 | Svvetnam, the VVoman-hater, arraigned by women |  |
Scen. I.
Enter Iago and Nicanor, two Noblemen of Sicilia, in priuate conference.Nicanor.
Hee was a vertuous and a hopefull Prince,
And we haue iust cause to lament his death,
For had he liu'd, and Spaine made war agen,
He would ha' prou'd a Terror to his Foe.
Iag.
A greater cause of griefe was neuer knowne;
Not onely in his death, but for the losse
Of Prince Lorenzo too, his yonger brother,
Who hath beene missing almost eighteene moneths,
And none can tell whether aliue or dead.
Nic.
How do's the King beare these afflictions?
Enter another Lord.
Iag.
Now you shall heare how fares his Maiestie.
Lord.
Oh my good Lords, our sorrowes still increase,
A greater tide of woe is to be fear'd,
The Kings decay, with griefe for his two sonnes.
Iag.
The gods forbid, let's in and comfort him.
3. Lord.
Alas, his sorrow's such
He will not suffer vs to speake to him,
But turnes away in rage, and seemes to tread
The pace of one (if liuing) liuing dead.
Iag.
See where he comes,
Enter King in black, reading.
Vntill his grace be pleas'd to speake to vs.
Dead March.
Attic.
Death is the ease of paine, and end of sorrow,
How can that be? Death gaue my sorrowes life,
For by his death my paine and griefe begun,
And in beginning, neuer will haue end: for though I die,
My losse will liue in future memorie,
I and (perhaps) will be lamented too,
And registred by some, when all shall heare
Sicilia had two sonnes, yet had no heire.
Ha! What are you?
Who dares presume to interrupt vs thus?
What meanes this sorrow? Wherefore are these signes?
Or vnto whom are these obseruances?
Nic.
Vnto our King.
3. Lords.
To you my Soueraigne.
Iag.
Your Subiects all lament to see you sad.
Attic.
You all are Traytors then, and by my life
I will account you so:
Can you not be content with State and rule,
But you must come to take away my Crowne?
For solitude is sorrowes chiefest Crowne.
Griefe hath resign'd ouer his right to mee,
And I am King of all woes Monarchie.
You powers that grant Regeneration,
What meant you first to giue him vitall breath?
And make large Kingdomes proud of such a Prince
As my Lusyppus was, so good, so vertuous:
Then, in his prime of yeares,
To take him from mee by vntimely death?
Oh! had my spirit wings, I would ascend
And fetch his soule againe from—
Oh my sad sorrowes! Whither am I driuen?
Into what maze of errors will you lead mee?
This Monster (Griefe) hath so distracted mee,
Iag.
Deare Lord haue patience, though the heauens are pleas'd
To punish Princes for their Subiects faults,
In taking from vs such a hopefull Prince,
No doubt they will restore your yonger sonne,
Who cannot be but stay'd, and will, I hope
Be quickly heard of, to recall your ioyes.
Attic.
No, I shall neuer see Lorenzo more,
This eighteene moneths I haue not heard of him,
I feare some Traytors hand had seyz'd his life:
If hee were liuing, as that cannot bee;
I sooner looke to see the dead then hee:
For I am almost spent; This heape of age,
Mixt with my sorrow, soone will end my dayes.
Nic.
My Liege, take comfort, I (your Subiect) vow
To goe my selfe to seeke Lorenzo forth,
And ne'r returne vntill I find him out,
Or bring some newes what is become of him.
3. Lord.
The like will I, or ne'r come backe agen.
Iag.
Old as I am, I'le not be last behind,
And if my Soueraigne please to let mee goe.
Attic.
I thanke your loues, but I'le restrain your wils:
If I should part from you, my dayes were done,
For I should neuer liue till your returne,
Enter Nicano.
Nicanor my deare friend, Iago, Sforza,
One of you three, if I die issuelesse,
Must after mee be King of Sicilie.
Doe not forsake mee then.
Omnes.
Long liue your grace:
And may your issue raigne eternally.
Attic.
As for our daughter fayre Leonida,
Her female Sexe cannot inherit here,
Shout within.
One must inioy both her and Sicilie.
What sudden shout was that? Some know the cause;
Can there be so much ioy left in our Land,
Enter Nicanor.
Or wast a shreeke of some new miserie?
For comfort cannot be expected here.
The newes, Nicanor.
Trumpets.
Nic.
Happie, Sir, I hope,
There is a Souldier new arriu'd at Court,
Can tell some tidings of the long lost Prince:
Sfor.
Sir, shall he haue accesse?
