CUP. O Hermes, your craft cannot make me confident. I know my own steel to be almost spent, and therefore entreat my peace with you, in time: you are too cunning for me to encounter at length, and I think it my safest ward to close.

MER. Well, for once, I'll suffer you to win upon me, wag; but use not these strains too often, they'll stretch my patience. Whither might you march, now?

CUP. Faith, to recover thy good thoughts, I'll discover my whole project. The huntress and queen of these groves, Diana, in regard of some black and envious slanders hourly breathed against her, for her divine justice on Acteon, as she pretends, hath here in the vale of Gargaphie, proclaim'd a solemn revels, which (her G.o.dhead put off) she will descend to grace, with the full and royal expense of one of her clearest moons: in which time it shall be lawful for all sorts of ingenious persons to visit her palace, to court her nymphs, to exercise all variety of generous and n.o.ble pastimes; as well to intimate how far she treads such malicious imputations beneath her, as also to shew how clear her beauties are from the least wrinkle of austerity they may be charged with.

MER. But, what is all this to Cupid?

CUP. Here do I mean to put off the t.i.tle of a G.o.d, and take the habit of a page, in which disguise, during the interim of these revels, I will get to follow some one of Diana's maids, where, if my bow hold, and my shafts fly but with half the willingness and aim they are directed, I doubt not but I shall really redeem the minutes I have lost, by their so long and over nice proscription of my deity from their court.

MER. Pursue it, divine Cupid, it will be rare.

CUP. But will Hermes second me?

MER. I am now to put in act an especial designment from my father Jove; but, that perform'd, I am for any fresh action that offers itself.

CUP. Well, then we part. [EXIT.]

MER. Farewell good wag.

Now to my charge.--Echo, fair Echo speak, 'Tis Mercury that calls thee; sorrowful nymph, Salute me with thy repercussive voice, That I may know what cavern of the earth, Contains thy airy spirit, how, or where I may direct my speech, that thou may'st hear.

ECHO. [BELOW] Here.

MER. So nigh!

ECHO. Ay.

MER. Know, gentle soul, then, I am sent from Jove, Who, pitying the sad burthen of thy woes, Still growing on thee, in thy want of words To vent thy pa.s.sion for Narcissus' death, Commands, that now, after three thousand years, Which have been exercised in Juno's spite, Thou take a corporal figure and ascend, Enrich'd with vocal and articulate power.

Make haste, sad nymph, thrice shall my winged rod Strike the obsequious earth, to give thee way.

Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise, Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine, Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame, Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

ECHO. [ASCENDS.] His name revives, and lifts me up from earth, O, which way shall I first convert myself, Or in what mood shall I essay to speak, That, in a moment, I may be deliver'd Of the prodigious grief I go withal?

See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet Th' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy, That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature, Who, now transform'd into this drooping flower, Hangs the repentant head, back from the stream, As if it wish'd, "Would I had never look'd In such a flattering mirror!" O Narcissus, Thou that wast once, and yet art, my Narcissus, Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts, She would have dropt away herself in tears, Till she had all turn'd water; that in her, As in a truer gla.s.s, thou might'st have gazed And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection, But self-love never yet could look on truth But with blear'd beams; slick flattery and she Are twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes, As if you sever one, the other dies.

Why did the G.o.ds give thee a heavenly form, And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?

Why do I ask? 'Tis now the known disease That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense Of her own self-conceived excellence.

O, hadst thou known the worth of heaven's rich gift, Thou wouldst have turn'd it to a truer use, And not with starv'd and covetous ignorance, Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem, The glance whereof to others had been more, Than to thy famish'd mind the wide world's store: So wretched is it to be merely rich!

Witness thy youth's dear sweets here spent untasted, Like a fair taper, with his own flame wasted.

MER. Echo be brief, Saturnia is abroad, And if she hear, she'll storm at Jove's high will.

CUP. I will, kind Mercury, be brief as time.

Vouchsafe me, I may do him these last rites, But kiss his flower, and sing some mourning strain Over his wat'ry hea.r.s.e.

MER. Thou dost obtain; I were no son to Jove, should I deny thee, Begin, and more to grace thy cunning voice, The humorous air shall mix her solemn tunes With thy sad words: strike, music from the spheres, And with your golden raptures swell our ears.

ECHO. [ACCOMPANIED]

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears: Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs: List to the heavy part the music bears, Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers, Fall grief and showers; Our beauties are not ours; O, I could still, Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil.--

MER. Now have you done?

ECHO. Done presently, good Hermes: bide a little; Suffer my thirsty eye to gaze awhile, But e'en to taste the place, and I am vanish'd.

MER. Forego thy use and liberty of tongue, And thou mayst dwell on earth, and sport thee there.

ECHO. Here young Acteon fell, pursued, and torn By Cynthia's wrath, more eager than his hounds; And here--ah me, the place is fatal!--see The weeping Niobe, translated hither From Phrygian mountains; and by Phoebe rear'd, As the proud trophy of her sharp revenge.

MER. Nay but hear--

ECHO. But here, O here, the fountain of self-love, In which Latona, and her careless nymphs, Regardless of my sorrows, bathe themselves In hourly pleasures.

MER. Stint thy babbling tongue!

Fond Echo, thou profan'st the grace is done thee.

So idle worldlings merely made of voice, Censure the powers above them. Come away, Jove calls thee hence; and his will brooks no stay.

ECHO. O, stay: I have but one poor thought to clothe In airy garments, and then, faith, I go.

Henceforth, thou treacherous and murdering spring, Be ever call'd the FOUNTAIN OF SELF-LOVE: And with thy water let this curse remain, As an inseparate plague, that who but taste A drop thereof, may, with the instant touch, Grow dotingly enamour'd on themselves.

Now, Hermes, I have finish'd.

MER. Then thy speech Must here forsake thee, Echo, and thy voice, As it was wont, rebound but the last words.

Farewell.

ECHO. [RETIRING.] Well.

MER. Now, Cupid, I am for you, and your mirth, To make me light before I leave the earth.

ENTER AMORPHUS, HASTILY.

AMO. Dear spark of beauty, make not so fast away:

ECHO. Away.

MER. Stay, let me observe this portent yet.

AMO. I am neither your Minotaur, nor your Centaur, nor your satyr, nor your hyaena, nor your babion, but your mere traveller, believe me.

ECHO. Leave me.

MER. I guess'd it should be some travelling motion pursued Echo so.

AMO. Know you from whom you fly? or whence?

ECHO. Hence. [EXIT.]

AMO. This is somewhat above strange: A nymph of her feature and lineament, to be so preposterously rude! well, I will but cool myself at yon spring, and follow her.

MER. Nay, then, I am familiar with the issue: I will leave you too. [EXIT.]