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THE GOLDEN AGE RESTORED.

IN A MASQUE AT COURT,

1615.

BY THE LORDS AND GENTLEMEN, THE

KING'S SERVANTS.

THE GOLDEN AGE RESTORED.] From the first folio. This Masque is written with great care: the conclusion of it is highly poetical. It must have been a splendid and interesting perform

ance.

THE GOLDEN AGE RESTORED.

The Court being seated, and in expectation,

Loud music: PALLAS in her chariot descending, to a softer music.

OOK, look! rejoice and wonder

That you, offending mortals, are
(For all your crimes) so much the

care

Of him that bears the thunder.

Jove can endure no longer,

Your great ones should your less invade; Or that your weak, though bad, be made A prey unto the stronger,

And therefore means to settle

Astræa in her seat again;

And let down in his golden chain

The Age of better metal.

Which deed he doth the rather,

That even Envy may behold Time not enjoy'd his head of gold Alone beneath his father.

But that his care conserveth,

As time, so all time's honours too,

Regarding still what heav'n should do, And not what earth deserveth.

[A tumult, and clashing of arms heard within.

But hark! what tumult from yond' cave is heard? What noise, what strife, what earthquake and alarms, As troubled Nature for her maker fear'd ;

And all the Iron Age were up in arms!

Hide me, soft cloud, from their profaner eyes,
Till insolent Rebellion take the field;
And as their spirits with their counsels rise,
I frustrate all with showing but my shield.

[She retires behind a cloud.

The IRON AGE presents itself, calling forth the Evils.

I. Age. Come forth, come forth, do we not hear What purpose, and how worth our fear,

The king of gods hath on us?

He is not of the Iron breed,

That would, though Fate did help the deed,
Let Shame in so upon us.

Rise, rise then up, thou grandame Vice
Of all my issue, Avarice,

Bring with thee Fraud and Slander,
Corruption with the golden hands,
Or any subtler Ill, that stands

To be a more commander.

Thy boys, Ambition, Pride, and Scorn,
Force, Rapine, and thy babe last born,
Smooth Treachery, call hither.
Arm Folly forth, and Ignorance,
And teach them all our Pyrrhic dance:
We may triumph together,

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