Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES, by JOHN DAY



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES, by                    
First Line: Abroad, my pretty bees: I hope you'll find
Last Line: From forth our wingèd commonwealth.
Subject(s): Bees; Fantasy; Insects; Beekeeping; Bugs


THE AUTHOR'S COMMISSION TO HIS BEES.

ABROAD, my pretty Bees: I hope you'll find
Neither rough tempest nor commanding wind
To cheek your flight. Carry an humble wing;
Buzz boldly what I bid, but do not sting
Your generous patron: wheresoe'er you come
Feed you on wax, leave them the honey-comb.
Yet, if you meet a tart antagonist
Or discontented rugged satirist
That slights your errand or his Art that penned it
Cry tanti: bid him kiss his Muse—and mend it.
If then they mew, reply not you, but bring
Their names to me; I'll send out wasps shall sting
Their malice to the quick: if they cap words,
Tell 'em your master is a-twisting cords
Shall make pride skip. If I must needs take pains,
'Tshall be to draw blood from detraction's veins:
Though shrivelled like parchment, Art can make 'em bleed;
And what I vow Apollo has decreed.
Your whole commission in one line's enrolled:
Be valiantly free, but not too bold.
JOHN DAY.

THE BOOK TO THE READER.

IN my commission I am charged to greet
And mildly kiss the hands of all I meet;
Which I must do, or never more be seen
About the fount of sacred Hippocrene.
Smooth-socked Thalia takes delight to dance
I' the Schools of Art; the door of ignorance
She sets a cross on; detractors she doth scorn,
Yet kneels to censure (so it be true born).
I had rather fall into a beadle's hands
That reads, and with his reading understands,
Than some plush Midas that can read no further
But "Bees? whose penning? Mew!" This man doth murther
A writer's credit; and wronged Poesie
(Like a rich diamond dropped into the sea)
Is by him lost for ever. Quite through read me,
Or 'mongst waste paper into pasteboard knead me;
Press me to death, so—though your churlish hands
Rob me of life—I'll save my paper lands
For my next heir, who with poetic breath
May in sad elegy record my death.
If so: I wish my epitaph may be
Only three words—"Opinion murdered me."
LIBER LECTORI CANDIDO.

CHARACTER I.

PROREX, OR THE MASTER BEE'S CHARACTER.

A Parliament is held, bills and complaints
Referred and heard, with several restraints
Of usurped freedom, instituted law,
To keep the commonwealth of Bees in awe.

Speakers: PROREX, VILLICUS, ŒCONOMICUS, DICASTES, SPEAKER.

PRO. To us, who warranted by Oberon's love
Write ourself Master Bee, both field and grove,
Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads
(Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
Of wanton cowslips, daisies in their prime,
Sun-loving marigolds, the blossomed thyme,
The blue-veined violets, and the damask rose,
The stately lily, mistress of all those)
Are allowed and given by Oberon's free arede
Pasture for me and all my swarms to feed.
Now, that our will and sovereign intent
May be made known, we call this parliament;
And as the wise determiner of power
Proportioned time to moments, minutes, hours,
Weeks, months, years, ages; distinguished day from night,
Winter from summer, profundity from height
In sublunaries; as in the course of heaven
The bodies metaphysical run even,
Zeniths and zones have their apt stations,
Planets and stars their constellations
With orbs to move in, so divinely made
Some spherically move, some retrograde,
Yet all keep course; so shall it be our care
That every family have his proper sphere.
And, to that purpose, Villious be groom
Of all our lodgings, and provide fit room
To lay in wax and honey, both for us
And all our household: Œconomicus,
Be you our steward, carefully to fit
Quotidian diet, and so order it
Each may have equal portion; and, beside
Needful provision, carefully provide
Store against war and famine: Martio, thee
I have found valiant; thy authority
(Being approved for discipline in arms)
Shall be to muster up our warlike swarms
Of wingèd lances; for, like a peaceful king
Although we are, we are loth to use our sting.
Speaker, inform us what petitions
Our Commons put up at these sessions.

A Bill preferred against the Humble Bee.

Speak. A bill preferred against a public wrong,
The surly Humble Bee, who hath too long
Lived like an outlaw, and will neither pay
Honey nor wax, do service nor obey;
But like a felon, couched under a weed,
Watches advantage to make boot and feed
Upon the top-branch blossoms, and by stealth
Makes dangerous inroads on your commonwealth,
Robs the day-labourer of his golden prize
And sends him weeping home with empty thighs.
Thus, like a thief, he flies o'er hill and down,
And outlaw-like doth challenge as his own
Your highness' due; nay, piratic detains
The waxen fleet sailing upon your plains.
Pro. A great abuse, which we must have redressed
Before it grows too high: on to the rest.

A Bill preferred against the Wasp.

Speak. A bill preferred against the Wasp; a fly
Who, merchant-like, under pretence to buy,
Makes bold to borrow, and pays too.
Pro. But when?
Speak. Why ad Kalendas Græcas; never then.

A Bill against the Hornet.

There's the strange Hornet, who doth ever wear
A scaly armour and a double spear
Couched in his front; rifles the merchant's packs
Upon the road; your honey and your wax
He doth by stealth transport to some strange shore,
Makes rich their hives and keeps your own groves poor.
Pro. I thank your industry, but we'll devise
A statute that no such outlandish flies
Shall carry such high wing.

A Bill preferred against the Drone.

Speak. Yet these alone
Do not afflict us, but the lazy Drone,
Our native country bee, who, like the snail
That bankrupt-like makes his own shell his jail
All the day long, i'the evening plays the thief;
And when the labouring bees have ta'en relief,
Be gone to rest, against all right and law
Acts burglary, breaks ope their house of straw,
And not alone makes pillage of their hives
But, butcher-like, bereaves them of their lives.
Pro. 'Gainst all these outlaws, Martio, be thou
Lieutenant-General; thou know'st well how
To hamper such delinquents. Dicastes, thee
We make our advocate; thy office be
To moderate each difference and jar
In this our civil œconomic war,
And let both plaintiff and defendant be
Heard and despatched for conscionable fee.
And more, to keep our Anomoi in awe,
Ourself, the chief, will live under a law.
Dic. To each desert I'll render lawful weight,
The scale of justice shall use no deceit.
Pro. It loses name and nature if it should.
Next, Villicus, thou that frequent'st the wood,
Our painful russet bee, we create thee
Chief bailiff both of fallow-field and lea.
Appoint each bee his walk; the meadow-bee
Shall not encroach upon the upland lea,
But keep his bound; if any, with intent
To wrong our state, fly from our government,
Hoarding their honey up in rocks or trees,
Sell or transport it to our enemies;
Break down their garners, seize upon their store,
And in our name divide it 'mongst the poor.
Only to us reserve our royalties,
High-ways and wastes; all other specialties
We make thee ruler of.
Vil. And I'll impart
To all with a free hand and faithful heart.
Pro. Now break up court, and each one to his toil;
Thrive by your labours,—drones live on the spoil;
Fear neither wasp nor hornet; foreigners
Be barred from being intercommoners;
And, having laboured hard from light to light,
With golden thighs come singing home at night;
For neither drone, wasp, fly nor humble-bee
Shall dare to rob you of your treasury.
So to your summer harvest; work and thrive:
Bounty's the blessing of the labourer's hive.

