THE SCOURGE OF VENUS. OR, The wanton Lady. WITH THE RARE BIRTH OF ADONIS. Written by H. A. LONDON Printed by Nicholas Okes dwelling near Holborne-bridge. 1613. To the Reader. GEntlemen, if your fancy, will permit you to favour this book, I shall be thankful, if not, I can but repent at the charge of the Impression, I mean but little gain to myself, yet much pleasure to you, if it were my own wit, and you condemn it, I should be ashamed of my public intrusion, but since it was the labour of a man well-deserving, forbear open reprehending, for, as I have heard, 'twas done for his pleasure, without any intent of an Impression; thus much I excuse him that I know not, and commend that which deserveth well: if I be partial, I pray patience. The Scourge of Venus. WHilst that the Sun was climbing up in haste, To view the world with his ambitious eye. Fair Myrha; yet alas, more fair than chaste. Did set her thoughts to descant wanton; Nay most inhuman, more than bad, or ill, As in the sequel you may read at will. You that have parents, or that parents be, Depart a space, and give not ear at all To the foul tale that here shall uttered be: Some filthy shame let on all other fall, If possibly there can be any such, From nature to degenerate so much. O then with Ovid, I am wondrous glad That this small world of ours is put so far From those that such incestuous people had: So rest thou still in glory as a star. That scorning thrusts from other nations quite, And in thy virtues doth thyself delight. And now fair Myrha in her youthly blood Doth on her father dote with fond desire, Each foul occasion is accounted good, That may increase her filthy lustful fire. And as this shameful matter wanted grace, So doubtfully she thus doth plead her case. Why should not Gods this love of mine permit? Or be offended with me for the same? It doth infringe their sacred laws no whit, Adding dishonour, or deserving blame. I will proceed, good reasons for to prove, 'Tis not unlawful to obtain my love. In many countries I do certain know, The parents with their children married be, Which they do most, their godliness to show, Because their loves increased thereby they see. Then shall this luckless plot of ground remain Th' occasion that my love I not obtain? Each night hath Nature set at liberty: All things be common, for she nought restrains: Then let the Daughter with the Father lie, Like precedent with all things else remains. The Kid, the Heifer, and the birds we see, Affect the same of whom they gotten be. In happy case then such her creatures are, That may do so, and yet do no offence, They be more happy than is mankind far: For they by some malicious base pretence Have made a curb to hold that still in thrall Which Nature would have common unto all. But yet pack hence thou foul incestuous love, What, wilt upon thy only father dote? I ought to love him; yet as doth behove, Not that the world thereby my shame may note. O do resolve! the nearness of our kin, Cuts off all hope thy wished suit to win. Did Cupid then ere shoot so yet before? Can Vulcan forge so foul an arrow now? Or further: will dame Venus evermore Such cruelty unto her servants show? No, no, I am deceived; for now I see, With poisoned snakes some fury wounded thee. How great (said she) o Venus mayst thou be, How was I ravished this present night, In feeling of your pleasant sports in me? I clipped a man in prime of his delight, What lively pleasures did I there conceive? No fault (alas) but they too soon did leave. Would Cynaras thou hadst some other name, How fitly mightst thou have a love of me? How nobly mightst thereby increase thy fame, How quickly shouldst a son gain unto thee? I would enforce dull earthly thoughts, to crave, To kiss and clip, and other pastimes have. What mean my dreams? have they effect at all? May dreams a future chance to us portend? Let then to me such dreams more oft befall, In dreams no present witness can offend. In dreams we may as great a pleasure take, As in some sort is found we being awake. But yet avaunt, pack hence foul filthy fire, Wring out some tears to quench this cursed flame No otherwise than daughter-like require Thy father's love, that blazons on thy shame. Yet put the case he first did seek to me; No doubt I should to his request agree. Why should it not then stand right so with him, Since of one nature we participate? What if with speech thou chance his love to win Then mayst thou write, No time is yet too late. What thou dost blush to speak, love bids thee write Believe me they read more than we indite. Resolved on this, with trembling hand she takes The pen and paper, framing for to write, Left hand holds way, whilst right the letter makes Composing what she did in mind indite. She writes, she doubts, she changes this for that, She likes, dislikes, & notes she knows not what. She casts away, and doth begin anew, Yet finds a want in that she framed last She blots, & then again that thing doth view, And now the first more fits then all that's past. Father she writes, yet shame did blot it out, Then thus she writes, and casts away all doubt. I know not what, sends to I know not whom Such health that thou mayst only