A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. VIII (4th edition) | Page 9

in grace and virtue to proceed, but let us have no more of
these grave matters.
SUM. Vertumnus, will Sol come before us?
VER. Sol, Sol; _ut, re, mi, fa, sol_![42] Come to church, while the bell
toll.
Enter SOLSTITIUM _very richly attired, with a noise of musicians
before him_.
SUM. Ay, marry, here comes majesty in pomp, Resplendent Sol, chief
planet of the heavens! He is our servant, looks he ne'er so big.
SOL. My liege, what crav'st thou at thy vassal's hands?
SUM. Hypocrisy, how it can change his shape! How base is pride from
his own dunghill put! How I have rais'd thee, Sol. I list not tell, Out of
the ocean of adversity, To sit in height of honour's glorious heaven, To
be the eyesore[43] of aspiring eyes: To give the day her life from thy
bright looks, And let nought thrive upon the face of earth, From which
thou shalt withdraw thy powerful smiles. What hast thou done,
deserving such high grace? What industry or meritorious toil Canst
thou produce to prove my gift well-placed? Some service or some
profit I expect: None is promoted but for some respect.

SOL. My lord, what need these terms betwixt us two? Upbraiding
ill-beseems your bounteous mind: I do you honour for advancing me.
Why, 'tis a credit for your excellence To have so great a subject as I am:
This is your glory and magnificence, That, without stooping of your
mightiness, Or taking any whit from your high state, You can make one
as mighty as yourself.
AUT. O arrogance exceeding all belief! Summer, my lord, this saucy
upstart Jack, That now doth rule the chariot of the sun, And makes all
stars derive their light from him, Is a most base, insinuating slave, The
sum[44] of parsimony and disdain; One that will shine on friends and
foes alike, That under brightest smiles hideth black show'rs Whose
envious breath doth dry up springs and lake And burns the grass, that
beasts can get no food.
WIN. No dunghill hath so vile an excrement, But with his beams he
will thenceforth exhale. The fens and quagmires tithe to him their filth:
Forth purest mines he sucks a gainful dross. Green ivy-bushes at the
vintner's doors He withers, and devoureth all their sap.
AUT. Lascivious and intemperate he is: The wrong of Daphne is a
well-known tale. Each evening he descends to Thetis' lap, The while
men think he bathes him in the sea. O, but when he returneth whence
he came Down to the west, then dawns his deity, Then doubled is the
swelling of his looks. He overloads his car with orient gems, And reins
his fiery horses with rich pearl. He terms himself the god of poetry,
And setteth wanton songs unto the lute.
WIN. Let him not talk, for he hath words at will, And wit to make the
baldest[45] matter good.
SUM. Bad words, bad wit! O, where dwells faith or truth? Ill usury my
favours reap from thee, Usurping Sol, the hate of heaven and earth.
SOL. If envy unconfuted may accuse, Then innocence must
uncondemned die. The name of martyrdom offence hath gain'd When
fury stopp'd a froward judge's ears. Much I'll not say (much speech
much folly shows): What I have done you gave me leave to do. The

excrements you bred whereon I feed; To rid the earth of their
contagious fumes, With such gross carriage did I load my beam I burnt
no grass, I dried no springs and lakes; I suck'd no mines, I wither'd no
green boughs, But when to ripen harvest I was forc'd To make my rays
more fervent than I wont. For Daphne's wrongs and 'scapes in Thetis'
lap, All gods are subject to the like mishap. Stars daily fall ('tis use is
all in all), And men account the fall but nature's course. Vaunting my
jewels hasting to the west, Or rising early from the grey-ey'd morn,
What do I vaunt but your large bountyhood, And show how liberal a
lord I serve? Music and poetry, my two last crimes, Are those two
exercises of delight, Wherewith long labours I do weary out. The dying
swan is not forbid to sing: The waves of Hebrus[46] play'd on Orpheus'
strings, When he (sweet music's trophy) was destroy'd. And as for
poetry, words'[47] eloquence (Dead Phaeton's three sisters' funeral tears
That by the gods were to Electrum turn'd), Not flint or rock, of icy
cinders flam'd, Deny the force[48] of silver-falling streams. Envy
enjoyeth poetry's unrest;[49] In vain I plead; well is to me a fault, And
these my words seem the sleight[50] web of art, And not to have the
taste of sounder truth. Let none but fools be car'd for of the wise:
Knowledge' own