My lifes Catastrophe is at an end,
The Staffe whereon my sickly Love did leane,
And which from falling (still) did him defend,
Is through mischance in sunder broken cleane.
 Gone is my Mediatrix , my best Advocate ,
 Who usde for me to intercessionate.

Ah that my Love cannot aright be waide
In Ballance just, as merits due desart,
But must with Hate (for her Goodwill) be paide,
Whereof Th'exchequer is mine ALBAS Hart:
 The Saphire cut with his owne dust may be,
 Mine owne pure Faith, in Love confoundeth me.

The Fall of Leafe , the Spring tide of my Love ,
Flowring a fresh with Hope I found to bee:
But now (alas) the Spring time for to prove,
Fall of the Leafe of my lost Love I see.
 The Carnovale of my sweet LOVE is past,
 Now comes the Lent of my long Hate at last.

LOVE is revolted, whilst he (Traytor like)
Against his prince (gainst me his Soveraigne)
Weapons unjust (sauns cause) takes up to fight,
And doth his fealtie and his Homage staine.
 He is revolted and mine ALBA'S fled,
 I seeme alive here, yet in deede am dead.

Rivers of gorie blood into the Sea,
In sted of Waters shall most swiftlie runne;
The hugie Ocean drie as land shall be,
And darke as pitch shall shew the glistering Sunne:
 LOVE shall of Love, and kindenes be deprivde,
 And vastie world (sauns people) shall abide.

The Night shall lightsome be as Day most plaine,
The Heavens with their coloured cloudes shall fall,
Fore LOVE in me, a new IDEA frame,
Or my firme Heart, from ALBA alter shall;
 Ah fore I change, let horror stop my breth,
 Unworthie Her, unworthie of this earth.

An Answer.

Bound by Desert, (thy Merits, but not mine)
A Stranger thou, how shall I make amends?
That of thy friendship, such assured signe
(To me scant knowne) such loving Verses sends?
 Thanks give I; that's a yonger Brother's reward,
 Nought els I have, my Fortune is so hard.

My worthles lines th'hast red, (as thou dost write)
But (partiall thou) too much the same dost praise,
To sing still kindly thou dost me invite,
My Glorie (but indeed my Shame) to blaze.
 Alas I cannot; dead is that sweet Fire,

No, no, fair heretic, it needs must be
But an ill love in me,
And worse for thee.

For were it in my power
To love thee now this hour
More than I did the last,
'Twould then so fall
I might not love at all.
Love that can flow, and can admit increase,
Admits as well an ebb, and may grow less.

True love is still the same; the torrid zones
And those more frigid ones,
It must not know;
For love, grown cold or hot,
Is lust or frienship, not
The thing we have;
For that's a flame would die,
Held down or up too high.

ACT II.

Enter Shepherds .

CHORUS.


CHORUS.
Wretched Lovers, Fate has past
This sad Decree, no Joy shall last,
Wretched Lovers, quit your Dream,
Behold the Monster , Polypheme.
See what ample Strides he takes,
The Mountain nods, the Forest shakes,
The Waves run frighted to the Shores.
Hark! how the thund'ring Giant roars.


POLYPHEMUS.


RECITATIVO.

Instruct me now, what love will do;
'Twill make a tongless man to wooe.
Inform me next, what love will do;
'Twill strangely make a one of too.
Teach me besides, what love will do;
'Twill quickly mar, & make ye too.
Tell me, now last, what love will do;
'Twill hurt and heal a heart pierc'd through.

Like will to like, each Creature loves his kinde;
Chaste words proceed still from a bashfull minde.

Nothing hard, or harsh can prove
Unto those that truly love.

Love is maintain'd by wealth; when all is spent,
Adversity then breeds the discontent.