Chapter 11

In the large confines of renowned _France_ There liu'd a Lord, whom Fortune did aduance, VVho had a Daughter, _Laura_ call'd the faire; So sweet, so proper, and so debonaire, That strangers tooke her for to be none other, Then _Venus_ selfe, the God of _Loues_ owne Mother. Not farre from thence was scituate a Towne, The Lord thereof a man of great renowne; VVhom likewise Fortune blessed with a Sonne, _Amos_ by name, so modest, ciuill, yong, And yet in sight so wondrous and so bold, As that therein he passed vncontroul'd: So kinde to strangers, and so meeke to all; Of comely grace, and stature somewhat tall. As the wide world not two such Impes affords, As were the off-springs of these happy Lords. Hunting he lou'd, and therefore in a morne He shakes off sleepe (for ease he laughes to scorne) Before the sable Curtaines of the East Proclaim'd the Sunnes approach vnto the west; Or _Tytan_, Lordly Ruler of the morne, Had in his Chariot, left the night forlorne; Or sounded sleepe to them, with whom (men say) It's darksome night when we enioy the day: He brac'd his Hounds, and striding o'er his Steed, Hope with a conquest did the youngster feed: VVhich done, he hyes him to a mighty wood, That ioyn'd where _Laura's_ Fathers Pallace stood. Thither being come, a Bore he rais'd, whose pace Did make our hunts-man loose his Hounds in chase: Ranging the woods, he light into a Groue, More pleasant farre then that where _Venus_ stroue To win _Adonis_ to her hearts desire, Moued by the burning zeale of sweet _Loues_ fire. In this sweet Groue God _Pan_ did keepe his Court, And summon'd all the petty Gods resort, As Satyres, Nymphes, and others, to the same, VVhere all sing prayses vnto _Laura's_ name. Into this Groue (neare to her chamber side) (To take the Ayre) she comes forth; soone espide Of the yong Hunts-man, who made haste vnto her, And thus the Nouice there beginnes to wooe her: Parragon of beauty, diuine, though earthly creature, And yet Celestiall in thy heauenly feature. This sodaine courting, and vnwelcome sight, Made her adde wings to feare, and to that, flight: He following after, caught her by the traine, That in a rage the Maide turn'd backe againe, And did demaund why he without remorse, Durst cause her stay, against her will, by force. Mou'd by the rosiate colour of thy face, (VVherein consists (quoth he) all heauenly grace) I was too bold, I must confesse indeede, To touch the seluage of thy sacred weede: For which my selfe Ile punish as thou wilt, VVith any paine, for my deserued guilt. Doe but pronounce the sentence of my death, These hands shall be the butchers of my breath: But since the merit of my fault's no deeper, Oh let me be thy Prisoner, thou my Keeper; So shall thine eyes be witnesse of the woe, VVhich for my bold offence Ile vndergoe. Pronounce thy sentence then. VVherwith she spake, You are your Crafts-man Sir: and there she brake. Yet turning backe, quoth she, ô would 'twere true, Your loue were firme to me, as mine to you! And here she ceased: for when he came neare her, She was afraid that he would ouer-heare her. And art thou so vnwilling then, quoth hee, To doome the sentence which I aske of thee? Perswade thy selfe it is thy purer minde That will not let thy heart proue so vnkinde: O would that minde were mine, to ioyne thy hart Eyther to end my life, or ease my smart. Loue is my sute. Nor hate is my reply, Quoth she. Quoth hee, I cannot court it I; They which but view the error in my lookes, May finde I neuer learn'd in _Cupids_ bookes: But like a stone rough hewen from the rockes, And after polish'd by the Masons knockes, The former shewes but base then in compare, So to my loue my speech disgraces are: For were my speech true patterne of my minde, Not as it doth, should't come, but farre more kinde, Like as the Marchant hearing of a losse, Is vvondrous sory for so great a crosse; And after heareth by a true report, His goods are safely landed in the Fort, Cannot expresse the joy he doth conceiue: For why? it doth his senses quite bereaue; And yet with signe of sorrow blames th'euent, Although it seeme most plaine and euident. Or like a Ship toss'd by tempestuous weather, Now here, then there; now back againe, then thither That whirle-windes meeting (roaring out aloud) Make watry mountaines shew the ship each cloud: Then with such fury they descend the deepe, From top of triple-Cedar-mountaines steepe, As of the Seas rich orientall shew, Against their wils they take a counterview. So fares his minde, which tossed to and fro, Sometimes doth ioy, and other times is woe: Sometimes from depth ascends into the ayre, And though he hope, he hides it with despayre. So long with feruent zeale he mou'd his sute, Onely for