 | The Tragedy of Croesvs |  |
Scene 1.
Adrastus,Croesus, Chorus.
Can Heaven behold one stand to staine these times,
Yet to the Stygian streames not headlong hurld?
And can th'arth beare one burden'd with such crimes,
As may provoke the wrath of all the world?
Why sends not Iove, to have my course confin'd,
A death-denouncing flash of rumbling Thunder?
Else (roaring terrour) clouds of circling winde,
By violence to teare me all a sunder?
What corner yet unknowne from men remoov'd,
Both burn'd with rage, and freezing in despayre,
Shall I goe now possesse, to be approv'd,
Where none but monsters like my selfe repaire?
I'le goe indeede whom all the world detests,
Who have no intrest in the fields of blisse,
And barbarize amongst the brutish beasts,
Where Tigers rage, Toades spue, and Serpents hisse:
But though in some vast Zone, I finde a field,
Where melancholy might a monarch be,
Whilst silent deserts not one person yeeld
To shrinke for horrour, when beholding me;
Yet of my deeds which all the world doe tell,
This cannot raze the still proclaimed Scroule,
Since in my brest I beare about my hell,
And cannot scape the terrours of my soule.
Those fearfull Monsters of confus'd aspects,
Chimæra, Gorgon, Hydra, Pluto's Apes,
Which in the world wrought wonderfull effects,
And borrow'd from th'infernall shades their shapes,
Their devillish formes which did the world amaze,
Not halfe so monstrous as my selfe I finde,
When on mine owne deformities I gaze,
Amid'st blacke depths of a polluted minde;
No, but my minde untainted still remaines,
My thoughts in this delict have had no part,
Which but by accident this foule fact staines,
My hands had no commission from my heart;
Yet, whether it was fortune, or my fate,
Or some Hel-hag, that did direct my arme,
The Lydians plague, I have undone this State,
And am the instrument of all their harme:
Then mountaines fall, and bruise me by your rounds,
Your heights may hide me from the wrath of Heaven;
But this not needes, since mee my fault confounds:
With my offence no torment can be eaven.
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To flie the count'nance of an angry King?
I know the venging sword of Crœsus voice,
To wound my soule, hostes of rebukes doth bring;
The patterne of distresse, I'le stand alone,
A memorable monster of mishap;
For, though Pandora's plagues were all in one,
All were too few, so vile a wretch to trap.
Cho.
O how the king is mov'd at Atis death!
His face the portrait of a passion beares,
With bended eyes, crost armes, and quivering breath,
His Princely robe he desperately teares;
Loe, with a silent pittie-pleading looke,
Which shewes with sorrow mixt a high disdaine,
He (whilst his soule seemes to dissolve in smoke)
Straies twixt the corpes, and him who hath it slaine.
Crœ.
Thou ruthlesse tyrant ruine of my blisse,
And didst thou so disguise thy devillish nature,
To recompence my curtesies with this?
Ah cruell wretch, abominable creature!
Thy Tigrish mind what wit could well detect,
In mortall brests so great barbarity?
What froward Sprite could but such spight suspect,
In hospitality hostility?
Did I revive thee when thy hopes were dead,
When as thy life thy parents had not spar'd?
And having heap'd such favours on thy head,
Is this? Is this?
Chor.
He would say the reward.
Adrast.
I grant what you alledge and more is true;
I have unto the height of hatred runne:
A blood-stain'd wretch, who merit not to view
The rolling Circles, nor the Rayie Sunne;
No kind of art I purpose now to use,
To colour this my crime, which might seeme lesse,
Whilst painted with a pitifull excuse:
No, it is worse then words can well expresse;
Nor goe I thus to aggravate my crime,
And damne my selfe to be absolv'd by others,
No, no, such Rhetoricke comes out of time.
I'le not survive his death, as earst my brothers.
O! had that high disaster kill'd me straight,
(As then indeed I di'd from all delight)
I had not groan'd, charg'd with this inward weight,
But slept with shadowes in eternall night:
Yet must I die, at last (though late) growne wise,
This in my mind most discontentment breedes,
A thousand torturing deaths cannot suffice,
To plague condignely for so haynous deeds.
If that revenge th'Elysian Guests delights,
The tombe of Atis shall exhaust my blood:
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Then one in whom they raign'd, while as he stood:
The furies oft in me infus'd their Rage,
And in my bosome did their Serpents place,
Whose indignation labouring to asswage,
Huge hellish horrours spoil'd my thoughts of peace.
Crœ.
I find (poore wretch!) when I have search'd, and seene
The fatall meanes which did inflict this wound,
That not thy malice, but my fault hath beene,
Of that which grieves us both the reall ground.
“Whilst barely with a superficiall wit,
“Wee weigh the out-side of such strange events,
“If but the mediate meanes our judgements hit,
“We seeke not the first cause, that much contents:
“But when prodigious accidents fall out,
“Though they amaze our mindes, and so they must,
“The cause of all comes from our selfe no doubt:
“Ah! man hath err'd; the Heavens are always Iust:
In judgement now whilst entring with my soule,
(Those partiall thoughts which flatterd me declin'd)
Loe, marking of past wrongs the burd'nous scroule,
Free from false colours, which did mocke my minde:
O! then I see how heaven in plagues exceedes,
Whilst vengeance due save ruine nought can end;
Thus once the Gods must ballance worldlings deedes,
Both what we did, and what we did intend?
