 Section 8 of HERO AND LEANDER by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman Section 8. The Fourth Sestiad. The Argument. HERO, in sacred habit decked, doth private sacrifice effect. Her scarf's description wrought by fate, ostents that threaten her estate, the strange yet physical events Leander's counterfeit presents. In thunder, Cyprides descends, presaging both the lover's ends. Ecti, the goddess of remorse, with vocal and articulate force inspires Leucote. Venus, swan, t'excuse the beautyous Sestian. Venus, to wreck her right's abuses, creates the monster Eronusis, inflaming hero's sacrifice with lightning darted from her eyes. And thereof springs the painted beast that ever since taints every breast. Now from Leander's place she rose, and found her hair and rent robe scattered on the ground. Which taking up, she every piece did lay upon an altar, where in youth of day she used to exhibit private sacrifice. These she would offer to the deities of her fair goddess and her powerful son, as relics of her late-felt passion. And in that holy sort she vowed to end them, in hope her violent fancies that did rend them would as quite fade in her love's holy fire, as they should in the flames she meant to inspire. Then she put on all her religious weeds, that decked her in her secret sacred deeds. A crown of icicles, that sun nor fire could ever melt, and figured chaste desire. A golden star shined in her naked breast, in honour of the queen-light of the east. In her right hand she held a silver wand, on whose bright top Peristera did stand, who was a nymph, but now transformed a dove. And in her life was dear in Venus' love. And for her sake she ever since that time chose doves to draw her coach through heaven's blue climb. Her plenteous hair in curled billows swims on her bright shoulder. Her harmonious limbs sustained no more but a most subtle veil that hung on them, as it durst not assail their different concord. For the weakest air could raise it swelling from her beauty's fare. Nor did it cover but adumbrate only her most heart-piercing parts, that a blessed eye might see, as it did shadow fearfully all that all love-deserving paradise. It was as blue as the most freezing skies near the sea's hue, for thence her goddess came. On it a scarf she wore of wondrous frame. In midst whereof she wrought a virgin's face, from whose each cheek a fiery blush did chase two crimson flames, that did two ways extend, spreading the ample scarf to either end, which figured the division of her mind, whilst yet she rested bashfully inclined, and stood not resolute to wed Leander. This served her white neck for a purple sphere, and cast itself at full breadth down her back. There, since the first breath that begun the rack of her free quiet from Leander's lips, she wrought a sea in one flame, full of ships, but that one ship where all her wealth did pass, like simple merchant's goods, Leander was. For in that sea she naked figured him. Her diving needle taught him how to swim, and to each thread did such resemblance give, for joy to be so like him it did live. Things senseless live by art, and rational die by rude contempt of art and industry. Scarce could she work, but in her strength of thought she feared she pricked Leander as she wrought, and oft would shriek so, that her guardian frighted, would staring haste as with some mischief cited. They double life that dead things grief sustain. They kill that feel not their friend's living pain. Sometimes she feared he sought her infamy, and then as she was working of his eye, she thought to prick it out to quench her ill. But as she pricked it grew more perfect still. Trifling attempts, no serious acts advance. The fire of love is blown by dalliance. In working his fair neck she so did grace it, she still was working her own arms to embrace it. That and his shoulders and his hands were seen above the stream, and with a pure sea green she did so quaintly shadow every limb, all might be seen beneath the waves to swim. In this conceited scarf she wrought beside a moon in change, and shooting stars did glide in number after her with bloody beams, which figured her effects in their extremes, pursuing nature in her synthian body, and did her thoughts running on change imply. For maids take more delight when they prepare, and think of wives' states than when wives they are. Beneath all these she wrought a fisherman, drawing his nets from forth the ocean, who drew so hard he might discover well the toughened sinews in his neck did swell. His inward strains drave out his bloodshot eyes, and springs of sweat did in his forehead rise. Yet was of nought but of a serpent sped, that in his bosom flew and stung him dead, and this by fate into her mind was sent, not wrought by mere instinct of her intent. At the scarf's other end her hand did frame near the forked point of the divided flame, a country virgin keeping of a vine, who did of hollow bullrushes combine snares for the stubble-loving grasshopper, and by her lay her script that nourished her. Within a myrtle shade she sat and sung, and tufts of waving reeds about her sprung, where lurked two foxes, that while she applied her trifling snares, their thieverys did divide, one to the vine, another to her script, that she did negligently oversleep, by which her fruitful vine, and wholesome fare she suffered spoiled, to make a childish snare. These ominous fancies did her soul express, and every finger made a profitess, to show what death was hid in love's disguise, and make her judgment conquer destinies. Oh, what sweet forms fair ladies' souls do shroud, where they made seen and force it through their blood, if through their beauties, like rich work through lawn, they would set forth their minds with virtues drawn, in letting graces from their fingers fly, to still their aeous thoughts with industry, that their pliad wits in numbered silks might sing passion's huge conquest, and their needles leading affection prisoner through their own built cities, pinioned with stories and arachnian ditties. Proceed we now with hero's sacrifice. She odours burned, and from their smoke did rise unsavory fumes, that air with plagues inspired, and then the consecrated sticks she fired, on whose pale frame an angry spirit flew, and beat it down still as it upward grew. The virgin tapers that on the altar stood, when she inflamed them, burned as red as blood, all sad or stents of that too near success, that made such moving beauties motionless. Then hero wept, but her affrighted eyes she quickly rested from the sacrifice, shut them, and inwards for Leander looked, searched her soft bosom, and from thence