 | The Tragedy of Croesvs |  |
Scene 1.
Crœsus,Æsope, Solon.
What Prince hath been so favōur'd by the fates,
As could like me of full contentment boast?
Lov'd of mine own, and fear'd of forrain states,
My foes have faln, my friends were never crost;
For having that (which thousands seek, at will)
My happinesse in all things hath been such,
Heavens favorite, and fortunes Minion still,
I know not what to wish, I have so much;
Mine eyes no way did ever grieve my heart
With any object that their sight did draw;
My name applauded is in every part,
My word an Oracle, my will a law:
What brest can well confine this floud of joyes?
Whose swelling current doth o'reflow my minde,
VVhich never dream'd that which the soule annoyes,
But did in all a satisfaction finde;
I scorne vaine shadowes of conceited feares,
As one whose state is built on marble grounds:
In all my horoscope no cloud appeares,
My blisse abounds, my pleasures passe all bounds.
Æsope.
That Grecian (Sir) is at the Court arriv'd,
VVhose wisedome fame through all the world records.
Crœ.
And to extoll my state, have you not striv'd,
VVhil'st bent to sooth his eares with courteous words?
Æsope.
In all the parts where he hath chanc'd to be,
In forrain bounds, or where he first saw light,
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As since this Court enriched hath his sight;
VVhen regall shewes had ravish'd first his eye,
As mountains nurslings, little simple swaines,
VVho us'd with infant flouds them never spy
Sport, portative (like Serpents) through the Plaines,
When one of them first comes to view the vailes,
And wanton water-Nymphs there (wondring) sees,
The rarenesse of the sight so much prevailes,
That rillets rivers seeme, the rivers Seas:
So all the guards that garnisht Solons way,
Did to his minde a great amazement bring,
The gallants (golden statues) made him stay;
Each Groome a Prince, each Esquire seem'd a King,
And now he comes to gaine your long'd-for sight;
Whom in his minde no doubt he doth adore,
He gaz'd on those who held of you their light,
Sunne of this soile, he must admire you more;
Now he o're all will spread your praises forth,
A famous witnesse of your glorious raigne:
“The record of one wise man is more worth,
“Then what a world of others would maintaine.
Solon.
Great Prince, doe not the loving zeale reject,
VVhich a meane man, yet a good minde affords:
And who perchance doth more your good affect,
Then those who paint their love with fairer words.
Crœ.
Thy love (sage Grecian) gratefull is to us,
Whom fame long since acquainted with thy worth,
So that we long long'd for thy presence thus,
To spy the Spring which sent such treasures forth;
Would God that many such would here resort,
Whose vertues beames would shine in every brest,
VVhose count'nance grave, would grace so great a Court,
And like a Lampe give light unto the rest.
Solon.
Spare (courteous King) that undeserved praise,
I am but one who doe the world despise,
And would my thoughts to some perfection raise,
A wisedome-lover, willing to be wise:
Yet all that I have learn'd (huge toyles now past)
By long experience, and in famous Schooles,
Is but to know my ignorance at last;
“Who think themselves most wise, are greatest fooles.
Crœ.
“This is the nature of a noble minde,
“It rather would be good, then be so thought,
“As if it had no ayme, but fame to finde,
“Such as the shadow, not the substance sought:
Yet forc'd to give that which thou wilt not take:
The world, what thou hold'st down, doth raise more high,
That which thy face thus shunnes, shines on thy back:
“Praise followes them, who what they merit flye:
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Who better can instruct what I would learne,
Then thou to whom franke Nature largely gives
A minde to see, a judgement to discerne.
Solon.
To satisfie your suit, my dutious care
Shall it, or then my ignorance disclose.
Crœ.
Loe, you have seene my pomp, my treasures rare,
And all the strength on which my thoughts repose.
“Solon.
Those be but dreams of blisse which fortune brings,
“To breake (by bending) foolish mortalls mindes,
“I saw but sencelesse heapes of melting things;
“A waving wealth, expos'd to many windes:
“This but the body serving to decore,
“As foolish owners it, it th' owners spends,
“Where mindes more circumspect seek better store
“Of wealth from danger free that never ends.
Crœ.
I wot not what you meane, whil'st thus in love,
With fain'd Ideas of imagin'd blisse;
By fancies drawn, such portraits doe but move
Sicke braines to dreame, that which indeed they misse;
But more I have then their conceits can show,
Whose rich conjectures breed but poore effects,
And (I beseech you) did you ever know
A man more blest then I in all respects?
Solon.