give to me, Which if I want, my life cannot be long, Even that same health thy lover sends to thee. I dare not tell thee who I am for shame, Nor (out alas) once let thee hear my name. And if thou ask of me what I desire, Or why so doubtful I do write to thee, Would nameless I might tell what I require, Till that my sweet were granted unto me: Which if to know, thou wouldst make further trial A maiden asketh but a maid's denial. In token of my wounded heart, I would Within these blotted lines there might appear My colour pale, my body lean and cold, My watery eyes, my sighs and heavy cheer, Then mightst perceive I were in love with thee, And how the flames of love tormenteth me. I call the Gods as witness to the same Poor wretched wench, I strove to fly the dart And did my best that outrage for to tame, Which Cupid had allotted for my smart, No wench bore more than did to me betide, Which forced me show the cause that I would hide. Then mercy at thy gentle hands I crave, In fearful wise to thee I make my moan, Thou only mayst thy lover spill or save, No enemy doth sue, but such a one That is allied most sweetly unto thee, Yet in a nearer band would linked be. My life is thine, and thou didst give it me, Then love thyself, and thou wilt me affect, My beauty's much, and is derived from thee, Then all thy own be careful to respect. O stop thy ears, and hear not Myrha's name, And shut thy eyes when thou dost read the same. My youthful years rash folly doth beseem, The skill of law to aged folks belong, And all is lawful that we list, I deem, We take no notice of the right or wrong, If it offend to take thy own in't bed, Let that offence be laid upon my head. Then set apart the dread of worldly shame, And take the Gods, as precedents herein, My pregnant wit shall shun all future blame, Our pleasure escapes well, hid with name of kin, And you may clip and kiss, and play with me, A daughter's name me thinks a cloak will be. Have mercy now, I have my case expressed, Which love enforced my fearful hand to write: O grant thy daughter this her first request, That is the occasion of her chief delight, This Epitaph deserve thou not; I have, The cruel father took the life he gave. And though my lines are blotted every where, 'Twas with my tears that fell ere it was dry, And if my letters scribbled do appear, Whereby you think some other wrote to try Your mind: because my curious hand is missed, A fearful mind, doth bring a shaking fist. And so these scrambled lines I do commend Unto your love, be-blurred all with tears, With fervent hope they shall no whit offend, The mind is base, that still continual fears. And note you which is the greater blot, To get no child, or kill that you have got. Thus much this lustful Lady writ in vain, And sealed it closely with a precious stone, A precious stone closed up a filthy stain, Her trusty servant forth she calls anon, And blushing bade him with a merry cheer, He should this letter to her father bear. This scarcely said, old Cynaras did come, And then she cast her letter quite aside. Daughter (said he) you see the daily throng Of suitors that do seek thee for their bride: Here be their names my wench, them come & show On which of them thou wilt thyself bestow. Now for a space she silent did remain, And only gazed wishly in his face: She could her tears no longer then restrain, But they ran trickling down her cheeks apace Her father kisses her, and bids her peace, And thought it tenderhearted shamefastness. He dried her cheeks, and said, my wench be still, Thy years of right, a husband now doth claim Thou shalt not live a maid by my good will, Nor longer shalt a wanton bed refrain, Than what, or who wilt have? come tell me now. At length she did reply; one like to you. He did allow the choice, and praised the same, And kissed and clipped her for her loving speech, Not deeming that it tended to their shame, It pleased her well, & wished that he would seech A further suit; and then made this request, Let me live still with you, let wooers rest. Your company I most of all affect, Continue but your love, it shall suffice, These wrangling husbands why should I respect? Her father thus again to her replies, Thy godliness (at which she blushed red) I like, but thou must taste a Bridegroom's bed. Thou dost not know the pleasure it affords, Nor wanton motions that therein abound, It not consisteth all of pleasant words, More gamesome tricks are there still to be found A mind so chaste as thine cannot conceive What pleasing sports one shall thereby receive It is no dream, nor passion of the mind, But a substantial pleasure there doth dwell, The practic part of dreams therein we find, Which who so doth omit, leads Apes in hell. Why dost thou blush? I know your case, believe, Maids must say nay, yet take when men do give. And now the sable horses of the night, Have drawn a mantle o'er the silver sky, And all the stars do show their borrowed light, Each breathing thing oppressed with sleep doth ly Save Philomel, that sings of Terreus rape, And Myrha plotting some incestuous escape. No rest at all she took within her bed, The flames of Cupid burned so in her breast, And many a fancy comes