 | Octavia (1581) |  |
THE THIRD SCENE.
Octauia, Nutrix.
O staggering
state, O peerelesse yll:
With ease Electra I repeate,
And call to mynd thy mourning will.
With watred eies like smartīg sweat
Thou mightst lament thy father slain,
Stil hoping that thy brother myght,
That deadly deede reuenge agayne.
Whom thou O tender louing wight
Didst safely shield from bloudy foe,
And naturall loue did closely kepe:
But Neroes dreaded visage loe,
Doth feare me that I dare not weepe,
Nor wayle my parentes ruthful case,
By cruell lot this slaughter cought:
Ne suffers mee this geniall face,
To dash with teares to dearely bought
With brothers bloud: who onely was
Myne onely hope in all my griefe,
And of so many mischieues, as
My comfort greate, and sole reliefe.
Now loe reserud for greater care,
And to abyde more lingring payne,
Of noble famous lineage bare,
A drouping shade I do remayne.
Nutrix.
With ease Electra I repeate,
And call to mynd thy mourning will.
With watred eies like smartīg sweat
Thou mightst lament thy father slain,
Stil hoping that thy brother myght,
That deadly deede reuenge agayne.
Whom thou O tender louing wight
Didst safely shield from bloudy foe,
And naturall loue did closely kepe:
But Neroes dreaded visage loe,
Doth feare me that I dare not weepe,
Nor wayle my parentes ruthful case,
By cruell lot this slaughter cought:
Ne suffers mee this geniall face,
To dash with teares to dearely bought
With brothers bloud: who onely was
Myne onely hope in all my griefe,
And of so many mischieues, as
[163]
Now loe reserud for greater care,
And to abyde more lingring payne,
Of noble famous lineage bare,
A drouping shade I do remayne.
My Ladyes heauye voyce mee thought
Within my listning eares can sounde,
And snaylish age in going soft,
Unto her thews is not ybounde.
Octauia.
O Nurse our dolours witnes sure
By curroll cheekes distilling rayne,
And heauy heartes complaynt endure.
Nutrix.
Alas, what day shall ridde of payne,
With care your welnye wasted heart?
Octauia.
That sends this guiltles ghost to graue
Nutrix.
This talke (good madame) set apart.
Octauia.
In rule my state theire destenies haue,
And not thy prayers, (O matrone) iust.
Nutrix.
The doune soft easy God shall geue,
Your troubled mynd a tyme I trust,
More sweete then euer you did liue.
With feuell fayre as one content,
And glosed face, but onely please
Your man, and make, he will relent.
Octauia.
The Lyon fierce I shall appease,
And sooner tame the Tygre stoute,
Then mankynd Tyrantes brutish breast.
He spytes the noble raced rout,
Contemnes hygh powers, disdaynes the least:
Ne can wel vse that princely weede,
Which venemous parent wrapt him in
By huge vnspeakeable griesly deede.
Although that wight vnthankful, grynne,
In Kingly throne that hee doth raygne,
Throughe cruel cursed mothers ayde:
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So greate a gift, it shal be sayde
And after fates in long spent age,
That woman wight shal haue alwaye,
This eloge yet and saying sage,
That he by her doth beare the sway,
Nutrix.
Let not your ragious mynde so walke,
But doe compresse your moody talke.
| Octavia (1581) | |