 | Hippolytus, Medea, Agamemnon, Herculas Oetaeus |  |
CHORVS. CASSANDRA.
CAS.
Refraine your teares yt down your cheekes should tricle euermore
With woefull waylings piteously your pryuate friendes deplore
My myseries refuse a mate, so much accurst as I:
To rewe my carefull case, refrayne your lamentable cry.
As for myne owne distresse to moorne, I shall suffice alone.
CHO.
To mingle teares with other teares it doth vs good to mone:
In those the burning teary streames more ardently doe boyle,
Whom secret thoughts of lurking cares in priuy breast turmoyle:
Though that thou were a Gossop stout, that brooke much sorrow may
I warraunt thee, thou myghtest well, lament this sore decay.
Not sad and solemne Aedon that in the woodes doth singe
Her sugred Ditties finely timde on sweete and pleasaunt stringe:
Recording Itys woefull hap in diuers kynde of note,
Whom Progne though he were her chylde and of her wombe begot,
For to reueng his fathers fault, she did not spare to kill:
And gaue his flesh and bloude for foode the fathers Maw to fill.
Nor Progne who in Swallowes shape: vpon the rydges hye,
Of houses sits in Biston towne bewayling piteously,
With chattering throate, of Tereus her spouse the cruell act,
(Who did by strength and force of armes a shamefull brutishe fact.
Defile the syster of his wyfe, fayre Philomel by name,
And eke cut out her tonge, least shee should blab it to his shame)
Though Progne this her husbandes rape lamenting very sore
Doe wayle, and weepe with piteous plaint, yet can shee not deplore
Sufficiently, though that shee woulde, our countreyes piteous plight:
Though he himselfe among the Swans syr Cygnus lilly whight.
Who dwelles in streame of Ister floud, and Tanais channell coulde,
His weeping voyce most ernestly though vtter out hee woulde:
Although the morninge Halcyons with dolefull sighes doe wayle,
At such time as the fighting floudes their Cyex did assayle,
Or rashly wexing boulde attempt the Seas now layde at rest,
Or being very fearefull feede their broode in tottring nest,
Although as squemishe hearted men those priestes in bedlem rage,
Whom mother Cyble being borne on high in lofty stage,
Doth mooue, to play on shalmes, Atys the Phrygian to lament,
Yet can not they this lot bewayle, though brawn frō armes they rent.
Cassandra, in our teares there is no measure to refrayne,
Those miseryes all measure passe, that plunged vs in payne.
The sacred fillets from thy heads, why dost thou hale and pull?
They chiefly ought to worship God, whose hearts with griefe be dull.
CAS.
My feare by this affliction is cleane abated all,
Nor praying to the heauenly Ghostes for mercy will I call.
Although they were disposde to chafe and fret in fustten fumes,
They nothing haue me to displease, Fortune her force consumes.
Her spyte is worne vnto the stumpes, what countrey haue I left?
Where is my Syre? am I of all my systers quite bereft.
The sacred tombes and alter stones our bloud haue drunke & swylde,
Where are my brethren blessed knot? destroyed in the fylde.
All widdow Weues of Priams sonnes may easly now beholde,
The Pallace voyde and cast of court of silly Priam olde.
And by so many marriages so many Wyddowes are,
But onely Hellen comming from the coast of Lacon farre.
That Hecuba the mother of so many a pryncely wyght,
Whose fruitfull Wombe did breede the brand, of fyer blasing bryght:
Who also bare the swinge in Troy, by practise now doth learne,
New lawes and guise of desteny in bondage to discerne.
On her shee taketh heart of grace with lookes so sterne and wylde,
And barketh as a bedlem bitch about her strangled chylde
Deare Polidor, the remnaunt left, and onely hope of Troy,
Hector, and Priam to reuenge, and to restore her ioy.
CHO.
The sacred Phœbus Prophet is with sodayne silence husht:
A quaking trembling shiuering feare throughout her lims hath rusht:
Her Face as pale as Ashes is, her Fillits stande vpryght,
The soft and gentle goldilockes starte vp of her affright.
Her panting breathing breast stuft vp within doth grunt and grone.
