 | Oedipus |  |
91
Chorus.
Fortune the guide of humaine lyfe doth al things chaūge at will.And stirrīg stil, wt restles thoughts our wretched mīds doth fill.
In vayn men striue their stats to kepe whē hideous tēpests rise:
And blustring windes of daungers deepe sets death before their eyis.
Who saith he doth her fauning feele? & chaūgeth not his minde,
When fickle fight of Fortunes wheele doth turne by course of kinde.
These greuous plagues frō priuat house to princely Thrones do flow,
And oft their minds with cares they souse and thick vpon thē strow.
Whole heapes of griefe and dyre debate, a wofull thing to see:
A Princely lyfe to mysers state, conuerted for to bee.
O OEdipus thy fatall fall, thy dreadfull mischiefs ryght.
Thy dolfull state, thy mysery, thy thrise vnhappy plight:
These things shall blase through all ye world: what heart may thē reioyce
At thy distresse? I can no more: my teares doe stop my voyce.
But what is he that yonder stamps? and raging puffs and blowes,
And often shakes his vexed head, some mischiefe great hee knowes.
Good sir your countnaunce doth import some great and fearefull thing,
Tell vs therefore (if that you may) what newes from Court you bring.
| Oedipus | |