The Faithful Shepherdess by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher

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_Clor_. Join your hands with modest touch,
And for ever keep you such.

_Enter_ Perigot.

_Per_. Yon is her Cabin, thus far off I'll stand,
And call her forth; for my unhallowed hand
I dare not bring so near yon sacred place.
_Clorin_ come forth, and do a timely grace
To a poor Swain.

_Clo_. What art thou that dost call?
_Clorin_ is ready to do good to all:
Come near.

_Peri_. I dare not.

_Clor. Satyr_, see
Who it is that calls on me.

_Sat_. There at hand, some Swain doth stand,
Stretching out a bloudy hand.

_Peri_. Come _Clorin_, bring thy holy waters clear,
To wash my hand.

_Clo_. What wonders have been here
To night? stretch forth thy hand young Swain,
Wash and rub it whilest I rain
Holy water.

_Peri_. Still you pour,
But my hand will never scower.

_Clor. Satyr_, bring him to the Bower,
We will try the Soveraign power
Of other waters.

_Satyr_. Mortal, sure
'Tis the Blood of Maiden pure
That stains thee so.

[_The_ Satyr _leadeth him to the Bower, where he spieth_ Amoret, _and
kneeling down, she knoweth him_.

_Peri_. What e're thou be,
Be'st thou her spright, or some divinitie,
That in her shape thinks good to walk this grove,
Pardon poor _Perigot_.

_Amor_. I am thy love,
Thy _Amoret_, for evermore thy love:
Strike once more on my naked breast, I'le prove
As constant still. O couldst thou love me yet;
How soon should I my former griefs forget!

_Peri_. So over-great with joy, that you live, now
I am, that no desire of knowing how
Doth seize me; hast thou still power to forgive?

_Amo_. Whilest thou hast power to love, or I to live;
More welcome now than hadst thou never gone
Astray from me.

_Peri_. And when thou lov'st alone
And not I, death, or some lingring pain
That's worse, light on me.

_Clor_. Now your stain
This perhaps will cleanse again;
See the blood that erst did stay,
With the water drops away.
All the powers again are pleas'd,
And with this new knot appeas'd.
Joyn your hands, and rise together,
_Pan_ be blest that brought you hither.

_Enter_ Priest, _and_ Old Shephe[rd].

_Clor_. Go back again what ere thou art, unless
Smooth Maiden thoughts possess thee, do not press
This hallowed ground. Go _Satyr_, take his hand,
And give him present trial.

_Satyr_. Mortal stand,
Till by fire I have made known
Whether thou be such a one,
That mayst freely tread this place.
Hold thy hand up; never was
More untainted flesh than this.
Fairest, he is full of bliss.

_Clor_. Then boldly speak, why dost thou seek this place?

_Priest_. First, honour'd Virgin, to behold thy face
Where all good dwells that is: Next for to try
The truth of late report was given to me:
Those Shepherds that have met with foul mischance,
Through much neglect, and more ill governance,
Whether the wounds they have may yet endure
The open Air, or stay a longer cure.
And lastly, what the doom may be shall light
Upon those guilty wretches, through whose spight
All this confusion fell: For to this place,
Thou holy Maiden, have I brought the race
Of these offenders, who have freely told,
Both why, and by what means they gave this bold
Attempt upon their lives.

_Clor_. Fume all the ground,
And sprinkle holy water, for unsound
And foul infection 'gins to fill the Air:
It gathers yet more strongly; take a pair
Of Censors fill'd with Frankincense and Mirrh,
Together with cold Camphyre: quickly stir
Thee, gentle _Satyr_, for the place begins
To sweat and labour with the abhorred sins
Of those offenders; let them not come nigh,
For full of itching flame and leprosie
Their very souls are, that the ground goes back,
And shrinks to feel the sullen weight of black
And so unheard of venome; hie thee fast
Thou holy man, and banish from the chast
These manlike monsters, let them never more
Be known upon these downs, but long before
The next Suns rising, put them from the sight
And memory of every honest wight.
Be quick in expedition, lest the sores
Of these weak Patients break into new gores. [_Ex_. Priest.

