University of Virginia Library

Scæn. 5.

Kin.
Now shall I live secure, for now there is
None left, whose nearness to our blood might edge
Their hopes, by killing us to gain our Crown.
Kings lives are never safe from those that wish
Their ends, which must initiate them into
Th'enjoyment of a Kingdom; this same crown
Is such a bait unto ambitious spirits,
'Tis never safe upon the wearers head.
Enter Artaxia weeping.
Why weeps my dear?

Art.
Ask why I do not weep.
(Poor Artaxia) are my tears denied me!
Ask why I do not rave, tear my hair thus,
Why such a weight of sorrow doth not rob
So much of woman from me, as complaints!
Or rather, why do I not cloud the skie
With sighs; till at the last with one bold stab
My own hand take from insulting fortune,
This miserable object of her sport.
Ask why I do not this, not why I weep!

Kin.
Or stint thy teares, or mingle mine with them,
By a relation of their cause; these eyes
Trust me Artaxia, are not yet drawn dry,
Nor hath strong sorrow e're exhausted them,
To make them bankrupt of a friendly tear,
But not a fond one. Why Artaxia!
Why dost thou hasten those that come too fast,
Sorrow and age, clear up thy clouded brow.

Art.
Ah Damocles! how hast thou lost thy self!
And art become a monster, not a man,
Thus to deprive me of my onely joy,
The onely stay and comfort of mine age,
Which now must fall. Break heart, and give
My sorrows vent. Ah! my Sephestia's gone,
For ever lost unto the world and me.

Kin.
Content thy self, not I, but justice hath
Depriv'd us of her: Justice, that is blind
To all relations, and deaf to intreats
Of fond nature, or fonder affection.

Art.
Ah cruel justice! Justice! no tyranny,
This is: Death, be my friend, & joyn once more
My dear Sephestia and me—I come
Stabs her self.
Sephestia I come; curs'd world farewel.

Kin.
Help, help, Artaxia, my dear, help, help,
Sephestia doth live, she is not dead.

Art.
Oh, 'tis too late—oh-oh-oh—

She dies.
Enter 2 Lords.
2 Lor.
Heavens! what a sight is here?
The Queen, she's dead, stark dead, what shal we do?
This wretched land is fruitful grown of late,
Of nothing else but miseries and woes.
Jove sends his darts like hail-shot, no place free:

Kin.
Ah miserable man I am, a wretch,
Who thus have lost two jewels that the world
Can't recompence: I know not what to do.—
Now could I tear my self in pieces, that I have
Thus parted friends, & left my self alone.
Offers to kill himself.
I am resolv'd, I will no longer live.

2 Lo.
Stay, good my Liege, live, & repent of what
Y'have done, you have killd enough already.

Kin.
If I should kill my self, and lose my crown,
I were better live.—Call us a Council quickly.
But my wife, my dearest Artaxia!
That I could breath life into thee again,
Or else were with thee!

2 Lo.
He's not yet so mad.

Kin.
O ye powers above! what mean ye thus
To wrack us mortals with such blacker deeds
Than hell it self! or remove them, or take
All senses from us. Bear the bodie in,
And summon all our Lords with speed t'attend
Upon us, that we may find out from whence
It is we suffer this sad influence.

Exit.
2 Lo.
Unhappy King! he hath undone himself,
And all the Land. His sublimated rage
Hath sowne a crop of mischiefs, which no age
Can parallel; great-belly'd time is big
With sorrows; and our next succeeding times,
Must reap the harvest of his bloody crimes.

Exit.