 | The Tragedy of Orestes |  |
Scen. II.
Enter Orestes, and Pylades.Orest.
If euer God lent any thing to earth,
Whereby it seem'd to sympathize with heauen,
It is this sacred friendship: Gordian knot
Which Kings, nor Gods, nor Fortune can vndoe.
O what Horoscopus, what constellation,
Held in our birth so great an influence,
Which one affection in two mindes vnites?
How hath my wo beene thine, my fatall ill
Hath still beene parted, and one share beene thine!
Pyl.
Why, dearest friend, suppose my case were thine,
And I had lost a father, wouldst not thou
In the like sort participate my griefe?
Orest.
Yes, witnesse heauen I would.
Pyl.
So, now thou hast lost a father,
Orest.
True, Pylades, thou putst me well in mind,
I haue lost a father, a deare, deare father,
A King, a braue old King, a noble souldier,
And yet he was murdered: O my forgetfull soule;
Why should not I now drawe my vengefull sword,
And strait-way sheath it in the murderers heart?
Minos should neuer haue vacation,
Whilst any of our progeny remain'd.
Well, I will goe, and so massacre him,
I'll teach him how to murder an old man,
A King, my Father, and so dastardly
To kill him in his bed.
Pyl.
Alas, Orestes!
Orest.
Why, he, or she, or they that kill'd my father.
Pyl.
I, who are they?
Orest.
Nay, I know not yet,
But I will know.
Pyl.
Stay thy vengefull thoughts,
And since thus long we haue estrang'd our selues
From friends and parents, lets thinke why it is,
And why we had it noysed in the Court,
We both were dead; the cause was thy reuenge,
That if by any secret priuate meanes,
We might but learne who 'twas, that drench'd their swords
In thy deare fathers blood, wee then would rouze
Blacke Nemesis in flames from out her caue,
And shee should be the vmpire in this cause.
Mans soule is like a boystrous working sea,
Swelling in billowes for disdaine of wrongs,
And tumbling vp and downe from day to day,
Growes greater still in indignation,
Turnes malecontent, in pleaselesse melancholly,
Spending her humours in dull passion, still
Locking her senses in vnclosed gins,
Till by reuenge shee sets at liberty.
Orest.
O, now my thirsty soule expects full draughts
Of Ate's boyling cup: O, how two'ld ease
My heart, to see a channell of his blood,
Streaming from hence to hell, that killd my father.
Pyl.
I, but deare friend, thou must not let rage loose,
And like a furious Lyon, from whose denne
The forrester hath stolne away his young,
Hee missing it, strait runnes with open iawes
On all he meets, and neuer hurting him
That did the wrong; wise men must mix reuenge
With reason, which by prouidence will prompt,
And tell vs where's the marke, whereat we ayme.
Till then in Cinders wee'll rake vp our griefe,
Fire thus kept, still liues, but opened dies,
From smallest sparks great flames may one day rise.
Orest.
True, friend, but, O, who euer will reueale
This hideous act! what power shall wee inuoke?
Pyl.
Yes, harken friend, I haue bethought a meanes;
Not distant farre from this place where we liue,
In a low valley where no Sun appeares,
No musique euer was there heard to sound;
But the harsh voyce of croking ominous rauens,
And sad Nyctimine the bird of night,
There's now a shed vnder whose ancient roofe,
There sometimes stood an Altar for the Gods,
But now slow creeping time, with windy blasts
Hath beaten downe that stately Temples walls,
Defac't his rich built windows, and vntil'd
His battlemented roofe, and made it now
A habitation, nor for God, nor men:
Yet an old woman, who doth seem to striue
With the vast building for antiquity,
In whose rough face time now hath made such holes,
As in those vncouth stones she there hath made
Her selfe a cell, where in to spend her age;
Her name's Canidia; great in Magique spells,
At whose dire voyce, the gods themselues would quake,
To heare her charme the second time pronounc't.
One that can know the secrets of Heauen,
And in the ayre hath flying ministers,
To bring her news from earth, from sea, from hell:
Which, when thick night hath compas't in the world,
Then doth she goe to dead mens graues and tombs,
And sucks the poysonous marrow from their bones,
Then makes her charme, which she nere spent in vaine,
Nor doth she come as suppliant to the Gods,
But making Erebus, and Heauen to quake,
She sends a spell drowning infernall thunder,
By which all secrets that were euer don,
In faire white parchment writ in lines of blood,
Lockt in the inmost roome of hell it selfe
Is brought vnto her: and by her we may
Haue leaue to looke in Pluto's register,
And read the names of those most loathed Furies,
Which rent thy Fathers soule from out his truncke,
But she must see thy Fathers dead bones first,
Them we must bring her, for by them she works:
This if thou dar'st assay, I'll goe along.
If I dare assay? yes, yes, deare friend,
Were it to burst my Fathers sepulchre,
And wake his Manes, shew them Radamanth,
Their iterated sight will burne my soule
With such a sparkling flame of dire reuenge,
As Nessus shirt did burn great Hercules,
If that the scrowle which did containe their names,
Were in a lake of flaming brimstone drencht,
I'd take it out, or fetch't from Pluto's armes:
But come; If earth haue such a creature as can tell,
Twill saue a iourney for this once from hell.
| The Tragedy of Orestes | |