 | The Tragedy of Orestes |  |
Scen. VI.
Enter Clytem. Ægyst. in night-robes.Clyt.
How now? what ayles our sonne, how now Orestes!
Orest.
O some are come now to helpe me greiue,
See, see mother, see, your husband and my Father,
The King of Greece, great shepheard of his Land
See, see him here: She faines her selfe to swown:
Æg. catcheth her falling.
Cly.
O helpe now good heauen to keepe my sexe
Let me dissemble.
Ægyst.
Help my Lords the Queen.
Clyt.
O why let you not my soule, that whilst he liu'd,
Was linkt to his, and would too now haue fled
With wing'd desire to haue beene with him,
What doe I liue for, Agamemnon slaine,
My Lord, my King, my Husband, wake my Lord,
What bloody Troian followed thee from thence
To kill thee here, could he not one night
Haue let me rested in thy sweet embraces?
Must he for surenesse make so many holes
For thy sweet soule to flye to be a God?
O let my teares be balme to these thy wounds,
Let my lips kisse, and warme thy gelid lips,
Let my haire wipe these clots of blood away
From thy age-honor'd side: O dry your teares,
Ioyne knees and prayers with mee, awake ye Gods,
And send our vows, since we can send no wounds:
They both kneel.
Come son, we women still know how to curse,
Let him that did it be an Adulterer;
Ægyst.
Faith she begins well, sure she knows the man:
Clytem.
Let him be conscious he hath done a deed
Deserues reuenge, whether it fall or no;
Let him for euer beare in minde this night,
And who 'twas helpt him in this bloody act.
Ægyst.
Yes, hee'll remember how you curse him now.
Orest.
If euer he haue children let them be
Murdered before his face, that he may know
Ægyst.
Now hands I thanke you, now my soule: grows glad,
Had not he greiu'd thus, I had lost reuenge.
Clyt.
But come my sonne, now let vs talke of graues,
Of Epitaphs, and tombs, and's soule being fled,
Draw the curtaine, and carrie him away
Let's lap his Trunke vp in a sheet of lead.
Exeunt Clyt. & Ægyst. manet Orest.
Orest.
Me thinks I see a Tragedy at hand,
To which this night hath as a Prologue bin;
I'll make a prayer now worthy Atreus grandchilde,
Let the foule Adder sting me as I walke,
The poysonous toad belch her blacke venom forth
In my despised face, let it be thought
I neuer had a father, but some monster
Bred by a slimy exhalation;
If my reuenge fly not with ample wing,
Till then rest soule, hate told may lose his sting.
| The Tragedy of Orestes | |