CHARACTER II.

ELEEMOZYNUS, the HOSPITABLE BEE.

The author in his russet bee
Characters hospitality;
Describes his hive, and for his feasts
Appoints fit days and names his guests.

Speakers: ELEEMOZYNUS, CORDATO.

COR. Your hive's a rare one; Rome did never raise
A work of greater wonder.
Elee. Spare your praise.
'Tis finished, and the cost stands on no score;
None can for want of payment at my door
Curse my foundation, seeing the smoke go
Out of those loovers for whose straw I owe.
Cor. Why to your hive have ye so many ways?
Elee. They answer just the number of seven days.
Mondays on such whose fortunes are sunk low
By good housekeeping, I'll my alms bestow:
On Tuesdays, such as all their life times wrought
Their country's freedom and her battles fought:
On Wednesdays, such as with painful wit
Have dived for knowledge in the Sacred Writ:
On Thursdays, such as proved unfortunate
In council and high offices of state:
On Fridays, such as for their conscience' sake
Are kept in bonds: on Saturdays I'll make
Feasts for poor bees past labour, orphan fry,
And widows ground in mills of usury:
And Sundays for my tenants and all swains
That labour for me on the groves and plains.
The windows of my hive, with blossoms dight,
Are porters to let in our comfort, light;
In number just three hundred sixty-five,
'Cause in so many days the sun doth drive
His chariot, stuck with beams of burnished gold,
About the world, by spherical motion rolled.
For my alms shall diurnal progress make
With the free sun in his bright zodiac.
Cor. Some bees set all their tenants on the rack,
Not to feed bellies, but to clothe the back.
Elee. I with their actions hold no sympathy:
Such eat the poor up, but the poor eat me.
Cor. And you'll perform all this?
Elee. Fair and upright
As are the strict vows of an anchorite.
An alms that by a niggard's hand is served
Is mould and gravelly bread; the hunger-starved
May take, but cannot eat: I'll deal none such.
Who with free hand shakes out but crumbs gives much.
Cor. You'll have bad helps in this good course of life:
You might do therefore well to take a wife.
Elee. A wife? When I should have one hand in heaven
To write my happiness, in leaves as even
And smooth as porphyry, she'd by the other
Pluck me quite down: virtue scarce knows a mother.
Pardon, sweet females; I your sex admire,
But dare not sit too near your wanton fire,
Fearing your fairer beauties' tempting flame
My sound affections might put out of frame.
Cor. Who then shall reap the golden crop you sow?
Tis half a curse to have wealth, and not to know
Whom to call heir.
Elee. My heirs shall be the poor:
Bees wanting limbs, such as in days of yore
Penned learnèd canzons, for no other meed
But that in them unlettered bees might read,
And, reading, lay up knowledge—being alive,
Such I'll maintain, and, being dead, my hive,
Honey and wax I will bequeath to build
A skep, where weekly meetings may be held
To read and hear such ancient moral saws
As may teach ignorance the use of laws.
And these will be a true inheritance,
Not to decay; neither sword, fire, nor chance,
Thunder of Jove, nor mundane casualties
Can ruin the succession of these:
Manors, parks, towns, nay kingdoms may be sold,
But still the poor stand, like a lord's freehold,
Unforfeited: of all law-tricks not one
Can throw the poor out of possession.
Should I lose all my hives and waxen wealth,
Out of the poor man's dish I should drink health,
Comfort, and blessings; therefore keep aloof
And tempt no further: whilst I live my roof
Shall cover naked wretches; when I die
I'll dedicate it to Saint Charity.

CHARACTER III.

THRASO or POLYPRAGMUS, the PLUSH BEE.

Invention here doth character
A mere vainglorious reveller,
Who scorns his equals, grinds the poor,
Haunts only riots and his_____.

Speakers: POLYPRAGMUS, SERVANT.

POL. The room smells: foh, stand off.—Yet stay; d'ye hear
O' the saucy sun which, mounted in our sphere,
Strives to outshine us?
Serv. So the poor bees hum.
Pol. Poor bees! potguns, illegitimate scum,
And bastard flies, taking adulterate shape
From reeking dunghills! If that meddling ape,
Zanying my greatness, dares but once presume
To vie expense with me, I will consume
His whole hive in a month. Say, you that saw
His new-raised frame, how is it built?
Serv. Of straw
Dyed in quaint colours; here and there a row
Of Indian bents, which make a handsome show.
Pol. How! straw and bents, say'st? I will have one built
Like Pompey's theatre; the ceiling gilt
And interseamed with pearl, to make it shine
Like high Jove's palace: my descent's divine.
My great hall I'll have paved with clouds; which done,
By wondrous skill, an artificial sun
Shall roll about, reflecting golden beams,
Like Phœbus dancing on the wanton streams.
And when 'tis night, just as that sun goes down,
I'll have the stars draw up a silver moon
In her full height of glory. Overhead
A roof of woods and forests I'll have spread,
Trees growing downwards, full of fallow-deer;
When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear
A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring
Actæon to Diana in the spring,
Where all shall see her naked skin; and there
Actæon's hounds shall their own master tear,
As emblem of his folly that will keep
Hounds to devour and eat him up asleep.
All this I'll do that men with praise may crown
My fame for turning the world upside-down.
—And what plush bees sit at this flesh-fly's table?
Serv. None but poor lame ones and the ragged rabble.
Pol. My board shall be no manger for scabbed jades
To lick up provender; no bee that trades
Sucks honey there.
Serv. Poor scholars—
Pol. Beg and starve,
Or steal and hang; what can such rogues deserve?
—Gallows and gibbets, hang 'em. Give me lutes,
Viols and clarions; such music suits.
Scholars, like common beadles, lash the times,
Whip our abuse, and fetch blood of our crimes.
Let him feed hungry scholars, fetch me whores;
They are man's bliss; the other, kingdoms' sores.
We gave in charge to seek the grove for bees
Cunning in cookery and rare qualities;
And wanton females that sell sin for gold.
Serv. Some of all sorts you have.
Pol. They are stale and old;
I have seen 'em twice.
Serv. We have multiplied your store
Unto a thousand.
Pol. More; let me have more
Than the Grand Signior; and my change as rare—
Tall, low, and middle-sized, the brown and fair.
I'd give a prince his ransom now to taste
Black Cleopatra's cheek, only to waste
A richer pearl than that of Antony's,
That fame might write up my name and raze his.
O that my mother had been Paris' whore
And I might live to burn down Troy once more,
So that by that brave light I might have ran
At barley-brake with my sleek courtesan.
Yet talk'st of scholars? see my face no more;
Let the portcullis down and bolt the door.
But one such tattered ensign here being spread
Would draw in numbers: here must no rogue be fed.
Charge our mechanic bees to make things meet
To manacle base beggars' hands and feet;
And call it Polypragmus' whipping-post,
Or the beggars' ordinary; they shall taste my roast.
And if ye spy a bee that has a look
Stigmatical, drawn out like a black book
Full of Greek π's, to such I'll give large pay
To watch and ward for poor bees night and day,
And lash 'em soundly if they approach my gate:
Whipcord's my bounty, and the rogues shall ha't.
The poor are but the earth's dung, fit to lie
Covered in muck-heaps, not offend our eye.
Thus in your bosoms Jove his bounty flings.
What are gold mines but a rich dust for kings
To scatter with their breath, as chaff with wind?
Let me then have gold, bear a king's mind
And give till my arm aches: who bravely pours
But into a wench's lap such golden showers,
May be Jove's equal,—there his ambition ends
In obscure rivalship; but he that spends
A world of wealth, makes a whole world his debtor
And such a noble spender is Jove's better.
That man I'll be, I'm Alexander's heir
To one part of his mind: I wish there were
Ten worlds.
Serv. How, sir! to conquer?
Pol. No, to sell
For Alpine hills of silver; I could well
Husband that merchandize, provided I
Might at one feast draw all that treasure dry.
Who hoards up wealth is base; who spends it, brave:
Earth breeds gold, so I tread but on my slave.
Serv. O wonderful! yet let all wonder pass:
He's a great bee, and a vain-glorious ass.

