 | The Tragedy of Orestes |  |
Scen. V.
Enter Canidia, like an Enchauntresse.Orest.
Protect vs O ye Ministers of Heauen,
Stand neare me my good Genius, my soule hath lost
His humane function, at this hellish sight.
Can.
Who is't disturbs our caue, what messenger
Hath Pluto sent, that would know ought from vs,
Pylad.
Prompt vs some Ghost,
Great feare of earth, and gouernesse of nature,
In whose deepe closet of that sacred heart
Are written the characters of future Fate;
And what is done, or what must be thou knowst:
Whose words make burning Acheron grow cold,
And Ioue leaue thundring, when he heares thy name,
To thee we come: O turne thy secret booke,
And looke whose names thou there shalt see inscrib'd
For murderers, reade or'e all the catalogue,
Vntill thou findest there, engrauen those
Which kild the King of Greece, great Agamemnon.
Orest.
Yes, he that did owe these bones which worms haue eate;
It is not now one of the meaner sort
That craues this boone, but 'tis the heire of Greece,
Heire onely now but to my Fathers graue;
I not command, but my astonisht soule
Entreats to know.
If in thy booke it be not yet put downe,
Command the Gods to vnlocke the gates of Heauen;
And fetch forth death, command him to relate
Who 'twas put Agamemnon in his hands,
This is our businesse, this, great prophetesse,
Made vs approach to thy most hallowed cell.
Can.
Ho, ho, ho, I tell thee fond young Prince!
A lesser power thou mightst haue implor'd,
Which might haue vrg'd th'vnwilling fiends to this:
Our dire enchantments carry such a force,
That when the stars, and influence of heauen,
Haue suckt the liuely bloud from out mens veyns,
I at my pleasure bring it backe againe;
I knew each houre in the Troian fight,
What Grecian, or what Phrygian should die,
And fierce Achilles had no sooner pierc't
Great Hectors side, but fate did send me word:
Earth, Sea, deepe Chaos, all the stony hills,
Will ope themselues to shew me prodigies;
Night will vnmaske her brow, to let me see
What blacke conceptions teeme within her wombe.
O then relate great Mistresse of thy Art,
The things we craue:
Can.
What time of night is't?
Pyl.
Vpon the stroke of twelue.
Can.
Straite when a cloudy Euen clappeth the Ayre,
And all light's drench't in misty Acheron,
When the blacke palpherys of the full cheekt moone,
Haue got behinde this parta'th Hemispheare,
And darke Aldebor, and is mounted high
Into the sable Cassiopeias chaire,
And night ful mounted in her seat of iet,
Sits wrapt within a cabinet of clouds,
When serpents leaue to hisse, no dragons yell,
No birds doe sing, no harsh tun'd toads doe croake,
The Armenian Tyger, and the rauenous woolfe,
Shall yeeld vp all their tyranny to sleepe,
And then none walke but hells disturbed spirits,
Children of night, such as belong to me,
I'll shew thee thy desire; giue me these bones.
Orest.
Here, take them Mother, vse them gently,
They were a Kings bones once; O not so hard.
Can,
Why senslesse boy, dost thinke that I respect
A Kings dead bones, more then an other mans;
O they smell rankly; I, this sent doth please,
Smels to them.
But I must now to worke: why Sagana.
Pylad.
Looke here thou King of Greece fond Menelaus,
Thou which didst bring so many goodly shapes
Taks vp the scull.
Into such things as these, and all for Helen,
Which when the worms bred of her dainty flesh,
Shall haue knaw'd off her tender rubie lips,
And left her gumlesse, looke vpon her then;
And thou wouldst euen disgorge thy selfe to see,
Such putride vermin to lye kissing her.
Orest.
This head had once a royall diademe,
Now knock it, beate it, and 'twill ne're cry treason.
Can.
Why Sagana.
Orest.
There was a player once vpon a stage,
Who striuing to present a dreery passion,
Brought out the vrne of his late buried sonne,
It might the more affect him, and draw teares:
But I, as if I had no passion left,
In a true cause hauing my Fathers bones,
His hollow scull, yet crawling full of worms,
I cannot weepe, no not a teare will com.
Can.
Why Sagana, Veia, Erictho, know you not your time?
| The Tragedy of Orestes | |