 | The Queen of Corsica |  |
Scena 5a.
Achæa. Ariste.A Wood, wherein a graue is discourd; and Achæa Burieing her Infant, and strewing fflowers upon it. Achæa in Disguised Country Weeds.
Ach.
Come Ariste,
Euen faithfull to my sorrowes. yet more Rue,
More Columbine good Wench. Thou mournefull Cypresse
Be not Offended that a Mother Pluckes
Thy Leaues to strew upon her buried Babe,
Euen faithfull to my sorrowes. yet more Rue,
More Columbine good Wench. Thou mournefull Cypresse
Be not Offended that a Mother Pluckes
Thy Leaues to strew upon her buried Babe,
This is a cold bed for thee, poore poore Wretch,
But thou art Happie—Let mee Kisse thee Once
Agen my Pritty [Babe] Shame, and would wee had
Neuer Mett, or neuer parted.
But thou art Happie—Let mee Kisse thee Once
Agen my Pritty [Babe] Shame, and would wee had
Neuer Mett, or neuer parted.
Ari.
Good Madam
Fauour your Eyes for they would Sleepe.
Ach.
I hope
For Euer shortly Wench; And when I dye
I prithee Lay mee here too; just here, Ariste,
This little Infant will not be asham'd
To bid his Mother welcom to the Dead,
Although the Liuing hate mee. Perhaps these Trees
Will sometymes let fall Teares upon my Graue,
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To Clothe my Cold Remaines. Thy Loyall heart
Is Monument enough for Poore Achæa,
And while it Liues some of my Good will Liue,
I aske noe Longer.
Aris.
Good Madam take Some Comfort
Ach.
Alas I haue too much; I would be Marble,
But Niobe's a ffiction, ffor I doubt
Wee are too Soft, too gentle to be turn'd soe.
I cannot Looke upon this Peece of Clay
But I must Weepe still. Gentle Mother Earth
Use kindly my poore Babe; Perhaps 'twill be
A Charity to an issue of the Gods;
For its poore Mother knowes noe other ffather.
O Crush it not too hard; It's Limbs are tender.
Ariste, now goe take thy Lute, and Play
While the Gods listen. Let this groue of Yeiwes
Sigh with enraged Tempests, and their Boughes
Bee Widoes euer. Let noe Sun shine here,
Or if it doe, let Blasts waite on its Beames;
Goblins keepe here theyr Night-haunts; and noe ffoot
Dare to Approach this Desart. Let the Stones
Sweat with Continuall gore. Let euery Eye
That Lookes but hither runne into a Sea,
And finallie, Let mee the Poore Achæa
Here Dy and here be Buried.
The Lute wt hin while this song is Warbled
Dry the Teares from your fayre Eyes
Sadd Queene, sadd Wonder of the Tyme;
Throw off Dispaire. The Gods are Wise,
And your Misfortune is theyr Crime.
Then from the Dimme Eye'd World Appeale;
For they yt Wound soe strang, haue as strang Means to Heal«e»
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