Iag.
Oh ioyfull newes!
Attic.
Is it a question, Sforza? Bring him in,
As you would doe some great Ambassadour;
He is no lesse. Comes he not from a Prince?
He do's, if from Lorenzo hee be sent.
A flourish, with Trumpets. Enter a Captaine, brought in by the Lord Scanfardoe.
Thou Man of Warre, once play the Orator,
Proue Griefe a guiltie Thiefe, condemne my feares,
And let my sorrowes suffer in these teares:
Haue I a sonne or no? Good Souldier speake.
Capt.
Sir, I arriu'd by chance vpon your coast,
Yet hearing of the Proclamation
Which promis'd thousands vnto any man
That could bring newes to the Sicilian King,
Whether Lorenzo were aliue or dead.
Attic.
We'le double our reward what-e'r it be,
If hee be liuing: Dead, we'le keepe our word:
Then prethee say, What is become of him?
Capt.
Not for reward, but loue to that braue Prince,
Whose memorie deserues to out-liue time,
Come I to tell what I too truely know;
In the Lepanthean battel not long since,
Where he was made Commander of a Fleet,
Vnder Don Iohn the Spanish Generall,
He did demeane himselfe so manfully,
That he perform'd wonders aboue beliefe;
And thundring clamors rang the dying knels
Of many thousand soules; He, void of feare,
Dalli'd with danger, and pursu'd the Foe
Thorow a bloudy Sea of Victorie:
Whether there slaine, or taken prisoner
By the too mercilesse misbeleeuing Turkes,
No man can tell:
That when Victorie fell to the Christians,
The conquest, and the glorie of the day
Was soone eclipst, in braue Lorenzo's losse;
That when the battel and the fight was done,
They knew not well whether they lost or wonne.
Attic.
This newes is worse then death; Happy were I
If any now could tell me he were dead;
Death is farre sweeter then captiuitie:
My deare Lorenzo! Was it thy desire
To goe to Warre, made thee forsake thy Father,
Countrie, Friends, Life, Libertie? and vndergoe
Death, or Captiuitie, or some disaster
That exceeds 'em both? Yet, howso'er,
Captaine, We thanke thy loue; giue the reward
Was promis'd in the Proclamation.
Capt.
I'le not be nice in the refusall, Sir,
It is no wonder t'see a Souldier want:
All good wait on yee; may the Heauens be pleas'd
To make you happy in your long lost sonne.
Attic.
My comfort is, whether aliue or dead,
He brauely fought for Heauen and Christendome;
Such battels martyr men: their death's a life
Suruiuing all this worlds felicitie.
Lords, Where's Leonida, Our beautious child,
She's all the comfort we haue left Vs now;
She must not haue her libertie to march,
The Girle is wanton, coy, and fickle too:
How many Princes hath the froward Elfe
What dangers may insue? But to preuent,
Nicanor, wee make you her Gardian:
Let her be Princely vs'd; but no accesse
By any to her presence, but by such
As wee shall send, or giue commandment for:
'Tis death to any other dares attempt it.
I heare, the Prince of Naples seekes her loue:
Shee shall not wed with that presumptuous Boy,
His father and Our selfe were still at oddes,
Nor shall He thinke Wee will submit to Him.
Certaine he knowes not of Lisandro's sure,
For if he had, he would a come himselfe,
Or sent Ambassadors to speake for him.
We'le giue his answer ere to morrows Sunne
Shall retch to his Meridian, wretched state of Kings,
What end will follow where such woes begins?
Nic.
Scanfardoe?
Exeunt omnes.
Scan.
My good Lord?
Manet Nic. & Scanfardoe.
Nic.
How lik'st thou this?
I am made Gardian of my owne harts blisse,
The Princesse is my Prisoner, I her Slaue,
I keepe her Body, but shee holds my Heart
Inuiron'd in a Chest of Adamant.
Scan.
Is your Heart Iron?
Nic.
Steele, I thinke it is;
And liue an Anuile hammerd by her words,
It sparkles fire that neuer can bee quencht,
But by the dew of her cœlestiall breath.
Oft haue I courted, bin reiected too,
Yet what of that? I'le trye her once agen.
What many Princes haue attempting fail'd,
I by accesse may purchase, that's my hope;
The King I'me sure affects mee, nothing then
Is wanting but her loue, that once obtain'd
Sicill is ours: Scanfardoe? if we win,
Thou shalt be Lord Nicanor, I the King.
Exeunt.
| Svvetnam, the VVoman-hater, arraigned by women | |