 | The tragedy of Mvstapha |  |
Scena quarta.
Enter Rossa and Solyman.Rossa.
What am I not my owne, who then dare let me
From doing with my selfe what my selfe listeth?
Nature hath lied: she saith, life vnto many
Come death, art thou afraid of me, that beare
All wickednes, by which you caused were.
Soliman stand from me, I am not thy Rossa:
But one that death, the diuell and hell do flie,
Yet vnto death, the diuel, and hell do hie.
Soly.
What fury is the God of this strange spirit?
Rossa, how art thou lost, or how transformd?
Leaue it to me, or take or leaue thy breath,
And shew thy fault, thy fault shall giue thee death.
Rossa.
That were to loose the benefit of death.
Solym.
Then liue.
Ross.
That is the cruelty of death.
Soly.
Then tell and die.
Ross.
Nay tell and liue, a worthy death
To her that so had lost the good of death.
Solym.
What should be councell to the mariage bed,
Rossa.
All things, vnworthy of the mariage bed.
Solym.
Yet tell me for my loue, I long to know.
Rassa.
For loue, I keep what loue would feare to know.
Soly.
Ignorance is dangerous and euer feares.
Ross.
Ignorance is dangerous and cannot feare.
Soly.
Yet tell me, I am Prince, I do command,
Ross.
Kings long to heare, and hate what they haue herad
Good sir, let it be lawfull to say nothing.
And lesse of kings men can desire nothing.
Soly.
Then liue, and let this multiplie thy anguish,
That all diseases of my mind and state,
Iniuries of loue, contempts and wounds of fauours,
Treachery, aspiring, death, suspitious ruine,
Consulted are by thee to make me languish,
Thou guidest me and my fortune vnto errror.
Rossa.
O Soliman, of grace let me say nothing:
For if I speake, thy neuer failing iustice,
Must force thee to take vengeance of offences.
In odious facts, the solemne forme of death,
For mankind when it sees man loose his breath,
Their harts not vnto truth but pittie, fashion.
And death well borne shall make a wicked spirit
Stir pitty vp to make the law seeme might,
Let these vilde hands, to this vilde hart be cruell,
Selfe death, which gods abhorre, is fit for treason,
Mercie, by ill successe, seemes lacke of reason.
Solim.
Yet speake, for one of mischiefes plagues is shame.
Rossa.
You Gods, that gouern these star-bearing heauens,
Whose onely motion rules the mouing Seas.
And thou still changing glory of the darknes,
Whose growing hornes and ensignes, of his Empire.
Beare witnes with me, neither truth nor kindnesse,
Shame, nor remorce, desire to doe things honest,
Delight of others good, nor feate of mischiefe,
Duty to God or man, but onely glorie,
The badge which Euill giues, doth tel this storie.
Your daughter, in whom you and I had blisse.
By these imbrued fingers murthered is:
Solim.
What fault would not a mothers loue forgiue,
Rossa The fault she made was that she let me liue,
For knowing she conspird her fathers death,
By whom I hold my honor, she her breath,
How could she thinke I could her crime forgiue?
Sol.
What cause had she to thinke so vile a thought?
Or by whom could she thinke to haue it wrought?
Rossa.
Mischiefe it selfe, is cause of mischiefe done.
Whome should she feare to winne, when she had woon
Vnto this mischiefe Mustapha thy sonne.
Solim.
Did she confesse, or who did her accuse,
Ro.
This Guidon with her own hand, wrought and sent,
Beares perfect record what was her intent.
Solim.
Expound what was the meaning of this work
Vnder whose art, the acts of mischiefe lurke,
Rossa.
The clouds, they be the house of iealousie,
Where good shewes lesse, ills greater then they bee,
There Saturne feeds on children that be his.
A fatall winding sheete, succession is.
This pleasing horrour of our turnd delight
Doth figure forth the Tyrannie of feare,
Where truth lies bound, and nature looseth right,
Poore innocencie, vainely spending breath
To plead, where nothing is of trust but death
Malice heere aged lies in doublenesse,
Blowing out rumour from her narrow breast,
To spread abroad with infinite successe,
The visions and opinions of vnrest:
Eating the hearts wherein they harboured bee,
Like wormes in wood, whose holes men onely see.
These precious hills where daintinesse seemes wast,
By natures art, that all art will exceede,
In carelesse finenesse, shews the sweet estate,
Of strength and prudence both togither plac't,
Two intercessors reconciling hate,
And giuing feare euer of itselfe a taste,
These waues that beat vpon the cliftes doe shew,
The cruell stormes, which Enuie hath below,
This border round about in Charact hath
The minde of all: which in effect is this;
Tis hard to know, but hard and harder too,
When men doe know, to bring their hearts to doe.
Soly.
What said she, when you shewed her this worke?
Ro.
Like them which are descryed, & faine would lurke:
So while she would haue made her selfe seeme cleere,
She made her faults still more and more appeere.
Soly.
How brookt she that, the wicked onely feare?
Her death I meane, with what heart did she beare?
The wicked hearts are plac't farre from their voice.
Ro.
As whē they mourne, you would think they reioice.
But this vnto me, ere she died, she said.
Mother, I am your owne, by mothers right
You may cut of my life, which you did giue,
Might and a mothers name, will you acquire,
If in your owne selfe, you your selfe forgiue:
But Mustapha, his death will be his shame
To father, mother, and the Turkish race:
For reuerence vnto a fathers name,
Hath brought him, guiltlesse, to this guiltie case.
He neuer sought, nor wisht his fathers death,
And in that minde I liu'd, and leaue my breath.
She neither stubborne was, nor yet deprest,
She, but for his life, neuer made request:
As though his wounds, had onely beene her owne.
Such Lordship had false glorie in her breast,
As she tooke ioy to haue her mischiefe knowne.
Yet had she this against myne owne selfe done,
My selfe against my selfe she should haue wonne,
Solyman take heede, dispaire hath bloody heeles:
Malice, wound vp like clocks to watch the Sunne,
Hasting a headlong course with many wheeles,
Hath neuer done, vntill it hath vndone.
I slew my child, my child would haue slaine thee,
All bloody faults, in my blood written bee.
Sol.
What hills hath nature rais'd aboue the sier?
What state beyond them is, that will conspire?
I sweare by all the Saints, my sonne shall die,
Reuenge is iustice and no crueltie.
| The tragedy of Mvstapha | |