_Por._ Well then, away about your geere. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Prologue._ Wee are noe vagabones, wee ar no arrant Rogues that doe runne with plaies about the country. Our play is good, & I dare farther warrant [F. 79v rev.] It will make you more sport then catt in plum tree. Wee are no saucye common playenge skipiackes, But towne borne lads, the kings owne lovely subiects. This is the night, night latest of the twelve, [130] Now give vs leave for to bee blith & frolicke, To morrow wee must fall to digg & delve; Weele bee but short, long sittinge breeds the collicke. Then wee beginne, & lett none hope to hisse vs, The play wee play is Ovid's owne Narcissus. CEPHISUS, LYRIOPE, NARCISSUS. [_Cep._] Open thine eares, my sonne, open I bidd To heare the sound saw which the sage shall reed, I meane the sage Tyresias, my ducke, Which shall lay ope to thee thy lott, thy lucke. Thy father I, Cephisus, that brave river [140] Who is all water, doe like water shiver. As any man of iudgment may descrye By face, hands washt, & bowle, thy father I. _Lyr._ And I thy mother nimphe, as may bee seene By coulours that I weare, blew, white, & greene; For nimphes ar of the sea, & sea is right Of colour truly greene & blew & white; Would you knowe how, I pray? Billowes are blew, Water is greene, & foome is white of hue. _Cep._ Wee both bidd the, Narcisse, our dearest child, [150] With count'nance sober, modest lookes & milde, To prophett's wisest woords with tention harken; [F. 79r rev.] But Sunne is gonne & welkin gins to darken, Vulcan the weary horses is a shooinge, While Phebus with queene Thetis is a doinge: Prophett comes not, letts goe both all & some, Wee may goe home like fooles as wee did come. _Lyr._ O stay deare husband, flowe not away bright water, The prophett will come by sooner or later. _Cep._ Why stand wee heere, as it were cappes a thrumming, [160] To look for prophett? Prophett is not comminge. _Nar._ Sweete running river which Cephisus hight, Whose water is so cleare, whose waves so bright, Gold is thy sand and christall is thy current, Thy brooke so cleare that no vile wind dare stirre in't; Thou art my father, & thou, sweetest nimphe, Thou art my mother, I thy sonne, thy shrimpe. Agree you in one point, to goe or tarrye, Narcissus must obey, aye, must hee, marye. _Cep._ Gush, water, gush! runne, river, from thy channell! [170] Thou hast a sonne more lovinge then a spanniell; With watry eyes I see how tis expedient To have a sonne so wise & so obedient. Most beauteous sonne, yet not indeede so beautifull As thou art mannerly & dutifull! _Lyr._ See, husband, see, O see where prophett blind In twice good time is comming heere behind.