_Per_. My dear, dear _Amoret_, how happy are
Those blessed pairs, in whom a little jar
Hath bred an everlasting love, too strong
For time, or steel, or envy to do wrong?
How do you feel your hurts? Alas poor heart,
How much I was abus'd; give me the smart
For it is justly mine.

_Amo_. I do believe.
It is enough dear friend, leave off to grieve,
And let us once more in despight of ill
Give hands and hearts again.

_Per_. With better will
Than e're I went to find in hottest day
Cool Crystal of the Fountain, to allay
My eager thirst: may this band never break.
Hear us O Heaven.

_Amo_. Be constant.

_Per_. Else _Pan_ wreak,
With [d]ouble vengeance, my disloyalty;
Let me not dare to know the company
Of men, or any more behold those eyes.

_Amo_. Thus Shepherd with a kiss all envy dyes.

_Enter_ Priest.

_Priest_. Bright Maid, I have perform'd your will, the Swain
In whom such heat and black rebellions raign
Hath undergone your sentence, and disgrace:
Only the Maid I have reserv'd, whose face
Shews much amendment, many a tear doth fall
In sorrow of her fault, great fair recal
Your heavy doom, in hope of better daies,
Which I dare promise; once again upraise
Her heavy Spirit that near drowned lyes
In self consuming care that never dyes.

_Clor_. I am content to pardon, call her in;
The Air grows cool again, and doth begin
To purge it self, how bright the day doth show
After this stormy Cloud! go _Satyr_, go,
And with this Taper boldly try her hand,
If she be pure and good, and firmly stand
To be so still, we have perform'd a work
Worthy the Gods themselves. [_Satyr brings_ Amaryllis _in_.

_Satyr_. Come forward Maiden, do not lurk
Nor hide your face with grief and shame,
Now or never get a name
That may raise thee, and recure
All thy life that was impure:
Hold your hand unto the flame,
If thou beest a perfect dame,
Or hast truely vow'd to mend,
This pale fire will be thy friend.
See the Taper hurts her not.
Go thy wayes, let never spot
Henceforth seize upon thy blood.
Thank the Gods and still be good.

_Clor_. Young Shepherdess now ye are brought again
To Virgin state, be so, and so remain
To thy last day, unless the faithful love
Of some good Shepherd force thee to remove;
Th[e]n labour to be true to him, and live
As such a one, that ever strives to give
A blessed memory to after time.
Be famous for your good, not for your crime.
Now holy man, I offer up again
These patients full of health, and free from pain:
Keep them from after ills, be ever near
Unto their actions, teach them how to clear
The tedious way they pass through, from suspect,
Keep them from wronging others, or neglect
Of duty in themselves, correct the bloud
With thrifty bits and labour, let the floud,
Or the next neighbouring spring give remedy
To greedy thirst, and travel not the tree
That hangs with wanton clusters, [let] not wine,
Unless in sacrifice, or rites divine,
Be ever known of Shepherd, have a care
Thou man of holy life. Now do not spare
Their faults through much remissness, nor forget
To cherish him, whose many pains and swet
Hath giv'n increase, and added to the downs.
Sort all your Shepherds from the lazy clowns
That feed their Heifers in the budded Brooms:
Teach the young Maidens strictness, that the grooms
May ever fear to tempt their blowing youth;
Banish all complements, but single truth
From every tongue, and every Shepherds heart,
Let them still use perswading, but no Art:
Thus holy _Priest_, I wish to thee and these,
All the best goods and comforts that may please.

_Alex_. And all those blessings Heaven did ever give,
We pray upon this Bower may ever live.

_Priest_. Kneel every Shepherd, whilest with powerful hand
I bless your after labours, and the Land
You feed your flocks upon. Great _Pan_ defend you
From misfortune, and amend you,
Keep you from those dangers still,
That are followed by your will,
Give ye means to know at length
All your riches, all your strength,
Cannot keep your foot from falling
To lewd lust, that still is calling
At your Cottage, till his power
Bring again that golden hour
Of peace and rest to every soul.
May his care of you controul
All diseases, sores or pain
That in after time may raign
Either in your flocks or you,
Give ye all affections new,
New desires, and tempers new,
That ye may be ever true.
Now rise and go, and as ye pass away
Sing to the God of Sheep, that happy lay,
That honest _Dorus_ taught ye, _Dorus_, he
That was the soul and god of melodie.