want of words his tongue was mute. "VVhere true affection rules in hottest fires, "Dumbe signes and tokens then shew mens desires: For what he thought he shew'd, he could not vtter, _W_hich made him oft when he shold speak to mutter. She that was wounded with the selfe-same dart, Reueal'd with tongue that which she wisht with hart And fram'd her answere, so much't could not grieue him, For 'twas a salue to wound and to relieue him. Say I could loue, quoth she, my milder minde, (Vnlesse you further moue) cannot vnkinde, Frame you an answere: for wee are by nature So much addicted to mans heauenly feature, That though your faults are great by your abuse, To blinde the same it is our womans vse. Then as thou found'st me, leaue me, if thou wilt; That shall be all I render for thy guilt. Further I will not credit thy report: Farewell; be gone, for I am mist in Court. With that shee flyes, and in her flight she leaues A well wrought Scarfe, which straight the winde vp heaues; And proud of such a prise, they doe infer With their embassage vnto _Jupiter_, And there presented it: who, as 'twas right, Did make the windes returne't with swiftest flight, Vnto the place where _Amos_ stood amazed At that which hapt, who like a mad-man gazed, Wondring what she by this illusion meant, When to allure him was her whole intent: But led in admiration most of all, At the rich Scarfe which from the Maide did fall. He viewes the worke, where finding of _Apollo_ Chasing a Nymph, who swifter then a Swallow Flyeth his armes, for feare did lend her wings To flye from him which after her soone flings. Himselfe a foole he cals, that wanting skill, Being allur'd, he had not knowne her will. Doubtfull, he feares offence committed to her, That he so rashly, gain'st her will, durst wooe her. To cleare himselfe of which offence he flyes, Resolu'd to winne the Maide, or lose the prize, With prosperous hast. Oh may thy hast well speed, Whose wondrous loue did vertuously proceed: Not from the flames of filthy lusts desire, As was that Rome-borne _Tarquins_ lustfull fire: But as vnspotlesse from that filthy thought, From that most hell-deseruing thing of nought, As euer heart lodg'd in a loyall brest, Or tongue, vntaught to lye, euer exprest. But why doe I digresse the path I tread, Cloying your eares with that your eyes doe read? Pardon my boldnesse, and giue eare a while To that, of him, which my inferiour stile Shall now expresse: though't not with honor stands, He thinkes one paire of legs worth twice two hands. The arrow swift sent from the sturdy bow, May be accounted (to his flight) but slow: At last he gain'd the Court, to vvhich being come, It shew'd like to the Pallace of the Sunne Describ'd in _Ouid_: for in length and fairenesse, None might surpasse the workmanship and rarenes. Through which his way lies, & he needs must passe, The pauement Marble vvas, the vvals of Glasse: VVhereunder vvas so liuely caru'd the Story Of great _Joues_ loue, his vvondrous vvorks, & glory, VVith many others loue: vvhich to rehearse VVould adde a mighty volume to my Verse, Besides mine owne weake vvit: for I doe know it, He vvas a better workeman, then I Poet. Yet could not this abate the Louers pace: For he still holds the louely Maide in chase. Passing the Court, he comes into a greene, VVhich vvas in middest of the Pallace seene: Thorough the midst there ranne a pleasant Spring, On each side with a vvall of Bricke hemm'd in, Onely in midst, a Stile; beyond, a Plancke, VVhich for a Bridge did serue to eyther bancke. Ouer this Stile as _Laura_ lightly skips, In her rent garment happily it slips, And held her there a while till hee came to her, VVhere once againe the Nouice gins to wwoe her. Flye not thy friend, our Maker vvilleth so, Things reasonlesse approue and vvish it so, If vvithout sense and reason all things then Obserue a better course then humane men, How sauage were we then offending so, Committing that vvhich vve offence doe know? O were my tongue a second _Orpheus_ Harpe, That to my loue I might allure thy heart! Or vvere thy loue but equall vnto mine, Then vvould thou seeke his fauor vvho seeks thine! Me thinkes vnkindnesse cannot come from thence, VVhere beauty raignes vvith such magnificence, I meane from thee, vvhom nature hath endow'd VVith more then Art would vvillingly allow'd: And though by nature you are borne most faire, Yet Art would adde a beautie to your share: But it being spotlesse doth disdaine receipt Of all vnpolish'd painting counterfeit. Your beautie is a snare vnto our wayes, VVherein once caught, wee cannot brooke delayes; VVhich makes vs oft through griefe of minde grow sad, Griefe follows grief, then malecontent & mad. Thus by deniall doe you cause our woe, And