 | Octavia (1581) |  |
THE THIRD SCENE.
Nuntius, Chorus,
What
sturdy champion stoute doth ioy with glee
Our chieftaynes royal bower safe to see,
Then to his court I counsel him to mend,
Gainst which the populus rout their force doth bend.
The rulers runne amasde to fetch the gard,
And armed troupes of men, theyr towne to ward.
Nor woodnes rashly cought through feare doth ceasse,
But more and more, their power doth encrease.
Our chieftaynes royal bower safe to see,
Then to his court I counsel him to mend,
Gainst which the populus rout their force doth bend.
The rulers runne amasde to fetch the gard,
And armed troupes of men, theyr towne to ward.
Nor woodnes rashly cought through feare doth ceasse,
But more and more, their power doth encrease.
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What sodain rage doth beat their broiling braine?
Nun.
The garisons great with fury astonde againe,
And sturred vp for Queene Octauias sake
With monstrous mischiefe vile, their rage to slake,
They rumbling rush into the Pallace farre.
Cho.
What dare they do, their counsailers who are?
Nun.
Aduaunce their Empresse old, subuert the new:
And graunt hir, brothers beds as is hir due.
Cho.
Which Poppie now, with hole consent doth hold?
Nun.
Yea that vnbrideled rage in brest vprold,
Sets them agog, and makes them wondrous wood,
What euer ymage grauen in marble stood,
If Poppies badge it bare, or if in sight,
It tended for to shew hir beauty bryght,
Though it on heauenly altares braue did stand,
They break, or pull it down, with sword or hand.
Some parts with ropes sure ride, they trayle thē forth
Which spurnd wt durty feete, as though naught worth
With filthy stinking myre, they it all beray.
And with their deedes their talke doth iumpe agree,
Which mine amased minde, thinks true to bee
For fierie flames they threat for to prepare,
Wherewith to waste, the princes Pallace faire,
Unlesse, vnto their furious moode he giue
His second wife, and with Octauia liue,
But he by me shall know in what hard stay
The City stands: the rulers Ile obay.
Cho.
Alack, what made you cruell warres, in vaine
To moue, sith prisoner loue you can not gaine
You can not him ouercome, your fiery flame
He recketh not: his syre ouercomes the same.
He darkened hath those thundring thumps that shake
Heauen, Earth, Hel, sea, al things yt makes to quake.
Yea mighty Ioue, in heauen that weares chief crowne
His flames from welkin hie hath brought adowne.
And you, not victors now, but vanquished,
[183]
Loue, pacient can not be, but hote in rage,
No easie thing it is, his wrath t'asswage.
Achilles worthy wight, that was so stout,
To twang the Harpe he made in Ladies rout,
Prince Agamemnon sterne that boy benumd,
And rable rude of Greekes with loue bronds bumd.
King Priams raigne he topsie turuie tost,
And goodly Cities great he chiefly lost.
And now my minde sore frighted stands agast,
What Cupides furious force brings vs at last.
| Octavia (1581) | |