CHARACTER IV.

ARMIGER, the FIELD BEE.

The poet under Armiger
Shadows a soldier's character;
His worth, the courtier's coy neglect,
His pen doth sparingly detect.

Speakers: ARMIGER, DON COCADILLIO, PROREX.

ARM. Is Master Bee at leisure to speak Spanish
With a bee of service?
Coc. No.
Arm. Smoked pilchard, vanish!
Proud Don with the ochre face, I'd but desire
To meet thee on a breach midst smoke and fire;
And, for tobacco, whizzing gunpowder
Out of a brazen pipe that should puff louder
Than thunder roars. There, though, illiterate daw,
Thou ne'er couldst spell, thou shouldst read canon law.
How the jades prance in golden trappings!—Ho!
Is Master Bee at leisure?
Coc. What to do?
Arm. To hear a soldier speak.
Coc. I cannot tell,
I am no ear-picker.
Arm. Yet you hear well.
Ye're of the Court?
Coc. The Master Bee's chief barber.
Arm. Then, Don, you lied: you are an ear-picker.
Coc. Well if thou comest to beg a suit at Court,
I shall descend so low as to report
Thy paper business.
Arm. I beg, proud Don?
I scorn to scribble: my petition
Is written on my bosom in red wounds.
Coc. I am no surgeon, sir: alloone.
Arm. Base hounds!
Thou god of gay apparel, what strange looks
May suit to do thee service? Mercers' books
Show men's devotions to thee: hell cannot hold
A fiend more stately. My acquaintance sold
'Cause poor? Stood now my beaten tailor by me
Plaiting of my rich hose, my silk-man nigh me
Drawing upon my lordship's courtly calf
Pairs of embroidered stockings; or but half
A dozen things called creditors; had my barber
Perfumed my lousy thatch (this nitty harbour),
—These pied-winged butterflies would know me then,
But they ne'er landed in the Isle of Man.
That such a thing as this, a decoy fly,
Should buzz about the ear of royalty!
Such whale-boned-bodied rascals, that owe more
To linen-drapers, to new vamp a whore,
Than all their race from their grand beldame forth
To this their reign in clothes were ever worth
—That such should tickle a commander's ear
With flattery, when we must not come near
But stand (for want of clothes), tho' we win towns,
Amongst almsbasket men! Such silken clowns,
When we with blood deserve, share our reward—
We held scarce fellow-mates to the black guard.
Why should a soldier, being the world's right arm,
Be cut off by the left? Infernal charm!
Is the world all ruff and feather? is desert
Bastard? doth custom cut off his child's part?
No difference 'twixt a wild-goose and a swan,
A tailor and a true-born gentleman?
So the world thinks, but search the herald's notes,
And you shall find much difference in their coats.
Pro. A field bee speak with me? Bold Armiger,
Welcome! thy bosom is a register
Of thy bold acts: virtue's still poor, I see.
Arm. Poor? rich.
Pro. In scars.
Arm. In wealth, in honesty.
Since I first read my A B C of war
In nine set fields I sailed by that bright star
Ere I was truncheon high I had the style
Of beardless captain; and I all this while
Drilled under honesty, never pursed dead pay,
Never made week the longer by a day,—
A soldier dead, his pay did likewise die;
And still I served one general, honesty.
From his own trencher I was daily fed
With cannon bullets, taught to chew steel and lead,
Nay, digest iron; and whene'er I die
I'll have no epitaph but honesty
Writ over me.
Pro. I know it, thou black swan.
I have seen this bee (in his fate more than man)
Write in the field such stories with his sting
That our best leaders, reading o'er his writing,
Swore 'twas a new philosophy of fighting,
His acts were so remarkable. In one field
Fought 'gainst the surly wasp (I needs must yield
Desert his due), having bruised my filmy wing
And in fierce combat blunted my keen sting,
Beaten into a tuft of rosemary,
This manly bee, armed with true honesty,
Three times that day redeemed me, and bestrid
My body with colossus thigh—
Arm. I did.
Pro. Whilst all the thunder-bolts that war could throw
At me, fell on his head. He cannot now
Choose but be honest still, and valiant: still
His hive with wax and honeycombs I'll fill,
And, in reward of thy bold chivalry,
Make thee commander of a colony,
Wishing all such as honour discipline
To serve him, and make honesty their shrine.

CHARACTER V.

POETASTER, the POETICAL BEE.

Here invention aims his drift
At poet's wants and patron's thrift;
Servile scorn and ignorant pride
Free judgment slightly doth deride.

Speakers: GNATHO, ILTRISTE, POETASTER.

