University of Virginia Library

Act. II.

Scen. I.

Enter Cassandra sola as a mad Prophetesse.
Cass.

Exit.

Scen. II.

Enter Ægystheus. Clytem.
Ægyst.
Faire morning to my Queene, nay more, my loue,
How likes my sweet her change of bedfellow?

Clyt.
Looke as a hollow leafelesse failing oake,
To whom for that he hath bin her weight too long,
The earth denies to lend him moysture, so
His sap failes, and he stands on a green
Mongst sprouting Elms, that they may seem more fresh
Whilst hee's but held a monument of yeeres,
Such one seem'd Agamemnon; a drie tree:
Thou like a sprouting elme, whom I embrace
Like twining Iuy, with these now-blest armes,
Blest whilst this treasure in them they holdlockt.

Ægyst.
O who'ld not doe a murder for a woman!
Heauen had but two things for the Gods reseru'd
Fire, and women, when with Giant thought
Promotheus had tane one, Ioue in his rage
Threw him the to'ther, bad him keepe 'em both,
O th'are rare creatures, they haue such Mæanders,
Their teares will come and goe with such Art,
Come now my Queene, one sweet Ambrosian kisse;
O Nectar! prethe hadst thou taught thy teares
How they should flow before:

Clyt.
No, trust me loue,
I knew my teares would soon be at command,
And faith the boy had almost made me weepe
Really once: were not my curses rare?

Ægyst.
Yes, all was womanlike, but yet that boy
He tooke it deepely, would he were with his father,
So gon, it skills not how, were he away
We would act freely all our lustfull play:

Clyt.
O but my loue, hee's mine; nor can the rauen
Dig her sharpe beake into her owne birds brest:
He will forget his father: woe will breake,
'Tis not the greatest griefe that most doth speake.

Egyst.
O but hee'll beare a still suspitious eye;
And who in bloudy Scenes doth act a part,
Thinks euery eye doth penetrate his heart.
Nor can we ere be free, or I inioy
True pleasures, we must be but theeues at most,
Close in delights, and haue a Pander still
To be a Factor, 'twixt thy bed and mine
This we could haue before, what now we doe
The world should see done, and applaud it too.

Clyt.
Why my deare Loue, I that would set my hand
To staine my marriage sheets with husbands blood
Would let these hands instructed now in ill,
Not leaue one arme of that vprooted tree;
Could but Ægystheus giue me any hope,
That from this top there should one spreading branch
Grow vp and flourish.

Ægyst.
Now thou art thy selfe,
Yes, yes my loue, there shall one spring from vs
Shall be a lofty Pine, let this be cropt,
Murder must murder guard, guilt adde to guilt,
After one drop whole streams of blood be spilt.

walks away.

Scen. III.

Enter Pylades: Orestes: Electra: Strophius.
Orest.
Father deare Agamem.

Pyl.
Nay let this tempest fall, thou hast lost a father,
Why, tis but change, my father shall be thine,
I'll be thy brother, nay, I'll be thy selfe,
Weepe when thou weep'st, and where thou go'st I'll goe,
And bring thee on thy pilgrimage of woe.

Elect.
Brother, looke vp, haue not I lost a father?
Yes, and would a riuer of fresh teares
Turne Lethes streame, and bring him from the wharf,
With a North gale of windy blowing sighs,
I would expire my soule, become all teares.

Stroph.
Come, you haue lost a father, I a brother,
The Queene a Husband, all the Land a King,
Yet all thi's but a man; Therefore must die:
Our woes may all be in one ballance poys'd,
His booke of life the Fates had ouer-read,
And turn'd the leafe where his last period stood.
Now an immortall wreath circles his brow,
And makes him King in heauen, who was before
At most a God on earth; Hence difference springs,
Kings are earths Gods, and Gods are heauenly Kings.