The SONG. [_They all Sing

All ye woods, and trees and bowers,
All you vertues and ye powers
That inhabit in the lakes,
In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet
To our sound,
Whilest we greet
All this ground,
With his honour and his name
That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is Just,
He is ever good, and must
Thus be honour'd: Daffodillies,
Roses, Pinks, and loved Lillies,
Let us fling,
Whilest we sing,
Ever holy,
Ever holy,
Ever honoured ever young,
Thus great_ Pan _is ever sung. [Exeunt.

Satyr._ Thou divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou m[o]st powerful Maid, and whitest,
Thou most vertuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like _Apollo_, tell me sweetest
What new service now is meetest
For the _Satyr_? shall I stray
In the middle Air, and stay
The sayling Rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the Moon, and gently make
Sute to the pale Queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the Sea,
And bring thee Coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowie fleeces; dearest, shall
I catch the wanton Fawns, or Flyes,
Whose woven wings the Summer dyes
Of many colours? get thee fruit?
Or steal from Heaven old _Orpheus_ Lute?
All these I'le venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

_Clor_. No other service, _Satyr_, but thy watch
About these thickets, lest harmless people catch
Mischief or sad mischance.

_Satyr_. Holy Virgin, I will dance
Round about these woods as quick
As the breaking light, and prick
Down the Lawns, and down the vails
Faster than the Wind-mill sails.
So I take my leave, and pray
All the comforts of the day,
Such as _Phoebus_ heat doth send
On the earth, may still befriend
Thee, and this arbour.

_Clo_. And to thee,
All thy Masters love be free. [_Exeunt_.

_To my Friend Master_ JOHN FLETCHER _upon his Faithfull Shepherdess._

_I know too well, that, no more than the man
That travels through the burning Desarts, can
When he is beaten with the raging Sun,
Half smothered in the dust, have power to run
From a cool River, which himself doth find,
E're he be slacked; no more can he whose mind
Joyes in the Muses, hold from that delight,
When nature, and his full thoughts bid him write:
Yet wish I those whom I for friends have known,
To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own.
Why should the man, whose wit ne'r had a stain,
Upon the publick Stage present his [vein,]
And make a thousand men in judgment sit,
To call in question his undoubted wit,
Scarce two of which can understand the laws
Which they should judge by, nor the parties cause?
Among the rout there is not one that hath
In his own censure an explicite faith;
One company knowing they judgement lack,
Ground their belief on the next man in black:
Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute,
Some like as he does in the fairest sute,
He as his Mistress doth, and she by chance:
Nor want there those, who as the Boy doth dance
Between the Acts, will censure the whole Play;
Some if the Wax-lights be not new that day;
But multitudes there are whose judgement goes
Headlong according to the Actors cloathes.
For this, these publick things and I, agree
So ill, that but to do a right for thee,
I had not been perswaded to have hurl'd
These few, ill spoken lines, into the world,
Both to be read, and censur'd of, by those,
Whose very reading makes Verse senseless Prose:
Such as must spend above an hour, to spell
A Challenge on a Past, to know it well:
But since it was thy hap to throw away
Much wit, for which the people did not pay,
Because they saw it not, I not dislike
This second publication, which may strike
Their consciences, to see the thing they scorn'd,
To be with so much wit and Art adorned.
Besides one vantage more in this I see,
Tour censurers now must have the qualitie
Of reading, which I am afraid is more
Than half your shrewdest Judges had before._

Fr. Beaumont.

_To the worthy Author_ M'r. Jo. FLETCHER.

