University of Virginia Library

Scene 2.

Nuntius.
Chorus.
Ah! to what part shall I my steps addresse,
Of bondage base the burden to eschue?
Loe, desolation, ruine, and distresse
With horrour do my native home pursue;
And now poore Countrey, take my last farewell,
Farewell all joy, all comfort, all delight.

Cho.
What heavy tydings hast thou now to tell,
Who tear'st thy garments thus? what forc'd thy flight?

Nunt.
I tell the wracke of us, and all who live
Within the circuit of this wretched foile.

Cho.
A hideous shout we heard the Citie give,
Have foes prevail'd, do they her beauty spoile?

Nunt.
They may it spoile.

Cho.
And is our Soveraigne slaine?

Nunt.
No, but scarce scap't doth live in danger still.

Chor.
Then let our mindes no more in doubt remaine,
And must we yeeld to that proud Strangers will?

Nunt.
You know how Crœsus at advantage lay,
Still seeking meanes to curbe the Persians pride,
And how th'Assyrians had assign'd a day
When led by him, they battell would abide;
But Cyrus having heard how that they would
Against his State so great an armie bring,
Straight raising forces, providently bold,
Prevents, invades, o're-comes, and takes our King.

“Cho.
This shews a Captaine both expert and brave,
“Who wisely doth advise, performe with speed,
No circumstance (friend) unrelated leave,
Which with our Kings did our confusion breed.

Nunt.
When Crœsus saw that Cyrus came so soone,
He stood a while with a distracted minde,
Yet what time would permit, left nought undone,
But made his musters, march'd his foe to finde.
Our stately troups that for rich armes excell'd,
And with umbragious feathers fann'd the aire,
With insolency, not with courage swell'd,
A triumph dream'd, scarce how to fight took care.
The Lydian horse-men never stain'd, but true,
And for their worth, through all the world renown'd,
Them chiefly Cyrus labour'd to subdue,
And this device for that effect was found:
Untrussing all their baggage by the way
Each of the Camels for his charge did beare
A grim-fac'd Groome, who did himselfe array
With what in Persia horsemen use to weare;
To them th'infantery did follow next,
A solid squadron like a brasen wall;
But those in whom all confidence was fix'd,
The brave Cavallery came last of all,
Then Cyrus by the raines his Courser tooke,
And bravely mounted, holding out his hands
With an assured, and imperious look
Went kindling courage through the flaming bands;
He them desir'd, who at deaths game would strive
To spare none of their foes in any forme;
But as for Crœsus to take him alive,
And keep him captive for a greater storme:
Where famous Hellus doth to Hermus post,
To give another both his strength, and name;
Our army ranne against a greater host,
To grace it likewise with our force and fame.
Each troupe a time with equall valour stood,
Till giving place at length we took the chace,
While as the River ranne to hide our bloud,
But still his borders blush'd at our disgrace;
For when the Camels to the field were come,
Our horses all affrighted at their sight,
Ranne raging backe againe, and of them some
Disordering ranks, put many to the flight;
Yet some who had beene us'd with martiall traines
The stratagem (though out of time) perceiv'd,
And lighting downe (red heights rais'd from green plains)
Did vengeance urge of those who them deceiv'd;
There whil'st the world prov'd prodigall of breath,
The headlesse tronks lay prostrated in heaps;
This field of funerals sacred unto death,
Did paint out horrour in most hideous shapes:
Whil'st men unhors'd, horses unmastred, stray'd,
Some call'd on those whom they most dearly lov'd,
Some rag'd, some groan'd, some sigh'd, roar'd, promis'd, pray'd,
As blows, falls, faintnesse, paine, hope, anguish mov'd.
Those who then scap'd (like beasts unto a den)
A fortresse took where valour none renownes,
“Walls are for women, and the fields for men,
“No Towne can keep a man, but men keep Townes;
And we were scarcely entred at the Ports,
When straight the Enemies did the Towne enclose,
And quickly rear'd huge artificiall Forts,
Which did to the besieg'd more paine impose:
All martiall Engines were for battery found,
At like encounters, which had ear'st prevail'd,
Whil'st both they us'd the vantage of the ground,
And borrow'd help from Art, where Nature fail'd;
They alwayes compassing our Trench about,
Still where the walls were weake, did make a breach,
Which (straight repairing) darts were hurled out,
To kill all those who came where we might reach;
There all the bolts of death, edg'd by disdaine,
Which many curious wits enclin'd to ill,
Whil'st kindled by revenge, or hope of gaine,
Had skill to make, were put in practise still;
Yet as we see it oft-times hath occurr'd,
Where least we did suspect, we were surpris'd,
Whil'st Fortune and the Fates in one concurr'd,
That in Fames rolls our fall might be compris'd:
That side of Sardis, farre from all regard,
Which doth next Tmolus lye, thought most secure,
Through this presumption, whil'st without a guard,
All Lydia's o'rethrow did with speed procure:
As one of ours (unhappily it chanc'd)
To reach his helmet, that had scap't his hand,
Alongst that steepie part his steps advanc'd,
And was returning back unto his band;
He was well mark'd by one, who had not spar'd
To tempt all dangers which might make us thralls:
For Cyrus had proclaim'd a great reward
To him whose steps first trod the conquer'd walls;
And this companion seeing without stay
One in his sight that craggie passage clime,
Straight on his foot-steps followed all the way,
And many a thousand hasted after him;
Then all that durst resist, were quickly kill'd,
The rest who fled, no where secure could be:
For every street was with confusion fill'd;
There was no corner from some mischiefe free.
O what a piteous clamour did arise
Of ravish'd virgins, and of widow'd wives!
Who pierc'd the heavens with lamentable cryes,
And having lost all comfort, loath'd their lives.
Whil'st those proud Victors would themselves have stain'd
With all the wrongs that Pride, or power could use,
They by a charge from Cyrus were restrain'd,
And durst no more their captives thus abuse.