ILT. A scholar speak with me?
Gna. He says a poet.
I think no less, for his apparel shows it; He's of some standing, his cloth
cloak is worn
To a serge.
Ilt. He's poor: that proves his high things scorn Mundane felicity,
disdains to flatter
For empty air, or, like crow poets, chatter
For great men's crumbs. But what's his suit to me?
Gna. To beg a dinner: old Dame Charity,
Lame of all four, limps out, and sounds a call
For all the rogues.
Ilt. Out, senseless animal!
Hearing of my retirement and the hate
I bear to court attendance and high state,
He's come perhaps to write my epitaph.
Gna. Some lousy ballad! I cannot choose but laugh
At these poor squitter-pulps.
Ilt. Thou ignorant elf,
Should he know this he'd make thee hang thyself
In strong iambics.
Gna. What's that, hemp or flax?
Ilt. A halter stretch thee: such ill-tutored jacks
Poison the fame of patrons: I shall, I doubt me,
Be thought Job's wife, I keep such scabs about me.
Seal up thy lips, and if you needs must sin,
Do't privately: out, spaniel, bring him in.
Gna. He's come.
Poet. To you my love presents this book.
Ilt. I am unworthy on't, except a hook
Hang at each line to choke me. Stay, what name
Hast given thy brat? To the most honoured dame.
Com'st lying into the world? be thy leaves torn,
Rent and used basely, as thy title's borne.
Gna. Rare sport! no marvel if this poet begs
For his lame verses, they've nor feet nor legs.
Poet. Nor thou humanity.
Ilt. Go burn this paper sprite.
Gna. Sir, your dark poetry will come to light.
Poet. You are not noble thus to wound the heart,
Tear and make martyrs of the limbs of art,
Before examination. Cæsar taught
No such court doctrine; Alexander thought
Better of Homer's lofty Iliads
And hugged their master. Tho' illiterate jades
And spur-galled hackneys kick at their betters, though
Some hide-bound worldlings neither give nor show
Countenance to poets, yet the noble spirit
Loves virtue for its own sake, and rewards merit
Tho' ne'er so meanly habited. No bee
That frequents Hibla takes more pains than we
Do in our canzons; yet they live and thrive
Richly, when we want wax to store our hive.
Ilt. I honour poesie, nor dislike I thee;
Only thy fawning title troubled me.
I love your groves, and in your libraries,
Amongst quaint odes and passionate elegies,
Have read whole volumes of much-injured dames
Righted by poets. Assume thy brightest flames
And dip thy pen in wormwood juice for me.
Canst write a satire? Tart authority
Do call 'em libels: canst write such a one?
Poet. I can mix ink and copperas.
Ilt. So; go on.
Poet. Dare mingle poison with 'em.
Ilt. Do't for me;
Thou hast the theory?
Poet. Yes: each line must be
A cord to draw blood.
Ilt. Good.
Poet. A lie to dare
The stab from him it touches.
Ilt. Better, rare.
Poet. Such satires, as you call 'em, must lance wide
The wounds of men's corruptions; ope the side
Of vice; search deep for dead flesh and rank cores.
A poet's ink can better cure some sores
Than surgeon's balsam.
Ilt. Undertake this cure,
I'll crown thy pains with gold.
Poet. I'll do't, be sure;
But I must have the party's character.
Ilt. The Master Bee.
Poet. That thunder doth deter
And fright my muse: I will not wade in ills
Beyond my depth, nor dare I pluck the quills,
Of which I make pens, out of the eagle's claw
Know, I am a loyal subject.
Ilt. A jack-daw.
This baseness follows your profession:
You are like common beadles, easily won
To whip poor bees to death, scarce worth the striking
But fawn with slavish flattery and throw liking
On great drone's vices; you clap hands at those,
Which proves your vices friends and virtues foes;
Where the true poet indeed doth scorn to gild
A coward's tomb with glories, or to build
A sumptuous pyramid of golden verse
Over the ruins of an ignoble hearse.
His lines like his invention are born free,
And both live blameless to eternity:
He holds his reputation so dear
As neither flattering hope nor servile fear
Can bribe his pen to temporize with kings;
The blacker are their crimes, he louder sings.
Go, go, thou dar'st not, canst not write; let me
Invoke the help of sacred poesie.
May not a woman be a poet?
Poet. Yes;
And learn the art with far more easiness
Than any man can do; for poesie
Is but a feigning, feigning is to lie,
And women study that art more than men.
Ilt. I am not fit to be a poet then,
For I should leave off feigning and speak true.
Poet. You'll ne'er then make good poet.
Ilt. Very few
I think be good.
Poet. I think so too.
Ilt. Be plain.
How might I do to hit the master vein
Of poesie?
Poet. I descend from Persius.
He taught his pupils to breed poets thus:
To have their temples girt and swaddled up
With night-caps; to steal juice from Hebe's cup
To steep their barren crowns in; pilfer clouds
From off Parnassus' top; to build them shrouds
Of laurel boughs to keep invention green,
Then drink nine healths of sacred Hippocrene
To the nine Muses. This, says Persius,
Will make a poet: I think cheaper thus,—
Gold, music, wine, tobacco and good cheer
Make poets soar aloft and sing out clear.
Ilt. Are you born poets?
Poet. Yes.
Ilt. So die?
Poet. Die never.
Ilt. My misery's then a poet that lives ever;
For time has lent it such eternity
And full succession, it can never die.
How many sorts of poets are there?
Poet. Two;
Great and small poets.
Ilt. Great and small ones? So;
Which do you call the great? the fat ones?
Poet. No;
But such as have great heads, which emptied forth
Fill all the world with wonder at their worth:
Proud flies, swoln big with breath and windy praise,
Yet merit brakes, and nettles 'stead of bays.
Such title cods and lobsters of Art's sea;
The small ones call the shrimps of poesie.
The greater number of spawn-feathered bees
Fly low like kites, the other mount on trees;
Those peck up dunghill garbage, these drink wine
Out of Jove's cup; those mortal, these divine.
Ilt. Who is the best poet?
Poet. Emulation;
The next, necessity; but detraction
The worst of all.
Ilt. Imagine I were one:
What should I get by't?
Poet. Why, opinion.
Ilt. I've too much of that already; for 'tis known
That in opinion I am overthrown.
Opinion is my evidence, judge and jury;
Opinion has betrayed me to the fury
Of vulgar scandal; partial opinion
Gapes like a sheriff for execution.
I wondered still how scholars came undone,
And now I see 'tis by opinion,
That foe to worth, sworn enemy to art,
Patron of ignorance, hangman of desert.
Ask any man what can betray a poet
To scandal? Base opinion shall do it.
I'll therefore be no poet, no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine. My reason take:
Verses, though freemen born, are bought and sold
Like slaves; their makers too, that merit gold,
Are fed with shales. Whence grows this slight regard?
From hence: Opinion gives their reward.

CHARACTER VI.

THE RIVALS.

Invention labours to discover
The pretty passions of a lover;
Showing how in amorous fits
Long lost a bee may find her wits.

Speakers: ARETHUSA, ULANIA.