_The wise, and many headed_ Bench, _that sits
Upon the Life, and Death of_ Playes, _and_ Wits,
(_Composed of_ Gamester, Captain, Knight, Knight's man,
Lady, _or_ Pusill, _that wears mask or fan_,
Velvet, _or_ Taffata _cap, rank'd in the dark
With the shops_ Foreman, _or some such_ brave spark,
_That may judge for his_ six-pence_) had, before
They saw it half, damn'd thy whole Play, and more,
Their motives were, since it had not to doe
With vices, which they look'd for, and came to.

I, that am glad, thy Innocence was thy Guilt,
And wish that all the_ Muses _blood were spilt
In such a_ Martyrdome, _to vex their eyes,
Do crown thy murdred_ Poeme: _which shall rise
A glorified work to Time, when Fire,
Or mothes shall eat, what all these Fools admire._

BEN. JONSON.

This Dialogue newly added, was spoken by way of Prologue to both their
Majesties, at the first acting of this Pastoral at _Somerset-house_ on
Twelfth-night, 1633.

Priest.

_A broiling Lamb on_ Pans _chief Altar lies,
My Wreath, my Censor, Virge, and Incense by:
But I delayed the pretious Sacrifice,
To shew thee here, a Gentle Deity._

Nymph.

_Nor was I to thy sacred Summons slow,
Hither I came as swift as th' Eagles wing,
Or threatning shaft from vext_ Dianaes _bow,
To see this Islands God; the worlds best King._

Priest.

_Bless then that Queen, that doth his eyes invite
And ears, t'obey her Scepter, half this night._

Nymph.

_Let's sing such welcomes, as shall make Her sway
Seem easie to Him, though it last till day.

Welcom as Peace t'unwalled Cities, when
Famine and Sword leave them more graves than men.
As Spring to Birds, or Noon-dayes Sun to th' old
Poor mountain Muscovite congeal'd with cold.
As Shore toth' Pilot in a safe known Coast
When's Card is broken and his Rudder lost.

APPENDIX

p. 369,
l. 2. C] Antiochus
l. 10. C _omits_] have.
l. 12. C _omits] Princes. B _misprints] Prnices.
l. 17. C _gives this line to_ Sel.
l. 35. A] Cel.
l. 40. C] I once more next [_instead of_ beg it thus].

p. 370,
l. 9. C] sound.
l. 10. C] beat through.
l. 16. C _adds_] Finis. C _omits] Prologue _and_ Epilogue.

p. 371,
l. 1. A] And those.
l. 6. A _omits_] Spoke by the _Lieutenant_.

THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.

(A) The | Faithfull | Shepheardesse. By John Fletcher. | Printed at
London for R. Bonian | and H. Walley, and are to be sold at | the spred
Eagle over against the | great North dore of S. Paules. Undated, but
probably 1609-10.

(B) The same, with slight differences in the Commendatory Verses and in
one or two other sheets.

(C) The | Faithfull | Shepheardesse. | By John Fletcher. | The second
Edition, newly corrected. London, | Printed by T.C. for Richard Meighen,
in St Dunstanes Church-yard in Fleet-streete, | 1629.

(D) The | Faithfull | Shepherdesse. | acted at Somerset | House before the
King and | Queene on Twelfe night | last, 1633. | And divers times since
with great ap-| plause at the Private House in Blacke-| Friers, by his
Majesties Servants. | Written by John Fletcher. | The third Edition, with
Addition. | London, | Printed by A.M. for Richard Meighen, next | to the
Middle Temple in Fleet-| street. 1634.

(E) The | Faithfull | Shepherdesse. | Acted at Somerset | House, before
the King and | Queen on Twelf night | last, 1633. | And divers times
since, with great ap- | plause, at the Private House in Black-| Friers, by
his Majesties Servants. | Written by John Fletcher. | The Fourth Edition.
| London, Printed for Ga. Bedell and Tho. Collins, at the Middle | Temple
Gate in Fleet-street. 1656.

(F) The | Faithfull | Shepherdesse. | Acted at | Somerset-House, | Before
the King and Queen on Twelfth Night, 1633. | And divers times since, with
great | Applause, at the Private House in | Black-Friers, by his Majesties
| Servants. | Written by John Fletcher. | The Fifth Edition. | London, |
Printed for G. Bedell and T. Collins, at the Middle | Temple-Gate in
Fleet-street, 1665.

