;
And she shall file our engines with advice,
That will not suffer you to square yourselves,
But to your wishes' height advance you both.
The emperor's court is like the house of Fame,
The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears:
The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull;
There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take
your turns;
There serve your lusts, shadow'd from heaven's eye,
And revel in Lavinia's treasury.
Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice,
Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream
To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits.
Per Styga, per manes vehor.
The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,
The fields are fragrant and the woods are green:
Uncouple here and let us make a bay
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride
And rouse the prince and ring a hunter's peal,
That all the court may echo with the noise.
Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours,
To attend the emperor's person carefully:
I have been troubled in my sleep this night,
But dawning day new comfort hath inspired.
Many good morrows to your majesty;
Madam, to you as many and as good:
I promised your grace a hunter's peal.
And you have rung it lustily, my lord;
Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.
Lavinia, how say you?
I say, no;
I have been broad awake two hours and more.
Come on, then; horse and chariots let us have,
And to our sport.
Madam, now shall ye see
Our Roman hunting.
I have dogs, my lord,
Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase,
And climb the highest promontory top.
And I have horse will follow where the game
Makes way, and run like swallows o'er the plain.
Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound,
But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground.
He that had wit would think that I had none,
To bury so much gold under a tree,
And never after to inherit it.
Let him that thinks of me so abjectly
Know that this gold must coin a stratagem,
Which, cunningly effected, will beget
A very excellent piece of villany:
And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest
That have their alms out of the empress' chest.
My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad,
When every thing doth make a gleeful boast?
The birds chant melody on every bush,
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind
And make a chequer'd shadow on