ARE. Well met, fair beauty; pray you can you tell
News of Meletus?
Ula. Such a bee doth dwell [friend?
In my father's hive; but ask you as a
Are. Yes; and as one who for his good would spend
Living and life.
Ula. Yet not so much as I.
Are. Why! do you love him?
Ula. I'm mine own echo, ay.
Are. Wherefore?
Ula. I know not; there's some fallacy.
For not a village fly nor meadow bee,
That traffics daily on the neighbour plain,
But will report how all the wingèd train
Have sued to me for love. When we have flown
In swarms out to discover fields new blown,
Happy was he could find the forward'st tree
And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
Of all their labours they allowed me some
And, like my champions, manned me out and home:
Yet I loved none of them. Philon, a bee
Well skilled in verse and amorous poesie,
As we have sat at work, both of one rose,
Has hummed sweet canzons both in verse and prose,
Which I ne'er minded. Astrophel, a bee
(Although not so poetical as he)
Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
In summer evenings on his well-tuned pipe,
Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun
(Our hive being clean swept and our day's work done)
Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
Nor minded Astrophel nor his melody.
Then there's Aminter, for whose love fair Lede
(That pretty bee) flies up and down the mead
With rivers in her eyes, without deserving
Sent me trim acorn cups, of his own carving,
To drink May dew and mead in. Yet none of these,
My hive-born playfellows and neighbour bees,
Could I affect, until this strange bee came;
And him I love with such an ardent flame
Discretion cannot quench.
Are. Alas, good heart!
What pains she has ta'en to study o'er my part.
How doth he spend his time?
Ula. Labours and toils,
Extracts more honey out of barren soils
Than twenty lazy drones. I have heard my father,
Steward of the hive, profess that he had rather
Lose half the swarm than him. If a bee poor or weak
Grow faint on's way, or by misfortune break
A wing or leg against a twig; alive
Or dead he'll bring into the master's hive
Him and his burthen. But the other day,
On the next plain there grew a mortal fray
Betwixt the wasps and us; the wind grew high,
And a rough storm raged so impetuously
Our bees could scarce keep wing; then fell such rain,
It made our colony forsake the plain
And fly to garrison: yet still he stood,
And 'gainst the whole swarm made his party good,
And at each blow he gave, cried out "his vow,
His vow and Arethusa." On each bough
And tender blossom he engraves her name
With his sharp sting: to Arethusa's fame
He consecrates his actions; all his worth
Is only spent to character her forth.
On damask roses and the leaves of pines
I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
In Arethusa's praise, as my poor heart
Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
And wept and sighed to think that he should be
To her so constant, yet not pity me.
Are. Oh!
Ula. Wherefore sigh you?
Are. Amorato, oh!
My marble heart melts.
Ula. What, sigh and weep you too?
Are. Yes, in mere pity that your churlish fate
Should for true love make you unfortunate.
Ula. I thank you. What this Arethusa is
I do not know: only my suit is this,—
If you do know this bee, when you next meet him
(He's labouring in that mead), in my name greet him,
And tell him that I love him more, far more
Than Arethusa can; nay I adore
His memory so, that he shall be my saint;
And when his tender limbs grow weak and faint,
I'll do his labour and mine own. The spring,
Being dry, grows much unfit for labouring:
To prevent famine and a sudden dearth,
For his sake I'll befriend the barren earth
And make it fruitful with a shower of tears,
In which I'll drown his scorn and mine own fears.
Are. What have I heard? Amorato, pardon me,
For I have been by much too cruel to thee;
Yet if, as she reports, I find thy heart
Bequeathed to Arethusa's weak desert,
Nature shall work a miracle so strange,
All amorous bees shall wonder at my change.

CHARACTER VII.

PARSIMONIOUS, the GATHERING BEE.

The thrifty bee doth tauntingly deride
The prodigal, inveighing 'gainst his pride.

Speakers: PARSIMONIOUS, ACOLASTES.

PAR. Thou art my kinsman; yet, had not thy mother
Been constant to thy father and none other,
I would have sworn some emperor had got thee.
Aco. Why so he might; let not opinion sot thee.
Par. Suppose all kingdoms in the world were balls,
And thou stood with a racket twixt four walls
To toss ad placitum: how wouldst thou play?
Aco. Why, as with balls, bandy 'em all away;
They gone, play twice as many of the score.
Par. A tennis-court of kings could do no more;
But, faith, what dost thou think that I now think
Of thy this day's expenses?
Aco. How? in drink,
Dice, drabs and music? why, that it was brave?
Par. No; that thou art a proud vain-glorious knave.
That teeming womb thy father left so
Of golden issue, thou, like a brainless gull,
Hast viper-like eat through. Oh here's trim stuff,
A good man's 'state in garters, rose, and ruff!
Aco. How! one man's 'state? that beggar's wretched poor
That wears but one man's portion: I'll do more.
Had I my will, betwixt my knee and toe
I'd hang more pearls and diamonds than grow
In both the Indies. Poor Fucus, must my hose
Match your old greasy cod-piece?
Par. Let's not part foes:
I'd have thee live in compass.
Aco. Fool, I'll be
Like Phœbus in the zodiac, I am he
That would take Phaeton's fall, tho' I set fire
On the whole world, to be Heaven's charioteer.
Par. Thou'st fired too much already; parks and chases
Have no part left of 'em, save names of places.
Thou'st burnt so much, thou'st not one tree to fell
To make a fire to warm thee by in hell.
Aco. I'll warm me by thy bones then.
Par. Stay and hold;
Want fire till then thy lust will starve with cold:
'Tis voiced abroad, too, that thy lands are sold.
Aco. They are: what then?
Par. And that the money went
Towards the great last proud entertainment.
Aco. It's a lie.
Par. I thank you.
Aco. But suppose it true
That I spent millions, what's all that to you?
Had I for every day i' the year a friend,
For each hour in that year a mine to spend,
I'd waste both Indies, but I'd feast them all.
Par. And starve thyself, still a true prodigal:
What should thy stews have then?
Aco. Out, lazy drone;
Thou enviest bees with stings, 'cause thine is gone.
Plate, jewels, treasure, all shall fly.
Par. They shall;
And then some dunghill give thee burial.
Aco. No, I'll turn pickled thief.
Par. What's that?
Aco. A pirate.
If gold keep house, a-sea or land, I'll hate.
As to feed riot I the land did brave,
So, scorning land, water shall be my grave.
Meanwhile the circle I've begun I'll run,
(Should the devil stand 'i the centre) like the sun,
In his meridian; my ascent's divine.
The vanity of all mankind is mine.
In me all prodigals' looseness fresh shall flow;
Borrow and spend, ne'er look back what I owe:
Wine, harlots, surfeits, rich embroidered clothes,
Strange fashions, all sins sensual, new coined oaths.
Shall feed and fill me: I'll feast every sense:
Naught shall become me ill, but innocence.
Par. Farewell; I spy a wallet at thy back:
Who spends all young, ere age comes, all shall lack.

CHARACTER VIII.

INAMORATO, the PASSIONATE BEE.

In this the poet spends some art
To character a lover's heart:
And, for a sigh his love let fall,
Prepares a solemn funeral.

Speakers: CHARIOLUS, ARETHUSA.