she plucked his lovely picture, which when she had viewed her beauties, where with all love's joys renewed, the odours sweetened, and the fires burned clear, Leander's form left no ill object there. Such was his beauty, that the force of light, whose knowledge teacheth wonders infinite, the strength of number and proportion, nature had placed in it to make it known. Art was her daughter, and what human wits for study lost entombed in drossy spirits. After this accident, which for her glory hero could not but make a history, the inhabitants of Cestos and Abydos did every year with feasts propitious to fair Leander's picture sacrifice. And they were persons of special price that were allowed it, as an ornament to enrich their houses, for the continent of the strange virtues all approved it held. For even the very look of it repelled all blastings, witchcrafts, and the strifes of nature in those diseases that no herbs could cure. The wolfy sting of avarice it would pull, and make the rankest miser bountiful. It killed the fear of thunder and of death. The discords that conceit in gendereth twist man and wife it for the time would cease. The flames of love it quenched and would increase. Held in a prince's hand it would put out the dreadfulest comet. It would ease all doubt of threatened mischiefs. It would bring a sleep such as were mad. It would enforce to weep most barbarous eyes. And many more effects this picture wrought and sprung Leandrian sects. Of which was Hero first, for he whose form held in her hand cleared such a fatal storm. From hell she thought his person would defend her, which knight and helispont would quickly send her. With this confirmed she vowed to banish quite all thought of any check to her delight, and in contempt of silly bashfulness she would the faith of her desires profess, where her religion should be policy, to follow love with zeal her piety. Her chamber her cathedral church should be, and her Leander her chief deity. For in her love these did the gods forego. And though her knowledge did not teach her so, yet did it teach her this, that what her heart did greatest hold in her self-greatest part, that did she make her god. And it was less nought to leave gods in profession and in thought than in her love and life. For therein lies most of her duties and their dignities. And rail the brain-balled world at what it will. That's the grand atheism that reigns in it still. Yet singularity she would use no more, for she was singular too much before. But she would please the world with fair pretext. Love would not leave her conscience perplexed. Great men that will have less do for them, still must bear them out, though the acts be near so ill. Meanness must pander be to excellence, pleasure atones falsehood and conscience. Dissembling was the worst thought hero then, and that was best, now she must live with men. O virtuous love that taught her to do best when she did worst, and when she thought it least. Thus would she still proceed in works divine, and in her sacred state of priesthood shine, handling the holy rites with hands as bold as if therein she did jove's thunder-hold, and need not fear those menaces of error which she at others through with greatest terror. O lovely hero, nothing is thy sin weighed with those foul faults other priests are in. But having neither faiths nor works nor beauties, to engender any excuse for slubbered duties, with as much countenance fill their holy chairs, and sweat denouncements against profane affairs, as if their lives were cut out by their places, and they the only fathers of the graces. End of Section 8 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmayer Surrey Section 9 of Hero and Leander This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson Hero and Leander By Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman Section 9 Now, as with settled mind, she did repair her thoughts to sacrifice her ravished hair and her torn robe, which on the altar lay, and only for religion's fire did stay. She heard a thunder by the cyclops beaten in such a volley as the world did threaten, given Venus as she parted the hairy sphere descending now to chide with hero here, when suddenly the goddess Wagoners, the swans and turtles, that in couplet fears, through all world's bosoms, draw her influence, lighted in hero's window, and from thence to her fair shoulders flew the gentle doves, graceful Idoni, but sweet pleasure loves, and rough foot creste, with the tufted crown, both which did kiss her, though their goddess frown. The swans did in the solid flood her glass, proying their fair plumes, of which the fairest was jove-loved Leucote, that pure brightness is. The other bounty-loving Dapsilis, all were in heaven, now they with hero were. But Venus' looks brought wrath, and urged fear. Her robe was scarlet, black her heads attire, and through her naked breast shined streams of fire, as when the rarefired air is driven in flashing streams, and hopes the darkened heaven. In her white hand a wreath of you she bore, and breaking the icy wreath sweet hero-war, she forced about her brows her wreath of you, and said, Now, minion, to thy fate be true, though not to me. Endure what this portends. Begin where lightness will in shame it ends. Love makes thee cunning. Thou art current now by being count of it. Thy broken vow, deceit with her pied garters, must rejoin, and with her stamp thou countenances must coin. Coiness and pure deceit for pure it is, and still a maid wilt seem in cousined eyes, and have an antique face to laugh within, while thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin. But since thy lips least thought foresworn, foreswore, be never virgin's vow worth trusting more. When beauty's dearest did her goddess hear breathe such rebukes, against that she could not clear, dumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood, that from her grief burst veins in piteous flood, from the sweet conduits of her favour fell. The gentle turtles did with moans make swell their shining gorges. The white black-eyed swans did sing as woeful episodians, as they would straightway's die. When pity's queen, the goddess Ecte, that had ever been hid in a watery cloud near hero's cries, since the first instant of her broken eyes gave bright Leucote voice, and made her speak, to ease her anguish, whose swollen breast did break with anger at her goddess, that did touch hero so near, for that she used so much. And thrusting her white neck at Venus said, Why may not amorous hero's seamer maid, though she be none, as well as you suppress in modest cheeks your inward wantonness? How often have we drawn you