University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

Enter a Messenger as in Haste.
Crist.
What wou'd'st thou, Fellow?

Mess.
O my sovereign Lord,
I am come fast and far, from Ev'n 'till Morn,
Five times I've cross'd the Shade of sleepless Night
Impatient of thy Presence.

Crist.
Whence?

Mess.
From Denmark.
Commended from the Consort of thy Throne
To Speed and Privacy.

Crist.
Your Words wou'd taste of Terror—Wretch, speak out,
Nor dare to tremble here—For didst thou bear
Thy Tidings from a thousand Leagues around,
Unmov'd, I move the Whole, the cent'ring Nave,
Where turns that mighty Circle—Speak thy Message.

Mess.
A secret Malady, my gracious Liege,
Some factious Vapour, risen from off the Skirts
Of Southmost Norway, has diffus'd its Bane,
And rages now within the Heart of Denmark.

Crist.
It must not, cannot, 'tis impossible!
What, my own Danes? Nay, then the World wants Weeding.
I will not bear it—Hell! I'd rather see,
This Earth a Desart, desolate and wild,
And like the Lion stalk my lonely Round,
Famish'd and roaring for my Prey—Call Trollio,
I'll have Men studied, deeply read in Mischiefs.