 | Argalvs and Parthenia |  |
With that, a sudden and tempestuous tyde
Of teares orewhelm'd her language, and denyde
A passage, but when passions flood was spent,
She thus proceeds: You gods, if you are bent
To act my Tragedy, why doe you wrong
Our patience so, to make the play so long?
Your Sceanes are tedious; Gainst the rules of Art,
You dwell too long; too long, vpon one part.
Be briefe, and take aduantage of your odds;
One simple mayde against so many gods?
And not be conquer'd yet? Conioyne your might,
And send her soule into eternall night,
That liues too long a day; Ile not resist,
Prouided you strike home, strike where ye list.
Accursed be that Day, wherein these eyes
First saw the light; Let desp'rate soules deuise
A curse sufficient for it; Let the Sun
Ne're shine vpon it; and what ere's begun
Vpon that fatall day, let heauen forbid it
Successe; if not, to ensnare the hand, that did it.
Why was I borne? Or, being borne, O why
Did not my fonder nurses Lullaby
(Euen whilst my lips were hanging on her brest)
Sing her poore Babe to euerlasting rest?
O then my infant soule had neuer knowne
This world of griefe, beneath whose weight I groane.
No, no, it had not: He that dyes in's prime,
Speeds a long businesse, in a little time.
Of teares orewhelm'd her language, and denyde
A passage, but when passions flood was spent,
She thus proceeds: You gods, if you are bent
To act my Tragedy, why doe you wrong
Our patience so, to make the play so long?
Your Sceanes are tedious; Gainst the rules of Art,
You dwell too long; too long, vpon one part.
Be briefe, and take aduantage of your odds;
One simple mayde against so many gods?
And not be conquer'd yet? Conioyne your might,
And send her soule into eternall night,
That liues too long a day; Ile not resist,
Prouided you strike home, strike where ye list.
Accursed be that Day, wherein these eyes
First saw the light; Let desp'rate soules deuise
A curse sufficient for it; Let the Sun
Ne're shine vpon it; and what ere's begun
Vpon that fatall day, let heauen forbid it
Successe; if not, to ensnare the hand, that did it.
Why was I borne? Or, being borne, O why
Did not my fonder nurses Lullaby
(Euen whilst my lips were hanging on her brest)
Sing her poore Babe to euerlasting rest?
O then my infant soule had neuer knowne
This world of griefe, beneath whose weight I groane.
No, no, it had not: He that dyes in's prime,
Speeds a long businesse, in a little time.
| Argalvs and Parthenia | |