SCENE IV.[56

[_Enter_] EUMENIDES _and_ GERON.

_Eum._ Father, your sad music being tuned on the same key that my hard fortune is, hath so melted my mind that I wish to hang at your mouth’s end till my life end.

_Ger._ These tunes, gentleman, have I been (5) accustomed with these fifty winters, having no other house to shroud myself but the broad heavens; and so familiar with me hath use made misery that I esteem sorrow my chiefest solace, and welcomest is that guest to me (10) that can rehearse the saddest tale or the bloodiest tragedy.

_Eum._ A strange humour. Might I inquire the cause?

_Ger._ You must pardon me if I deny to tell (15) it, for knowing that the revealing of griefs is, as it were, a renewing of sorrow, I have vowed therefore to conceal them, that I might not only feel the depth of everlasting discontentment, but despair of remedy. But whence are you? (20) What fortune hath thrust you to this distress?

_Eum._ I am going to Thessaly, to seek remedy for Endymion, my dearest friend, who hath been cast into a dead sleep almost these twenty years, waxing old and ready for the grave, (25) being almost but newly come forth of the cradle.

_Ger._ You need not for recure travel far, for whoso can clearly see the bottom of this fountain shall have remedy for anything.

_Eum._ That methinketh is impossible. Why, (30) what virtue can there be in water?

_Ger._ Yes, whosoever can shed the tears of a faithful lover shall obtain anything he would. Read these words engraven about the brim.

_Eum._ Have you known this by experience, (35) or is it placed here of purpose to delude men?

_Ger._ I only would have experience of it, and then should there be an end of my misery; and then would I tell the strangest discourse that ever yet was heard. (40)

_Eum._ Ah, Eumenides!

_Ger._ What lack you, gentleman; are you not well?

_Eum._ Yes, father, but a qualm that often cometh over my heart doth now take hold of (45) me. But did never any lovers come hither?

_Ger._ Lusters, but not lovers; for often have I seen them weep, but never could I hear they saw the bottom.

_Eum._ Came there women also? 50

_Ger._ Some.

_Eum._ What did they see?

_Ger._ They all wept, that the fountain overflowed with tears, but so thick became the water with their tears that I could scarce 55 discern the brim, much less behold the bottom.

_Eum._ Be faithful lovers so scant?

_Ger._ It seemeth so, for yet heard I never of any.

_Eum._ Ah, Eumenides, how art thou perplexed! (60) Call to mind the beauty of thy sweet mistress and the depth of thy never-dying affections. How oft hast thou honoured her, not only without spot, but suspicion of falsehood! And how hardly hath she rewarded thee without (65) cause or colour of despite. How secret hast thou been these seven years, that hast not, nor once darest not to name her, for discontenting her. How faithful, that hast offered to die for her, to please her! Unhappy Eumenides! 70

_Ger._ Why, gentleman, did you once love?

_Eum._ Once? Ay, father, and ever shall.

_Ger._ Was she unkind and you faithful?

_Eum._ She of all women the most froward, and I of all creatures the most fond. 75

_Ger._ You doted then, not loved, for affection is grounded on virtue, and virtue is never peevish; or on beauty, and beauty loveth to be praised.

_Eum._ Ay, but if all virtuous ladies should (80) yield to all that be loving, or all amiable gentlewomen entertain all that be amorous, their virtues would be accounted vices, and their beauties deformities; for that love can be but between two, and that not proceeding of him (85) that is most faithful but most fortunate.

_Ger._ I would you were so faithful that your tears might make you fortunate.

_Eum._ Yea, father, if that my tears clear not this fountain, then may you swear it is but a (90) mere mockery.

_Ger._ So saith every one yet that wept.

_Eum._ Ah, I faint, I die! Ah, sweet Semele, let me alone, and dissolve, by weeping, into water. [_He gazes into the fountain._] 95

_Ger._ This affection seemeth strange: if he see nothing, without doubt this dissembling passeth, for nothing shall draw me from the belief.

_Eum._ Father, I plainly see the bottom, (100) and there in white marble engraven these words: _Ask one for all, and but one thing at all_.

_Ger._ O fortunate Eumenides, (for so have I heard thee call thyself,) let me see. I cannot discern any such thing. I think thou dreamest. (105)

_Eum._ Ah, father, thou art not a faithful lover, and therefore canst not behold it.

_Ger._ Then ask, that I may be satisfied by the event, and thyself blessed.

_Eum._ Ask? So I will. And what shall I (110) do but ask, and whom should I ask but Semele, the possessing of whose person is a pleasure that cannot come within the compass of comparison; whose golden locks seem most curious when they seem most careless; whose sweet looks 115 seem most alluring when they are most chaste; and whose words the more virtuous they are, the more amorous they be accounted? I pray thee. Fortune, when I shall first meet with fair Semele, dash my delight with some light disgrace, (120) lest embracing sweetness beyond measure, I take a surfeit without recure. Let her practise her accustomed coyness that I may diet myself upon my desires; otherwise the fulness of my joys will diminish the sweetness, and (125) I shall perish by them before I possess them.