into her head, Which overmuch her troubled soul oppressed, She doubts, she hopes, them fear doth make repair, Sh'l now attempt, than shame doth bring despair. Look how you see a pleasant field of Corn Move here & there by gentle-breathing wind, Now up and down, as waves in sea are borne: So doubtful thoughts had motion in her mind: Now she'll surcease, and now to him repair Instable, like a feather in the air. O fie upon this fowl incestuous lust, That very Nature greatly doth abhor, Some plague will fall upon all such I trust, If in this world there can be any more. I hope this little world well freeed is Of Giants, and such monstrous beasts as this. So God preserve it, if it be his will, And let the Gospel ever flourish here, Yet I do fear we have some yet as ill, The pleasing fools do with their folly bear: In Paradise I see we cannot live, But we shall find some foul seducing Eue. My tongue doth stagger to repeat her name, So foul a blot a Christian cannot brook, Go seek a glass to see this filthy shame, Upon God's holy Bible daily look: And there thou mayst, as in a mirror see, No Alkeron can yield the like to thee. There suck the Nectar of his Holy Word, And beg thou pardon for thy foul abuse, For every Sore it can a Salve afford. O Atheist! learn to make of it good use. Thou Christian's blot, to leave off further talk, Whilst thou hast light, endeavour there to walk. And thou Paenchaia, rich in many a thing, In Custus, Cinnamon, and Incense sweet, That out of trees abundantly doth spring, Of Ammonie, and things for uses meet. Yet whilst thou yieldest Myrrh, I weigh thee not: For thereunto hath Myrha given a blot. No measure in her filthy love she found: No ease, no rest, but death doth like her now. Resolved on this she gets up from the ground, And minds to hang herself, her love to show, And then the noose about her neck she draws, And said, o Cynaras! thou art the only cause. Farewell therefore, a thousand times farewell, Dear Cynaras thou mightst have saved my life, And think then, this to me alone befell, Because I durst not love thee as a wife. Farewell again. Oh welcome gentle death! And then she went about to stop her breath. A recompense fit for so foul a mind, But yet by chance her aged Nurse did lie Within a chamber that to hers adjoined, Who overhearing this, to her did high; And seeing her half murdered, so began To shriek & screeme, & strait unto her ran. Who first did snatch her girdle from her neck, And pouring tears upon her plenteously, Did hold her in her aged arms, though weak, And kissing her did urge the reason why She went about away herself to make, Or to her shame so base a course to take? Quoth she, I pray thee tell the cause to me, Behold these empty dugs, and head all grey, These hands that pain have took in rocking thee Let some, or all these, cause thee to bewray What cruel means have brought thee in this case. At which the Lady turned away her face. O be not coy sweet! hide thou nought from me, I am thy Nurse, she said, and have good skill In charms, & herbs, & dreams, that powerful be, Of what thou want'st, I'll help thee to thy fill. Art thou in love, or witched by any wight? I'll find thee case, or else will free the quite. I have been wanton once as well as you, Now yet by age, am altogether dull, I have been lovesick, as you may be now, Of toys and love-tricks I was wondrous full, How strange so ere thy case do therefore stand, I can and will redress it out of hand. Thou art in Love (my sweet) I well espy, If so, no lack shalt find in me, I swear, The Lady in her arms sobbed bitterly, The Nurse replied, and said; Why do not fear, Thy father shall not know of this at all: At which she starts, and on her bed doth fall. And frantically she tumbles on her face, And said, get hence (good Nurse) I prithee go, Constrain me not to show my wicked case. That case (quoth she) I pray thee let me know. Get hence, she answered or inquire less, 'Tis wickedness thou wouldst have me confess. 'Tis such a thing, that if I want, I die, And being got, is nothing else but shame. The Nurse hereat did sigh most heavily, And on her knees be sought to know the same, And holding up her hands as she did kneel, Said; Madam, tell the privy grief you feel. If you will not discover this to me I will acquaint your father out of hand, How you had hanged yourself, were't not for me; But if you tell, your trusty friend I'll stand, And let your grief of any nature be, It shall go hard, but I'll find remedy. And if your case be ill, you need not fear The heavy load the wickedness doth bring, I'll teach thee how most easily to bear, My age hath got experience in each thing. Tell me what 'tis that doth so nearly touch, One woman may persuade another much. And now the Lady raised her heavy head, Hanging upon her Nurse's bosom fast, As she did rise up from her slothful bed, Being prodigal, her crystal tears to waste, Now she would speak, & now her speech doth stay Then shame doth cause her turn her face away. A frantic fury doth possess her now, And then she draws her garment o'er her face, And wrings her hands, & to her Nurse doth vow For to acquaint her with her wretched case: And shedding