be never virgin's vow worth trusting more!"

      When Beauty's dearest did her goddess hear

      Breathe such rebukes 'gainst that she could not clear,

      Dumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood,

      That from her grief-burst veins, in piteous flood,

      From the sweet conduits of her favour fell.

      The gentle turtles did with moans make swell

      Their shining gorges; the while black-ey'd swans

      Did sing as woful epicedians,

      As they would straightways die: when Pity's queen,

      The goddess Ecte,89 that had ever been

      Hid in a watery cloud near Hero's cries,

      Since the first instant of her broken eyes,

      Gave bright Leucote voice, and made her speak,

      To ease her anguish, whose swoln breast did break

      With anger at her goddess, that did touch

      Hero so near for that she us'd so much;

      And, thrusting her white neck at Venus, said:

      "Why may not amorous Hero seem a maid,

      Though she be none, as well as you suppress

      In modest cheeks your inward wantonness?

      How often have we drawn you from above,

      T' exchange with mortals rites for rites in love!

      Why in your priest, then, call you that offence,

      That shines in you, and is90 your influence?"

      With this, the Furies stopp'd Leucote's lips,

      Enjoin'd by Venus; who with rosy whips

      Beat the kind bird. Fierce lightning from her eyes

      Did set on fire fair Hero's sacrifice,

      Which was her torn robe and enforcèd hair;

      And the bright flame became a maid most fair

      For her aspèct: her tresses were of wire,

      Knit like a net, where hearts set all on fire,

      Struggled in pants, and could not get releast;

      Her arms were all with golden pincers drest,

      And twenty-fashioned knots, pulleys, and brakes,

      And all her body girt with painted snakes;

      Her down-parts in a scorpion's tail combined,

      Freckled with СКАЧАТЬ