University of Virginia Library

THE SECOND SCENE.

The VVoman, Hecuba.
HEC.
Ye faythful fellowes of your casualty,
Vntie thattyre, that on your heads ye weare,
And as behoueth state of misery,
Let fall aboute your woeful neckes your hayre.
In dust of Troy rub all your armes about,
In slacker weede and let your breastes be tyed
Downe to your bellies let your limmes lye out,
For what wedlocke should you your bosomes hyde?
Your garmentes loose, and haue in readines
Your furious handes vppon your breast to knocke
This habite well beseemeth our distresse,
It pleaseth me, I know the Troyan flocke
Renew agayne your longe accustomde cryes,
And more then earst lament your miseryes.
We bewayle Hector.

WO.
Our hayre we haue vntide, now euerychone,
All rent for sorrow of our cursed cace,
Our lockes out spreads, the knottes we haue vndone
And in these ashes stayned is our face.

HEC.
Fill vp your handes and make therof no spare,
For this yet lawful is from Troy to take
Let dovvne your garmentes from your shoulders bare.
And suffer not your clamour so to slake.
Your naked breastes wayte for your handes to smight
Now dolor deepe now sorrow shevv thy might:
Make all the coastes that compas Troy about
Witnes the souude of all your careful crye
Cause from the Caues the eccho to cast out:
Rebounding voyce of all your misery:
Not as she wontes, the latter word to sound
But all your woe from farre let it rebound
Let al the Seas it heare, and eke the land
Spare not your breastes vvith heauy stroake to strike
Beate ye your selues, ech one vvith cruell hand
For yet your vvonted crie doth me not like
VVe bevvayle Hector.

VVO.
Our naked armes, thus here vve rent for thee,
And bloudy shoulders, (Hector) thus vve teare:
Thus vvith our fistes, our heades lo beaten bee
And all for thee, behold vve hale our heare.
Our dugges alas, vvith mothers hands be torne
And vvhere the flesh is vvounded round about
VVhich for thy sake, vve rent thy death to morne
The flovving streames of bloud, they spring thereout.
Thy countres shore, and destinies delay.
And thou to vvearied Troians vvast an ayde,
A vvall thou vvast, and on thy shoulders Troy
Ten yeres it stode, on thee alone it staide,
VVith thee it fell: and fatall day alas
Of Hector both, and Troy but one there vvas.

HEC.
Enough hath Hector: turne your plaint and mone
And shed your teares for Pryame euery chone.

VVO.
Receiue our plaintes, O lord of Phrigian land
And old tvvise captiue king, receiue our feare,
VVhile thou vvert king. Troy hurtles then could stand
Though shaken tvvise, with Grecian sword it weare,
And twise did shot of Hercles quiuer beare,
At latter losse of Hecubes sonnes all
And roges for kings, that hgih on piles we reare:
Thou father shutst our latest funerall.
And beaten downe, to Ioue for sacrifies.
Like liueles blocke, in Troy thy carkas lies.

HEC.
Yet turne ye once your teares, another way,
My pryams death, should not lamented be.
O Troyans all, ful happy is Pryame say,
For free from bondage, downe descended hee,
To the lowest Ghoste: and neuer shall sustayne
His Captiue necke with Greekes to yoked bee.
Hee neuer shal behold the Atrids twayne
Nor false Vlisses euer shal he see,
Not hee a pray for Greekes to triumph at
His necke shall subiect to their conquestes beare
Ne geue his handes to tye behynde his backe,
That to the rule of Scepters wonted weare,
Nor following Agamemnons chare, in bande
Shall he bee pompe, to proude Mycenas land.

WO.
Ful happy Pryame is, each one wee say
That toke vvith him his Kingdome then that stoode
Now safe in shade, he seekes the wandring way,
And treads the pathes of all Elizius wood,
And in the blessed Sprightes, ful happy hee,
Agayne there seekes to meete with Hectors Ghost.
Happy Pryam, happy who so may see,
His Kingdome all, at once with him be lost.

Chorus added to the Tragedy by the Translator.

O ye to whom the Lord of Lande and Seas,
Of Life and Death hath graunted here the powre
Lay dovvne your lofty lookes, your pride appeas
The crovvned King fleeth not his fatall howre.
Who so thou be that leadst thy land alone,
Thy life vvas limite from thy mothers vvombe,
Not purple robe, not Glorious glittering throne,
Ne crovvne of Gold redeemes thee from the tombe:
A King he was that wayting for the vayle,
Of him that slew the Minotaure in fight:
Begilde with blacknes of the wonted saile
In seas him sonke, and of his name they hight.
So he that wild, to vvin the golden spoyle
And first vvith ship, by seas to seeke renovvne,
In lesser vvaue, at length to death gan boyle,
And thus the daughters, brought their father dovvne:
Whose songes, the vvoodes hath dravven, and riuers held,
And birdes to heare his notes, did theirs forsake,
In peece meale throvvne, amid the Thracian field,
Without returne hath sought the Stigian lake.
They sit aboue, that holde our life in line,
And vvhat vve suffer dovvne they fling from hie,
No carke, no care, that euer may vntwine
The thrids, that vvouen are aboue the skie,
As vvitnes he that sometyme King of Greece,
Had Iason thought, in drenching seas to drovvne
Who scapt both death and gaind the Golden fleece,
Whom fates aduaunce, there may no povvre plucke dovvne
The highest God sometyme that Saturne hight
His fall him taught to credite their decrees
The rule of heauens: he lost it by their might,
And Ioue his sonne novv turnes the rolling Skies.
Who vveneth here to vvin eternall vvelth,
Let him behold this present perfite proofe.
And learne the secrete stoppe of chaunces stelth,
Most nere alas, vvhen most it seemes aloofe.
In slipper ioy let no man put his trust:
Let none dispayre that heauy haps hath past
The svvete vvith sovvre she mingleth as she lust
Whose doubtful web pretendeth nought to last.
Frailtie is the thride, that Clothoes rocke hath sponne,
Novv from the Distaffe dravvne novv knapt in tvvaine
With all the world at length his end he wonne,
Whose works haue wrought, his name should great remaine
And he whose trauels twelue, his name display,
That feared nought the force of worldly hurt,
In fine (alas) hath found his fatall daye,
And died with smart of Dianyraes shurt,
If prowes might eternity procure,
Then Priam yet should liue in lyking lust,
Ay portly pompe of pryde thou art vnsure,
Lo learne by him O Kinges yee are but dust.
And Hecuba that wayleth now in care,
That was so late of high estate a Queene,
A mirrour is to teach you what you are
Your wauering wealth, O Princes here is seene.
Whom dawne of day hath seene in high estate
Before Sunnes set, (alas) hath had his fall
The Cradels rocke, appoyntes the life his date
From setled ioy, to sodayne funerall.