 | The Tragedy of Orestes |  |
Scen. VIII.
Enter Ægystheus and Clytemnestra, in their night-robes.Ægyst.
O Doctor, you are busie for our comming:
Ore. looking on the cups.
Orest.
My gracious Lord, I had no cause to faile.
Cly.
Nay, but is this fit time for physick Doctor?
Orest.
First, Madame, for the physicke that I giue,
Now the diastall fabrique of your pulse,
Shewes all your passions most hystericall,
Pleaseth your grace sit down? one at each end o'th Table.
Yes, must wee sit, sit there my Queene.
Orest.
Yes, now is Saturne, gouernour of nature,
In free coniunction with the planet Venus:
And iust at this time, Iupiter begat
Great Hercules, Sol, Luna, Mercury,
In that Diameter, now fauour propagation,
And now will my Alexipharmacum,
Stirre the Analeptique veynes and arteris:
If you out-liue this night, you'll liue to see
A royall strange, and Princely progeny.
Ægyst.
Think'st thou so Doctor?
Orest.
Thinke it, nay, I know't:
Hem.
Clyt.
Surely hee meanes to worke rare Art vpon vs.
Egy.
Pray God thy physique take.
Ore.
Yes, it shall take.
Hem.
Pylades binds Clytemnestra to the chaire: Orestes, Ægystheus: Pylades brings in the child.
Æg.
Treason, we are betraid.
Orest.
Nay, tis your priuat'st room,
View me well mother, ha, do you know me yet?
Here, here's the drugs my Art hath thought vpon,
Puts off his gowne.
Be pittilesse now Pylades, be my friend.
Child.
O Helpe me father, else these men will kill mee.
Ægyst.
O my boy, my boy.
Orest.
O, yee'r fast bound,
Yes, hee is thine, thy face, thy eyes, thy heart,
And would I knew where Nature had couchd most,
Of thy damnd blood, I thus would let it out,
Stabs the child.
And thus't should spirt in thy most loathed face.
Ægy.
O, now, the heauens raine vengeance on our head.
Child.
O mother, mother, saue, me saue me father.
Orest.
Hold Pylades, be stedfast, for by heauen
He wounds mee, that perswades me not to wound.
Clyt.
O turne thy bloody weapon on my brest,
'Twas this wombe that brought forth this Babe and thee.
If that be guilty, I haue made it so.
Rip vp this place which first did bring thee forth,
'Tis I'intreat thee, 'tis the mother, she
Which gaue thee house-roome here within this brest,
Vpon whose dugs thy infant lips did hang.
Orest.
It was my father, he intreated you,
Who many a time had clipt you in his armes,
Who made you Queene of Greece, yes, it was hee,
Ægyst.
Bathe not thy hands in a poore infants blood,
Nor in thy mothers, I deserue to die:
And yet remember how my doome sau'd thee,
How easily mercy did obtaine her suit.
Orest.
Nay, but Ægystheus, you can aggrauate,
To doe a haynous murther, and i'th Court;
I'th place of Iustice, where the King might heare,
Vpon a chiefe attendant of the Kings.
Murther it selfe is past all expiation,
A crime that nature most of all abhorres,
And looke how manhood and ciuility,
Stand at the barre of Iustice, and there plead,
How much they'r wrong'd, and how much defac'd,
When man doth dye his hands in blood of man.
Now harken King, I'll vse thy Rhetorique,
Thou didst a haynous murther in the Court,
Not which the King did heare, but which he felt;
When no petition could (good man) preuaile,
Therefore this dies, this first shall haue his due:
Stabs it againe, that the blood spirts in his face. Turnes it to her.
This mischiefe done, reuenge shall prompt a new:
Æg.
O, the Gods blush, and heauen looks pale at this,
A fathers face besmear'd with his owne blood.
Ore.
My haste deceiues my wil; tush, al this yet,
May be call'd piety, you shall taste too mother.
Cly.
O, why dos't banish nature from his place?
Looke on thy mothers teares' worse then those grones,
And pangs she had, when she first brought thee forth,
When of thy friends or parents thou hast wrong,
Patience, not fury doth to thee belong.
Is this the blessing that thy knee should aske?
Repay'st thou thus my kisses and my teares,
Which flow'd from mee to thee in tender yeeres.
Orest.
O why did you so banish woman-hood,
When you and this damn'd villaine, base adulterer,
Made in my fathers side so many wounds,
And brought a braue old King into this state:
Pulls bones from his pocket.
See, here's his bones, my pocket can containe
Great Agamemnon; and repayd you thus
His kind embraces? all his louing signes?
Fills two cups with the Heniochus childs blood: giues it them.
Yes, you shal cleare your throat, by heauen you shal.
Æg.
O mischief aboue mischief! what
Bred on a stony rock, could e'r endure
To see a fathers thirst quench'd with such blood?
Hast thou no measure? hath reuenge no end?
Ore.
Who first doth mischiefe, may keep mean i'th deed,
But who reuengeth, must all meane exceed.
Nay, mother, wee'll not barre you of your draught.
Clyt.
O Nature, see here all thy lawe infring'd
A mothers prayers preuaile not with her sonne.
Orest.
Pray with Thyestes, it shall neuer moue me:
But first, Ægystheus, do thou haste reuenge.
Stabs him.
Ægyst.
O, I am wounded, O when do'st thou end?
Or.
Nay, I haue scarce begun, now mother, you,
Stabs her.
So now I'll stand and looke, and on hell call,
Nay, my reuenge must not be vsuall;
One more for thee Ægystheus; onely let out,
The blood you dranke before.
Ægyst.
O, my heart feeles it,
Orest.
Now mother you, and your loue the same.
Clyt.
O kill me quickly, time prolongs my woe,
And since I must die, let me quickly goe.
Orest.
You know your sentence, let him feele hee dies
Who strait threats death, knowes not to tyrannize.
Ægy.
This brings ten deaths.
Or.
Would 'twould a hundred bring,
One death's too little to reuenge a King.
Hence, hence, adulterous soule to Tantalus,
And let hell know who 'twas sent thee thither:
He dies.
Now, mother, you shall follow, but he first,
Lest that like louers you goe hand in hand.
Clyt.
Why sonne, whose death is it thou dost reuenge?
Thy fathers? but on whom? vpon thy mother!
On her which brought thee forth, which took most care,
To bring thee vp, from whom thou tookst thy selfe,
Thou'rt sure thou art mine, but dost not know,
Who twas begat thee.
Ore.
Wil't Bastardize me?
Yes, mother, yes, I know I was his sonne:
Alas! why, what are you? a senselesse peece
Of rotten earth can doe as much to corne,
But Agamemnon he that seed did sow,
And onely vnto him my selfe I owe:
And for him thou shalt die.
Cly.
O, I confesse,
My conscience tells mee, I deserue no lesse:
And thus thy mother from thee doth depart,
Leauing vexation to torment thy heart:
She dies.
Orest.
Now friend, I see my father liue againe,
And in his royall state at Argos Court:
This is the night in which hee first came home,
O blessed powers of hell, diuine Canidia,
Now am I satisfied, now hath reuenge perfection.
And nothing grieues me, but that Tyndarus,
My mothers father, did not see her dye.
Ile in and tell him, my thoughts must reueale
Those acts I doe: this night who would conceale?
Now soule trtumph, whilst that my deeds shall shine,
I'th face o'th Court, and all the world know't mine.
| The Tragedy of Orestes | |