Orest.
Let vs ioyne words then now, and Swan-like sing,
The dolefull dirge to a departed King:
Thou friend didst of this misery diuine,
Therefore the burthen of the song is mine:
Words Orators for woe, which plead the cause,
When griefe's the Iudge, and sighs are all the lawes,
Each one a sob, for Diapason beares,
Our tunes shall drowne the musique of the spheares:
O what Hirudo with vnsatiate thirst,
Could draw the blood from out those Princely veynes,
From whence flowes comfort to so many soules.
(Spies his mother, goes to her.
Mother, when wept you last, heere take a scarfe
Dry your eyes, now by Ioue you need none,
What shine of comfort hath dri'd vp your teares?

Clyt.
Our sonne's too sawcie with his mother Queene:
Why, Sir, shall you tell vs a time to weepe?

Orest.
Vs? good: Who is't makes the plurality?
'Twas wont to be my father, does he liue?

Clyt.
Sir, curbe this lauish speech, or I'll forget
You are my sonne, and make you but a subiect.

Ægyst.
Good Cousin adde not disobedience
Vnto your mothers griefes.

Orrst.
My mother, no,
She is not here, no, she hath hid her selfe
In some odde nooke, or angle vnperceiu'd,
She might not see this impious stygian world.

Clyt.
Ægistheus, canst thou still suffer thy dul sword i'th sheath?
Take the ranke head from this o'r-growing weed.

Stro.
Remember Clytemnestra, he's your sonne.

Clyt.
He is so, and I'll learne him to be so:
Had I a brazen bull, it should be heat,
Hotter then for the Tyrant: Disobedient?
More harsh then Adders hisses is thy voyce,
Sir, you shall die but with a liuing death,
He still shall liue but liue to know he dies;
Who strait threats death, knowes not to Tyrannize.

Exeunt Ægystheus, Clytemnestra.
Stro.
What temper's growne on the distracted Queene!
Hath griefe conceiu'd for her late husbands death,
Brought her so farre, shee hath forgot her selfe?

Orest.
No Vncle, no, by heauen, I doe suspect,
O, my propheticke soule diuines much ill:
Well, I will flie, but heare this stratagem,
It shall be rumor'd i'th eare o'th Court
I was found dead, I'll put a new shape on,
And liue alone, to heare how things goe here.

Pyl.
Nay, not alone Orestes, whilst I liue,
Shouldst make thy bed vpon the rigid Alps,
Or frozen Caucasus, wrapt in sheets of snow,
I'd freeze vnto thy side; we will tell tales
Of Troian warriers, and deposed Kings,
Tell of strange shipwracke, of old Priams fall,
How mad Andromacha did teare her hayre,
When the wild horses tore braue Hectors limbs:
Wee'll thinke they all doe come, and weepe with vs;
Griefe loues companions, and it helpeth woe,
When it heares euery one grone forth his (Oh)
It easeth much, and our plaints fall more sweet,
When a whole consort, in one tune doe meet.
The halfe-dead ship-man, which hath shipwracke borne,
Seeing many drown'd, it makes him lesse to mourne:
It made Deucalion care the lesse to die,
When hee had all the world in company.
Thus we will sit, and our teares turnes shall keepe,
Thou for thy father, I for thee will weepe:
If actors on the stage hauing no cause,
But for to winne an hearers hands applause,
Can let fall teares, wee'll thinke wee Actors be,
And onely doe but play griefes Tragedie.

Orest.
O, but deare friend, should we but act a part,
The play being ended, passion left the heart,
And we should share of ioy, but my whole age
Must neuer moue from off this wofull Stage:
But we must take our leaue; Vncle, farewell,
Remember what I spake; and Sister, you
Must tarry here, my thoughts shall busied be,
To finde the man that let my father blood;
Can I but finde Ægystheus did consent,
To spill one drop, O I would pierce his heart
With venom'd daggers, and so butcher him,
That all Apollo's skill in physicke hearbs,
Nor Æsculapius th'Epidaurian God,
Should keepe his soule out of Enio's hand;
Come my deare friend, to all the rest farewell,
If heauen relate it not, I'll know't from hell.