brinish tears into her breast, Thus much her grief to her at last expressed. Oh happy is my mother's happy state! That hath a husband Debonair and fair, Unhappy am I, most infortunate, At which he stopped, as one fallen in despair. The Nurse soon found Senecdoche in this, And what the whole meant by a perfect guess, Her aged bones did shake and tremble fast, Her hoary hair stood staring up on end, From forth her eyes a heavy look she cast, And many a sigh her heart distressed did send; And pausing long, not knowing what to say, At last her tongue her mind did thus bewray. In this I hope, good Lady, you but jest, To try your Nurse's now-decaying wit; So foul a fault is not within your breast, Then tell me true the occasion of this fit. The Lady frowned, & stopped her speaking farther, And said, get hence, is't shame to love our father? I she replied, in such a filthy sort, It is not love, but lust that you profess, Necessity with true love cannot sort▪ Your love contaminates, you must confess. A daughter's love then to your father show, Some love good things but with bad love, I know. Or if your wanton flesh you cannot tame, Nor cool the burning of your hot desire, Then take some one that not augmets the shame And set apart to dote upon your sire. It is most vile to stand in such a need, To make the actor base than the deed. Besides, his years can yield no such content, That blithsome wanton dames expect to have, Herein your bargain you will soon repent, When you shall find great want of that you crave: Are you so mad, o will you once believe Old men content to frolic Dames can give▪ Take this example of me, from the Sky, Behold a shooting star from heaven fall Whose glimmering light you scarcely do espy But it is gone as nothing were at all; And so their sports being scarce begun doth leave As in the air concressions we perceive. Or as the blooms upon the Almond-tree, That vanish sooner than the mush-rums done: Or as the flies Haemere we do see, To leave their breath their life being scarce begun, Who thinks that tree whose roots decayed by time Can yield like fruit to young ones in their prime. A rotten stick more fit to burn then use, I marvel what from age you do expect, Let my experience their defect accuse, And teach thee how thy equals to affect: When they should toy, jocund & sport with thee, Their gouts, coughs & cramps, will hindrance be. 'Tis nor their fault, but incident to age, Which far more imperfections with it brings, As jealousy, suspicion, fury, rage, Dislike, disdain, and other such like things, For can the fire, hot in nature, dwell With water cold, but they at length rebel. Even as in Summer one may aptly note, The fire and water in one cloud contained; And neither, yet, the mastery having got, Being opposites, their surie's not restrained, But do contend in strife and deadly war, Till scolding Thunder do pronounce the jar. Choose from thywoers some peculiar one, Whose love may fill the measure of thy hopes, And balonize thy wanton sports alone, Whose appetite with thy desire copes, Youth will be frolic in a Maiden's bed, Age is unapt and heavy as the lead. Youth hath his dalliance and his kind embrace, Even as the Elms encircled with the Vine; Age loveth rest and quiet in this case, Saying, Oaks at such like ivy gripes repine, Yuths pleasing weltuned years sweet music makes When for consort love strings it strains or slakes. Yet choose thou one whose tongue's not set on wheels Who ears his words before he brings them forth That no decorum in his talking feels, Such are but buzzards, blabs of little worth: And for complexion, herein me believe, The perfect sanguine sweet content doth give. The Phlegmatic is like the water cold, The Choleric wants sap, like fire dry, And Melancholy, as age, is dull and old, But in the Sanguine moist warm juice doth lie, Whose beauty feeds the eye with sweet delight, The rest do rather fear then please the sight. What pleasure can a stern grim face afford, A swarthy colour or rough shagged hair, Or Raven black? believe me at a word, They are too blame that do despise the fair: They please the eye, provoke dull appetite, Resemble Gods, and do the mind delight. Cease chatting, gentle nurse, the Lady said, Or frame thy Tale to suit more with the time, My choice is made, therein I need no aid Which may be compassed by some help of thine, It is too late of abstinence too preach, When one is drunk, & notes not what you teach. I seek him not for lust, as you do deem, For if my mind were only bend thereto, I could find other men I might esteem, You know the store of Suitors come to woe. But 'tis some kind of natural instinct, Or divine flame that cannot be extinct. What I do seek I know is wondrous vile, And have a will for to withstand the same, Yet can those motions by no means exile, So seeketh lust to bring me unto shame, Be it worse than nought to have it flesh doth strive Help Nurse, else long I cannot live. And wish not to dissuade me in this case, Nor give me counsel to withdraw my mind It likes me well, I weigh not the disgrace, O teach me then to win him to be kind! Help me good Nurse in this my cruel state, All other means of comfort comes too