Why do I trifle the time in words? The least minute being spent in the getting of Semele is more worth than the whole world; therefore let me ask. What now, Eumenides! Whither (130) art thou drawn? Hast thou forgotten both friendship and duty, care of Endymion, and the commandment of Cynthia? Shall he die in a leaden sleep because thou sleepest in a golden dream? Ay, let him sleep ever, so I slumber (135) but one minute with Semele. Love knoweth neither friendship nor kindred. Shall I not hazard the loss of a friend for the obtaining of her for whom I would often lose myself? Fond[57] Eumenides, shall the enticing beauty of a (140) most disdainful lady be of more force than the rare fidelity of a tried friend? The love of men to women is a thing common and of course; the friendship of man to man infinite and immortal. Tush! Semele doth possess my love. Ay, (145) but Endymion hath deserved it. I will help Endymion. I found Endymion unspotted in his truth. Ay, but I shall find Semele constant in her love. I will have Semele. What shall I do? Father, thy gray hairs are embassadors of (150) experience. Which shall I ask?

_Ger._ Eumenides, release Endymion, for all things, friendship excepted, are subject to fortune: love is but an eye-worm, which only tickleth the head with hopes and wishes; (155) friendship the image of eternity, in which there is nothing movable, nothing mischievous. As much difference as there is between beauty and virtue, bodies and shadows, colours and life, so great odds is there between love and 160 friendship.

Love is a chameleon, which draweth nothing into the mouth but air, and nourisheth nothing in the body but lungs. Believe me, Eumenides, desire dies in the same moment that beauty (165) sickens, and beauty fadeth in the same instant that it flourisheth. When adversities flow, then love ebbs; but friendship standeth stiffly in storms. Time draweth wrinkles in a fair face, but addeth fresh colours to a fast friend, (170) which neither heat, nor cold, nor misery, nor place, nor destiny, can alter or diminish. O friendship, of all things the most rare, and therefore most rare because most excellent, whose comforts in misery is always sweet, (175) and whose counsels in prosperity are ever fortunate! Vain love, that, only coming near to friendship in name, would seem to be the same or better in nature!

_Eum._ Father, I allow your reasons, and (180) will therefore conquer mine own. Virtue shall subdue affections, wisdom lust, friendship beauty. Mistresses are in every place, and as common as hares on Athos, bees in Hybla, fowls in the air; but friends to be found 185 are like the phœnix in Arabia, but one; or the philadelphi in Arays, never above two. I will have Endymion. Sacred fountain, in whose bowels are hidden divine secrets, I have increased your waters with the tears of unspotted (190) thoughts, and therefore let me receive the reward you promise. Endymion, the truest friend to me, and faithfulest lover to Cynthia, is in such a dead sleep that nothing can wake or move him. 195

_Ger._ Dost thou see anything?

_Eum._ I see in the same pillar these words: _When she whose figure of all is the perfectest, and never to be measured; always one, yet never the same; still inconstant, yet never wavering; (200) shall come and kiss Endymion in his sleep, he shall then rise, else never._ This is strange.

_Ger._ What see you else?

_Eum._ There cometh over mine eyes either a dark mist, or upon the fountain a deep (205) thickness, for I can perceive nothing. But how am I deluded, or what difficult, nay impossible thing is this?

_Ger._ Methinketh it easy.

_Eum._ Good father, and how? 210

_Ger._ Is not a circle of all figures the perfectest?

_Eum._ Yes.

_Ger._ And is not Cynthia of all circles the most absolute? 215

_Eum._ Yes.

_Ger._ Is it not impossible to measure her, who still worketh by her influence, never standing at one stay?

_Eum._ Yes. 220

_Ger._ Is she not always Cynthia, yet seldom in the same bigness; always wavering in her waxing or waning, that our bodies might the better be governed, our seasons the dailier give their increase; yet never to be removed from her (225) course, as long as the heavens continue theirs?

_Eum._ Yes.

_Ger._ Then who can it be but Cynthia, whose virtues being all divine must needs bring things to pass that be miraculous? Go, humble thyself (230) to Cynthia; tell her the success, of which myself shall be a witness. And this assure thyself, that she that sent to find means for his safety will now work her cunning.

_Eum._ How fortunate am I, if Cynthia be (235) she that may do it!

_Ger._ How fond[58] art thou, if thou do not believe it!

_Eum._ I will hasten thither that I may entreat on my knees for succour, and embrace in (240) mine arms my friend.

_Ger._ I will go with thee, for unto Cynthia must I discover all my sorrows, who also must work in me a contentment.

_Eum._ May I now know the cause? 245

_Ger._ That shall be as we walk, and I doubt not but the strangeness of my tale will take away the tediousness of our journey.

_Eum._ Let us go.

_Ger._ I follow. _Exeunt._ 250