Chor.
No doubt but high mishaps did then abound,
Whil'st with disdaine the Conqu'rours bosome boyld,
As some the sword, disgrace did some confound,
Not onely houses, Temples too were spoyld.
“What misery more great can be devis'd,
“Then is a Cities when by force surpris'd?
But whil'st that stately Towne was thus distress'd,
What did become of our unhappy King?

Nunt.
Then when the Enemy had his state possest,
And that confusion seaz'd on every thing:
He scarcely first could trust his troubled sight,
(The Fortune past transported had him so)
Yet having eyes who can deny the light?
He saw himselfe inferiour to his foe;
And apprehending there whil'st left alone,
How that his judgement long had beene betray'd,
(As metamorphos'd in a marble stone)
His ravish'd thoughts in admiration stray'd;
But such a weight of woes not us'd to beare,
He first was griev'd, then rag'd, and last despair'd,
Till through excessive feare, quite freed from feare,
He for his safetie then no further car'd;
And never wishd he so to have long life,
But death farre further was affected now,
Still seeking danger in the bounds of strife,
So he were sure to dye, he car'd not how;
Whilst furies thus were fostred in his brest,
Him suddenly a Souldier chanc'd to meet,
As insolent as any of the rest,
Who drunk with bloud, ran raging through the street;
And wanting but an object to his ire,
He sought to him, and he to him againe;
I know not which of them did most desire,
The one to slay, the other to be slaine;
But whil'st so base a hand to wring aloft,
Did to so great a Monarch threaten death,
His eldest Sonne, who (as you have heard oft)
Was barr'd from making benefit of breath:
I cannot tell you well, nor in what forme,
If that the destinies had so ordain'd,
Or if of passions an impetuous storme
Did raze the strings that had his tongue restrain'd;
But when he saw his Syre in danger stand,
He with those words a mighty shout did give:
Thou furious Stranger stay, hold, hold thy hand,
Kill not King Crœsus, let my Father live;
The other hearing this, his hand retyr'd,
And call'd his Kings commandement to minde;
High were those aymes to which his thoughts aspir'd,
Whom for great fortunes this rare chance design'd;
Now when that Crœsus, who for death long long'd,
Was quite undone, by being thus preserv'd,
As both by life, and death, then doubly wrong'd,
Whil'st but by fates for further harme reserv'd;
He with sad sighs those accents did accord:
Now let the heavens do all the ill they can,
Which would not unto me the grace afford,
That I might perish like a private man,
Ah, must I live to sigh that I was borne,
Charactring shame in a dejected face?
Ah, must I live, to my perpetuall scorne,
The abject object, pointed for disgrace?
Yet this unto his soule more sorrow bred,
He (scorne pretending state) as King array'd,
Was with great shouts ridiculously led
Backe to the Tent, whereas their Emp'rour stay'd:
Then that he might his misery conceive,
Those robes so rich, were all exchang'd with chains,
And prisons strictnesse bragg'd him with the grave,
So soone as death could make a choice of paines;
They caus'd in haste a pile of wood to make,
And in the mid'st where all men might him spie,
Caus'd binde the captive King unto a stake,
With fourteene others of the Lydians by;
There (as if offerings fit to purge the state)
Foes sought with flames their ruine to procure,
Though Iove prepostrous piety doth hate:
“No sacrifice is sweet, which is not pure.
Now whil'st the fire was kindling round about,
As to some pow'rfull God, who pray'd, or vow'd,
With eyes bent up, and with his hands stretch'd out:
O! Solon, Solon, Crœsus cry'd aloud;
