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 | Octavia (1581) |  |
But tel, O Lady, tell, if it you please,
What sodayne chaūce doth shade your beautyes light.
What meanes your colour chaūge from red to white?
What moues those trickling tears, how standes your plight?
Po.
With dreames, and griesly sightes, this last night, Nurse,
My mynd was troubled sore, but frayd much worse.
For when sir Phœbe his weary course had ryd,
Whyle quiet restyng night each thing shadid,
My sences weary fel in slumber deepe,
Whyle Nero me within his armes did cleepe.
Resoluing lims, at length gan sleepe discharge,
And long I rest not vnder quiets targe,
For loe, I saw a route that brought me feare,
Come to my chaumber with disheueled hayre:
The Matrons sage of Latin land did mourne,
And sounded shryking sighes as though forlorne
They were, the dolefulst wightes that liue on ground.
And oft among the warlike trumpets sound,
I sawe my husbands mother teribly stand,
With threatning looke berayed with bloud in hand
A light fyre brand she bare which oft she shooke,
And made mee goe with her through feareful loke.
When downe we came through op'ned earth shee led
The way, I after went with bowing hed,
And musing much therat, marke what I say,
My bed, me thought I saw, wherin I laye,
When first espousde I was to Rufe Chrispyne:
And hee me thought, with first sonne of his lyne,
With many following them agaynst me fast
Did come, and me to cleepe did swift his hast,
And as he wonted was he kist me oft,
Then rusht into my house with pace not soft
Amased Nero sore, in Chryspines breast
That hidde his faulchion kene: feare shakte of rest
From mee: I trembling stode with quiuering feare,
And brest dismayd to speake made me forbeare.
Til now (O Nurse) I met with thee, whose trust,
And fayth into these wordes haue made me brust.
Alas, what threatneth mee eche griesly spright?
What meanes of husbands bloud that doleful sight?
Nu.
Pop.
To temples hie where mighty Gods do dwell,
I wil repayre, and offringes to them fell
In humble wyse their heauy wrath t'ppease,
And me of mighty sight, and dreams to ease.
My second wish shal be, that this feare all
Uppon my foes as sodayne chaunce may fall.
O Nurse pray thou for mee some vowes do make
Toth' Gods, that ghostly feare his flight may take.
What sodayne chaūce doth shade your beautyes light.
What meanes your colour chaūge from red to white?
What moues those trickling tears, how standes your plight?
Po.
With dreames, and griesly sightes, this last night, Nurse,
My mynd was troubled sore, but frayd much worse.
For when sir Phœbe his weary course had ryd,
Whyle quiet restyng night each thing shadid,
My sences weary fel in slumber deepe,
Whyle Nero me within his armes did cleepe.
Resoluing lims, at length gan sleepe discharge,
And long I rest not vnder quiets targe,
For loe, I saw a route that brought me feare,
Come to my chaumber with disheueled hayre:
The Matrons sage of Latin land did mourne,
And sounded shryking sighes as though forlorne
They were, the dolefulst wightes that liue on ground.
And oft among the warlike trumpets sound,
I sawe my husbands mother teribly stand,
With threatning looke berayed with bloud in hand
A light fyre brand she bare which oft she shooke,
And made mee goe with her through feareful loke.
When downe we came through op'ned earth shee led
The way, I after went with bowing hed,
And musing much therat, marke what I say,
[181]
When first espousde I was to Rufe Chrispyne:
And hee me thought, with first sonne of his lyne,
With many following them agaynst me fast
Did come, and me to cleepe did swift his hast,
And as he wonted was he kist me oft,
Then rusht into my house with pace not soft
Amased Nero sore, in Chryspines breast
That hidde his faulchion kene: feare shakte of rest
From mee: I trembling stode with quiuering feare,
And brest dismayd to speake made me forbeare.
Til now (O Nurse) I met with thee, whose trust,
And fayth into these wordes haue made me brust.
Alas, what threatneth mee eche griesly spright?
What meanes of husbands bloud that doleful sight?
Nu.
The hidden sacred vayne that moueth swift,
Which fantasie we call by secret drift,
When we do take our rest doth shew agayne,
The thinges both good and bad that broyle in brayne:
You maruel that you saw your make, and bower,
His ghostly funerall stackes, at that same hower
Round clasped close in armes of husband new:
Hereto, the beaten breastes with handes mou'd you,
And maydens hayre, on mariage day displayd:
Octauias friendes with heauy hartes bewrayed,
Amids hir brothers both and fathers hall
Their heauy cheere for her vnluckye fall.
That dreadful blasing flame of fyre forborne
In Agryppynas hand your grace beforne.
Which you did follow streigth declares renowne
To you, though enuye stryue to keepe it downe:
The seat you saw beneath doth promise you
Your stale to stand ful sure not chaunging new:
That Nero prince in Crispins throat did hyde
His sword, it telles that he in peace shall byde,
Unknowen to bloudy ruthful warre for aye.
Which fantasie we call by secret drift,
When we do take our rest doth shew agayne,
The thinges both good and bad that broyle in brayne:
You maruel that you saw your make, and bower,
His ghostly funerall stackes, at that same hower
Round clasped close in armes of husband new:
Hereto, the beaten breastes with handes mou'd you,
And maydens hayre, on mariage day displayd:
Octauias friendes with heauy hartes bewrayed,
Amids hir brothers both and fathers hall
Their heauy cheere for her vnluckye fall.
That dreadful blasing flame of fyre forborne
In Agryppynas hand your grace beforne.
Which you did follow streigth declares renowne
To you, though enuye stryue to keepe it downe:
The seat you saw beneath doth promise you
Your stale to stand ful sure not chaunging new:
That Nero prince in Crispins throat did hyde
His sword, it telles that he in peace shall byde,
182
Therfore (Madam) plucke vp your hart I pray:
Receiue both mirth and glee cast feare asyde,
With ioy, and ease you may in bowre abide.
Receiue both mirth and glee cast feare asyde,
With ioy, and ease you may in bowre abide.
Pop.
To temples hie where mighty Gods do dwell,
I wil repayre, and offringes to them fell
In humble wyse their heauy wrath t'ppease,
And me of mighty sight, and dreams to ease.
My second wish shal be, that this feare all
Uppon my foes as sodayne chaunce may fall.
O Nurse pray thou for mee some vowes do make
Toth' Gods, that ghostly feare his flight may take.
| Octavia (1581) | |