Act III - Page 2

faintly hope:
Like the day-dreams of melancholy men,
I think and think on things impossible,
Yet love to wander in that golden maze.

Enter DON MANUEL, HIPPOLITO, and company.

Amid: Madam, your brother's here.

Man: Where is the bridegroom?

Hip: Not yet returned, sir, from his ship.

Man: Sister, all this good company is met,
To give you joy.

Jul: While I am compassed round
With mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief,
Whence, like the bird of night, with half shut eyes,
She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day. [Aside.

Enter Servant.

Serv: Sir, some gentlemen and ladies are without,
Who, to do honour to this wedding, come
To present a masque.

Man: Tis well; desire them
They would leave put the words, and fall to dancing.
The poetry of the foot takes most of late.

Serv: The poet, sir, will take that very ill;
He's at the door, with the argument o'the masque
In verse.

Man: Which of the wits is it that made it?

Serv: None of the wits, sir; 'tis one of the poets.

Man: What subject has he chose?

Serv: The rape of Proserpine.

Enter GONSALVO.

Man: Welcome, welcome, you have been long
expected.

Gons: I staid to see the unlading of some rarities,
Which are within--
Madam, your pardon that I was so long absent.

Jul: You need not ask it for your absence, sir.

Gons: Still cruel, Julia?

Jul: The danger's here, and Roderick not here:
I am not grieved to die; but I am grieved
To think him false. [Aside.

Man: Bid him begin. [The music plays.

A Cupid descends in swift motion, and speaks
these verses.

Cup: Thy conquests, Proserpine, have stretched too far;
Amidst heavens peace thy beauty makes a war:
For when, last night, I to Jove's palace went,
(The brightest part of all the firmament)
Instead of all those gods, whose thick resort
Filled up the presence of the thunderers court;
There Jove and Juno all forsaken sate,
Pensive, like kings in their declining state:
Yet (wanting power) they would preserve the show,
By hearing prayers from some few men below:
Mortals to Jove may their devotions pay;
The gods themselves to Proserpine do pray.
To Sicily the rival powers resort;
'Tis Heaven wherever Ceres keeps her court.
Phoebus and Mercury are both at strife,
The courtliest of our gods who want a wife.
But Venus, whate'er kindness she pretends,
Yet (like all females envious of their friends),
Has, by my aid, contrived a black design,
The god of hell should ravish Proserpine:
Beauties, beware; Venus will never bear
Another Venus shining in her sphere.

After Cupid's speech, Venus and Ceres descend