from above, to exchange with mortals rights for rights in love? Why in your priest, then, call you that offence, that shines in you, and is your influence? With this the fury's stopped Leucote's lips, enjoined by Venus, who with rosy whips beat the kind bird. Fierce lightning from her eyes did set on fire fair hero's sacrifice, which was her torn robe and enforced hair. And the bright flame became a maid most fair for her aspect. Her tresses were of wire, knit like a net, where hearts set all on fire, struggled in pants, and could not get released. Her arms were all with golden pincers dressed, and twenty-fashioned knots, pulleys and brakes, and all her body girt with painted snakes. Her down parts in a scorpion's tail combined, freckled with twenty colours. Pied wings shined out of her shoulders. Cloth had never died, nor sweeter colours never view-ed eye in scorching turkey, curry's tartary, than shined about this spirit notorious, nor was Arachne's web so glorious. Of lightning and of shreds she was begot, more hold in base dissemblers is there not. Her name was Eronusis. Venus flew from Hero's sight, and at her chariot drew this wondrous creature to so steep a height that all the world she might command with slight of her gay wings. And then she bade her haste, since Hero had dissembled and disgraced her right so much, and every breast in fact with her deceits. She made her architect of all dissimulation, and since then never was any trust in maids or men. Oh, it spighted fair Venus' heart to see her most delighted, and one she'd choosed for temper of her mind to be the only ruler of her kind, so soon to let her virgin race be ended. Not solely for the fault her wit offended, but that in strife for chasteness with the moon, spiteful Diana bade her show but one that was her servant vowed and lived a maid. And now she thought to answer that upbraid, Hero had lost her answer. Who knows not Venus would seem as far from any spot of light to meaner as the very skin twixed Cynthia's brows. Sin is ashamed of sin. Up Venus flew, and scarce dursed up for fear of Phoebe's laughter when she passed her sphere. And so most ugly clouded was the light. That day was hid in day. Night came air night, and Venus could not through the thick air pierce till the day's king, God of undaunted verse, because she was so plentiful a theme to such as wore his laurel anodeem, like to a fiery bullet made descent, and from her passage those fat vapours rent, that being not thoroughly rarefied to rain, melted like pitch as blue as any vein. And scalding tempests made the earth to shrink under their fervour, and the world did think in every drop a torturing spirit flew. It pierced so deeply, and it burned so blue. Betwixt all this and Hero, Hero held Leander's picture as a Persian shield, and she was free from fear of worst success. The more ill threats us, we suspect the less. As we grow hapless, violent, subtle grows, dumb, deaf, and blind, and comes when no man knows. End of Section 9. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey, Section 10 of Hero and Leander. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Hero and Leander, by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. Section 10. The Fifth Sestiad by George Chapman. Section 1. The Argument Day doubles her accustomed date, as loath the night, incensed by fate, should wreck our lovers. Heroes plight. Longs for Leander and the night, which ere her thirsty wish recovers, she sends for two betrothed lovers, and marries them. That with their crew, their sports, and ceremonies due, she covertly might celebrate with secret joy her own estate. She makes a feast, at which appears the wild nymph, Terrace, that still bears an ivory loot, tells ominous tales, and sings at solemn festivals. Now was bright Hero weary of the day, thought an Olympiad in Leander's stay. Sol and the soft foot-hours hung on his arms, and would not let him swim for seeing his harms. That day Aurora, double-gray, subterained of her love, Vibas. She, his horses reigned, set on his golden knee, and as she list, she pulled him back, and as she pulled, she kissed, to have him turn to bed. He loved her more, to see the love Leander hero bore. Examples profit much, ten times in one, in persons full of note, good deeds are done. Day was so long, men walking fell asleep. The heavy humours that their eyes did steep made them fear mischiefs. The hard streets were bed for covetous churls, and for ambitious heads, that spite of nature would their business ply. All thought they had the falling epilepsy, men groveled so upon the smothered ground, and pity did the heart of heaven confound. The gods, the graces, and the muses came down to the destinies, to stay the frame of the true lovers' deaths, and all world's tears. But death before had stopped their cruel ears. All the celestials parted mourning then, pierced with our human miseries more than men. Ah, nothing doth the world with mischief fill, but want of feeling one another's ill. With their dissent the day grew something fair, and cast a brighter robe upon the air. Hero, to shorten time with merriment, for young alkmane and bright maya sent, two lovers that had long craved marriage dues at Hero's hands, but she did still refuse. For lovely maya was her consort vowed in her maid state, and therefore not allowed to amorous nuptials. Yet fair Hero now intended to dispense with her cold vow, since hers was broken, and to marry her. The rites would pleasing matter minister to her conceits, and shorten tedious day. They came, sweet music ushered the odorous way, and wanton air in twenty sweet forms danced after her fingers. Beauty and love advanced their ensigns in the downless, rosy faces of youths and maids, led after by the graces. For all these Hero made a friendly feast, welcomed them kindly, did much love protest, winning their hearts with all the means she might, that when her fault should chance to abide the light, their loves might cover or extenuate it, and high in her worst fate make pity sit. She married them, and in the banquet came born by the virgins. Hero strived to frame her thoughts to mirth. I me, but hard it is to imitate a false and forcèd bliss. Ill may a sad mind forge a merry face, nor hath constrained laughter any grace. Then laid she wines on cares to make them sink, who fears the threats of fortune, let him drink. To these quick nuptials entered suddenly admired terrace with the ebon thigh, a nymph that haunted the green-sestian groves, and would consort soft virgins in their loves, at gaysome triumphs and on solemn days, singing prophetic allergies and lays, and fingering of a silver lute