The verso of the title-page bears the date March 3, 166-4/5.
Licensed,
Roger L'Estrange.

As neither the Second Folio nor the Quartos print any list of the
Characters it may be as well to give one here.

Perigot. Old Shepherd.
Thenot Priest of Pan.
Daphnis. God of the River.
Alexis. Satyr.
Sullen Shepherd. Shepherds.
Clorin. Cloe.
Amoret. Shepherdesses.
Amarillis.

Scene: Thessaly.

The following Dedicatory Verses were omitted from the Second Folio.

_To my lov'd friend M. John Fletcher, on his Pastorall_.

Can my approovement (Sir) be worth your thankes?
Whose unkn[o]wne name and muse (in swathing clowtes)
Is not yet growne to strength, among these rankes
To have a roome and beare off the sharpe flowtes
Of this our pregnant age, that does despise
All innocent verse, that lets alone her vice.

But I must Justifie what privately,
I censurd to you: my ambition is
(Even by my hopes and love to Poesie)
To live to perfect such a worke, as this,
Clad in such elegant proprietie
Of words, including a mortallitie.

So sweete and profitable, though each man that heares,
(And learning has enough to clap and hisse)
Arives not too't, so misty it appeares;
And to their fi1med reasons, so amisse:
But let Art looke in truth, she like a mirror,
Reflects [Reflect, C, D] her comfort [consort, D--F], ignorances terror.

Sits in her owne brow, being made afraid,
Of her unnaturall complexion,
As ougly women (when they are araid
By glasses) loath their true reflection,
Then how can such opinions injure thee,
That tremble, at their owne deformitie?

Opinion, that great foole, makes fooles of all,
And (once) I feard her till I met a minde
Whose grave instructions philosophical),
Toss'd it [is, F] like dust upon a march strong winde,
He shall for ever my example be,
And his embraced doctrine grow in me.

His soule (and such commend this) that commaund [commands, D, E, F]
Such art, it should me better satisfie,
Then if the monster clapt his thousand hands,
And drownd the sceane with his confused cry;
And if doubts rise, loe their owne names to cleare 'em
Whilst I am happy but to stand so neere 'em.

N. F.

These verses are in A, B, C, D, E and F. In A and B they are signed 'N.
F.,' in C-F they are signed 'Nath. Field.' The above text is that of A.

To his loving friend M. _Jo. Fletcher_
concerning his Pastorall, being
both a Poeme and a play:
[concerning...play _omitted in_ D, E, F]

There are no suerties (good friend) will be taken
For workes that vulgar-good-name hath forsaken:
A Poeme and a play too! why tis like
A scholler that's a Poet: their names strike
Their pestilence inward, when they take the aire;
And kill out right: one cannot both fates beare.
But, as a Poet thats no scholler, makes
Vulgarity his whiffler, and so takes
with ease, & state through both sides prease
Of Pageant seers: or as schollers please
That are no Poets; more then Poets learnd;
Since their art solely, is by soules discerned;
The others fals [fall, D, E, F] within the common sence
And sheds (like common light) her influence:
So, were your play no Poeme, but a thing
That every Cobler to his patch might sing:
A rout of nifles (like the multitude)
With no one limme [limbe, E, F] of any art indude:
Like would to like, and praise you: but because,
Your poeme onely hath by us applause,
Renews the golden world; and holds through all
The holy lawes of homely pastorall;
Where flowers, and founts, and Nimphs, & semi-Gods,
And all the Graces finde their old abods:
Where forrests flourish but in endlesse verse;
And meddowes, nothing fit for purchasers:
This Iron age that eates it selfe, will never
Bite at your golden world; that others, ever
Lov'd as it selfe: then like your Booke do you
Live in ould peace: and that for praise allow.

G. Chapman

These lines are in A, C, D, E and F. The text is that of A.

_To that noble and true lover of learning_,
Sir Walter Aston Knight
_of the Balls_.

