 | The Queen of Corsica |  |
Scena Tertia.
Natolion. Florimond. Drawne.Nat.
What wilt thou turne Beast?
Flor.
Serpent, Anie Thing
That may Expresse Mee Sonne of Such a ffather.
O my Drown'd heart, burst not! A ffather sayd I?
A Tiger, Woolfe, A Deuil in his Shape,
Or Any Thing that is Worse
Nat.
Yet th'art my Sonne.
Flor.
I know not; I am Some
Disease of Nature bred in thee, I thinke,
Else I would kill my Mother: but I cannot
Beleiue I am a Sonne, for then I should not
34
As now I must. What Monster would haue throwne
His Brood from such a Hope as thou hast mee,.
Thou Denne of Dragans? But I haue a sting here
Shall Eate a Way into my Bloody Reste
Through thy Accursed Bowells.
Nato.
Must I heare this
Ungodly Paricide?
Natolion Breaks his Head. After a Little Pause Florimond Kneels.
Flor.
I thanke you, Sr
This now was like a ffather. you haue quell'd mee;
Yet 'tis your owne Blood this. And Each Drop here
Should trickle from that Rocky heart of yours,
But you are Mercilesse! A ffathars Name
Chaines up the Rage that I might justly Loose
To your Confusion now; then why should you
By Violence pull that Duty from my Heart
Which the Gods gaue mee for your sure Defence?
O you haue wrong'd mee sr, you know you haue.
But it Becomes not mee to tell you soe;
How e're my Rage haz done it (wc h I rue)
Why should you sett your Selfe against my Blisse?
Alas what hurt could my Aduancement Doe you?
Good Sr if you'l not be a ffather to mee,
Yet do not proue a Saturne to Deuoure
Your noble Children. But it is too late
To use these Prayers, for there is nothing stands
But my Hopes Ruines now wc h you haue Sign'd.
Nat.
I am too old to Weepe; but trust mee, Boy
My Heart Bleeds for thee. Prithee Pardon mee
For if thou knewest all thou would'nt Curse mee.
Flor.
O Heau'ns!
What Various Torments Haue you for poore Man?
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Then fortie Injuries: Would I had mett
A Ball of Lightning rideing on a Cloud
Er Such a Killing Dart. Begg Pardon of mee?
Alas what am I that you should do soe?
I am soe full of Sorrow to the mouth
It stoppes my vtterance
Nat.
I am thy ffather
In all things but the Matching wt h ye Queen.
In that thy Enemy. Aske mee not why,
I must not tell thee.
Flor.
That unhappy Name
Will follow my Misfortunes to the Dust,
And there I shall be quiete.
| The Queen of Corsica | |