late. And since thou needs wouldst understand my shame Which I did grieve and blush to open to thee, And had lear died than told thee of the same, Now be not slack to lend thy help to me, Thou forced me for to open my disgrace, Then lend thy help to salve my wretched case. You do not know good Nurse or have forgot, What 'tis to love, and cannot it obtain, Of youths kind dalliance age doth take no note, Forgetting it, and think all may abstain: But 'tis not so, I to those thoughts reply, Then help me gentle Nurse, or else I die. Liuc still my sweet, quoth she, and do possess, Yet name of (father) shame forced her conceal And with a staggering speech the word repressed, And all her help more amply to reveal, She made a vow, whereby herself she bound, To do the best that might in her be found. The feasts of gentle Ceres now began, Which yearly they observed, and held it ill, For thrice three nights to lie with any man, The wives in white, appareled were still, And unto Ceres, first fruit of the field, (As garlands made of ears of corn) did yield. The Queen amongst these women did frequent These Rites, and would be absent at that time. The Nurse then to accomplish her intent, And finding Cynaras made blithe with wine, The Siren most inchantingly did sing, And thus at last broke silence to the King. Renowned King, but that your constant love Restrains my tongue & holds my speeches in, A wanton question I would to thee move? Speak on, quoth he, good Nurse thy speech begin, With Bacchus' feasts do wanton sports agree, I know thou wouldst no ill thing unto me. Then thus, quoth she, there is a gallant Maid Of Princely birth and Noble high degree, Who at this time would be right well apaid To kiss thy hand, she is so in love with thee, Such divine beauty in her face doth lurk, That God's envy at Nature for the work. Without offence unto your Queen and Wife, Unto this Lady, she is a homely cate, I love your Queen, and honour her as life, And but admire the others happy state, That's made so fair that none can like her be, Your Queen is kind, abuse her not for me. But if you saw her face, as I have done, And viewed the rest of her proportioned limbs, You would contemn my Mistress face too soon, Yet love them both: it nought your honour dims, One as your wife, the next for beauty's sake, So of them both a beauteous wife but make. The glory of her hair is wondrous bright, Upon her brows doth ebb and flow content Her eyes in motion do beget delight, Her cheeks a tincture to Aurora lent Her teeth no pearl, her eyes no rubies are, But flesh and bone, more red and white by far. No lisping tongue that fondrels count a grace, But doth to▪ well tuned harmony incline, A neck inferior nought unto the face, And breath most apt for to be priest by thine, Now if the utter view so glorious prove, judge how the hidden parts procure love, The King who all this while lent listening ear, Being wrapped in admiration of her speech, Now did begin more lively to appear And for to know one thing of her did seech▪ Saying, of what years may this Lady be▪ Just of sweet Myrah's age, replied she, He said then, bring her to confer with me, That I may try if all be true you say. It is most true, as after you shall see, But said the Nurse, you now must let her stay, Perhaps she'll blush, and be to coy by light, When she will yield more kindly in the night. Such pretty Dames will hardly yield consent, For in their mouths they always carry nay, Yet if you give, to take, they are content, And near refuse, what ere their tongue doth say: For so they nature simple men abuse, When what they love they most of all refuse. If I do fable, put me unto shame, In saying she resembles Myrha much, For 'tis so much, as if it were the same; And when you seek to gain the love of such Let my experience thus much you assure They Fawlcon-like stoop to a ganey lure. And now you may, void of suspected crime, Dally with her in your lasoivious bed, The sacred Ceres' feasts are at this time, And there your Queen is still: this scarcely said, Quoth Cyneras, bring her this night to me, Whereto the Nurse replied, I do agree. With hopeful news the Nurse returned again, And cheered her chick, & bade her not be sad, Her wished suit, she certain should obtain, The news whereof made Myrha wondrous glad Yet as she joyed, she was oppressed with fear, Such discords of affections in her were. Away slips time and hasteneth on the night, And now the bear's feene run about the Pole Conducted forward by Boaetes bright, The other stars about the axletree role: The Southern images do shine as gold, Fit monuments for Hunters to behold. At what time Myrha wickedly proceeds And takes in hand to act her base desire, The shameful lust with cursed hopes she feeds Which quickly sets her heart upon a fire, And thereupon resolveth on her shame, And not one thought to contradict it came. At which the Sun his glorious face did hide, Each Planet pulleth in his golden head, The other stars out of the heavens glide And Cynthia from her silver Palace fled, The night is robbed of her wont light, Each thing turned dark that formerly was bright. Three times, by stumbling, Myrha was foretold Of bad success, if