Sir I must aske your patience, and be trew.
This play was never liked, unlesse by few
That brought their judgements with um, for of late
First the infection, then the common prate
Of common people, have such customes got
Either to silence plaies, or like them not.
Under the last of which this interlude,
Had falne for ever prest downe by the rude
That like a torrent which the moist south feedes,
Drowne's both before him the ripe corne and weedes.
Had not the saving sence of better men
Redeem'd it from corruption: (deere Sir then)
Among the better soules, be you the best
In whome, as in a Center I take rest,
And propper being: from whose equall eye
And judgement, nothing growes but puritie:
(Nor do I flatter) for by all those dead,
Great in the muses, by _Apolloes_ head,
He that ads any thing to you; tis done
Like his that lights a candle to the sunne:
Then be as you were ever, your selfe still
Moved by your judement, not by love, or will
And when I sing againe as who can tell
My next devotion to that holy well,
Your goodnesse to the muses shall be all,
Able to make a worke Heroyicall.

_Given to your service_
John Fletcher.

These lines are in A and B.

To the inheritour of all worthines,
_Sir William Scipwith.
Ode._

If from servile hope or love,
I may prove
But so happy to be thought for
Such a one whose greatest ease
Is to please
(Worthy sir) I have all I sought for,

For no ich of greater name,
which some clame
By their verses do I show it
To the world; nor to protest
Tis the best
These are leane faults in a poet

Nor to make it serve to feed
at my neede
Nor to gaine acquaintance by it
Nor to ravish kinde Atturnies,
in their journies.
Nor to read it after diet

Farre from me are all these Ames
Fittest frames
To build weakenesse on and pitty
Onely to your selfe, and such
whose true touch
Makes all good; let me seeme witty.

_The Admirer of your vertues_,
John Fletcher.

These verses are in A and B.

_To the perfect gentleman Sir_
Robert Townesend.

If the greatest faults may crave
Pardon where contrition is
(Noble Sir) I needes must have
A long one; for a long amisse
If you aske me (how is this)
Upon my faith Ile tell you frankely,
You love above my meanes to thanke yee.
Yet according to my Talent
As sowre fortune loves to use me
A poore Shepheard I have sent,
In home-spun gray for to excuse me.
And may all my hopes refuse me:
But when better comes ashore,
You shall have better, newer, more.
Til when, like our desperate debters,
Or our three pild sweete protesters
I must please you in bare letters
And so pay my debts; like jesters,
Yet I oft have seene good feasters,
Onely for to please the pallet,
Leave great meat and chuse a sallet.

_All yours_ John Fletcher:

These lines are in A and B.

To the Reader.

If you be not reasonably assurde of your knowledge in this kinde of Poeme,
lay downe the booke or read this, which I would wish had bene the
prologue. It is a pastorall Tragic-comedie, which the people seeing when
it was plaid, having ever had a singuler guift in defining, concluded to
be a play of contry hired Shepheards, in gray cloakes, with curtaild dogs
in strings, sometimes laughing together, and sometimes killing one
another: And misling whitsun ales, creame, wasiel & morris-dances, began
to be angry. In their error I would not have you fall, least you incurre
their censure. Understand therefore a pastorall to be a representation of
shepheards and shephearddesses, with their actions and passions, which
must be such as may agree with their natures at least not exceeding former
fictions, & vulgar traditions: they are not to be adorn'd with any art,
but such improper ones as nature is said to bestow, as singing and Poetry,
or such as experience may teach them, as the vertues of hearbs, &
fountaines: the ordinary course of the Sun, moone, and starres, and
such like. But you are ever to remember Shepherds to be such, as all the
ancient Poets and moderne of understanding have receaved them: that is,
the owners of flockes and not hyerlings. A tragie-comedie is not so called
in respect of mirth and killing, but in respect it wants deaths, which is
inough to make it no tragedie, yet brings some neere it, which is inough
to make it no comedie: which must be a representation of familiar people,
with such kinde of trouble as no life be questiond, so that a God is as
lawfull in this as in a tragedie, and meane people as in a comedie. This
much I hope will serve to justifie my Poeme, and make you understand it,
to teach you more for nothing, I do not know that I am in conscience
bound.

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