Exeunt Pylades: Orestes.

Scen. IIII.

Enter Ægysteus: Clytemnestra: Mysander: Strophius: Electra another way.
Ægyst.
What, is Orestes fled? sure there's some plot,
If you deare Queen, but search Elect. well,
You'll finde she knowes whither her brothers gone,

Clyt.
If in her heart there be but lodg'd a thought,
Vnknowne to mee this hand shall rip her brest,
And search her inparts: but I'll finde it out.
Mysander, call Electra:

Ægyst.
O, were that moat tane from our comforts beams,
No cloud could euer then o'rshade our ioyes,
His life must be cut off without delay,
Mischiefe by mischiefe findes the safest way:
But here's Electra:

Clyt.
Why, how now Minion, what a blubbering still?
Huswife, pray where's your brother, where's my sonne?

Elect.
Mother, pray wher's my father, wher's your husband,
Haile to my gratious Queene, here's one at doore
(Enter Strophius, and speaks.
Brings you a message, hee will not relate
To any, but your selfe, he saies tis sad.

Clyt.
Why, the more dismall, the more welcome 'tis,
But as for you.

Elect.
Good mother doe your worst,
No plague can euer make me more accurst,
Nothing is worse then death, that I'll not flye.

Clyt.
Yes, life is worse to those that faine would die.
But where's the messenger?

Scen. V.

Enter Nuncius.
What whirlewind rising from the wombe of earth
Doth raise huge Pelion vnto Ossa's top,
That both being heapt, I stand vpon them both
And with an hundred Stentor-drowning voyce,
Relate vnto the world the saddest tale,
That euer burdned the weake iawes of man:

Ægyst.
Why, what portentuous newes? Amaze vs not,
Tell vs what e'r it be.

Nun.
Were my minde settled, would the gellid feare,
That freezeth vp my sense, set free my speech,
I would vnfold a tale which makes my heart
Throb in my intralls: when I seeme to see't.

Clyt.
Relate it quickly, hold's not in suspence.

Nun.
Vpon the mount of yonder rising cliffe,
Which the earth hath made a bulwarke for the sea,
Whose peerlesse head is from the streames so high,
That whosoe'r lookes downe, his braine will swim
With a vertigo: The space remou'd so farre
The obiect from the eye, that a tall ship
Seem'd a swift flying bird: vpon this top
Saw I two men making complaints to heauen,
One's voyce distinctly still cry'd, Father, King,
Great Agamemnon: whose diuiner soule
Fled from thy corps, exil'd by buchers hands,
His friend still sought to keepe his dying life
With words of comfort, that it should not rush
Too violently vpon the hands of Fate.
He deafe as sea, to which he made his plaints,
Still cryed out, Agamemnon, I will come,
And finde thy blessed soule where e'r it walke,
In what faire Tempe of Elisium
So e'r it be, my soule shall find it out;
With that his friend knit him within his armes,
Striuing to hold him but when twas no boot,
They hand in hand, thus plung'd into the maine.
Strait they arose, and striu'd, me thought, for life,
But swelling Neptune not regarding friends,
Wrapt their embraced limbs in following waues.
Vntill at last, their deare departing soules
Hastned to Styx, and I no more cloud see.

Stro.
O, 'twas Orestes, 'twas my Pylades,
Which arme in arme did follow him to death.

Elect.
O my Orestes, O my dearest brother
'Tis he, 'tis he that thus hath drown'd himselfe.

Ægyst.
Why, then if Agamemnon and his sonne
Haue brought their leafe of life to the full end;
I am Thyestes sonne, and the next heyre,
To sit in Argos Throne of Maiesty.
Thanks to our Alpheus sea, who as't'ad striu'd
To gratifie Ægystheus, rais'd his force,
And gathered all his waters to one place,
They might be deepe inough to drowne Orestes:
But come my Queene, let vs command a feast.
To get a kingdome, who'ld not thinke it good,
To swim vnto it through a sea of blood.