she did not retire; Three times the Owls like lessons did unfold, Whose doleful note do foul mishap require; Yet she crept on, regarding not the same, The want of light allayed much the shame, The Nurse doth lead her by her own left hand, The right doth grope the dark and desert way, As silent as the night they now do stand To hear the night-crows sorik, & goblins play The lich-foule beats, and at the window cries, For to come in, to stay the enterprise. O gentle Nurse, said Myrha tell to me, What may these scremes & doleful scriks portend, The nurse replied, my child, no hurt to thee, They are but servants that on night attend, These goblins, lich-fouls, Owls, & night-crows to At murders rail, with love have nought to do. And then the Beldame leads the Lady on Through many rooms & other turning ways As in a labyrinth they two had gone; And as they go, she to the Lady says; Now cheer you up, and get a jocund mind In thinking of the pleasures you shall find. At last she brings her to the chamber door Which softly she did open, and led her in, The Lady falls to trembling more and more, Her very heart did to relent begin, The nearer to the wickedness she went, The more to quake and shiver she was bend. Look how you see a blind man on the way Led by another through some defart place, Stagger and grope and at each trifle stay For fear lest he should fall: even in like case, The wretched nurse the fearful Lady leads, Who shakes and starts at every step she treads. And now she doth her enterprise repent, And wish she might unknown return again, Unto his bed the pausing Nurse then went; And called the King & told him thus much plain Dread King awake, of pleasures take thy fill, This lady's thine, then use her as you will. The cursed father then his bowels takes Into his bed, o filthy blob and stain, His daughter shivers in his arms, and quakes, This being done, the nurse returns again And said, make much of her, to weep forbear None would weep for that which you now fear. The King than cheers his daughter in his arm, Why dost thou weep? be still my sweet, be still, Come clip thy love I mean to do no harm, My Kingly bed with pleasures shall thee fill, And to hide all that idle heads may move, Henceforth I call thee daughter and not love. Come kiss thy father, gentle daughter then, And learn to sport thee in a wanton bed; Is this the tricks (she softly said) of men? And counterfeiting speech unknown, she said, A daughter's name, me thinks, doth not agree, Is't well with your own child in love to be? The King, not deeming who lay by his side, Replies, what hurt dear Lady can it be? No ill I know by that means can betide, The love more firm thereby we common see: It is not ill though men the same not crave, For we want daughters till a wife we have. She did reply, and said, why put the case That I were Myrha, for as men do say, My countenance resembleth much her face▪ Were't not offence, think you, with me to play? Misdeeming nought, again, he doth reply; No more than 'tis with thee, sweet wench, to lie O would, quoth Myrha, you could likewise prove Whereby I might but know some reason why, It were not ill to grant to you my love, That love should then alone to you apply; Were I your daughter I might well consent, Say half so much for me I am content. The King replies, my sweet, my will is law, And may command my subjects when I will, Besides all this, you furthermore do know You must obey, I call you daughter still: Then talk no more, she said, I do agree Thy daughter and thy subject yields to thee. Oh! now the father his own child doth take, And of his own he doth his own beget, Of his own loins another child doth make, Repugnant to the Law that nature set; May ones own seed to procreation move? No sure, unless it doth a monster prove. Their music is the scriking of the Ow'es, As if the fiends came for to sunder them, The raving dogs affright them with their howls, As all the fiends came forth to injure them; The stars behind the clouds, a great way hence, Like spies lie peeping to disclose the offence. Their bed doth shake and quaver as they lie, As if it groaned to bear the weight of sin, The fatal night-crow's at their windows fly, And cries out at the shame they do live in: And that they may perceive they heavens frown, The Poukes & Goblins pull the coverings down. The pillow that her cursed head doth bear, Which is a castle of accursed ill, The weighty burden of the same doth fear, And therefore shrinketh inwards from her still: Whilst both the ends high swelling with disdain Like angry foe-men raise themselves amain. The bed, more kind than they religious are, Doth seek to shroud their foul defiled act, And therefore lets them fall into it far As in some vale for to conceal the fact: Like bulwarks rising to defend their names, Or swelling mountains to obscure their shames. O there they lie and glut themselves with sin, A jocund sin that doth the flesh delight, A filthy flesh that can rejoice herein, A silly joy that 'gainst the soul doth fight, A fasting sport, a pleasure soon forgot, That bringeth shame with an eternal blot. Thrice happy now, had wicked Myrha been, If some foul swelling Ebon cloud