 | The tragedy of Mvstapha |  |
Scena III.
Rossa. Rosten.Rossa.
O werisome obedience, I despise thee;
Must I'm vaine be Mustaphas accuser?
Sands shalbe numbred first, Time shalbe constant,
The Sea shall yeeld his channell to the fire,
The Earth shall beare the Heauen within his Center,
Eternitie shall die, Nature be Idle.
E're my delights or will shall stand in awe
Of God or Nature, common peoples lawe.
Roste.
Rossa, what meaneth this vnquiet motion?
Gouerne your thoughts: what want you to content you
That haue the King of Kings at your deuotion?
Rossa.
Content? poore wit and poore promotion,
The helme of princes greatnesse is their will,
That for my feare of Prince, and Princes ill,
Am brought in question both of state and fame,
Must loose my will, and cannot loose my shame?
What night? what cloudes? what shades of soules condemned?
What darknes in the gulph of darkenes?
So darke are fathers thoughts, with kindnes blinded.
What lightnings flash from cloudes with child with fire?
As thoughts possest alike with feare and kindnes:
Mustapha long since condemn'd to die,
Now liues againe.
To boast of mariage, what true ground haue I?
The streames are choakt of Solymans affection,
Where Fortune did of old, make her election.
Rosten.
Thinke not too much, for thoughts that be offended
Are seldome with their present counsailes mended.
Rossa.
From Heauen to earth I will leaue nothing
Vnthought, vnsought for, or not vndertaken:
Vertue, nor vice shall in themselues haue nothing;
Auernus bottoms shall not be forsaken,
Rather then my Lords loue shall growe to nothing:
Vertue is cold, not fit to be beloued,
That with the losse of Fortune is not moued.
Rosten.
Vertue leades not herselfe for hope or feare,
Vnquiet rage doth misaduenture fashion
Nothing at all, it weakenesse is to beare;
Passion shall multiply more cause of passion:
Rossa, take heed, Honour is very brittle,
And broken once, neuer to be repaired,
And honour lost, mankind hath lost his fashion;
Honour and shame are slaues to them that prosper.
Ross.
One signe that humaine worth with power is raised,
Is, that Kings do to make their doings praised.
Rosten.
Who forceth man, is fear'd, but not beloued,
Praises of feare are tyranous dispraises.
Rossa.
Praises for feare do shew that we are great,
Who seeke for loue, and may commaund a feare,
Are sitter to clime vp, then tarry there.
And with my Lord, his ruine vndertaken,
Now liue in this life, to behold my fall:
Our credit with our Soueraigne is our honor,
And ere thou suffer that to haue despight,
Thinke Innocencie harme, vertue dishonour:
Wound truth, and ouerthrow the state of right.
Sexes haue vertues apart, States haue there fashions
The vertues of authority are passions,
But stay; looke where our messenger returneth.
| The tragedy of Mvstapha | |