Some hearing him to utter such a voice,
Who said that Cyrus curious was to know
(When dying now) what deity was his choice,
Did him request his last intent to show:
His exclamation was (said he) on one,
With whom he wish'd (their frailty so to see)
That all who ever trusted in a Throne,
Had but conferr'd a space as well as he;
Then there he told what Solon had him showne,
Whil'st at his Court (which flourish'd then) arriv'd;
How worldly blisse might quickly be o're-throwne,
And not accomplish'd was, while as one liv'd;
Whil'st forth salt flouds attending troupes did powre;
He shew how much the wise-man did disdaine
Those who presum'd of wealth, or worldly pow'r,
By which none could a perfect blisse obtaine;
This speech did Cyrus move to ponder much
The great uncertainty of worldly things,
As thinking that himselfe might once be such,
Since thrall'd to Fortunes throne, like other Kings;
Then such a patterne standing him before,
Whom envy once, then pitie did attend,
He to our King did liberty restore,
And with his life did Solons fame extend;
Yet him the fire still threatned to devoure,
Which (rising high) could hardly be controll'd,
But O devotion! then appear'd thy pow'r,
Which to subdue the heavens makes worldlings bold!
To quench the flames, whil'st divers toild in vaine,
(Iove mov'd by prayer) as Crœsus did require,
The azure Cisterns open'd did remaine,
And clouds fell downe in flouds to quench the fire.
Then whil'st the Souldiers did the Citie sack,
To save the same (as to his Countrey kinde)
The hopelesse Crœsus thus to Cyrus spake,
With words which pitie melted from his minde:
Great Prince, to whom all Nations now succumbe,
And do thy yoke so willingly embrace,
That it some comfort gives to be o're-come
By one whose glory graces our disgrace;
Since now I am constrain'd your thrall to be,
I must conforme my selfe unto my fate,
And cannot hold my peace, whereas I see,
That which may wrong the greatnesse of your state;
Your state is spoil'd by not suspected pow'rs,
If this rich Citie thus do rest ore-throwne,
Which now no more is mine, but is made yours:
And therefore (Sir) have pittie of your owne;
Yea, though the losse of such a populous Towne,
Both rich, and yours, your minde could nothing move,
Yet thinke of this, which may import your Crowne,
A peece of policy which time will prove:
The haughty Persians borne with stubborne mindes,
Who but for poverty first followed you,
Their matchlesse worth in armes large Asia findes,
Their feare is falne upon all Nations now;
But if you suffer them in such a sort
To be made rich with plenteous Lydia's spoiles,
Not able then their conquest to support,
The vanquish't by their fall the victor foils;
Let not vain pleasures entertaine their sights:
“Rest wealth, wealth pride, pride warre, warre ruine breeds,
Whil'st (faint through pleasures, weakened with delights)
No thought of honour from base breasts proceeds.
Then Cyrus straight approving what he spake,
His souldiers were from pretious spoyls restrain'd,
Whil'st he the tenth part did pretend to take,
A fatall off'ring for the Gods ordain'd;
This is the summe of our disastrous state,
We must a Stranger serve, as thrall'd long since;
With losse of all which he possest of late
Our King bought breath, a poore thing for a Prince.

Chor.
O wretched people! O unhappy King!
Our joyes are spoyl'd, his happinesse expir'd,
And no new chance can any comfort bring,
Where destinies to ruine have conspir'd,
Go wofull messenger, hold on thy course,
For, to have heard too much, it irks our eares;
And we shall note of this thy sad discourse,
With sighs each accent, and each point with teares.

