Hippolytus, Medea, Agamemnon, Herculas Oetaeus

Learne Lordings, learne to feare and dread th'unweildy fatall force.
This little dust is all thats left of Hercles hugy coarse.
That boysteous Giaunt is consumde vnto these ashes small
O Titan what a mighty masse is come to nought at all.
Aye me an aged womans lappe all Hercules doth shrowde,
Her lap doth serue him for a graue, and yet the champion prowde,
With all his lumpe stils not the roome. Aye mee a burthen small
I feele of him to whom whole heauen no burthen was at all.
O Hercules, deare chylde, O sonne the season whilom was,
That thou to Tartar pits, and sluggish dens aloofe didst passe
For to repasse: from deepe of hell when wilt thou come agayne?
For to poisoyne the spoyles thereof, or bring from captiue chayne
To life thy friendly Theseus. But when wilt thou returne
Alone: can flaming Phlegethon thy ghost in torments burne:
Or can the mastifft Dogge of hell keepe downe thy woefull sprite?
Where then ought I come see thy soule and leaue this loathed light?
When shall I rap at Tartar gate? what Iawes shall mee deuower?
What death shall dawnt mee: goest thou to hell, and hast no power

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To come agayne: alas why do I wast, the day in teares and playnte
O wretched lyfe why dost thou last thou shouldest droupe and faynt,
And loath this dreary daye: how: can I beare to Ioue agayne
Another noble Hercules, what sonne may I obtayne
So valiant to call mee thus (Alcmena mother myne)
O happy spouse Amphitrio twyse happy hast thou bene
In entring at the dennes of death, and through thy noble sonne
The Deuils at thy presentes quake to see thee thether come.
Though thou but forged father wert to Hercules of late
Whether shall old beldam goe whom many kinges do hate:
If any prince remayne with blody breast and murdring mynde
Then woe to mee: if groning babes be any left behynd,
That sorrow for theyr parentes deathes now, now for Hercles sake
Theyr mallice let them wrecke on mee, on mee dyre vengeance take
If any young Bustris be, I feare the Persians sore
Wil come and take me captiue hence in chaynes for euermore.
If any tyrant feede his borce with gubbes of straungers flesh
Now let his pampred iades vnto my Carksse fall a fresh.
Perhap dame Iuno coueteth on me to wrecke her yre.
And on vs of her burning breast wil turne the flaming fire
Her wreckful hand doth loyter now sith Hercules is slayne.
And now to feele her spurning spyte as harlot I remayne.
My valyant sonne is cause of this my wombe shall barrayne be,
Least I shoul beare another child as hardy as was hee.
Oh whether may Alcmena goe? or whether shal she wend?
What countrey or what kingdomes may my careful hed defend
Where may I couch my wretched coarse, that euery where am knowne?
If I vnto my natiue soyle repayre among myne owne,
Euristeus is of Argos lord thus woefully forlorne.
I wil to Thebes where I was wed, and Hercules was borne:
And where with Ioue I did enioy dame Uenus deare delight.
O blessed woman had I bene and in most happy plight,
If Ioue with flash of lightning leams and blasing flakes of fyre
Had smolthred me as Semele was lowst at her desyre.
Would God that Hercles whyle he was a babe, had rypped bene
Out of my wombe, then wretchedly I should not this haue seene
The pangues and tormentes of my sonne, whose prayse doth coūteruaile
Euen Ioue: then had I learnd that death at length might him assayle,
And take him from my sight: O child, who wil remember thee?
For now vnthankfulnes is great in men of each degree:

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(That for thy sake I do not know where entertaynd to bee)
The curtesie of the Cleonies I wil attempt and trye
Whom from the Lyon rescewde he and made the monster dye
Or shal I too th'Archadians go where thou didst slea the boare
Where thy renowne remaineth ryfe of great exploytes before,
The parlous serpent Hydra heare was slayne there fel he dead,
That with the flesh of slaughtred men his greedy horses fedde
And ponder were the Stimphall burdes compelde to leaue the skye
And tamed by the handy toyle, now doth the Lyon frie,
And belketh stiffling fumes in heauens whyle thou liest in thy graue
O if mankynd but any sparke of thankful nature haue
Let all men preace to succour mee Alcmene thy mother deare.
What if among the Thracians I venter to appeare,
Or on the bankces of Heber floud? thy prowesse euery where.
Hath succoured all these foyles: for earst in Thrace thou did put downe
The fleshy maungers of the King and put him from his crowne,
By slaughter of the saluage prince the people liue in peace.
Where diddest thou denye thy helpe to make tormoyling cease?
Unhappy mother that I am a shryne where may I haue
To shrowde thy coarse: for all the world may striue aboute thy graue
What temple may be meete to shryne thy reliques safe for aye,
And hallowed bones? what nations vnto thy ghost shal pray?
O noble sonne what sepulchere what hearse may serue for thee?
The world it selfe through flying flame thy fatal tombe shalbe:
Who taketh here this payse from me his ashes which I beare
Why loath I them? imbrace his bones keepe stil his ashes here,
And they shal be a shield to thee his dust shal thee defend,
To see his shadow, princes prowde for feare shal stoupe and bend

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

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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,

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