Her glaring bryght and steaming Eyes are hether and thyther throwne.
Now glauncing vp and downe they roll: now standing stiffe they stare.
She stretcheth vp her head more streyght then commonly she bare,
Boult vp she goes, her wrastling Iawes that fast together clinge,
She doth attempt by diuers meanes, on sunder how to wringe.
Her mumbling words in gabling mouth shut vp she doth asswage,
As Menas mad that Bacchus aares doth serue in furious rage.
CAS.
How doth it hap (O sacred tops of high Parnassus hill)
That me berapt of sence, with prickes of fury fresh yee fill?
Why doe you me with ghost inspyre, that am besyde my wits?
O Phœbus none of thyne I am, releasse me from the fits:
Infixed in my burning breastes the flames extinguish out,
Who forceth me with fury fell to gad and trot about?
Or for whose sake inspyrde with spryte mad mumbling make must I?
Why play I now the Prophet colde, sith Troy in dust doth ly?
The day doth shrynke for dread of warre, the night doth dim mine eyes.
With mantell blacke of darknesse deepe cleane couerd is the skyes:
But loe two shining Sunnes at once in heauen appeareth bryght,
Two Grecian houses muster doe their armies twayne to fight.
Amonge the mighty Goddesis in Ida woodes I see,
The fatall sheepherd in his throne as vmpier plast to bee:
I doe aduise you to beware, beware (I say) of kynges,
(A kindred in whose cancred heartes olde priuy grudges springes)
That countrey clowne Ægisthus he this stocke shall ouerthrowe,
What doth this foolish despret dame her naked weapons showe?
Whose crowne entendeth shee to cracke in weede of Lacon lande,
With Hatchet (by the Amazons inuented first) in hand?
What face of mighty maiesty bewitched hath myne eyes?
The conquerour of saluage beastes Marmarick Lyon lyes,
Whose noble necke is wurried with currish fange and tooth
The churlish snaps of eger Lyonesse abyde hee dooth.
Alacke yee ghostes of all my friendes why should yee say that I,
Among the rest am onely safe, from perils farre to ly?
Fayne father follow thee I would, Troy being layde in dust.
O brother terrour of the Greekes, O Troyans ayde and trust.
Our auncient pomp I doe not see, nor yet thy warmed handes,
(That fearce on Greekish flaming fleete did fling the fyry brandes)
But mangled members, schorched corps, and cake thy valiaunt armes,
Hard piniond and bounde in bands sustayning greeuous harmes:
O Troyolus, a match vnfit encountering with Achill
(That myghty man of armes) to soone come vnto thee I will.
I doe delight, to sayle with them on stinking Stygian flood.
To vew the churlishe mastife our of hell, it doth mee good.
And gaping mouthed Kingdome darke of greedy Ditis raygne.
The Barge of filthy Phlegethon this day shall entertayne,
Mee conquering, and conquered, and Prynces soules with all.
You flitering shades I you beseeche, and eake on thee I call,
O Stygian poole (whereon the Gods theyr solemne othes doe take
Unbolt a whyle the Brasen bars of darksome Lymbo lake.
Whereby the Phrygian folke in hell may Micean state beholde.
Looke vp yee silly wretched soules, the fates are backward roulde.
The sqally sisters doe approch, and deale their bloudy strokes,
Their smultring faggots in their handes halfe brunte to ashes smokes.
Their vysages so pale doe burnt, with fyry flaming eyes:
A garment blacke theyr gnawed guts doth gyrde in mourning guyse.
Dire dread of night begins to howle, the bones of body vast
With lying long doe rot corrupt in miry pudle cast.
Beholde, the wery aged man his burning thyrst forgot,
The waters dalying at his lippes to catch endeuors not:
But mourneth for the funerall, that shall ensue anon.
The Troyan Prynce his royall robes tryumphant putteth on.
CHO.
The furious rage cleane ouerpast begins it selfe to slake,
And slyps away, euen as a Bull that deadly wounde doth take
On gasshed neck afront the aares: come let vs ease at last
Her lymbes, that of the spryte of God hath felt the mighty blast.
Returning home agayne at length and crounde with Lawrell bow
(A signe of worthy victory) is Agamemnon now.