would fall, For her to hide herself eternal in, Or had the bed been burnt with wild fire all, And thereby moult the heavens golden frame That all things might have ended with her shame. And now revenge, a soldier unto lust, Comes scouring in, as it had been beguiled▪ Accompanied with fame and foul distrust, And with disgrace, black luxures basest child, These threaten them and blaze abroad the fact, And like to Trumpets thunder out the act. Not many nights they spending in this sort, But Cyneras at length desired to know Who 'twas afforded him this pleasant sport, And freely did the courtesy bestow: And having done this task used every night, Forth he doth steal and goes to seek the light. O hide thee Myrha, 'tis not time to sleep, A thunderbolt is levelled at thy head, Unless thy eyes prepare them for to weep, With fire and sword thou art betrayed in bed, Awaken wench, the day of doom bewray, And see the father his own child betray. And whither steals thou furious Cynaras? Why seeks a ●ight to open thy own shame? Who hop'st to find in this accursed place? Make not such haste to spy thy ignoble game, Stay, stay thy feet, thou wilt repent to late, Mischief itself comes in with speedy gate. What, sleepest thou Myrha? why then sleep thou long Or else awake and welcome in thy woes, Another happy day will never come, Pale misery thy pleasure overgoes; Dream sleeping, thou didst with thy father lie, Or wake, and see him revenge the villainy. Confound thy head, and all thy parts with fear, And think the fiends encompass thee about, Striving with burning tongues thy flesh to tear, Pulling thy tongue and eyes with tortures out; O think with raizors they do slay thy skin, Adding new tortures unto every sin. Now comes the father, being fully bend For to disclose his love with his fair light, Sleep Myrha, thou hast time for to repent, Arise in care, pass many a weary night; Look Cyneras, and spy disgrace too soon, Myrha awake, see what thy lust hath done. Blush lustful King, and see the end of lust, Behold thy own dishonour and disgrace, Learn what it is to use thy wife unjust, And lay a Strumpet in her Princely place, Shame follows them, revenge hangs o'er their heads That basely do defile their marriage bed. It's like a tender flower nipped with frost, It ever after hangs his drooping head, And hath her wont prime of glory lost, Or like the cup that hath his Nectar shed: Crack you the richest pointed Diamond, And all his prize and glory's lost and gone. Old Cynaras his daughter knowing well, For very anger could not speak a word, But into most outrageous fury fell, And would have killed the Lady with a sword, But nimbly she, by help of cloudy night, conveys herself out of her father's sight. Most like a Lion, ranging for a pray, Each corner of the house he madly looks, No bar, or stop, doth hinder him, or stay, He rifles chambers, beds, and secret nooks. This Lion seeks for her, the dart did throw, And quietly lets all the other go. By this the Lady's in the Arabian fields, And fearfully doth range about the same, Which plenteously the bearing Date-tree yields, At length she also through Paenchaia came, Her father's rage being something overpast, At Saba land she doth arrive at last. The King not finding her, begins to fret, And vex himself with anguish, care & grief, He scolds with fortune, that this trap did set, And chides the Fates for yielding no relief: Small sorrows grew till they to greater came, Like little sparks increasing into flame. Even as a river swelling o'er her bounds, By daily falling of small drops of rain, Likewise his care continually abounds, By hourly thinking of his his fault again, Content were found soon in calamity, The thought thereof razed out of memory. Daughter, quoth he, with eyes full fraught with tears, What hast thou done? o foul accursed child! Why hast deceived my aged blosomed hairs? Why didst thy Princely Father so beguile? Alas! I err, thou art no child to me, Nor longer I'll thy loving father be. Go seek some hole eternal to lie in, And nevermore behold the heavens light, Thou hast disgraced all thy name and kin, Then hide thee everlasting from my sight, Thou hast not only brought us both to shame, But made thy father actor of the same. How will thy mother think herself abused, That hast made her a quot-quean shamefully, Of filthy incest I do thee accuse, That Lemmon-like didst with thy father lie, Then high to hell, haste to the Furies there, When raging parents witness 'gainst thee bear. Oh but the fault thy own was most of all, Poor Myrha thou didst mean no hurt to me, It wot: thou saidst (my self I witness call) 'twas ill with your own child in love to be. And urged again, what if she Myrha were, I basely said, there was no fault in her. Then rend thy brains with terror of the deed, Confused thoughts burst thine accursed breast, As if thou didst on deadly poison feed, And in Elysium let thy soul near rest, Roar seas, quake earth, till you devout him That hath defiled his daughter with foul sin. Yet she did know I was her father dear, What meant she then to seek me in such sort? I did not know my daughter to be there, And therefore wished her no kind of hurt. She