Sonne, Sonne, my faults procured have thy fall,
For, guilty of thy blood, I gave the wound
Which gave thee death, and whose remembrance shall
My life each day with many deaths confound.
Of Iove injust the Statutes I contemne,
And if I were confronted with the Gods,
Their providence (as partiall) would condemne,
Who in such sorte doe exercise their rods.
He thus now kill'd, with life to let me goe,
May breed reproch to all the pow'rs divine:
But ah! they knew no death could grieve me soe,
As that, which through his heart was aim'd at mine;
Now all the world those deities may despise,
Which strike the guiltlesse, and the guilty spare;
Cease haplesse man to plague thy selfe thus wise,
I pardon thee, and pittie thy despaire.
Adrast.
O rigorous judgement! O outragious fate!
Must I suruive the funeralls of my fame:
All things which I behold, vpbraide my state,
Too many monuments of one mans shame;
All (and none more then I) my deeds detest,
Yet some waile want of friends, and I of foes,
To purge the world of such a dangerous pest,
(Which still contagious) must taint hearts with woes;
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Seiz'd with just feare none dare a hand forth stretch,
Else this base charge (as odious) doe disdaine,
To deale with Death in favour of a wretch;
Or must I yet (till more detested) stand,
And fill the world with horrour of my name?
What further mischiefe can require my hand?
Must it ingrave on others graves my shame?
Or would some bastard thought lifes cause debate,
Which in the blasted field of comfort gleanes?
No, no, in spite of Heaven I'le force my fate,
“One, when resolv'd to die, cannot want meanes:
Proud Tyrant Death, and must thou make it strange,
To wrap my wearied soule in further strife?
Vnlesse my courage with my fortune change,
(Though nothing else) I can command my life;
But this (ay me!) all hope of helpe devowres;
What gaines my soule by death in those sad times;
If potent still in all her wonted pow'rs,
Shee must remember of my odious crimes?
What though un-bodied she the world forsake,
Yet from her knowledge cannot be divorc'd?
This will but vexe her at the shadowie lake,
Till even to grone the God of Ghosts be forc'd,
But welcome death, and would the Gods I had
Lesse famous, or more fortunately liv'd;
Then knowne if good, and kept obscure if bad;
Of comfort quite I had not beene depriv'd;
Ah! have I liv'd to see my Lady die?
And die for me, whose faith shee never prov'd?
Ah! have I liv'd (unnaturall I) to be
My brothers murtherer, who me dearely lov'd?
Ah! have I liv'd with my owne hands to kill
A gallant Prince committed to my charge?
And doe I gaze on the dead bodie still,
And in his fathers sight my shame enlarge?
Ah! have I liv'd whilst men my deeds doe scan,
To be the obiect of contempt and hate?
Of all abhorr'd as a most monstrous man,
Since thought a Traitouror (farre worse) ingrate?
Yet with my blood I'le wash away this staine,
Which griefe to you, to me disgrace hath brought,
Would God my name from mindes night raz'd remaine,
To make my life as an unacted thought;
Brave Atis now I come to pleade for grace,
Although thou frown'st on my affrighted Ghost,
And to revenge thy wrong this wound embrace;
Thus, thus, I toile to gaine the Stygian coast.
Cho.
Loe, how he wounds himselfe despising paine,
With leaden lights, weake legs, and head declin'd,
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That of her members one hath prov'd unkind;
The fainting hand falles trembling from the Sword,
With this selfe slaughtering blow for shame grown red,
Which straight the blood pursues, with vengeance stor'd,
To drowne the same with the same floods it shed;
Who of those parties can the combat show,
Where both but one, one both strooke and sustain'd?
Or who triumphs for this most strange o'rethrow,
Where as the victor lost, the vanquish'd gain'd?
Crœ.
Curs'd eyes, what suddaine change hath drown'd your lights,
And made your mirthfull objects mournefull now?
Ye that were still inur'd to stately sights,
Since seated under an imperiall brow,
Ah! clouded now with vapours drawn from cares,
Are low throwne down amid'st a hell of griefe,
And have no prospect, but my soules despaires,
Of all the furies which afflict me, chiefe.
O dead Adrastus, I absolve thy Ghost,
Whose hand (I see) some destiny did charme,
Thou (hated by the heavens) wast to thy cost
A casuall actour, not intending harme,
No doubt some angry God hath laid this snare,
And whilst thy purpose was the Boare to kill,
Did intercept thy shaft amidst the Aire,
And threw it at my Sonne, against thy will,
Ah! Sonne, must I be witnesse of thy death,
Who view thee thus by violence to bleede,
And yet want one on whom to poure my wrath,
To take just vengeance for so vile a deede?
This wretch, whose guiltlesse minde hath clear'd his hand,
Loe, for his errour griev'd, unforc'd doth fall,
And not as one who did in danger stand:
For still he liv'd till I forgave him all.
Thus have I but the heavens on whom I may
Blast forth the tempest of a troubled minde;
And in my soules distresse I grieve to say,
That greater favour I deserv'd to finde.
| The Tragedy of Croesvs | |