The Wyfe to meete her Husband, doth her speedy passage ply,
Returning hand in hand, and foote by foote most louingly.
Alas
the cruell sting of loue how sweetely doth it taste,
A misery to mortall man annext whyle lyfe doth last?
The pathe of mischiefe for to flye, now sith there is a gap,
And wretched soules be franckly calde From euery wofull hap,
By death, a pleasaunt port, for aye in rest them selues to shroude,
Where dreadfull tumultes neuer dwell nor stormes of Fortune proude:
Nor yet the burning firy flakes of Ioue the same doth doubt,
When wrongfully with thwacking thumpes he raps his thunder out:
Heere Lady Peace th'inhabitours doth neuer put in flight,
Nor yet the victors threatning wrath approching nygh to fight,
No whyrling western wynde doth vrge the ramping seas to praunce,
No dusty cloude that raysed is by sauage Dimilaunce,
On horseback riding rancke, by rancke no fearce and cruell host,
No people slaughtred, with their townes cleane topsie turuey tost:
Whyle that the foe with flaming fyre doth spoyle and waste the wall,
Untamed and vnbridled Mars destroyes and batters all:
That man alone who forceth not the fickle fates a strawe,
The vysage grim of Acheront whose eyes yet neuer sawe,
Who neuer vewd with heauy cheare the vgsome Limbo lake,
And putting lyfe in hasarde, dare to death him selfe betake.
That person is a Prynces peare, and lyke the Gods in myght,
Who knoweth not what death doth meane is in a pitious plight
The ruthfull ruin of our natyue countrey wee behelde:
That wofull nyght, in which the roofes of houses ouerquelde,
In Dardans City blasing bryght with flashing fiery flames.
When as the Greekes with burning brandes enkindle did the frames,
That Troy whom war & deedes of armes might not subdue and take.
As once did mighty Hercules, whose Quyuer causde it quake,
Which neither he that Peleus sonne, and sonne to Thetis was,
Nor whom Achilles loued to wel, could euer brynge to passe,
When glytering bright in field he ware false armour on his back,
And counterfayting fearse Achill the Troyans draue to wrack.
Nor when Achilles he hym selfe his minde from sorow wrast,
And Troyan women to the walles did scuddyng leape in hast.
In myserie she lost her proud estate, and last renoume,
By being stoutly ouercome, and hardly pulled downe.
Yeares fyue & fyue did Troy resiste, that yet hereafter must,
In one nyghts space by destenie be layed in the dust.
Theyr fained giftes well haue we tried that huge and fatall gin,
We lyght of credit, with our owne ryght hand haue haled in,
That fatall gyft of Greekes: what tyme at entry of the gap
The hugye hors did shyueryng stand, where in themselues did wrap
The captaynes close, in holow vautes with bloudy war yfreight.
When lawfully we might haue tryde, and serched their deceit:
So by theyr owne contryued snares the grekes had bin confound:
The brasen bucklers being shooke did gyue a clattring sound.
A priuy whyspering often tymes came tyckling in our ear.
And Pyrrhus (in a murreynes name so ready for to heare.
The crafty councell picked out of false Vlisses brayne,)
Did iangle in the holow Uautes, that range thereof agayne.
But fearing and suspecting nought the headdy youth of Troy
Layde handes vpon the sacred ropes, to hale and pull with ioy.
On this syde younge Astyanax came garded with his trayne,
On th'other part Pollixena dispoused to bee slayne
Upon Achilles tombe, she coms with maydes, and hee with men,
A ioly flocke with equall yeares as younge as they were then.
Theyr vowd oblacions to the gods in holy day attyre,
The matrons bryng and so to church repayreth euery syre.
And all the city did alyke, yea Hecuba our queene
(That synce the woful Hectors death or now was neuer sene)
She mery is: O griefe accurst, of all thy sorowes depe
For whych that first, or last befell entendest thou to wepe?
Our battred walles which heauenly hands erected haue and framde?
Or els the burning temples which vpon their Idols flamde?
Lamenting these calamyties wee haue not time and space,
O mighty parent Pryam we poore Troyans wayle thy case.
