University of Virginia Library

THE FOVRTH SCENE, Added to the Tragedy by the Translatour.

Thyestes
alone.
O Kyng of Dytis dungeon darke, and goysly Ghosts of hell,
That in the deepe and dredfull Denne, of blackest Tartare dwell.
Where leane and pale dyseases lye where feare and famyne are,
Where discord stands with bleeding browes, where euery kynde of care,
Where furies fight in beds of steele, and heares of crauling snakes,
Where Gorgon grimme, white Harpyes are, & lothsome Lymbo lakes,
Where most prodigious vgly thinges, the hollows hell both hyde,
If yet a monster more myshapt then all that there dot byde,
That makes his broode his cursed foode, yee all abhorre to see,
Nor yet the deepe Auerne it selfe, may byde to couer mee,
Nor grisly gates of Putoes place, yet dare them selues to spred,
Nor gaping grounde to swallowe him, whom Gods and day haue fled:
Yet breake yee out from cursed seates, and heere remayne with mee,
Yee neede not now to be affrayde, the Ayre and Heauen to see.
Nor triple headed Cerberus, thou needst not bee affryght,
The day vnknowne to thee to see or els the lothsome lyght.
They both be fled: and now doth dwell none other count'naunce heere,
Then doth beneath the fowlest face, of hatefull hell appeere.
Come see a meetest match for thee, a more then monstrous wombe,
That is of his vnhappy broode, become a cursed tombe.
Flocke here yee fowlest flendes of hell, and thou O graundsyre greate,
Come see the glutted guts of myne, with such a kinde of meate,
As thou didst once for Gods prepare. Let torments all of hel
Now fall vppon this hatefull head, that hath deserude them well.
Yee all be plagued wrongfully, your guiltes be small, in sight
Of myne, and meete it were your pange on me alone should light.
Now thou O graundster guiltlesse arte, and meeter were for mee,
With fleeing floud to be beguilde, and fruite of fickle tree.
Thou slewst thy sonne, but I my sonnes, alas, haue made my meate.
I coulde thy famyne better beare, my paūch is now repleate
With foode: and with my children three, my belly is extent.
O filthy fowles and gnawyng gripes, that Tytius bosome rent
Beholde a fitter pray for you, to fill your selues vppone
Then are the growing guts of him: foure wombes enwrapt in one.
This paūche at once shall fill you all: if yee abhorre the foode,
Nor may your selues abide to bathe, in such a cursed bloode:
Yet lend to me your clinching clawes, your pray a while forbeare,
And with your tallons suffer mee, this monstrous mawe to teare.
Or whirling wheeles, with swinge of which Ixion still is rolde,
Your hookes vpon this glutted gorge, would catche a surer holde.
Thou filthy floud of Lymbo lake, and Stygian poole so dyre,
From choaked chanell belche abrode. Thou fearefull freate of fyre,
Spue out thy flames O Phlegethon: and ouershed the grounde.
With vomit of thy fyry streame, let me and earth be drownde,
Breake vp thou soyle from bottome deepe, and geue thou roome to hell,
That night, where day, yt ghosts, where Gods were woōt to raigne, may dwel.
Why gapst thou not? Why do you not O gates of hell vnfolde?
Why do yee thus thinfernall fiendes, so long from hence withholde?
Are you likewyse affrayde to see, and knowe so wretched wight,
From whom the Gods haue wryde theyr lookes, & turned are to flight?
O hatefull head, whom heauen and hell, haue shoonde and left alone,
The Sunne, the starres, the light, the day, the Gods, the ghosts be gone.
Yet turne agayne yee Skyes a while, ere quight yee goe fro mee,
Take vengeance fyrst on him, whase faulte enforceth you to flee.
If needes yee must your flight prepare, and may no longer bide,
But rolle yee must with you forthwt, the Gods and Sunne a syde,
Yet slowly flee: that I at length, may you yet ouertake,
While wandring wayes I after you, and speedy iorney make.
By seas, by lands, by woods, by rocks, in darke I wander shall:
And on your wrath, for right rewarde to due des rts, will call.
Yee scape not fro me, so yee Gods, still after you I goe,
And vengeaunce aske on wicked wight, your thunder bolte to throe.