University of Virginia Library

Scœna prima.

Mariam
sola.
How oft haue I with publike voyce runne on?
To censure Romes last Hero for deceit:
Because he wept when Pompeu life was gone,
Yet when he liu'd, hee thought his Name too great.
But now I doe recant, and Roman Lord
Excuse too rash a judgement in a woman:
My Sexe pleads pardon, pardon then afford,
Mistaking is with vs, but too too common.
Now doe I finde by selfe Experience taught,
One Object yeelds both griefe and ioy:
You wept indeed, when on his worth you thought,
But ioyd that slaughter did your Foe destroy.
So at his death your Eyes true droppes did raine,
Whom dead, you did not wish aliue againe.
When Herod liu'd, that now is done to death,
Oft haue I wisht that I from him were free:
Oft haue I wisht that he might lose his breath,
Oft haue I wisht his Carkas dead to see.
Then Rage and Scorne had put my loue to flight,
That Loue which once on him was firmely set:
Hate hid his true affection from my sight,
And kept my heart from paying him his debt.
And blame me not, for Herods Iealousie
Had power euen constancie it selfe to change:
For hee by barring me from libertie,
To shunne my ranging, taught me first to range.
But yet too chast a Scholler was my hart,
To learne to loue another then my Lord:
To leaue his Loue, my lessons former part,
I quickly learn'd, the other I abhord.
But now his death to memorie doth call,
The tender loue, that he to Mariam bare:
And mine to him, this makes those riuers fall,
Which by an other thought vnmoistned are.
For Aristobolus the lowlyest youth
That euer did in Angels shape appeare:
The cruell Herod was not mou'd to ruth,
Then why grieues Mariam Herods death to heare?
Why ioy I not the tongue no more shall speake,
That yeelded forth my brothers latest dome:
Both youth and beautie might thy furie breake,
And both in him did ill befit a Tombe.
And worthy Grandsire ill did he requite,
His high Assent alone by thee procur'd,
Except he murdred thee to free the spright
Which still he thought on earth too long immur'd.
How happie was it that Sohemus maide
Was mou'd to pittie my distrest estate?
Might Herods life a trustie seruant finde,
My death to his had bene vnseparate.
These thoughts haue power, his death to make me beare,
Nay more, to wish the newes may firmely hold:
Yet cannot this repulse some falling teare,
That will against my will some griefe vnfold.
And more I owe him for his loue to me,
The deepest loue that euer yet was seene:
Yet had I rather much a milke-maide bee,
Then be the Monarke of Iudeas Queene.
It was for nought but loue, he wisht his end
Might to my death, but the vaunt-currier proue:
But I had rather still be foe then friend,
To him that saues for hate, and kills for loue.
Hard-hearted Mariam, at thy discontent,
What flouds of teares haue drencht his manly face?
How canst thou then so faintly now lament,
Thy truest louers death, a deaths disgrace:
I now mine eyes you do begin to right
The wrongs of your admirer! And my Lord,
Long since you should haue put your smiles to flight,
Ill doth a widowed eye with ioy accord.
Why now me thinkes the loue I bare him then,
When virgin freedome left me vnrestraind:
Doth to my heart begin to creepe agen,
My passion now is far from being faind.
But teares flie backe, and hide you in your bankes,
You must not be to Alexandra seene:
For if my mone be spide, but little thankes
Shall Mariam haue, from that incensed Queene.