The olde mans thratling throate I sawe, (alas) I saw yborde
With cruell Pyrrhus blade, that scante with any bloud was gorde.
A misery to mortall man annext whyle lyfe doth last?
The pathe of mischiefe for to flye, now sith there is a gap,
And wretched soules be franckly calde From euery wofull hap,
By death, a pleasaunt port, for aye in rest them selues to shroude,
Where dreadfull tumultes neuer dwell nor stormes of Fortune proude:
Nor yet the burning firy flakes of Ioue the same doth doubt,
When wrongfully with thwacking thumpes he raps his thunder out:
Heere Lady Peace th'inhabitours doth neuer put in flight,
Nor yet the victors threatning wrath approching nygh to fight,
No whyrling western wynde doth vrge the ramping seas to praunce,
No dusty cloude that raysed is by sauage Dimilaunce,
On horseback riding rancke, by rancke no fearce and cruell host,
No people slaughtred, with their townes cleane topsie turuey tost:
Whyle that the foe with flaming fyre doth spoyle and waste the wall,
Untamed and vnbridled Mars destroyes and batters all:
That man alone who forceth not the fickle fates a strawe,
The vysage grim of Acheront whose eyes yet neuer sawe,
Who neuer vewd with heauy cheare the vgsome Limbo lake,
And putting lyfe in hasarde, dare to death him selfe betake.
That person is a Prynces peare, and lyke the Gods in myght,
Who knoweth not what death doth meane is in a pitious plight
The ruthfull ruin of our natyue countrey wee behelde:
That wofull nyght, in which the roofes of houses ouerquelde,
In Dardans City blasing bryght with flashing fiery flames.
When as the Greekes with burning brandes enkindle did the frames,
That Troy whom war & deedes of armes might not subdue and take.
As once did mighty Hercules, whose Quyuer causde it quake,
[152]
Nor whom Achilles loued to wel, could euer brynge to passe,
When glytering bright in field he ware false armour on his back,
And counterfayting fearse Achill the Troyans draue to wrack.
Nor when Achilles he hym selfe his minde from sorow wrast,
And Troyan women to the walles did scuddyng leape in hast.
In myserie she lost her proud estate, and last renoume,
By being stoutly ouercome, and hardly pulled downe.
Yeares fyue & fyue did Troy resiste, that yet hereafter must,
In one nyghts space by destenie be layed in the dust.
Theyr fained giftes well haue we tried that huge and fatall gin,
We lyght of credit, with our owne ryght hand haue haled in,
That fatall gyft of Greekes: what tyme at entry of the gap
The hugye hors did shyueryng stand, where in themselues did wrap
The captaynes close, in holow vautes with bloudy war yfreight.
When lawfully we might haue tryde, and serched their deceit:
So by theyr owne contryued snares the grekes had bin confound:
The brasen bucklers being shooke did gyue a clattring sound.
A priuy whyspering often tymes came tyckling in our ear.
And Pyrrhus (in a murreynes name so ready for to heare.
The crafty councell picked out of false Vlisses brayne,)
Did iangle in the holow Uautes, that range thereof agayne.
But fearing and suspecting nought the headdy youth of Troy
Layde handes vpon the sacred ropes, to hale and pull with ioy.
On this syde younge Astyanax came garded with his trayne,
On th'other part Pollixena dispoused to bee slayne
Upon Achilles tombe, she coms with maydes, and hee with men,
A ioly flocke with equall yeares as younge as they were then.
Theyr vowd oblacions to the gods in holy day attyre,
The matrons bryng and so to church repayreth euery syre.
And all the city did alyke, yea Hecuba our queene
(That synce the woful Hectors death or now was neuer sene)
She mery is: O griefe accurst, of all thy sorowes depe
For whych that first, or last befell entendest thou to wepe?
Our battred walles which heauenly hands erected haue and framde?
Or els the burning temples which vpon their Idols flamde?
Lamenting these calamyties wee haue not time and space,
O mighty parent Pryam we poore Troyans wayle thy case.
The olde mans thratling throate I sawe, (alas) I saw yborde
With cruell Pyrrhus blade, that scante with any bloud was gorde.