she tied with black and purple scarfs by her left side. Apollo gave it, and her skill with all, and she was termed his dwarf. She was so small, yet great in virtue, for his beams enclosed his virtues in her. Never was proposed riddle to her, or orcury, strange or new, but she resolved it. Never slight tale flew from her charmed lips without important sense, shown in some grave succeeding consequence. This little sylvan, with her songs and tales, gave such estate to feasts and nuptials, that though often times she forewent tragedies, yet for her strangeness still she pleased their eyes, and for her smallness they admired her so, they thought her perfect born, and could not grow. All eyes were on her. Hero did command an altar decked with sacred state, should stand at the feast's upper end, close by the bride, on which the pretty nymph might sit aspired. Then all were silent. Everyone so hears, as all their senses climbed into their ears. And first this amorous tale, that fitted well fair hero, and the nuptials, she did tell. The Tale of Terrace Hymen, that now is God of nuptial rites, and crowns with honour, love, and his delights, of Athens was a youth, so sweet a face, that many thought him of the female race. Such quickening brightness did his clear eyes dart, warm went their beams to his beholder's heart. In such pure leaks his beauties were combined, that there your nuptial contracts first were signed. For as proportion white and crimson meet in beauty's mixture, all right, clear, and sweet, the eye responsible, the golden hair, and none is held without the other fair. All spring together, all together fade. Such intermixed affections should invade two perfect lovers, which, being yet unseen, their virtues and their comforts copied been in beauty's concord, subject to the eye. And that, in Hymen, pleased so batchlessly, that lovers were esteemed in their full grace, like form and colour mixed in Hymen's face. And such sweet concord was thought worthy then of torches, music, feasts, and greatest men. So Hymen looked, that even the chastest mind he moved, to join in joys of sacred kind. For only now his chins, first down, consorted his head's rich fleece, in golden curls contorted. And as he was so loved, he loved so too. So should best beauties bound by nuptials do. End of section 10 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 11 of Hero and Leander. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. Section 11. The Fifth Cestiad. Part 2. The Tale of Terrace. Continued. Bright Eucharist, who was by all men said the noblest, fairest, and the richest made of all the Athenian damsels. Hymen loved with such transmission, that his heart removed from his white breast to hers. But her estate, in passing his, was so in terminate for wealth and honour, that his love durst feed on nought but sight and hearing, nor could breed hope of requital, the grand prize of love. Nor could he hear or see, but he must prove how his rare beauty's music would agree with maids in consort. Therefore, Robert he his chin of those same few first fruits it bore, and clad in such attire as Virgin's War, he kept them company, and might write well, for he did all but Eucharist's excel in all the fair of beauty. Yet he wanted virtue to make his own desires implanted in his dear Eucharist. For women never love beauty in their sex, but envy ever. His judgment yet, that durst not suit a dress, nor past due means presume of due success, reason got fortune in the end to speed to his best prayers. But strange it seemed indeed, that fortune should a chaste affection bless, preferment seldom graces bashfulness, nor graced it hymen yet. But many a dart, and many an amorous thought enthrilled his heart ere he obtained her. And he sick became, forced to abstain her sight. And then the flame raged in his bosom. Oh, what grief did fill him? Sight made him sick, and want of sight did kill him. The virgins wondered where Deisha stayed, for so did Hymen term himself a maid. At length, with sickly looks, he greeted them. It is strange to see against what an extreme stream a lover strives. Poor Hymen looked so ill, that as in merit he increased it still by suffering much, so he in grace decreased. Women are most one when men merit least. If merit look not well, love bids stand by. Love's special lesson is to please the eye. And Hymen soon recovering all he lost, deceiving still these maids, but himself most, his love and he, with many virgin dames, noble by birth, noble by beauty's flames, leaving the town with songs and hallowed lights, to do great series Eleusina rites of zealous sacrifice, were made a prey to barbarous rovers, that in ambush lay, and with rude hands enforced their shining spoil, bar from the darkened city, tired with toil. And when the yellow issue of the sky came trooping forth, jealous of cruelty to their bright fellows of this under-heaven, into a double night they saw them driven, a horrid cave, the thieves' black mansion, where weary of the journey they had gone, last night's watch, and drunk with their sweet gains, dull Morpheus entered, laden with silken chains, stronger than iron, and bound the swelling veins and tired senses of these lawless swains. But when the virgin lights thus dimly burned, oh, what a hell was heaven in, how they mourned and wrung their hands, and wound their gentle forms into the shapes of sorrow! Golden storms fell from their eyes, as when sun appears, and yet it rains, so showed their eyes their tears. And as when funeral dames watch a dead course weeping about it, telling with remorse what pains he felt, how long in pain he lay, how little food he ate, what he would say, and then mix mournful tales of others' deaths, smothering themselves in clouds of their own breaths, at length one cheering other called for wine. The golden bowl drinks tears out of their eye, as they drink wine from it, and round it goes, each helping other to relieve their woes. So cast these virgin's beauties, mutual rays, one lights another, face the face displays, lips by reflection kissed, and hands, hands shook, even by the whiteness each of other took. But Hyman now used friendly, morpheus aid, slew every thief, and rescued every maid. And now did his enamoured passion take heart from his hearty deed, whose worth did make his hope of bounteous Eucharist more strong. And now came love with Proteus, who had long juggled the little god with prayers and gifts, ran through all shapes, and varied all his shifts to win love stay with him, and make him love him. And when he saw no strength of slight could move him to make him love or stay, he nimbly turned into love self, he so