CHA. Oh, Arethusa, cause of my soul's moving,
Nature, save thee, hath no work worth the loving;
For, when she fashioned thee, she summoned all
The Graces and the Virtues cardinal;
Nay, the whole swarm of bees came loaden home,
Each bringing thee a rich perfection;
And laid them up with such art in the hive
(Thy brain) as, since that, all thy beauties thrive:
For being mixt at thy creation,
They made thee fair past art or imitation.
Are. 'Tis he:—is not your name Chariolus,
Son to our Master Bee?
Cha. What art that thus
Bluntly salut'st me?
Are. One that has to say
Somewhat to you from lovely Arethusa.
Cha. How doth she?
Are. Well.
Cha. Ill-tutored bee, but well?
The word's too sparing for her: more than well,
Nay, more than excellent's an epithet
Too poor for Arethusa.
Are. This is right
As the bee told me.—Can she be better well
Than with the Gods?
Cha. The Gods?
Are. A passing bell
Proclaimed her death, and the whole swarm of bees
Mourned at her hearse in sable liveries.
Long she lay sick, yet would not send till death
Knocked at life's gate to fetch away her breath;
But just as he came in, Go thou (quoth she)
Seek out Chariolus; greet him from me,
And pray him that he would no longer shroud
His fair illustrate splendour in a cloud;
For I am gone from the world's vanities
Unto the Gods, a pleasing sacrifice:
Yet there I'll wish him well, and say, Good youth,
I bequeath nothing to him but my truth.
And even as death arrested her, she cried,
Oh my Chariolus!—so with a sigh she died.
Cha. So, with a sigh, she died.
Are. What mean you, sir?
—I have told him, like a foolish messenger,
What I shall first repent.
Cha. Come, let us divide
Sorrows and tears; for, with a sigh, she died.
Are. Nay then; she lives.
Cha. 'Tis false; believe it not.
I'll have that sigh drawn on a chariot
(Made of the bones of lovers who have cried,
Beaten their breasts, sighed for their loves and died)
Covered with azure-coloured velvet, where
The sun of her affections shall shine clear.
In careless manner, 'bout the canopy,
Upon the blue, in quaint embroidery,
Arethusa and Chariolus shall stand
As newly married, joined hand in hand.
The chariot shall be drawn by milk-white swans,
About whose comely necks (as straight as wands),
Instead of reins, there shall hang chains of pearl
As precious as her faith was. The prime girl
That shall attend this chariot shall be Truth,
Who, in a robe composed of ruined youth,
Shall follow weeping, hanging down the head,
As who should say, My sweet companion's dead.
Next shall the Graces march, clad in rich sables
With correspondent hoods, 'bout which large cables
Of pearl and gold, in rich embroidery,
Shall hang sad mottoes of my misery.
Are. Oh no; my misery!
Cha. Next these shall go
All Arethusa's virtues in a row:
Her wisdom first, in plain habiliments,
As not affecting gaudy ornaments;
Next them her chastity, attired in white,
(Whose chaste eye shall her epitaph indite)
Looking as if it meant to check desire
And quell the ascension of the Paphian fire;
Next these, her beauty, that immortal thing,
Decked in a robe that signifies the spring,
The loveliest season of the quartered year;
Last shall her virgin modesty appear,
And that a robe, nor white nor red, shall wear,
But equally participating both;
Call it a maiden blush, and so the cloth
Shall be her hieroglyphic; on her eye
Shall sit discretion who, when any spy
Would at that casement (like a thief) steal in,
Shall, like her heart's true porters, keep out sin.
These shall be all chief mourners; and, because
This sigh killed Arethusa, here we'll pause
And drop a tear, the tribute of her love.
Next this, because a sigh did kill my dove
(A good conceit, I pray forget it not),
At the four corners of this chariot
I'll have the four winds statued, which shall blow
And sigh my sorrows out, above, below,
Into each quarter. Then, sir, on the top,
Over all these gaudy trim things, I'll set up
My statue in jet; my posture this—
Catching at Arethusa, my lost bliss:
For over me, by geometric pins,
I'll have her hang betwixt two cherubins,
As if they had snatched her up from me and earth,
In heaven to give her a more glorious birth;
The word this:—What should virtue do on earth?
This I'll have done; and when 'tis finished, all
That love, come to my poor sigh's funeral.
Swell gall, break heart, flow tears like a full tide,
For, with a sigh, fair Arethusa died.
Are. Rather than thus, your faithful flames should smother:
Forget her thought, and entertain another.
Cha. Oh, never, never! with the turtle-dove,
A sigh shall bear my soul up to my love.

CHARACTER IX.

PHARMACOPOLIS, the QUACKSALVING BEE.

This satire is the character
Of an imposterous qacksalver;
Who, to steal practise and to vent
His drugs, would buy a patient.

Speakers: SENILIS, STEWARD, PHARMACOPOLIS.

SEN. What's he?
Stew. The party.
Sen. How? what party, sir?
Stew. A most sweet rogue, an honest quacksalver;
That sues to be your household pothecary.
Sen. What sees he in my face, that I should buy
His drugs and drenches? My cheek wears a colour
As fresh as his, and my veins' channel's fuller
Of crimson blood, than his; my well-knit joints
Are all trussed round, and need no physical points.
Read the whole alphabet of all my age,
'Mongst sixty letters shall not find one ache:
My blood's not boiled with fevers, nor, though old
Is't icicled with cramps, or dropsy cold:
I am healthful both in body and in wits;
Coughs, rheums, catarrhs, gouts, apopletic fits,
The common sores of age, on me ne'er ran.
Nor Galenist, nor Paracelsian
Shall ere read physic lecture out of me:
I'll be no subject for anatomy.
Phar. They are two good artists, sir.
Sen. All that I know:
What the Creator did, they in part do:
A true physician's a man-maker too.
My kitchen is my doctor; and my garden,
My college, master, chief assistant, warden
And pothecary. When they give me pills,
They work so gently I'm not choked with bills:
Ounce, drachma, dram—the mildest of all these
Is a far stronger grief than the disease.
Phar. Were't not for bills, physicians might go make Mustard.
Sen. I know't; nor bills nor pills I'll take.
I stand on sickness' shore, and see men tossed
From one disease to another, at last quite lost;
But on that sea of surfeits where they are drownea
I, never hoisting sail, am ever found.
Phar. How! ever found? were all our gallants so,
Doctors and pothecaries might go sow
Dowlas for saffron-bags, take leave of silk
And eat green chibbals and sour butter-milk.
Would you know how all physic to confound?
Why, 'tis done thus,—keep but your gallants sound.
Sen. 'Tis their own faults, if they, 'fore springs or falls,
Emptying wine-glasses fill up urinals.
Man was made sound at first: if he grows ill,
'Tis not by course of nature, but free will.
Distempers are not ours; there should be then,
Were we ourselves, no physic: men to men
Are both diseases' cause and the disease.
Thank Fate, I'm sound and free from both of these.
Phar. Steward, my fifty crowns; Redde.
Stew. Not I.
Phar. I'll give you then a glister.
Stew. Me, sir? Why?
Phar. I'll tell your master.—Sir, tho' you'll take none,
Let me give your steward a purgation.
Stew. Why! I am well.
Phar. No; you are too hard bound,
And you must cast me up the fifty pound
I gave you in bribe-powder.
Stew. Be patient.
Phar. You'll practise on me then.
Sen. If this be true,
My health I see, is bought and sold by you.
A doctor buys me next, whose mess of potions
Striking me full of ulcers, oils and lotions
Bequeath me to a surgeon; last of all
He gives me diet in an hospital:
Then comes the scrivener, and he draws my will;
Thus slaves, for gold, their masters sell and kill,
—Nay, nay; so got, so keep it; for thy fifty
Take here a hundred; we'll not now be thrifty.
But of such artless empirics I'll beware,
And learn both when to spend and when to spare.