153
Refraine your teares yt down your cheekes should tricle euermore
With woefull waylings piteously your pryuate friendes deplore
My myseries refuse a mate, so much accurst as I:
To rewe my carefull case, refrayne your lamentable cry.
As for myne owne distresse to moorne, I shall suffice alone.
CHO.
To mingle teares with other teares it doth vs good to mone:
In those the burning teary streames more ardently doe boyle,
Whom secret thoughts of lurking cares in priuy breast turmoyle:
Though that thou were a Gossop stout, that brooke much sorrow may
I warraunt thee, thou myghtest well, lament this sore decay.
Not sad and solemne Aedon that in the woodes doth singe
Her sugred Ditties finely timde on sweete and pleasaunt stringe:
Recording Itys woefull hap in diuers kynde of note,
Whom Progne though he were her chylde and of her wombe begot,
For to reueng his fathers fault, she did not spare to kill:
And gaue his flesh and bloude for foode the fathers Maw to fill.
Nor Progne who in Swallowes shape: vpon the rydges hye,
Of houses sits in Biston towne bewayling piteously,
With chattering throate, of Tereus her spouse the cruell act,
(Who did by strength and force of armes a shamefull brutishe fact.
Defile the syster of his wyfe, fayre Philomel by name,
And eke cut out her tonge, least shee should blab it to his shame)
Though Progne this her husbandes rape lamenting very sore
Doe wayle, and weepe with piteous plaint, yet can shee not deplore
Sufficiently, though that shee woulde, our countreyes piteous plight:
Though he himselfe among the Swans syr Cygnus lilly whight.
Who dwelles in streame of Ister floud, and Tanais channell coulde,
His weeping voyce most ernestly though vtter out hee woulde:
Although the morninge Halcyons with dolefull sighes doe wayle,
At such time as the fighting floudes their Cyex did assayle,
Or rashly wexing boulde attempt the Seas now layde at rest,
Or being very fearefull feede their broode in tottring nest,
Although as squemishe hearted men those priestes in bedlem rage,
Whom mother Cyble being borne on high in lofty stage,
Doth mooue, to play on shalmes, Atys the Phrygian to lament,
Yet can not they this lot bewayle, though brawn frō armes they rent.
Cassandra, in our teares there is no measure to refrayne,
Those miseryes all measure passe, that plunged vs in payne.
The sacred fillets from thy heads, why dost thou hale and pull?
They chiefly ought to worship God, whose hearts with griefe be dull.
[153]
My feare by this affliction is cleane abated all,
Nor praying to the heauenly Ghostes for mercy will I call.
Although they were disposde to chafe and fret in fustten fumes,
They nothing haue me to displease, Fortune her force consumes.
Her spyte is worne vnto the stumpes, what countrey haue I left?
Where is my Syre? am I of all my systers quite bereft.
The sacred tombes and alter stones our bloud haue drunke & swylde,
Where are my brethren blessed knot? destroyed in the fylde.
All widdow Weues of Priams sonnes may easly now beholde,
The Pallace voyde and cast of court of silly Priam olde.
And by so many marriages so many Wyddowes are,
But onely Hellen comming from the coast of Lacon farre.
That Hecuba the mother of so many a pryncely wyght,
Whose fruitfull Wombe did breede the brand, of fyer blasing bryght:
Who also bare the swinge in Troy, by practise now doth learne,
New lawes and guise of desteny in bondage to discerne.
On her shee taketh heart of grace with lookes so sterne and wylde,
And barketh as a bedlem bitch about her strangled chylde
Deare Polidor, the remnaunt left, and onely hope of Troy,
Hector, and Priam to reuenge, and to restore her ioy.
CHO.
The sacred Phœbus Prophet is with sodayne silence husht:
A quaking trembling shiuering feare throughout her lims hath rusht:
Her Face as pale as Ashes is, her Fillits stande vpryght,
The soft and gentle goldilockes starte vp of her affright.
Her panting breathing breast stuft vp within doth grunt and grone.
Her glaring bryght and steaming Eyes are hether and thyther throwne.
Now glauncing vp and downe they roll: now standing stiffe they stare.