extremely burned. And thus came love with Proteus and his power to encounter Eucharist. First like the flower that Juno's milk did spring, the silver lily he fell on Hyman's hand, who straight did spy the bounteous godhead, and with wondrous joy offered it Eucharist. She, wondrous coy, drew back her hand. The subtle flower did woo it, and drawing it near, mixed so you could not know it. As two clear tapers mix in one their light, so did the lily and the hand their white. She viewed it, and her view the form bestows among her spirits, for as colour flows from superficies of each thing we see, even so with colours forms emitted be. And where love's form is, love is, love is form. He entered at the eye, his sacred storm rose from the hand, love's sweetest instrument. It stirred her blood sea so that high it went, and beat in bashful waves against the white shore of her divided cheeks. It raged the more, because the tide went against the haughty wind of her estate and birth. And as we find in fainting ebbs, the flowery zephyr hurls the green-haired helispont, broke in silver curls against Hiro's tower. But in his blast's retreat the waves obeying him they aft a beat, leaving the chalky shore a great way pale, then moisted freshly with another gale. So ebbed and flowed in Eucharist's face, coyness and love strived which had greatest grace. The jinnity did fight on coyness's side, fear of her parents' frowns, and female pride loathing the lower place, more than it loves the high contents, desert and virtue moves. With love fought Hymen's beauty and his valour, which scarce could so much favour, yet a lure to come to strike, but famous idle stood. Action is fiery valour sovereign good. But love, once entered, wished no greater aid than he could find within. Thought, thought betrayed. The bribed but incorrupted garrison sung, You're Hymen! There those songs begun, and love was grown so rich with such a gain, and wanton with the ease of his free reign, that he would turn into her roughest frowns to turn them out, and thus he Hymen crowns, king of his thoughts, man's greatest empirey. This was his first brave step to deity. Home to the morning city they repair, with news as wholesome as the morning air, to the sad parents of each save-ed maid. But Hymen and his Eucharist had laid this plot to make the flame of their delight round as the moon at full, and full as bright. End of Section 11. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmayer Surrey. Section 12 of Hero and Leander. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. Section 12. The Fifth Cestyard. Part 3. The Tale of Terrace continued. Because the parents of chaste Eucharist exceeding Hymen's so might cross their bliss, and as the world rewards deserts, that law cannot assist with force. So when they saw their daughter safe, take vantage of their own. Praise Hymen's valour much, nothing bestown. Hymen must leave the virgins in a grove far off from Athens, and go first to prove, if to restore them all with fame and life, he should enjoy his dearest as his wife. This told to all the maids, the most agree. The riper sought, knowing what is to be the first month of a news so far derived, and that to hear and bear news brave folks lived, as being a carriage special hard to bear occurrence. These occurrence, being so dear, they did with grace protest. They were content to accost their friends with all their compliment, for Hymen's good. But to incur their harm, there he must pardon them. This wit went warm to Adolesque's brain, a nymph born high, made all a voice and fire that upwards fly. Her heart and all her forces nether train, climbed to her tongue, and thither fell her brain, since it could go no higher, and it must go. All power she had, even her tongue did so. In spirit and quickness she much joy did take, and loved her tongue only for quickness's sake, and she would hasten to tell. The rest all stay. Hymen goes one, the nymph another way, and what became of her I'll tell at last. Yet take her visage now, moist lipped, long faced, thin like an iron wedge, so sharp and tart, as twere of purpose made to cleave love's heart. Well were this lovely beauty rid of her! And Hymen did at Athens now prefer his welcome suit, which he with joy aspired. A hundred princely youths with him retired to fetch the nymphs. Chariots and music went, and home they came, heaven with applause's rent. The nuptials straight proceed, whilst all the town fresh in their joys might do the most renown. First gold-locked Hymen did to church repair, like a quick offering burned in flames of hair, and after, with a virgin firmament, the godhead-proving bride attended went before them all. She looked in her command, as if form-giving Cypria's silver hand gripped all their beauties, and crushed out one flame. She blushed to see how beauty overcame the thoughts of all men. Next before her went five lovely children, decked with ornament of her sweet colours, bearing torches by. For light was held a happy augury of generation, whose efficient right is nothing else but to produce to light. The odd, disparent number they did choose to show the union married loves should use, since in two equal parts it will not sever, but the midst holds one to rejoin it ever as common to both parts. Men therefore deem that equal number gods do not esteem, being authors of sweet peace and unity, but pleasing to the infernal emperor, under whose ensigns wars and discords fight, since an even number you may disunite in two parts equal, not in middle left to reunite each part from other revved. And five they hold in most is special prize, since it is the first odd number that doth rise from the two foremost numbers unity, that odd and even are, which are two and three. For one known number is, but then doth flow the powerful race of number. Next did go a noble matron, that did spinning bear a huzziff's rock and spindle, and did wear a weather's skin with all the snowy fleece, to intimate that even the daintiest peace and noblest born dame should industrious be. That which does good disgraceeth no degree. No degree. End of section 12. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 13 of Hero and Leander. This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. Section 13. The Fifth Sestiad. Part 4. The Tale of Terrace concluded. And now to Juno's temple they are come, where her grave priest stood in the marriage room. On his right arm did hang a scarlet veil, and from his shoulders to the ground did trail on either side ribbons of white and blue. With the red veil he hid the bashful hue of the chaste bride, to show the modest shame in coupling with a man should grace a dame. Then took he the disparent silks, and tied the lovers by the wastes, and side by side, in token that hereafter they must bind in one self-sacred knot each other's mind. Before them on an altar he presented both fire and water, which was first invented. Since to ingenerate every human creature, and every other birth produced by nature, moisture and heat must mix. So man and wife for human race must join in nuptial life. Then one of Juno's birds, the painted jay he sacrificed, and took the gall away, all which he did behind the altar throw, in sign no bitterness of hate should grow twixed married loves, nor any least disdain. Nothing they spake, for twos esteemed too plain for the most silken mildness of a maid, to let a public audience hear it said she boldly took the man. And so respected was bashfulness in Athens, it erected to chase Dagnia, which is shame-facedness, a sacred temple holding her a goddess. And now to feasts, masks, and triumphant shows, the shining troops returned, even till earth's throes brought forth with joy the thickest part of night, when the sweet nuptial song that used to cite all to their rest was by Femmonoë sung, first Delphian profites, whose graces sprung out of the muses well. She sung before the bride into her chamber, at which door a matron and a torch-bearer did stand, a painted box of comfits in her hand the matron held, and so did other some that compassed round the honoured nuptial room. The custom was that every maid did wear, during her maiden-head, a silken sphere about her waist, above her inmost weed, nipped with Minava's knot. And that was freed by the fair bridegroom on the marriage-night, with many ceremonies of delight. And yet eternised hymen's tender bride to suffer it dissolved so sweetly cried. The maids that heard so loved and did adore her, they wished with all their hearts to suffer for her. So had the matrons that with comfits stood about the chamber such affectionate blood, and so true feeling of her harmless pains, that every one a shower of comfits rains, for which the bride-youth scrambling on the ground, in noise of that sweet hail her cries were drowned. And thus blessed hymen joyed his gracious bride, and for his joy was after deified. The saffron-mirror by which Phoebus' love Green-tellus decks her, now he held above the cloudy mountains, and the noble maid sharp-visaged Adolesce, that was straight out of her way in hasting with her news, not till this hour the Athenian turrets' views. And now, brought home by guides, she heard by all that her long-kept occurrence would be stale, and how fair hymen's honours did excel for those rare news which she came short to tell. To hear her dear tongue robbed of such a joy made the well-spoken nymph take such a toy that down she sunk, when lightning from above shrunk her lean body, and for mere free love turned her into the pied-plumed Psittacus, that now the pallet is surnamed by us, though still with counterfeit confusion, praits naught but news common to the commenced mates. This toad, strange terrace, touched her lute, and sung this ditty, that the torchy evening sprung. Come, come, dear knight, love's mart of kisses, sweet clothes of his ambitious line, the fruitful summer of his blisses, love's glory doth in darkness shine. O come, soft rest of cares, come, knight, come, naked virtues only tire, the reaped harvest of the light bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war, sighs his alarms, lips his swords are, the field his arms. Come, knight, and lay thy velvet hand on glorious days, out-facing face, and all thy crowned flames command, for torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war, sighs his alarms, lips his swords are, the field his arms. No need have we of factious day to cast in envy of thy peace her balls of discord in thy way. Here beauty's day doth never cease. Day is abstracted here, and varied in a triple sphere. Hero, Alcmane, Maya, so outshine thee, ere thou come here, let Thetis thrice refine thee. Love calls to war, sighs his alarms, lips his swords are, the field his arms. The evening star I see, rise, youths, the evening star helps love to summon war, both now embracing be. Rise, youths, love's right claims more than panquits, rise. Now the bright marigolds that deck the skies, feeble celestial flowers that contrary to his flowers hear, hope when he shuts his eye, and shut when he doth open, crown your sports. Now love in night, and night in love exhorts courtship and dances, all your parts employ, and suit night's rich expansure with your joy. Love paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes. Rise, youths, love's right claims more than panquits, rise. Rise, virgins, let fair nuptial loves enfold your fruitless breasts. The maiden heads ye hold are not your own alone, but parted are, part in disposing them your parents share. And that a third part is, so must she save your loves a third, and you your thuds must have. Love paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes. Rise, youths, love's right claims more than panquits, rise. Herewith the amorous spirit that was so kind to terrace hair, and combed it down with wind, still as it cometh like break from her brain would needs have terrace gone, and did refrain to blow it down, which staring up dismayed the timorous feast, and she no longer stayed, but bowing to the bridegroom and the bride, did like a shooting exhalation glide out of their sights. The turning of her back made them all shriek, it looked so ghastly black. Oh hapless hero, that most hapless cloud thy soon succeeding tragedy foreshowed. Thus all the nuptial crew to joys depart. But much rung hero stood Hell's blackest dart, whose wound, because I grieve so to display, I use digressions thus to increase the day. End of Section 13 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmayer Surrey. Section 14 of Hero and Leander. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Hero and Leander. By Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. Section 14 The Sixth Cestillard. By George Chapman. Part 1. The Argument Leucote flies to all the winds, and from the fates their outrage blinds, that hero and her love may meet. Leander, with love's complete fleet mound in himself, puts forth to seas. When straight the ruthless destinies, with Arte, stirs the winds to war upon the helispunt. Their jar drowns poor Leander. Hero's eyes wet witnesses of his surprise. Her torch blown out, grief casts her down upon her love, and both doth drown. In whose just roof the god of seas transforms them to the acanthides. No longer could the day nor destinies delay the night, who now did frowning rise into her throne, and at her humorous breasts visions and dreams lay sucking. All men's rests fell like the mists of death upon their eyes. Days too long doth so killed their faculties. The winds yet like the flowers to cease began. For bright Leucote, Venus' whitest swan, that held sweet hero dear, spread her fair wings, like to a field of snow, and message brings from Venus to the fates, to entreat them lay their charge upon the winds, their rage to stay, that the stern battle of the seas might cease, and guard Leander to his love in peace. The fates consent. I, me, dissembling fates. They showed their favours to conceal their hates, and draw Leander on, lest seas too high should stay his too obsequious destiny. Who like a flaring slavish parasite, in warping prophet or a traitorous slight, hoops round his rotten body with devotes, and pricks his desk and face full of false notes, praising with open throat, and oaths as foul as his false heart, the beauty of an owl. Kissing his skipping hand with charming skips, that cannot leave but leaps upon his lips like a cock sparrow, or a shameless queen sharp at a red-lipped youth, and naught doth mean of all his antics shows, but doth repair more tender thorns, and takes a scattered hair from his tame subject's shoulder, whips and calls for everything he lacks, creeps against the walls with backward humbless to give needless way. Thus his false fate did with Leander play. First to black Euras flies the white Leucote, born amongst the negroes in the levant sea, on whose curled heads the glowing sun doth rise, and shows the sovereign will of destinies to have him cease his blasts, and down he lies. Next to the fenny notice course she holds, and found him leaning with his arms enfolds upon a rock, his white hair full of showers, and him she charges by the fatal powers to hold in his wet cheeks his cloudy voice. To Zephyr, then, that doth in flowers rejoice. To Snakefoot Boreas, next, she did remove, and found him tossing of his ravished love to heat his frosty bosom hidden snow. Who with Leucote's sight did cease to blow. Thus all were still to Hero's heart's desire, who with all speed did consecrate a fire of flaming gums and comfortable spice to light her torch, which in such curious price she held, being object to Leander's sight, that nought but fires perfumed must give it light. She loved it so she grieved to see it burn, since it would waste and soon to Ash's turn. Yet if it burned not, to it not worth her eyes, what made it nothing gave it all the prize. Sweet torch, true glass of our society, what man does good, but he consumes thereby. But thou wert loved for good, held high, given show, poor virtue loathed for good, obscured, held low. Do good, be pined, be deedless good, disgraced. Unless we feed on men, we let them fast. Yet Hero with these thoughts her torch did spend. When bees make wax, nature doth not intend it should be made a torch, but we that know the proper virtue of it make it so, and when it is made, we light it. Nor did nature propose one life to maids, but each such creature makes by her soul the best of her true state, which without love is rude, disconsolate, and once loves fire to make it mild and bright, till when maids are but torches wanting light. Thus against our grief, not cause of grief, we fight. The rite of nought is gleaned, but the delight. Up went she, but to tell how she descended. Would God she were not dead, or my verse ended. She was the rule of wishes, some and end, for all the parts that did on love depend. Yet cast the torch his brightness further forth, but what shines nearest best holds truest worth. Leander did not through such tempest swim to kiss the torch, although it lighted him, but all his powers in her desires awaked. Her love and virtues clothed him richly naked. Men kiss but fire that only shows pursue. Her torch and hero figure show and virtue. Now at opposed abidus, nought was heard but bleeding flocks, and many a bellowing heard, slain for the nuptials. Cracks of falling woods, blows of broad axes, pourings out of floods. The guilty helispont was mixed and stained with bloody torrent that the shambles reigned. Not arguments of feast, but shows that bled, for telling that red night that followed. More blood was spilt, more honours were addressed, than could have graced any happy feast. Rich banquets, triumphs, every pomp employs his sumptuous hand. No miser's nuptial joys. Air felt continual thunder with the noise made in the general marriage-violence, and no man knew the cause of this expense, but the two hapless lords, Leander's sire and poor Leander. Poor rest where the fire of credulous love made him most rich surmised. As short was he of that himself so prized, as is an empty gallant full of form, that thinks each look an act, each drop a storm, that falls from his brave breathings. Most brought up in our metropolis, and hath his cup brought after him to feast, and much palm bears for his rare judgment in the attire he wears. Hath seen the hot, low countries, not their heat, observe their rampires and their buildings yet, and for your sweet discourse with mouths, is heard giving instructions with his very beard. Hath gone with an ambassador, and been a great man's mate in travelling, even to reen. And then puts all his worth in such a face as he saw brave men make, and strives for grace to get his news forth, as when you describe a ship with all her sail contends to fly out of the narrow Thames with winds unapped. Now crosses here, then there, then his way wrapped, and then hath one point reached, then alters all, and to another crooked reached at the fall of half a bird-bolt's chute, keeping more coil than if she danced upon the ocean's toil. So serious is his trifling company, in all his swelling ship of vacantry, and so short of himself in his high thought was our Leander in his fortunes brought, and in his fort of love that he thought one. But otherwise he scorns comparison. O sweet Leander, thy large worth I hide in a short grave. Ill-favoured storms must chide thy sacred favour. I in floods of ink must drown thy graces, which white papers drink, even as thy beauties did the foul black seas. I must describe the hell of thy decease that heaven did merit. Yet I needs must see our painted fools and cock-horse peasantry still, still use up with long lives, loves, and lust the seats of virtue, cutting short as dust her dear-bought issue. Ill to worse converts, and tramples in the blood of all deserts. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Hero and Leander, by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman. Section 15. The Sixth Sestiad. Part 2. Night, close and silent, now goes fast before the captains and the soldiers to the shore, on whom attended the appointed fleet at Cestos Bay that should Leander meet, who feigned he in another ship would pass. Which must not be, for no one mean there was to get his love home but the course he took. Fourth did his beauty for his beauty look, and saw her through her torch, as you behold sometimes within the sun a face of gold, formed in strong thoughts by that tradition's force that says a God sits there and guides his course. His sister was with him, to whom he showed his guide by sea, and said, oft have you viewed in one heaven many stars, but never yet in one star many heavens till now were met. See lovely sister, see now hero shines, no heaven but her appears. Each star repines and all are clad in clouds, as if they mourned to be by influence of earth outburned. Yet doth she shine and teacheth virtue's train still to be constant in hell's blackest rain, though even the gods themselves do so entreat them as they did hate and earth as she would eat them. Off went his silken robe, and in he leapt, whom the kind wave so liquorously clept, thickening for haste one in another so to kiss his skin that he might almost go to hero's tower had that kind minute lasted. But now the cruel fates with Arte hasted to all the winds, and made them battle fight upon the helispont, for either's right pretended to the windy monarchy. And forth they break the seas mixed with the sky, and tossed distressed Leander, being in hell as high as heaven. Bliss not in height doth dwell. The destinies sate dancing on the waves, to see the glorious winds with mutual braves consume each other. Oh, true glass, to see how ruinous, ambitious statists be to their own glories. Poor Leander cried for help to Seaborn Venus. She denied to Boreas that for his Artea's sake he would some pity on his hero take, and for his own love's sake on his desires. But glory never blows cold pity's fires. Then called he Neptune, who through all the noise knew with a fright his wrecked Leander's voice, and up he rose. For haste his forehead hit against heaven's hard crystal. His proud waves, he smit with his forked scepter, that could not obey. Much greater powers than Neptune's gave them sway. They loved Leander so, in groans they break when they came near him, and such space did take, twixt one another, loathe to issue on, that in their shallow furrows earth was shown, and the poor lover took a little breath. But the cursed fates sate spinning of his death on every wave, and with the servile winds tumbled them on him, and now hero finds by that she felt her dear Leander's state. She wept, and prayed for him to every fate, and every wind that whipped her with her hair about the face she kissed, and spake it fair, kneeled to it, gave it drink out of her eyes to quench his thirst. But still their cruelties, even her poor torch envied, and rudely beat the baiting flame from that dear food it ate. Dear for it nourished her Leander's life, which with her robe she rescued from their strife, but silk too soft was such hard hearts to break, and she dear soul, even as her silk faint weak could not preserve it. Out, oh, out it went! Leander still called Neptune that now rent his brackish curls, and tore his wrinkled face, where tears in billows did each other chase, and burst with Ruth he hurled his marble mace at the stern fates. It wounded Lakesis that drew Leander's thread, and could not miss the thread itself, as it her hand did hit, but smote it full, and quite did sunder it. The more kind Neptune raged, the more he raised his love's life fort, and killed as he embraced. Anger doth still his own mishap increase. If any comfort live, it is in peace. Oh, thievish fates, to let blood, flesh, and scents build two fair temples for their excellence, to rob it with a poisoned influence. Those soul's gifts starve, the bodies are held dear in ugliest things. Sense sport preserves a bear, but here nought serves our turns. Oh, heaven and earth, how most, most wretched is our human birth. And now did all the tyrannous crew depart, knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart greater than they could make, and scorned their smart. She bowed herself so low out of her tower that wonder twas she fell not ere her hour, with searching the lamenting waves for him. Like a poor snail, her gentle supple limb hung on her turret's top, so most downright as she would dive beneath the darkness quite to find her jewel. Jewel, a Leander, a name of all earth's jewels, pleased not her like his dear name. Leander, still my choice, come nought but my Leander. Oh, my voice turn to Leander, henceforth be all sounds, accents, and phrases that show all grief's wounds analysed in Leander. Oh, black change, trumpets do you with thunder of your clang drive out this change's horror. My voice faints, where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints. Thus cried she, for her mixed soul could tell her love was dead, and when the morning fell prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe, blushes that bled out of her cheeks did show Leander brought by Neptune, bruised and torn with city's ruins he to rocks had worn, to filthy usuring rocks that would have blood, though they could get of him no other good. She saw him, and the sight was much, much more than might have served to kill her. Should her stort of giant sorrows speak, burst, die, bleed, and leave poor planes to us that shall succeed. She fell on her love's bosom, hugged it fast, and with Leander's name she breathed her last. Neptune, for pity in his arms did take them, flung them into the air, and did awake them like two sweet birds, surnamed the Arcanthides, which we call thistle warps, that near no seas dare ever come, but still in couples fly, and feed on thistle tops, to testify the hardness of their first life in their last. The first in thorns of love that sorrows past, and so most beautiful their colours show as none, so little, like them. Her sad brow, a sable velvet feather covers quite, even like the forehead cloth that in the night, or when they sorrow, ladies use to wear. Their wings, blue, red, and yellow, mixed appear. Colours that, as we construe colours, paint their states to life. The yellow shows their saint, the dainty Venus, left them. Blue their truth, the red and black, ensigns of death and ruth, and this true honour from their love death sprung. They were the first that ever poet sung. End of section 15. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. End of Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman.