University of Virginia Library

THE FIFT ACTE.

Nutrix. Philoctetes.
PH.
In such a chearefull sorte
As no man liues.

NV.
And could he with so sweete and merry looke,
The scorching panges and torments of his ending fier brooke?

PH.
That there was any heate at all his face did not bewray,
Who prou'de that power might force al things to stoupe and to obay,
That vnder sonne vntamed be.

NV.
Where did the noble knight,
Among the wrastling waues of sea display his matchlesse might:

PH.
That mischiefe witch all only yet the worlde knew not before,
Euen fier hath bin conquered as beastes and monsters more.
Among the toyles of Hercules the fier is crept in.

NV.
Declare vs how the flaming force of fier coulde hee win.

PH.
As soone as hee with smarting hand the Oeta hill had grypte,
And forthwith from ye braunched Beeche ye shrinking shade was wipte:
And felled from the stump it lyes, a Pyne tree hard hee bendes,
That crakes the clowdes, & down from skyes his hawty head he sendes
The Rocke did totter ready for to reele, and with the sway
It tumbleth downe, a little groue withall it beares away.
A spreading Oake of Chaon big, whose leaues did euer rush,
And dimde the sunne, and did beyonde the woode his braunches push.
It being hewde doth crack, and eake in twayne the wedges knappes:
The steele startes back and thus the toole of Iron bides the rappes,
And flyes out of the Logge, at length at roore it shogde and shooke,
And falling downe full lythtly the ouerthrow it tooke.
Forthwith the place lost all his light, the byrds scaard fro their nest
Doe soare about the cropped wood, and holes wherein to rest,
And chirping with their weary winges about the plot they flicker
In euery tree the ringing strokes were multiplied thicker.
The holy Oakes in hugy hand the Iron Axe did feele.
No timber on the stallen stocks might scape the hewing steele,
Thus all the wood vpon a pile is heapt, and one by one
The Logges are layde as hygh as heauen that Hercules thereon
Might haue a narrow roome: his burning bones for to bestow.
On Pynetree top, and towghest Oake the fier begins to glowe.
And on the stumped willowe flamth, and thus the forrest wyde
Doth make the Kill: the Popler wood all Hercles blocks doth hyde.
But as the puissaunt Lyon when his fits doe vexe him sore,
Lies wallowing on his back, and through the forrest lowde doth rore.
So fareth hee, who woulde haue thought hee had to burning gon?
As one that climbs to heauen, not fier, he was to looke vpon
When vp he stept on Oeta mount and gazed on his Kill.
Being layde aloft he brake the blocke, so heauy was hee still.
The shyues yet coulde not beare his wayght he calling for his bow
Did say to mee, haue Philocktet, on thee I it bestow,
This same is it that Hydra with his swarming heads did know.
This did fetch downe the stimphall foules, and all that wee haue daunt,
Goe thou with this let victory, and happinesse thee haunt,
For neuer shall thou shute agaynst thy foes with these but speede.
If at a byrde amid the clowdes thou aame shee dies indeede.
These certayne shaftes shall bring thy marke down from the azur sky,
Thys bow shall not deceaue thy hand, full oft I did it try,
And made it meete to beare a shaft, and cast his leauell dew.
Thyne arrowes shall not fayle thyne aame if that thou nock them trew,
I aske but only this of thee, put fier to the Stack,
Bestow on mee my funerall flame to bryng me to my wrack.
This knarry Club (quoth hee) the which no hand shall euer losse
Shall onely with his Hercules in fier goe to losse,
This also (quoth hee) shouldst thou haue if thou could weild the same,
Beside his maister let it lye to help towarde the flame,
And then beside him down hee layes the Lyons hayry skin
To burne with him: the shaggy case hid all the pyle within.
The people sobde, and none there was but sorrow straynde his teares.
The mother mad for egar griefe her breast all bare shee beares,
And naked downe toth Nauill steade displayes her tender teates.
And languishing with wringed hands her naked dugges shee beates
And cryeth out vpon the Gods on Ioue himselfe shee calles,
Her shriking rang through all the place so womanlike shee yalles.
Be still (quoth hee) good mother: force your showres of teares to cease.
Your dreary dole disgraceth much the death of Hercules.
Wayle secretly vnto your selfe: why make ye Iuno glad,
To se that you a weeping day with store of teares haue had?
(It doth her good to see her bawdes, to stand with weeping eyes.)
Forbeare, forbeare your malady, tis deadly sinne for yee,
To teare the teates, and rent the wombe, that first did foster me.
And as he blustred giuing gruntes when earst he led in chayne
The hownd aboute the townes of Grece what tyme he came agayne
Tryumphing ouer conquerd hel defying Plutoës might,
And dreadful desteny: so on the fyre he lay vpright.
What conquerour euer sat in coatch with such a chereful grace?
What tyrant did controll his folke by law with such a face?
How husht was al thing at his death? himselfe he could not weepe
And also we had cleane forgot the wound of sorrowes deepe
None doth lament him at his death now were it shame to wayle:
Alcmen (whom nature ought to moue) her teares now do her fayle.
And thus as yll as was the sonne the mother stoode almost.

N.
But at his burning did hee not call on the heauenly host,
Remembring Ioue to heare his suite.

Ph.
As on in depe dispayre
He lay, and staryng vp so rould his eyes into the ayre
To spye if Ioue lookt downe to him from any turret hye.
Then with his handes displayd to heauen (quoth he) where so thou lye,
And lokest downe to se thy sonne, this same, this same is hee,
Whom one day eeked with a night engendred hath to thee
If East and West if Scithia, and euery burning plot,
That parched is with glowing glede of Phœbus fier hot
Doth sing my prayse? and if the earth ful satisfyde with peace
If languishing and wayling woords in euery towne doe cease
If none their alters do imbrew with any guiltles gore,
Then Ioue let my vncaged spirite haue heauen for euermore.
As for thinfernall dennes of death they do not me detarre?
Nor scouling Plutoes dungeon darck, but Ioue I do abhorre.
Unto those gastly Goblins as a silly shade to goe,
Sith I am he whose conquering hand gaue them their ouerthrowe.
Withdraw these foggy clowdes of night, display the glimsyng light
That Hercles broyld with flying flames the Gods may haue in sight:
And if thou do denye (O syre) the starres and heauen to mee
To geue me them agaynst thy will thou shalt constrayned bee,
If glutting griefe do stop thy speach, the Stygian goulphes set oape,
And let mee dye, but first declare within the heauenly coape,
That thou accepst me as thy soone: this day it shal be wrought,
That to bee raysd aloft to starres, I may be worthy thought.
Thou hast doone litle for me yet: it may be doubted well
Whether Ioue did first beget his sonne, or damnd him first to hell.
And (quoth he) let my stepdame see, how wel I can abyde
The scorching heate of burning brandes: for fyer then he cride,
And sayth to me O Philoctet in hast vppon me throw
The burning logges, why quakest thou? dost dastard thow forslow,
For feare to this wicked deede? O coward, peasant slaue,
Thou art to weake to bende my bow, vnmeete my shaftes to haue
What aylest thou to loke so pale? and as thou seest mee lye
With cherefull looke couragiously do thou the fier plye.
Behold me wretch that broyle and burne my father opes the Skyes
And vnto me sonne Hercules come, come away he cryes.
O father Ioue (quoth he) I come: with that I waxed pale
And toward him a burning beame with might and mayne I hale:
But backe from him the billets flye and tumbling out they leape,
And from the limmes of Hercules downe falleth all the heape.
But he encrocheth on the fyre as it from him doth shrinke.
That many mountaynes whole were set on fyer a man would thinke
No noyse was hard, and all was husht, but that the fyer did hisse
In Hercles glowing paunch when as his liuer burning is.
If boysteous gyant Typhus had amid this fire bene throwne,
These torments would haue straind his teares & forst him sigh & grone.
Or tough Euccladus that tost a mountayne on his backe.
But Hercles lifted vp himselfe amid his fyres all blacke,
With smoake besmeard his corps halfe burnt in shiuers, gubs & flawes,
And downe the throate his gasping breath & flames at once he drawes
Then to Alcmen he turnd himselfe: O mother myne (quoth hee)
Should ye so stand at Hercles death? should you thus wayle for me?
And thus betwene the fire and smoke, vpright and stiffe he standes.
And neyther stoupes nor leanes awrye, but moues and stirs his hands,
With al his liuely gestures still, and thus he doth perswade.
His mother leaue the langusihing, and mourning that she made.
And did encourage all his men t'encrease the fyre than
As though he were not burning, but would burne some other man.
The people stoode astonished, and scant they would beleeue
That fire had any force on him, or that it did him greeue.
Because his chereful looke had such a maiesty and grace.
And neuer wilde vs meue the fyre that he might burne apace,
(And now when as he thought, he had endured pangues ynough,)
And stoutly bode the brunt of death, the blocks hee doth remoue,
That smothering lay, to make thē burne: then downward doth he shoue
And where the stewing heate did chiefely scorch, and burne most hot,
That way he thrusts his frying lims, and thether hath hee got.
(With steaming countnaunce vnapaulde his mouth now doth he fill)
With burning coales, his comely Bearde thē blazde about his cheekes:
And now when as the sparkling fier vnto his visage seekes,
The flame lickt vp his singed hayre, and yet he did not winke:
But open kept his staring eyes But what is this? my thinke
Alcmene cometh yonder as a woefull wight forlorne,
With sighes and sobs, and all her hayre befrounced rent, and torne.
And beares the remnaunt in her Lap, of Hercules the great.

Alcmena. Philoctetes.
Ph.
O mother of noble Hercules forbeare your dreary playnt:
His valiant death thus should not be with femal teares attaynt.
Ye should not languish thus for him, nor count him wretched man
In dying, who by noble mynd preuent his destny can.
His cheualry forbyddeth vs with teares him to bewayle:
The stately stomacke doth not stoupe: they sigh whose hartes do fayle.

Alc.
(Ile mone no more: behold, behold, most wretched mother I)
Haue lost the sheild of land and seas, where glittring Phœbe displayes
With whirling wheeles in foamy gulphes, and red and purple rayes
The losse of many sonnes I may lament in him alone.
Through him I lifted Kings to frowne, when crown my selfe had none
And neuer any mother liude, that neded lesse to craue
Of Gods, then I. I asked naught while I my sonne might haue.
What could not Hercles tender loue like on me to bestow?
What God would once denye to graunt or what he held me froe,
Twas in my powre to aske and haue. If Ioue would ought denye,
My Hercules did bring to passe I had it by and by.
What mortall mother euer bare and lost, so deare a sonne?
Earst downe the cheekes of Niobe the trilling teares did runne.
When of her deare and tender brattes she wholly was bereuen,
And did bewayle with strayned sighes her children seuen and seuen
And yet might I compare this one (my Hercles) vnto those
And I in him as much as shee in all her impes did lose.
The mothers that are maurning dames do lacke on hed and chefe,
And now Alcmene shalbe shee depriude of all releefe.
Cease woeful mothers cease, if that among you any are
Constrayne to shed your streaming teares by force of pensiue care:
Ye Lady whom lamenting long of women fourmed rockes,
Giue place vnto my gluttyng greefe, beat on with burning knockes
Ye handes vppon my riueled breast, alas am I alone
Enough for such a funerall to languish and to mone,
Whom al the world shall shortly neede? yet streach thy feble armes
To thumpe vppon thy sounding breast thy griefe with doleful larmes
And in despyte of al the gods powre out thy woeful crye
And to receiue thy flowing teares thy watry cheekes applye.
Bewayle Alcmenas woful state: the sonne of Ioue bewayle,
Whose byrth did cause the dusky day in kindly course to fayle.
The East compact two nightes in one: Lo, lo, a greater thing
Then glorious day the world hath lost now let your sorrowes ring,
Yee people al whose lowryng lordes he draw to dennes of death
Theyr blades (that reekt with guiltles gore) he put into the sheath.
Bestow on him your Christall teares, which he deserued well:
Howle out ye heauens, ye marble seas, and goulphes with gronings yell.
O Crete Deare darling vnto Ioue For loue of Hercles rore,
Ye hundred cityes beate your armes: my sonne for euermore
Is gone among the griesly ghostes, and shimmering shades of hell
Lament for him ye woeful wightes, that here on earth do dwell,

Hercules. Alcmena
Alc.
Whence roares this thundring voyce, yt doth against mine eares reboūd,
And biddeth mee to stint my teeres? I know it now I know,
The darksome dungeons daunted are, and Dennes of Lakes alow.
O Sonne art thou returnd to me from Stygian gulph agayne?
And can thou twise of ougly death the conquest thus obtayne?
And brast the balefull prisons twise, of glum and gastly night.
Against th'infernall fyrryesoorde preuayling thus by might?
May any scape from Acheron? Or dost thou scape alone?
Hath hell no power to holde thy sprite, when breath from breast is gone?
Or els hath Pluto baalde thee out, for feare least thou alone
Should cloyne his Scepter from his hand, & pluck him from his trone?
For I am sure I sawe thee layde vpon the burning trees:
And from thy Corps the flame and sparkes agaynst the welkin flyes:
That sure thou wast to poulder burnt, and feeble lyfe was lost:
But sure the deepes and pits of hell did not lock vp thy ghost.
Why were the deuills afrayde of thee? why quaked Ditis grim?
And did thy noble ghost seeme such a gastly bug to him?

HE.
The dampy dikes of Cocitas coulde not keepe me from light.
Nor Carons fusty musty Barge transported hath my sprite.
Now Mother mourne no more: once haue I seene the Hags of hell,
And all the stearne and steaming fiendes in dungeons deepe that dwell.
That mortall moulde I tooke of you to nought the flames haue fryed:
Heauen hath the substaunce that I tooke of Ioue: in fier yours died.
And therefore pawse your playntius teares, which parents vse to shed,
When wretchedly they wayle their sonnes, that dastardly are dead.
Thus vulgar varlets weepe: loe vertue hopes the Starres to get:
But faynting feare stil dreames on death, from heauen where I am set,
You heare my voyce: Euristeus now shal byde the deadly push
With charyot sway his cracked scull ye shal on sunder crush
Now must I hence aduaunce my Ghost vp to the rolling skyes
Once more I daunt the deuilles, and do the goblins grim aggrise

Alc.
But stay awhile my sonne: he fades and shrinketh from my sight
Aduaunst he is among the starres: doth this my charmed Spirite
Dote in a traunce? or do I dreame that I haue seene my sonne
A troubled mynd can scante beleue the thinges he seeth done.
But now I see thou art a God possessing heauen foraye.
I see it sure. I wil to Thebes thy triumphes to display.

Chorus.

Lo vertue scapes the gastly shades of hell,
Ye noble peeres that shyne in vertue bright
Dire desteny cannot constrayne you dwell
Among the glowming glades of ougly might,
Nor sinke your fame in loathsome lakes of spyte.
But when deaths day drawes on the gasping howre,
You purchast glory shall direct your right
To fynd the passage to the heauenly bower.
When flesh doth fall, and breathing body dies
Then (Fame the child of Vertue) doth arise.
But sluggish sottes that sleepe their dayes in sloth,
Or geue their golden age to loathsome lust.
Them and their names the wretches bury both,
When as their bones shall shryned be in dust:
The clay shall couer their carkases forlorne,
As though such kaytiffes neuer had bene borne,
But if that ought of memory they haue.
Yn thafter age it shalbe filthy shame.
The gnawing wormes torment not so in graue
Their rotten flesh, as tounges do teare their name,
That dayly kild to further mischiefe liues.
Lo both the fruite, that vice and virtue giues.