 | The Tragedy of Orestes |  |
Scen. VII.
Enter Pylad. with a little boy in's hand.Pyl.
I faith Orestes prethee spare the child,
It hath no fault, but 'tis too like the mother.
Orest.
Like my mother, O most execrable
Hadst rank'd the confus'd Chaos of all sins,
Thou couldst not haue found out a fault more blacke,
More stincking, more infectious to my heart,
Art like my mother, O transcendent crime!
Child.
Some say I'me eyde like her, but in the face
I doe resemble most the King my father.
Pyl.
Poore babe.
Orest.
The King thy father, yes, too like them both,
Ghil.
Electra saies I'me somewhat like Orestes,
Her brother that is dead.
Orest.
How, like Orestes! when didst see him child.
Child.
Indeed I neuer saw him, but I loue him.
Pylad.
Alas, deare friend, see the pretty knaue.
Orest.
Would thou wert not my mothers, I could weepe,
But see, O see now my relenting heart,
Must now grow flinty, see my Father, see,
Now to shew pitty were Impiety.
Enter Agamemnons ghost passing or'e the stage all wounded.
Ghost.
Why flaggs reuenge? see thy now yeelding soule,
Made me burst ope my strong iawd sepulcher,
And rip the seare-cloth from my wounded breast,
O can a child smile blanke the memory,
O fall these horrid wounds, which make me grone,
In the darke cauerns of the vncoucht earth,
From whence I come for to infect thy soule
With ayre of vengeance, may make Acheron,
Yea, and our selues at the performance quake;
Fruite of our loynts, first vigor of our youth,
And turne thy heart to stone, houering reuenge
Is falne into thy hands, O graspe her close
By her snake knotted front, and make her doe
Things may incite a horror to her selfe.
Forget all, mother, in that disloyall witch,
Whose damned heate raging in strumpets blood,
So soone did condiscend to murder mee.
By all the rites of Father, I coniure thee:
By Atreus, Atreus, he whose reuengefull soule
Is eccho'd through the world superlatiue;
Doe thou make Nemesis as great a feast,
And be enthroniz'd in her firie chaire,
In her triumphant chariot euer ride,
In which, Beares hurry her from the wombe of hell,
And beare this Title as thy deserued hire,
The braue reuenger of thy murdred sire.
Thinke on me, and reuenge.
Exit.
Orest.
Stay, stay, and see't,
Stay Spright, thou strik'st no terror to my soule
For vnamaz'd I now would dare out-looke
Ranks of Medusa's, and the grim aspect
Of the most frowning obiect hell affoords:
Thinke on me, and reuenge: yes, those two words
Shall serue as burthen vnto all my acts,
I will reuenge, and then I'll thinke on thee:
I'll thinke on thee, and then againe reuenge,
And stab, and wound, and still I'll thinke on thee.
I haue a dropsie now to sucke vp fumes,
And drinke the reaking streames of vengeance fome:
Great Agamemnons Ghost, I will be dew,
Thy hearse with blood in steed of brinish teares,
And build a pile vp of their murthred truncks,
To burne thy marrow lesse consumed bones.
Arrowes of forked lightning neuer flew,
More swiftly from the awfull armes of Ioue,
Then Nemesis blacke Scorpions from mee.
Pyl.
'Twas a strange fight.
Ore.
I, didst thou see't, friend?
All of those wounds will I sticke in his brest.
Pyl.
Alas, one will be enough for him!
I, but she shal haue more, a while go by;
Pyl. takes the child aside
Were all the world their liues, the world should die.
Now Tragedy fetch out thy crimson robes,
And buckle sure thy purple buskins on,
Steep't ten graines deeper in their scarlet die;
This night shall giue mee now a deepe carouse,
Of Clytemnestra's and Ægystheus blood,
And Cerberus himselfe stand by to pledge me,
Whilest to hells fire I shall sacrifice
Three Hecatombs; it doth the furies good,
When e'r wee wet the Altars with such blood.
And now yee fiends of hell, each take a place,
As 'twere spectators at a first daies play,
Raise all the hellish winds to expell nature;
Great Goddesse giue me leaue now to forget
All straines of duty; all obedient thoughts
Die in mee quite: a mothers memory,
Pious affections take no hold on mee.
Be all my senses circled in with Fiends,
And let Erynnis hold her flaming brand
To guide my murderous sword; for all lights else,
Vanish from out this Center, be this roome fraught
So full of mischiefe, may make the Fabricke cracke,
And let no time, now come into my thoughts,
But that dire night wherein my father di'd.
I'le onely be a Doctor now in word,
Each potion that I giue shall be my sword:
But I must change.
| The Tragedy of Orestes | |