She stretcheth vp her head more streyght then commonly she bare,
Boult vp she goes, her wrastling Iawes that fast together clinge,
She doth attempt by diuers meanes, on sunder how to wringe.
Her mumbling words in gabling mouth shut vp she doth asswage,
As Menas mad that Bacchus aares doth serue in furious rage.
CAS.
How doth it hap (O sacred tops of high Parnassus hill)
That me berapt of sence, with prickes of fury fresh yee fill?
Why doe you me with ghost inspyre, that am besyde my wits?
O Phœbus none of thyne I am, releasse me from the fits:
Infixed in my burning breastes the flames extinguish out,
Who forceth me with fury fell to gad and trot about?
Or for whose sake inspyrde with spryte mad mumbling make must I?
Why play I now the Prophet colde, sith Troy in dust doth ly?
154
With mantell blacke of darknesse deepe cleane couerd is the skyes:
But loe two shining Sunnes at once in heauen appeareth bryght,
Two Grecian houses muster doe their armies twayne to fight.
Amonge the mighty Goddesis in Ida woodes I see,
The fatall sheepherd in his throne as vmpier plast to bee:
I doe aduise you to beware, beware (I say) of kynges,
(A kindred in whose cancred heartes olde priuy grudges springes)
That countrey clowne Ægisthus he this stocke shall ouerthrowe,
What doth this foolish despret dame her naked weapons showe?
Whose crowne entendeth shee to cracke in weede of Lacon lande,
With Hatchet (by the Amazons inuented first) in hand?
What face of mighty maiesty bewitched hath myne eyes?
The conquerour of saluage beastes Marmarick Lyon lyes,
Whose noble necke is wurried with currish fange and tooth
The churlish snaps of eger Lyonesse abyde hee dooth.
Alacke yee ghostes of all my friendes why should yee say that I,
Among the rest am onely safe, from perils farre to ly?
Fayne father follow thee I would, Troy being layde in dust.
O brother terrour of the Greekes, O Troyans ayde and trust.
Our auncient pomp I doe not see, nor yet thy warmed handes,
(That fearce on Greekish flaming fleete did fling the fyry brandes)
But mangled members, schorched corps, and cake thy valiaunt armes,
Hard piniond and bounde in bands sustayning greeuous harmes:
O Troyolus, a match vnfit encountering with Achill
(That myghty man of armes) to soone come vnto thee I will.
I doe delight, to sayle with them on stinking Stygian flood.
To vew the churlishe mastife our of hell, it doth mee good.
And gaping mouthed Kingdome darke of greedy Ditis raygne.
The Barge of filthy Phlegethon this day shall entertayne,
Mee conquering, and conquered, and Prynces soules with all.
You flitering shades I you beseeche, and eake on thee I call,
O Stygian poole (whereon the Gods theyr solemne othes doe take
Unbolt a whyle the Brasen bars of darksome Lymbo lake.
Whereby the Phrygian folke in hell may Micean state beholde.
Looke vp yee silly wretched soules, the fates are backward roulde.
The sqally sisters doe approch, and deale their bloudy strokes,
Their smultring faggots in their handes halfe brunte to ashes smokes.
Their vysages so pale doe burnt, with fyry flaming eyes:
A garment blacke theyr gnawed guts doth gyrde in mourning guyse.
[154]
With lying long doe rot corrupt in miry pudle cast.
Beholde, the wery aged man his burning thyrst forgot,
The waters dalying at his lippes to catch endeuors not:
But mourneth for the funerall, that shall ensue anon.
The Troyan Prynce his royall robes tryumphant putteth on.
CHO.
The furious rage cleane ouerpast begins it selfe to slake,
And slyps away, euen as a Bull that deadly wounde doth take
On gasshed neck afront the aares: come let vs ease at last
Her lymbes, that of the spryte of God hath felt the mighty blast.
Returning home agayne at length and crounde with Lawrell bow
(A signe of worthy victory) is Agamemnon now.
The Wyfe to meete her Husband, doth her speedy passage ply,
Returning hand in hand, and foote by foote most louingly.
| Hippolytus, Medea, Agamemnon, Herculas Oetaeus | |