I, Tellus knew, a man whom Athens lov'd,
Who to doe good, at no occasion fail'd,
And in my judgement hath most happy prov'd,
Since while he liv'd, belov'd, whil'st dead, bewail'd;
And last (that he might reape all fruits of blisse)
His Countries beaten bands, neere put to flight,
By him encourag'd, scorn'd to be submisse,
Who dy'd victorious in two Armies sight;
More glorious now then when he was alive,
As he in heaven, on earth his happy rest,
To trace his steps, who led by Vertue strive,
Heires of his worth, and honour'd by the best.
Crœ.
Since this first place a private person gaines,
Whose fortunes treasure in short time was told,
Now next in ranke, who registred remaines,
Whose happinesse you most accomplish'd hold?
Solon.
Of Cleobis, and Bitons vertuous way,
The prosp'rous course doth to my thoughts approch:
Their mother wanting on a solemne day,
The horses which were us'd to draw her Coach,
Them to supply the place, love kindely rais'd,
Who drew her to that place of publike mirth,
Whil'st both of them abundantly were prais'd,
They for their piety, she for her birth:
This charitable worke, when brought to end,
Both dy'd, whil'st offering incense to the Gods.
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From further danger of afflictions rods:
O happy mother! who (with true delight)
Of labours past such pleasant fruits enjoy'd,
And happy children! who did thus acquite
The mothers paine, and dyed whil'st well imploy'd.
“Ah, ah, our lives are fraile, doe what we can,
“And like the brittle glasse, breake whil'st they glance,
“Then oft the heavens to curbe the pride of man,
“Doe inter-sowre our sweets with some sad chance.
Crœ.
Is there no place appointed then for me?
Or is my state so abject in thine eyes,
That thou do'st thinke me blest in no degree,
As one, whose best in fortunes ballance lyes?
Or think'st thou me (of judgement too remisse)
A wretch expos'd to want, to scorne, or paines,
The bastard childe of fortune, barr'd from blisse,
VVhom heavens doe hate, and all the world disdaines?
Are those poore creatures then to be compar'd,
With one who may consume such in his wrath?
Who (as I please) doe punish or reward,
Whose words, nay ev'n whose lookes give life or death.
Solon.
Let not your judgement thus from reason shrinke,
To glose on that which simply comes from me;
“They who doe freely speake, no treason thinke,
“One cannot both your friend and flatterer be.
To us who Grecians are, the Gods doe grant
A moderate measure of an humble wit,
So that our Country yet did never want
Some whom the world for wise men did admit.
And yet amongst us all the greatest number
(Whil'st living) looke not for a perfect rest,
Though Fortunes minions in her bosome slumber,
And seeme to some, whom this world blindes, most blest:
Yet ov'r all mortall states, change so prevailes,
We alterations daily doe attend,
And hold this for a ground that never failes,
“None can be throughly blest before the end:
“I may compare our state to table-playes,
“Whil'st Iudges that are blinde, give onely light;
“Their many doubt the earnest minde dismayes,
“Which must have happy throwes, then use them right:
“So all our dayes in doubt, what things may chance,
“Time posts away, our breath seems it to chace,
“And when th'occasion comes us to advance,
“It of a thousand, one can scarce embrace.
When by a generous indignation mov'd,
Two fight with danger, for a doubtfull praise;
Whil'st valour blindely, but by chance is prov'd,
That ones disgrace, anothers fame must raise:
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To grace the one, with a not gain'd applause?
Where fortune is but to give sentence yet,
Whil'st bloudy agents plead a doubtfull cause:
“This world a field is, whereas each man fights,
“And arm'd with reason, resolutely goes
“To warre, (till death close up the bodies lights)
“Both with externall, and internall foes;
“And how can he the Victors title gaine,
“Who yet is busied with a doubtfull fight?
“Or he be happy who doth still remaine
In fortunes danger for a small delight?
“The wind-wing'd course of man, away fast weares,
“Course that consists of houres, houres of a day,
“Day that gives place to night, night full of feares:
“Thus every thing doth change, all things decay:
“Those who doe stand in peace, may fall in strife,
“And have their fame by infamy supprest:
“The evening crownes the day, the death the life;
“Many are fortunate, but few are blest.
Crœ.
I see this Grecians sprite but base appeares,
Which cannot comprehend heroicke things:
The world of him more then he merits heares,
At least he knowes not what belongs to Kings:
Yet fame his name so gloriously array'd,
That long I long'd to have him in my house;
But all my expectations are betray'd,
I thinke a Mountaine hath brought forth a Mouse.
| The Tragedy of Croesvs | |