 | The Tragedy of Orestes |  |
Scen. I.
Enter Orestes in his gowne: Tyndarus: Strophius: Electra: Pylades: two Lords.Orest.
My Lord your daughters potion works most rarely.
The King's asleepe, God blesse his Maiesty.
O: doe not wake him, faith 'tis pitty, la:
Tyn.
What doe I see? ha, blood? the little child
Dead; his daughter bleed, Aegysteus kill'd?
Orest.
Your Lordships eyes doe faile, 'tis but spilt wine.
Tynd.
Lay hands o'th villaine, 'tis the Physicians deed.
Orest.
Nay friends, hands off, 'tis no Physician now:
Discouers himself
See, see, old Tyndarus, dost thou know me yet?
Fetch me my Crowne and robes, nay, I'll ascend:
Is not Atrides eldest sonne your King?
Tyn.
What hast thou done, foule Viper, to eat out
Thy mothers bowells, what, was this thy deede?
Thy silence saies 'twas thine, what Tanais
Tygris or Rhenus, or what flowing sea,
Should wash thee in the salt Meotis streame,
Still would the spots of murder sticke on them.
Orest.
Why Grandsire, I goe not about to wash,
By heauen, 'twas all the fruit I thought to win,
To thinke all mischiefe here could be no sinne.
Tynd.
See, see, thy mother, looke vpon her now,
On her, whose eyes thou hast for euer clos'd,
Which eyes haue often wakned at thy cry,
And hush'd thee with a lullaby to sleepe:
See, see, these hands, which oft with so much care,
Wrapt gently vp thy vnset tender limbs:
See, see, this face, wont at thy signes to smile,
When nature gaue not leaue vnto thy tongue.
To vtter thy childs meaning.
Ore.
See, see these bones, these nasty rotten bones,
Which had so often lock'd his hands in hers;
Here stood the tongue which oft had call'd her sweet,
Deare Glytemnestra, and then stopt his speech,
And told his loue in a more speaking signe.
Here stood those eyes, which fed vpon her face,
And made her of thy daughter, a great Queene,
And shee made him a dish for loathed wormes.
Tyn.
Suppose she did, there was but one yet dead,
And with ones death againe should be repaid.
Orest.
No, Tyndarus, had I desir'd but one,
I should haue thought I had desired none.
Why, me thinks, I should too haue kill'd thee,
The number is too little yet of three.
Tyn.
Into what land, what country wilt thou fly?
All earths, all lands, all countries will flie thee:
The heauens will look with a more cherefull brow
On Cerberus.
Orest.
Why, let heauen looke as 'twill, it is my crowne,
That I haue done an act shall make heauen frowne:
Tynd.
O, what earth loues so much a guilty soule,
That it can beare thee?
Ore.
Why, Sir, this is mine,
And this shall beare mee. Am I not righ heire?
Tynd.
Thou heire to kingdomes! thou a subiect rather,
To helpe to make a Players Tragedie.
Orest.
Why, that will make me swell with greater pride,
From some great poets quils, who well shall paint
How brauely I reueng'd my fathers death,
That is the thing I wish'd, and 'tis my glory,
I shall be matter for so braue a story.
But where's my Crowne?
1 Lord.
No murderers, wee'll rather ioyne with him,
This old man here to take away thy life,
Then such an homicide shall frame vs lawes,
Who hath himselfe rac'd out the lawes of Nature.
2 Lord.
Yes, and wee'll set here Argos Crowne on him,
Who shall enact some punishment for thee;
Which although none can equalize this deed,
Yet what our griefes can thinke, all shall be done,
And wee'll forget thou'rt Agamemnons sonne.
Ore.
Why, thinke you vpon your worst, I scorne to craue,
I had three liues, you but my one shall haue.
Tyn.
Then since vile wretch thou hast committed that,
Which while there is a world, throughout the world
Will be pronounc'd for the most horrid deede
That euer came into the thought of man;
A thing which all will talke of, none allow;
I here disclaime that name of Grandfather,
And I must quite forget that in thy veynes,
My blood doth flow, but thinke it then let out,
When thou letst out my daughters; and since you
Kinde Lords commit the state vnto my yeeres,
Yeeres too vnfit, heauens know, to beare a state:
My mind, me thinks, contends for to decree
Somewhat, which to my selfe I dare not tell:
Iust conceiu'd wrath, and my affection striues,
Hate forbids pitty, pitty forbids hate,
And exile is but barren punishment:
Yet let me banish thee from out these eyes,
O neuer let thy sight offend me more,
All thy confederates, and all thy friends.
You, Pylades, wich did so smoothly cloake,
The damnde profession hee did vndertake:
You, Strophius.
Stroph.
My Lord, I know not ought,
Yet, since one foot is now in Charons boat,
Tynd.
Not so, but I will banish you the court,
And you Electra, come, I must forget
Affection too towards you, you gaue the child,
Which you had charge of to the murderers sword.
Elect.
Why Grandsire, I herin no wrong do finde,
Since all these goe, I would not stay behinde.
Tyn.
Nay, but no one shall company the other,
Hence thou Cocytus streame of this offence,
Strophius & Pylades, Electra, hence:
Exeunt Stroph. Pyl. Elect.
Orest.
Why farewell Grandsire, since thou bidst, I flie,
And scorn companions for my misery.
Exit Orest.
Tynd.
Vnto this punishment this one more I adde,
That none shall dare to giue Orestes foode,
And this decree shall stand; I speake with griefe,
And here pronounce Orestes no reliefe.
Hence with these corps; poore child what hadst thou dou?
Thy Nurses prayers, that there might spring a rose,
Where e're thou trod'st could not keepe backe thy foes.
Some plague he hath, but such a matricide
Should neuer die, although he euer dide.
| The Tragedy of Orestes | |