then doe triumph in our ouer-throw. What is it to be fayre? onely a vanitie, A fading blossome of no perpetuitie. Consider this: for beautie is a flower, Subiect to ill occasions euery hower; It is a tenure holden as wee see _Durante Dei placito_, not in fee. Measure my Loue then, proue it by a tryall: Let me not languish still by your deniall. If in my suite I erre, as by mischance, Blame not my Loue but count it ignorance. The tongue is but an instrument of nought, And cannot speake the largenesse of the thought: For when the minde abounds, and almost breaketh, Then through abundance of the heart it speaketh: No man can speake but what he hath in minde, Then what I speake I thinke; be not vnkinde Vnto your seruant, who obedience proffers, And makes firme loue the obiect of his offers. I will not boast of Parentage, or Lyne, For all are base, respecting thee diuine: Nor will I boast of wealth, or riches store, For in thy face consists all wealth, and more. Pure are my thoughts as skin betweene thy browes, And eke as chaste my speech, my oathes, & vowes. Speake sweetest fayre, but one kinde word to me, How can alas that be offence in thee? There was a Dame a moderne Poet sung, _Hero_ by name, like thee, both faire and young: And both so faire, that you did others passe As farre as rarest Dyamonds common glasse. VVhom young _Leander_ courted on a greene, A Maide so faire (but thee) was neuer seene. She granted loue, which he (alas) to gaine, To reape those ioyes, did crosse the brinish Maine. My loue to thee, I now compare to his; Accounting danger, so requited, blisse. There are no Seas to separate our ioy, No future danger can our Loue annoy: Then grant to me what she denide not him; If good in her, in thee it is no sinne. The Sunne hath shin'd thus long, ô let not now The Sunne be darkened by thine angry brow. But rather let each looke a Comet be That may presage my happy destinie. I could to you a short discourse impart, That would relent the direst stony hart, VVer't not offence. It's no offence quoth she. Then thus the same Ile briefely tell, quoth he: A poore old man by chance did breake his leg, And he was told where he was wont to beg, That such a Surgion (telling of his name,) If that he pleas'd, could quickly cure the same. VVhich when he heard, to him for helpe he goes, And craues for Gods sake he would ease his woes. The Surgion greedy to haue coyne therefore, But finding none, he would not heale the sore: VVhich caus'd the poore old man to keepe his bed, That he for want of helpe in time was dead. Alas poore soule; (quoth shee) and did he dye? VVould I were Iudge, or hee were such as I, I so would vse the Surgion, as that hee Should feele the griefe which he before did see. Thus you confesse your wrong to me sweet Maid, If you performe (quoth he) the vvords you said. I am the man, who wounded, seeke reliefe: And you, the causer of my endlesse griefe; You are the Surgion, whom I vrge the more To cure the wound because you made the sore. Be not obdurate then, sith my disease Is quickly cured, if the Surgion please. And this I vow, water shall turne to fire, Huge massie mountaines to the clouds aspire; The Sun shall leaue his course, the Moon her brightnes, Night turne to day, and day shall lose his lightnes; Fishes shall flye, birds swimme; and Hare shall hunt The Hound, which to pursue the Hare vvas wont: Ayre, Earth, Fire, VVater, all things which you view Shall change their natures, ere I turne from you: And longer then I breathe a loyall friend, Let me (ô heauens) endure a wicked end. Silence (quoth she) and here let cease thy sute, Cause of distrust in loue did make me mute: Aske why I yeelded in so short a season, Because I loue, that is a womans reason. Yet Maides are fearefull; for by mens abuse, Courting is turned to a common vse, How is he held, that cannot in these dayes Fash'on his words to each fantasticke phrase? VVhich makes vs oft with one word to debase Him from our bosomes, whom our hearts imbrace: And, as you men doe for a Prouerbe make it, That which we loue we oft say nay and take it. Delayes breede danger, wherefore what I said, And what agrees with Honour, and a Maid, I yeeld to thee, but yet on this condition, Thou shalt not dare t'attempt the least fruition Of my chaste thoughts, by drawing them aside, Before in wedlocke I am made thy Bride. This said; shee to the Court, hee to his Hounds, _W_here they had slaine a Bore, whose bloud abounds: Glad of his prey, he hastneth home amaine, VVith short returne he comes to her againe, And hauing ioyn'd themselues in _Hymens_ bands, The sacred Priest vniteth heart and hands: They reape those ioyes which elder louers know, And thus my Tale doth end, thus ends their woe.