CHARACTER X.

FENERATOR, the USURING BEE.

In which the poet lineates forth
That bounty feeds desert and worth:
Checks counterfeits, inveighs 'gainst bribes,
And Fenerator's nest describes.

Speakers: DICASTES, SERVITOR, FENERATOR, IMPOTENS.

DIC. What rings this bell so loud for?
Ser. Suitors, great bee,
Call for despatch of business.
Dic. Say what they be.
Ser. Wracked fen-bees, aged, lame, and such as gasp
Under late bondage of the cruel wasp.
Dic. Cheer them with hearty welcomes; in my chair
Seat the bee most in years, let no one dare
To send 'em sad hence, will our janitors
Observe them nobly; for the mariners
Are clocks of danger, and do ne'er stand still,
But move from one unto another ill:
Their dial's hand still points to the line of death,
And, though they have wind at will, they oft lose breath.
Of all our bees that labour in the mead
I love them, for they earn the dearest bread
That life can buy; when the elements make war
To ruin all, they're saved by their good star:
And, for the galley-slaves, oh love that bee
Who suffers only for pure constancy.
—What suitor's that?
Fen. A very sorry one.
Dic. What makes thee sorry?
Fen. Pale affliction:
My hive is burnt.
Dic. And why to me dost come?
Fen. To beg a hundred pound.
Dic. Give him the sum.
Fen. Now the gods—
Dic. Nay, nay; kneel not, nor be mistook.
Faces are speaking pictures: thine's a book,
Which, if the proof be truly printed, shows,
A page of close dissembling.
Fen. High Heaven knows—
Dic. Nay, though thou be'st one, yet the money's thine;
Which I bestow on charity, not her shrine.
If thou cheat'st me, thou art cheated; and hast got
(Being liquorish) poison from my gallipot
Instead of honey. Thou art not my debtor:
I'm ne'er the worse, nor thou (I fear) much better.
Who's next?
Ser. A one-legged bee.
Dic. O use him well.
Imp. Cannons defend me! Gunpowder of hell!
Whom hast thou blown up here?
Dic. Dost know him, friend?
Imp. Yes, for the kingdom's pestilence, a fiend:
A moth, takes up all petticoats he meets;
Eats feather-beds, bolsters, pillows, blankets, sheets;
And with sale bills lays shirts and smocks a-bed
In linen, close adultery; and, instead
Of clothes, strews lavender so strongly on 'em
The owners never more can smell upon 'em.
This bee sucks honey from the blooms of sin:
Be't ne'er so rank or foul, he crams it in.
Most of the timber that his state repairs
He hews out o' the bones of foundered players:
They feed on poets' brains, he eats their breath.
Dic. Most strange conception—life begot in death!
Imp. He's a male polecat; a mere heart-blood soaker:
'Mongst bees the hornet, but with men a broker.
Dic. Well charactered: what scathe hath he done thee?
Imp. More than my leg's loss: in one month ate three
Of my poor fry, besides my wife: this Jew,
Though he will eat no pork, eats bees, 'tis true.
Dic. He told me, when I asked him why he mourned,
His hive, and all he could call his, was burned.
Imp. He's burned himself, perhaps, but that's no news;
For he both keeps and is maintained by the stews.
He buys their sins, and they pay him large rents
For a long lane of lousy tenements,
Built up (instead of mortar, straw and stones)
With poor-pawn-plaster and starved debtors' bones.
He may be fired; his rotten hives are not.
To this autumn woodfare, alias kingdom's-rot,
I pawned my weapons, to buy coarse brown bread
To feed my fry and me. Being forfeited,
Twice so much money as he lent I gave,
To have mine arms again: the griping slave
Swore not to save my soul unless I could
Lay down my stump here, my poor leg of wood,
And so hop home.
Dic. Unheard of villainy.
Ser. And is this true?
Fen. I dare not say it's a lie.
Dic. And what say'st thou to this?
Imp. Nothing, but crave
Justice against this hypocritical knave,
This three-pile-velvet rascal, widows' decayer,
The poor fry's beggarer and rich bees' betrayer.
Let him have Russian law for all his sins.
Dic. What's that?
Imp. A hundred blows on his bare shins.
Fen. Come home and take thine arms.
Imp. I'll ha' thy legs:
Justice, great bee; 'tis a wronged cripple begs.
Dic. And thou shalt ha't.—I told thee, goods, ill got,
Would as ill thrive; my gift I alter not,—
That's yours. But, cunning bee, you played the knave,
To crave, not needing: this poor bee must have
His request too, else justice lose her chair.
Go; take him in, and on his shins, stript bare,
In ready payment give him a hundred strokes.
Imp. Hew down his shanks, as carpenters tell oaks.
Dic. Nor think me partial; for I offer thee
A hundred for a hundred.
Imp. Just his usury.
Dic. A hundred pound, or else a hundred blows:
Give him the gold, he shall release you those.
Fen. Take it, and rot with't.
Imp. Follow thee thy curse.
Would blows might make all brokers thus disburse.

CHARACTER XI.

OBERON IN PROGRESSU: OBERON IN PROGRESS.

Oberon his royal progress makes
To Hybla, where he gives and takes
Presents and privileges; bees
Of worth he crowns with offices.

Speakers: OBERON, AGRICOLA, PASTORALIS, FLORA, VINTAGER.

OBER. The session's full: to avoid the heat,
In this cool shade each take his seat.
Agri. The wingèd tenants of these lawns,
Decked with blooms and downy pawns,
Like subjects faithful, just and true,
Bring Oberon tribute.
Ober. What are you?
Agri. A poor bee that, by Oberon's will,
First invented how to till
The barren earth, and in it throw
Seeds that die before they grow;
And, being well read in nature's book,
Devised plough, sickle, scythe and hook
To weed the thistles and rank brakes
From the good corn: his voyage makes
From Thessaly, my native shrine,
And to great Oberon, all divine,
Submit myself. This wreath of wheat
(Ripened by Apollo's heat),
My bosom filled with ears of corn,
To thee that wert before time born,
I freely offer.
Ober. May thy field,
Laden with bounty, profit yield;
May the root prosper, and each ear,
Like a teeming female, bear:
April deluge and May frosts,
Lightnings and mildews fly thy coasts;
As thou in service true shalt be
To Oberon's crown and royalty.
True bailiff of our husbandry
Keep thy place still:—the next.
Past. A bee
That's keeper of king Oberon's groves,
Sheep-reeve of his flocks and droves,
His goats, his kids, his ewes and lambs,
Steers and heifers, sires and dams,
To express homage at the full,
Greets Oberon with this fleece of wool.
Ober. May thy ewes in yeaning thrive,
Stock and increase, stand and survive;
May the woodfare, cough and rot
Die or living hurt thee not:
May the wolf and wily fox
Live exiled from thy herds and flocks:
Last, not least, prosper thy grove,
And live thou blest in Oberon's love,
As thou in service true shalt be
To us and our high royalty.
—The next.
Vint. High steward of thy vines,
Taster both of grapes and wines,
In these ripe clusters that present
Full bounty, on his knees low bent,
Pays Oberon homage; and in this bowl
Brimmed with grape blood, tender toll
Of all thy vintage.
Ober. May thy grapes thrive
In autumn, and the roots survive
In churlish winter; may thy fence
Be proof 'gainst wild boars' violence;
As thou in service true shalt be
To us and our high royalty.
—A female bee: thy character?
Flo. Flora, Oberon's gardener,
(Housewife both of herbs and flowers,
To strew thy shrine and trim thy bowers
With violets, roses, eglantine,
Daffodil and blue columbine)
Hath forth the bosom of the spring
Plucked this nosegay, which I bring
From Eleusis, mine own shrine,
To thee a monarch all divine;
And, as true impost of my grove,
Present it to great Oberon's love.
Ober. Honey-dews refresh thy meads,
Cowslips spring with golden heads;
July-flowers and carnations wear
Leaves double streaked with maiden-hair;
May thy lilies taller grow,
Thy violets fuller sweetness owe;
And, last of all, may Phœbus love
To kiss thee and frequent thy grove,
As thou in service true shalt be
Unto our crown and royalty.
—Keep all your places: well we know
Your loves, and will reward 'em too.
Agri. In sign that we thy words believe,
As well the birthday as the eve
We will keep holy: our winged swains
Neither for pleasure, nor for gains,
Shall dare profane't: so lead away
To solemnize this holy day.

CHARACTER XII.

REXACILLIUM: THE HIGH BENCH BAR.

Oberon in his Star-Chamber sits;
Sends out subpœnas, High Court writs,
To the Master Bee; degradeth some,
Frees others: all share legal doom.

Speakers: OBERON, FAIRIES, MASTER BEE, PROREX, VESPA, HORNET, HUMBLE BEE,
FUCUS or DRONE.

OBER. Now summon in our master bee
With all his swarm, and tell him we
Command our homage.
Fair. He is come.
—Room for great Prorex there, make room.
Ober. What means this slackness?
Pro. Royal sir,
My care made me a loiterer,
To bring in these transgressing bees
Who by deceits and fallacies
Clothed with a smooth and fair intent,
Have wronged me in my government.
Ober. The manner how?
Pro. These wicked three,
The wasp, the drone and humble bee,
Conspired like traitors; first, the wasp
Sought in his covetous paw to grasp
All he could finger; made the sea
Not only his monopoly,
But with his winged swarms scoured the plains,
Robbed and slew our weary swains
Coming from work. The humble bee
(A fly as tyrannous as he)
By a strange, yet legal, stealth
Non-suited bees of all their wealth.
The drone, a bee more merciless,
Our needy commons so oppress
By hoarding up and poisoning th' earth,
Once in three years he'd make a dearth
(A needless one), transporting more
To strangers than would feed our poor.
At quarter day, if any lacks
His rent, he seize both honey and wax,
Throwing him out to beg and starve;
For which—
Ober. As they, yourself deserve
Due punishment. For servants' sins
We count their masters: Justice wins
More honour and shines more complete
In virtue, by suppressing great
Than hanging poor ones. Yet, because
You have been zealous in our laws,
Your fault we pardon: for delinquents
We have legal punishments.
Vespa that pillaged sea and land,
Engrossing all into his hand,
From all we banish: dead or alive
Never shall Vespa come in hive:
But like a pirate and a thief
Steal and pilfer his relief.
Thou hast fed riots, lusts and rapes,
And drawn vice in such horrid shapes
As very horse-flies, had they known 'em,
For credit's cause yet would not own 'em.
Thy hive's a brothel, housing sin
Against the royalty of kin;
None but thyself could them invent:
Thou'rt both the sin and president.
For which, as thou thy fame hath lost,
So be thine arms and titles crossed
From forth the roll of heraldry
That blazons our true gentry.
Live ever exiled.—Fucus, you
That engrossed our honey dew,
Bought wax and honey up by the great
(Transporting it as slaves do wheat)
Your hive (with honey hid in trees
And hollow banks) our poor lame bees
Shall share; and, even as Vespa, so,
Unpatronized, live banished too.
Last, you that by your surly hum
Would needs usurp a Praetor's room;
(Your camlet gown, your purple hood,
And stately phrase scarce understood
Or known from this our Master Bee,
Made the ignorant think that you were he
And pay you reverence): for your hate
To the poor, and envy to our state,
We here degrade, and let you fall
To the dunghill, your original.
From nettles, hemlocks, docks and weeds
(On which your peasant-lineage feeds)
Suck your diet: to be short,
Ne'er see our face nor haunt our court.
Pro. And whither must these flies be sent?
Ober. To everlasting banishment.
Underneath two hanging rocks,
Where babbling Echo sits and mocks
Poor travellers, there lies a grove
With whom the sun's so out of love
He never smiles on't: pale Despair
Calls it his monarchal chair.
Fruit, half ripe, hang rivelled and shrunk
On broken arms torn from the trunk:
The moorish pools stand empty, left
By water, stol'n by cunning theft
To hollow banks, driven out by snakes,
Adders and newts, that man these lakes:
The mossy weeds, half sweltered, served
As beds for vermin hunger-starved:
The woods are yew-trees, rent and broke
By whirlwinds; here and there an oak
Half-cleft with thunder:—to this grove
We banish them.
All. Some mercy, Jove.
Ober. You should have cried so in your youth,
When Chronos and his daughter Truth
Sojourned amongst you, when you spent
Whole years in riotous merriment,
Thrusting poor bees out of their hives,
Seizing both honey, wax and lives:
You should have called for mercy when
You impaled common blossoms, when,
Instead of giving poor bees food,
You ate their flesh and drank their blood.
All. Be this our warning.
Ober. 'Tis too late:
Fairies, thrust them to their fate.—
Now, Prorex, our chief Master Bee
And viceroy, thus we lesson thee:
Thy preterite errors we forgive,
Provided you hereafter live
In compass: take again your crown,
But make your subjects so your own
As you for them may answer.
Pro. Sir,
For this high favour you confer,
True loyalty, upon my knee,
I promise both for them and me.
Ober. Rise in our love then; and, that you
What you have promised may pursue,
Chaste Latria I bestow
On you in marriage; she'll teach you how
To be yourself: fair truth and time
Be a watch and constant chime
To all your actions. Now adieu.
Prorex shall again renew
His potent reign; the massy world,
Which in glittering orbs is hurled
About the poles, be lord of: we
Only reserve our royalty.
—Field-music? Oberon must away:
For us our gentle fairies stay:
In the mountains and the rocks
We'll hunt the grey and little fox,
Who destroy our lambs at feed
And spoil the nests where turtles breed
If Vespa, Fucus or proud Error
Fright thy bees and be a terror
To thy groves, 'tis Oberon's will,
As out-laws, you them seize and kill.
—Apollo and the Muses dance:
Art has banished ignorance,
And chased all flies of rape and stealth
From forth our wingèd commonwealth.






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