Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PARLIAMENT OF BEES, by JOHN DAY 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 Museand 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, sothough your churlish hands Rob me of lifeI'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 knowledgebeing 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, dramthe 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 conceptionlife 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EXHAUSTED BUG; FOR MY FATHER by ROBERT BLY PLASTIC BEATITUDE by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR BEETLE LIGHT; FOR DANIEL HILLEN by MADELINE DEFREES CLEMATIS MONTANA by MADELINE DEFREES THOMAS MERTON AND THE WINTER MARSH by NORMAN DUBIE HUMOUR OUT OF BREATH by JOHN DAY |
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