_FINIS._

THE SCOVRGE OF VENVS.

_OR_,

The wanton Lady.

_WITH_

THE RARE BIRTH OF _ADONIS._

Written by _H. A._

_LONDON_

Printed by _Nicholas Okes_ dwelling neere _Holborne-bridge._ 1613.

_To the Reader._

_Gentlemen, if your fancy will permit you to fauour this booke, I shall be thankfull, if not, I can but repent at the charge of the Impression, I meane but little gaine to my selfe, yet much pleasure to you, if it were my owne wit, and you condemne it, I should be ashamed of my publicke intrusion, but since it was the labour of a man wel-deseruing, forbeare open reprehending, for, as I haue 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 deserueth well, if I be partiall, I pray patience._

_The Scourge of Venus._

Whilst that the Sunne was climing vp in haste, To view the world with his ambitious eye. Faire _Myrha_; yet alas, more faire then chaste. Did set her thoughts to descant wantonly; Nay most inhumane, more then bad, or ill, As in the sequell you may reade at will.

You that haue parents, or that parents be, Depart a space, and giue not eare at all To the foule tale that here shall vttered 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 _Ouid_, I am wonderous glad That this small world of ours is put so farre From those that such incestious people had: So rest thou still in glory as a starre. That scorning thrusts from other nations quite, And in thy vertues doth thy selfe delight.

And now faire _Myrha_ in her youthly blood Doth on her father dote with fond desire. Each foule occasion is accounted good, That may increase her filthy lustfull fire. And as this shamefull matter wanted grace, So doubtfully she thus doth plead her case.

Why should not Gods this loue of mine permit? Or be offended with me for the same? It doth infringe their sacred lawes no whit, Adding dishonour, or deseruing blame. I will proceed, good reasons for to proue, 'Tis not vnlawfull to obtaine my loue.

In many countries I do certaine know, The parents with their children married be, Which they do most, their godlinesse to show, Because their loues increast thereby they see. Then shal this lucklesse plot of ground remaine, Th'occasion that my loue I not obtaine?

Each night hath Nature set at liberty: All things be c[=o]mon, for she naught restrains: Then let the Daughter with the Father lye, Like president with all things else remaines. 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 then is mankinde farre: For they by some malicious base pretence Haue made a curbe to hold that still in thrall Which Nature would haue common vnto all.

But yet packe hence thou foule incestious loue, What, wilt vpon thy only father dote? I ought to loue him; yet as doth behoue, Not that the world therby my shame may note. O do resolue! the neerenesse of our kin, Cuts off all hope thy wished suit to win.

Did _Cupid_ then ere shoot so yet before? Can _Vulcan_ forge so foule an arrow now? Or further: will dame _Venus_ euermore Such cruelty vnto her seruants show? No, no, I am deceiu'd; for now I see, With poisoned snakes some fury wo[=u]ded thee.

How great (said she) ô _Venus_ mayst thou be, How was I rauished this present night, In feeling of your pleasant sports in me? I clipt a man in prime of his delight, What liuely pleasures did I there conceiue? No fault (alasse) but they too soone did leaue.

