_Alvi._ Go, damosel, fetch me that sweet wine That stands within my closet on the shelf; Pour it into a standing-bowl of gold, But, on thy life, taste not before the king: Make haste. [_Exit_ Female Attendant. Why is great Rasni melancholy thus? If promise be not kept, hate all for me. [_Wine brought in by_ Female Attendant. Here is the wine, my lord: first make him swear.
_K. of Paph._ By Nineveh's great gods, and Nineveh's great king, My thoughts shall never be to wrong my wife! And thereon here's a full carouse to her. [_Drinks._
_Alvi._ And thereon, Rasni, here's a kiss for thee; Now may'st thou freely fold thine Alvida.
_K. of Paph._ O, I am dead! obstruction's of my breath! The poison is of wondrous sharp effect. Cursèd be all adulterous queans, say I! And cursing so, poor Paphlagon doth die. [_Dies._
_Alvi._ Now, have I not salv'd the sorrows of my lord? Have I not rid a rival of thy loves? What say'st thou, Rasni, to thy paramour?
_Rasni._ That for this deed I'll deck my Alvida In sendal and in costly sussapine,[86] Border'd with pearl and India diamond. I'll cause great Æol perfume all his winds With richest myrrh and curious ambergris. Come, lovely minion, paragon for fair, Come, follow me, sweet goddess of mine eye, And taste the pleasures Rasni will provide. [_Exeunt._
_Oseas._ Where whoredom reigns, there murder follows fast, As falling leaves before the winter blast. A wicked life, train'd up in endless crime, Hath no regard unto the latter time, When lechers shall be punish'd for their lust, When princes plagu'd because they are unjust. Foresee in time, the warning bell doth toll; Subdue the flesh, by prayer to save the soul: London, behold the cause of others' wrack, And see the sword of justice at thy back: Defer not off, to-morrow is too late; By night he comes perhaps to judge thy state.
_Jonas._ From forth the depth of my imprison'd soul Steal you, my sighs, [to] testify my pain; Convey on wings of mine immortal tone, My zealous prayers unto the starry throne. Ah, merciful and just, thou dreadful God! Where is thine arm to lay revengeful strokes Upon the heads of our rebellious race? Lo, Israel, once that flourish'd like the vine, Is barren laid; the beautiful increase Is wholly blent, and irreligious zeal Encampeth there where virtue was enthron'd: Alas, the while the widow wants relief, The fatherless is wrong'd by naked need, Devotion sleeps in cinders of contempt, Hypocrisy infects the holy priest! Ah me, for this! woe me, for these misdeeds! Alone I walk to think upon the world, And sigh to see thy prophets so contemn'd, Alas, contemn'd by cursèd Israel! Yet, Jonas, rest content, 'tis Israel's sin That causeth this; then muse no more thereon, But pray amends, and mend thy own amiss.