sinned, and knew her father she abused, I sinned, uncertain who it was I used. By this the Sun near past the zodiac ore▪ And thrice three signs had fully overrun, Returning towered the point he was before, Ninety degrees wanting thereto to come, He had the Cliptike and one quadre gone, And in that space the child ripes in the womb. When Myrha weeping much her barn to bear, Tired with wandering in the wood so long, Weary of life beginneth for to fear What shall hereafter on herself become. Now she perceives the folly lust did bring, And may take time of penitence to sing. Things done in haste, have leisure to repent, A hasty brain is never wanting woe, Youth with Decorum seldom is content, Young years and lust associat-like do go, Youth hath no wit till it be dearly bought, And often times than it is good for nought. Alas! quoth Myrha, bursting out with cries, What shall I do that have so vilely erred? Let bellowing groans pierce up unto the skies, That all the Gods to pity may be stirred, O let some Trumpets voice from thee be driven To waken mighty jupiter in heaven. You gentle Gods, that wont were to hear The suppliant prayers of distressed souls, Now open wide your gracious listening ear, That I may win some pity with my howls. O let it stand with your omnipotence, For to remit the sorrowfuls offence. I do confess my wickedness is much, And there's no hope that I should favour win, Yet your still-pardoning clemency is such, That undeserved you forgive our sin, We run in errors every day most ill, Yet you are apt to grant us pardon still. What have I gained? my father's foul disgrace, My own dishonour, and my friends disdain: What have I won? an imputation base, My mother's curse, and a perpetual stain, I seldom see one mischief to arise, But it brings others at her heels likewise. And since my fault into such height is driven That I deserve not in the earth to rest, Nor have a place amongst the stars in heaven, You nightly powers grant me this request: That neither with the dead nor live I do remain, And so no place in earth or heaven gain. To this her last request the God's consent, And so the ground her feet did cover over, Out from her toes the scrawling roots were sent Which by her travel she had bruised sore. These twining roots most plenteously abound, Till they had fixed her body to the ground. Where be the walks that thou wast wont to have The shady groves paved with Camomile? The rosy bowers that heat of Sun did save, And yielded to thy sense a pleasant smile? Where be the pleasant rooms thou solust's in? Thou art despoiled thereof by thine own sin. Thou shalt no more within thy Chariot ride, Gazing upon the people kneeling down. No more will come to woe thee for a Bride, Lust hath defiled the type of thy renown. Those feet of thine, that to offence did lead, Imprisoned are, and not allowed to tread. By this the growing tree so far had passed, That her fair bones to timber turned were: Her marrow did convert to pith at last, And all her blood the name of sap doth bear, Her arms to bows, her finger's branches be, Her skin to bark, and so she made a tree. Where is the face that did all faces stain, But shrunk within a hard consolid bark? No one will sue to kiss it once again, But must be hid perpetually in dark. That snow-white-neck, that men desired to touch▪ Now they refuse ●o handle it as much. Where are those eyes, those glassy eyes of thine, That lent the glorious Sun his chiefest light? Where is that Angel's voice, that voice divine, Whose wel-tuned tongue did all the gods delight? What, are they gone? doth time thy glory rust? No, they be spoiled with incestuous lust. Farewell thy arms, made kindly to embrace, But now a bough for birds to perch upon, Farewell thy pretty fingers in like case, The curious Lute ordained to quaver on. Your wont glory you shall see no more, Your filthy lust hath thrust you out of door. Now with her shape she lost her senses quite, For that and for her fault she weary still; Which tears are held in honour, price, & might, And daily do out of the tree distill, And from the gummy bark doth issue Myrrh, Which evermore shall bear the name of her. At last the swelling womb divides the tree, The infant seeking for some passage out, No Nurse nor Midwife could the baby see, The use of speech his mother is without, And could not therefore beg Lucina's aid, She might done well could she one prayer said. And therefore sighs and groans most heavily, Bending most humbly to the ground below. Shedding from every bow tears plenteously At length the Gods some favour did bestow. And so Lucina laid her hand thereon, And speaking words, received the words anon. The watery Nymphs this pretty child did take, And on soft smelling flowers laid him down, Of which a curious cardle they did make, The herbs perfumed were for more renown. The Nymphs this boy affected more and more, And with his mother's tears still washed him over. As years increase, so beauty doth likewise, And is more fair to morrow then to day, His beauty more & more continual doth arise, That envy did delight, in him bewray, As Venus fell in love with him at last, Who did revenge his mother's lusting past. FINIS.