Would _Cynarus_ thou hadst some other name, How fitly mightst thou haue a loue of me? How nobly mightst thereby increase thy fame, How quickly shouldst a son gaine vnto thee? I would inforce dull earthly thoughts, to craue, To kisse and clip, and other pastimes haue.

What meane my dreams? haue they effect at all? May dreames a future chance to vs portend? Let then to me such dreames more oft befall, In dreames no present witnesse can offend. In dreames we may as great a pleasure take, As in some sort is found we being awake.

But yet avaunt, packe hence foule filthy fire, Wring out some teares to quench this cursed flame No otherwise the daughter-like require Thy fathers loue, that blazons on thy shame. Yet put the case he first did seeke 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 loue to win Then maist thou write, _No time is yet too late_. What thou dost blush to speake, loue bids thee write Belieue me they read more th[=e] we indite.

Resolu'd on this, with trembling hand she takes The pen and paper, framing for to write, Left h[=a]d holds way, whilst right the leter makes Composing what she did in minde indite. She writes, she doubts, she chageth this for that, She likes, dislikes, & notes she knows not what.

She casts away, and doth begin anew, Yet findes a want in that she framed last She blots, & then againe 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 maist only giue to me, Which if I want, my life cannot be long, Euen that same health thy louer sends to thee. I dare not tell thee who I am for shame, Nor (out alasse) once let thee heare my name.

And if thou aske of me what I desire, Or why so doubtfull I do write to thee, Would namelesse I might tell what I require, Till that my sweet were granted vnto me: Which if to know, thou wouldst make further triall A maiden asketh but a maids deniall.

In token of my wounded heart, I would Within these blotted lines there might apeare My colour pale, my body leane and cold, My watery eyes, my sighes and heauy cheere, Then mightst perceiue I were in loue with thee, And how the flames of loue tormenteth me.

I call the Gods as witnesse to the same Poore wretched wench, I stroue to flie the dart And did my best that out-rage for to tame Which _Cupid_ had alotted for my smart, No wench bare more then did to me betide, Which forc'd me shew the cause that I would hide.

Then mercy at thy gentle hands I craue, In fearefull wise to thee I make my mone, Thou onely maist thy louer spill or saue, No enemy doth sue, but such a one That is aly'd most sweetly vnto thee, Yet in a neerer band would linked be.

My life is thine, and thou didst giue it me, Then loue thy selfe and thou wilt me affect, My beauty's much, and is deriu'd from thee, Then all thy owne be carefull to respect. O stop thy eares, and heare not _Myrha's_ name, And shut thy eies wh[=e] thou dost read the same.

My youthfull yeares rash folly doth beseeme, The skill of law to aged folkes belong, And all is lawfull that we list, I deeme, We take no notice of the right or wrong, If it offend to take thy owne in't bed, Let that offence be layd vpon my head.

Then set apart the dread of worldly shame, And take the Gods, as presidents herein, My pregnant wit shall shun all future blame, Our pleasure scapes wel, hid with name of kin, And you may clip and kisse, and play with me, A daughters name me thinkes a cloke wil bee.

Haue mercy now, I haue my case exprest, Which loue inforst my fearefull hand to write: O grant thy daughter this her first request, That is the occasion of her chiefe delight, This Epitaph deserue thou not; I haue, The cruel father tooke the life he gaue.

And though my lines are blotted euery where, 'Twas with my teares that fell ere it was dry, And if my letters scribled do appeare, Whereby you thinke some other wrot to try Your mind: because my curious hand is mist, A fearefull minde, doth bring a shaking fist.

And so these scrambled lines I do commend Vnto your loue, be-blurred all with teares, With feruent hope they shall no whit offend, The minde is base, that stil continuall feares. And note you which is the greater blot, To get no childe or kill that you haue got.

Thus much this lustfull Lady writ in vaine, And seald it closely with a precious stone, A precious stone clos'd vp a filthy staine, Her trusty seruant forth she cals anone, And blushing bad him with a merry cheare, He should this letter to her father beare.

This scarcely said, old _Cynaras_ did come, And then she cast her letter quite aside. Daughter (said he) you see the daily throng Of suters that do seeke thee for their bride: Here be their names _my wench_, th[=e] come & show On which of them thou wilt thy selfe bestow.