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  • Title: The Whore of Babylon (Quarto, 1607)
  • Editors: Frances E. Dolan, Anna Pruitt

  • Copyright Digital Renaissance Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: Thomas Dekker
    Editors: Frances E. Dolan, Anna Pruitt
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Whore of Babylon (Quarto, 1607)

    The Whore of Babylon.
    410Trophies of reuerend Age, fall by our stroaks,
    Nor shall the brier, or hawthorne (growing vnder)
    Feare them, but flie to them, to get from thunder,
    And to be safe from forraine wild-fire balles,
    Weele build about our waters wooden walles.
    415 Omn. On which weele spend for you our late st liues. Enter Parthen.
    Titan. Fairies I thank you all, stay who comes here?
    Flor. Parthenophill, a Fairie Peere.
    Titan. Parthenophill.
    Parth. Bright Empre s s e, Queene of maides
    420To vs your Lords, amid st your Fairie shades:
    Three Princes (so themselues they style) are come,
    From whence, they'l vs not learne, and doe intreat
    Faire, and a free acce s s e.
    Titan. What is their bu sine s s e?
    425 Parth. The splendor of your glories, which a farre
    Shines (as they say, and iu stly say) as brightly
    As here at hand, hither them drawes, prote sting
    All faith and seruice to you, and reque sting
    That they the tribute of their loues may pay,
    430At your mo st sacred feet.
    Titan. Allow them entrance.
    Parth. They in a Fairie maske, the argument
    Of this their dutie, gladly would present.
    Titan. As be st them please.
    435 The Hault-boyes sounding , Titania in dumbe shew sends her Lords to
    fetch them in, who enter bare headed the three Kings queintly attired
    like Masquers following them, who doing honour to her in-
    treat to dance with her maides, and doe so: This done they discouer.
    Titan. Your painted cheeks beeing off, your owne discouers,
    440You are no Fairies.
    All three. No: but wounded louers.
    Titan. How! louers! what! would you deflower my bed,
    And strike off a poore maiden-head?
    We know you not: what are you? and from whence?
    445 3. King. The (a) land of whom the sunne so enamor'd is,
    He lends them his complexion, giues me birth,
    (a) Spaine
    The Indian and his gold are both my slaues,
    Vpon
    C