 | The Queen of Corsica |  |
Scena 7a.
Lycomedon. Captain Phocillus Antiope.Lycomedon Wounded by the Captaine. Phocillus rises, and offers to run at him.
Ly.
Helpe, helpe, Treason
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Nay my Lord, Spare yor Labour; Hee's all End«ed»
Ly.
None near to «su***ur» a Prince? Phocillus hold.
If thou beest noble, Lend the«**»a«*»d a Sword
I cannot stand Long, for I feele my Greife
Mixe with my Blood soe sweetly; and runn out,
That Deathe's a Pleasure to mee
Pho.
I scorne Aduantage
Captaine Lend thine; I'l try if hee be Princely.
Cap: lends him his Sword. Phocill. and Lyc: fight. Lycom falls:
Well done! Another.
Lyc.
Stand mee one Thrust more,
That I may forward fall and Looke my Graue
I'th fface
Captain Runns away.
Cap.
Here is noe staying for mee.
Ant: Lookes up
Ant.
Who's that my Brother? Now I goe unto
The Wrong'd Alceus; Hee had my heart first
But thou bewitch't mee, And I—
Dyes.
Pho.
Dy.
Ly.
How Came shee slayne?
Pho.
By my Hand
Vnwillingly as I in heate Pursu'd you.
Lyc.
And yet my Heart bursts. «not; sure» I «am»
Made by my Greifes soe.
Pho. reeles and falls
Pho.
I fall, and in my Death
Ariue at Penitence. My Soule Lookes out
And sees her Crimes about her. Sr, my Knees
Would begg your Pardon. Hee that kills a King
Does wound his owne ffame Backward, and Posterity
Will keepe it Raw for euer. Let noe Man
Thinke hee Can touch the Thunder of the Gods
And Escape Burning; Tis a Sinn that Loades
The Urne, and will not Let our Ashes Sleepe.
Forgiue mee Sr, soe shall this Death of yours
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Mercyes Example; that when the Cold Ice
Of Death Creepes through my Vaynes and makes mee sti«**»
I shall becom your Pillar to Ascend by
Into her Mansion. Doe not fayle mee Sword
Soe will I kneele in Death, and Leaue my Body
To Waite on your Departure.
Hee Leanes upon his Sword and Dyes Kneeling.
Lycom.
Peace be thy Wings
To Carrie thee up yonder. Tis my Greife
That I shall seale the Deed I owe to Death
Without a Wittnesse. Will they neare returne
From theyr Long Chace? Then Blood and life fare«****»
I would not haue left you thus all alone.
And little Kingdom doe not grudge to Lend
Thy Lord a Turfe of Earth to Couer him
And a ffew Titles. Loyall Sword, Adue,
Th'art all I greiue to part with; And if there
Were any By I would Entreate the State
Wee might be Bedfellowes; But Wretched man
Is idle in the Graue, and soe shall I;
How many thousand yeares, for euer euer
Shall I be nothing! Villaines, Slaues, & Beggars
Will tread upon mee then without Respect;
And in an Age Perhaps, my noble Dust
Be Cast into the high Way. Happy Beasts,
You yet doe find a Liuing Sepulcher,
While man Lyes rotting in the Stupid Earth,
And his Ghost Wanders—oh. oh oh. For euer!—
| The Queen of Corsica | |