Croesus.
Loe! I who late did thunder from a Throne,
Am now a wretch whom every one disdaines;
My treasure, honour, state, and freedome gone;
No kinde of comfort, no, nor hope remaines,
And after me, let none whom greatnesse shrouds,
Trust tumid titles, nor ostentive shows:
“Sailes swolne with windes, whil'st emulating clouds,
That which puffes up, oft at the last o're-throws.
O! had this pretious wit enrich'd my minde,
Which by experience I have dearly bought,
Whil'st fortune was within my Court confin'd,
And that I could not thinke a bitter thought;
Then satisfi'd with Soveraignty ear'st prov'd,
I had disdain'd new dangers to embrace,
And cloath'd with majestie, admir'd, and lov'd,
Had liv'd with pleasure, and had dy'd in peace.
“But what more wonderfull in any State,
“Then power (when courted) that is free from pride?
“But chiefly those who live securely great,
“They oft may erre, since Fortune is their guide,
What could the world afford, or man affect,
Which did not smooth my soule, whil'st I was such?
Whom now the changing world doth quite neglect,
By prospr'ing plagu'd, starv'd onely with too much;
Long lull'd asleep with scornfull Fortunes lyes,
A slave to pleasure, drown'd in base delights,
I made a covenant with my wandring eyes,
To entertaine them still with pleasant sights;
My heart enjoy'd all that was wish'd of late,
Whil'st it the height of happinesse did cloy,
Still serv'd with dainty, but suspected meat,
My soule with pleasure sicke, was faint for joy;
All, with much care what might procure mine ease:
(My will divin'd) obsequiously devis'd,
And who my fancy any way could please,
As prais'd by me, was by all others pris'd.
Save serving me none else could have deserv'd,
Of whom what ever came, was held of weight,
My words and looks were carefully observ'd,
And whom I grac'd, were had in honour straight;
For pompe and pow'r, farre passing other Kings,
Whil'st too secure with drowsie thoughts I slumbred,
My coffers still were full of pretious things,
Of which (as wealth least weigh'd) gold scarce was numbred;
I rear'd rare buildings, all embost with gold;
Made ponds for fishes, forrests for wilde beasts;
And with vain thoughts which could not be controll'd,
Oft spent the day in sport, the night in feasts.
I toss'd the Elements with power like Ioves,
Driv'd water up, aire downe, a pleasant change:
For, stately fountains, artificiall groves,
As common things were not accounted strange.
With me (what more could any Monarch crave?)
In all the parts of pompe, none could compare:
My Minions gallant, Counsellours were grave,
My guards were strong, my Concubines were faire;
Yea, whil'st light Fortune my defects supply'd,
I had all that could breed (as now I finde)
In others wonder, in the owner pride,
So puffing up the flesh to spoyle the minde.
Thus with delight (long pressing pleasures grapes)
With Fortune I carrows'd what men deare hold,
But ah! from misery none alwayes scapes,
“One must be wretched once, or yong, or old;
Then weary to be well, and tyr'd of rest,
To waken trouble, I th'occasion sought;
And yet to cloake the passions of my brest,
Did with devotion long cloud what I thought:
Of all the Oracles I did enquire
What was to come of this intended warre,
Who said (as seem'd to second my desire)
That I a mightie Monarchie should marre.
Those doubtfull words I wresting to my will,
In hope to breake the hauty Persians pow'rs,
Did ruine quite (whil'st all succeeded ill)
What many a age had gain'd, even in few houres;
And this may be admir'd as more then strange,
I who disdain'd an equall of before,
(What cannot Fortune do, when bent to change?)
Then servants lesse, must dreame content no more;
What eye not bigge with scorne my state surveyes,
Whom all do pittie now; or worse, do blame,
And bound even to my foe for some few dayes,
Which borrowed are with th'intrest of my fame.
Though this sweet gale of life-bestowing windes
Would seeme a favour (so it seemes to some)
Who by the basenesse of their muddie mindes
Shew from what vulgar stock their kinde doth come;
I scorne unlike my selfe thus to be seene,
Though to my comfort this appear'd to tend,
As if misfortunes past had onely beene
A Tragick entry to a Comick end.
Of all that plague my State, what greater pest
Then servile life, which faints from th'earth to part?
And hath in one united all the rest
To make me dye each day, yet live to smart;
Life in my brest no comfort can infuse:
“An En'mies gift could never come for good,
It but gives time of misery to muse,
And bathe my sorrows in a bitter flood:
Ah! had my breath straight vanish'd with my blisse,
And clos'd the windows that gave light to life,
I had not borne (to misery submisse)
The height of those mishaps, which now are rife:
Whil'st with a thousand sighs I call to minde
The death of Atis, and mine owne disgrace,
In such an agony my soule I finde,
That life to death would willingly give place;
But since I see reserv'd for further spight,
I with sad thoughts must burden yet my soule,
My memory to my distracted spright
Of all my troubles shall present a scroule,
Of which, while as th'accounts I go to cast,
When numbring my misfortunes all of late,
I will looke backe upon my pleasures past,
And by them ballance my (now) haplesse stare.

Chorus.