The Tragedie of Gorbodvc where of three Actes were wrytten by Thomas Nortone, and the two laste by Thomas Sackuyle |
 | 1. |
| 2. |
 | 3. |
Actus tertius.
|
| 1. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
 | The Tragedie of Gorbodvc |  |
Actus tertius.
The order and signification of the dōme shewe before the thirde Act.
Firste the Musicke of Fluites began to playe, during which came in vpon the Stage a companye of Mourners all clad in blacke betokeninge Death and sorowe to ensue vpon the yll aduised misgouernement and discention of Bretherne, as befel vpon the Murder of Ferrex by his yonger Brother. After the Mourners had passed thryse about the stage, thei departed, and than the Musicke ceased.
Scena prima.
Gorboduc. Eubulus. Arostus. Philander. Nuntius.Gorboduc.
O cruell fates, O mindfull wrath of Goddes,
whose vēgeaūce neither Simois streined streames
Flowing wt blood of Troian Princes slaine
Nor Phrygian fieldes made rancke wt Corpses dead
Of Asian kynges and Lordes can yet appease,
Ne slaughter of vnhappie Pryams race
Nor Ilions fall made leuell with the soile,
Can yet suffice: but still continued rage,
Pursue our lyues, and from the farthest Seas
Doth chast the issues of distroyed Troye:
Oh no man happie, tyll his ende be seene,
If any flowyng wealth and seemynge Ioye
In present yeres might make a happy wight,
Happie was Hecuba the wofullest wretche
That euer lyued to make a Myrrour of
And happie Pryam with his noble sonnes,
And happie I till nowe. Alas, I see
Beholde my Lordes, reade ye this Letter here
Loe it conteines the ruyne of our Realme
If timelie speede prouide not hastie helpe
Yet (O ye Goddes) if euer wofull kynge
Might moue you kings of kinges, wreke it on me
And on my Sonnes, not on this giltles Realme.
Sende down your wasting flames from wrathful skies
To reue me & my sōnes the hateful breath
Reade, reade my Lordes: this is the matter whie
I called ye nowe to haue your good aduyse.
The Letter from Dordan the Counsellour of the elder Prince.
Eubulus
readeth the Letter.
My Soueraigne Lord, what I am loth to write
But lothest am to see, that I am forced
By Letters nowe to make you vnderstande
My Lord Ferrex your eldest sonne mislead
By Traitours framde of yong vntempred wittes
Assembleth force against your yonger sonne,
Ne can my Counsell yet withdrawe the heate
And furyous panges of his enflamed head:
Disdaine (saieth he) of his inheritaunce
Armes him to wreke the great pretended wronge
With ciuyll sword vpon his Brothers life,
If present helpe do not restraine this rage
This flame will wast your sōnes, your land & you.
Your Maiesties faithfull and most humble Subiecte Dordan.
O King, appease your griefe & staie your plaint
Great is the matter and a wofull case
But timely knowledge maye bringe timely help
Sende for thē both vnto your presence here
The reuerence of your honour age and state
Your graue aduise, the awe of fathers name
Shall quickelie knit againe this broken peece:
And if in either of my Lordes your sonnes
Be suche vntamed and vnyelding pride
As will not bende vnto your noble Hestes.
If Ferrex the elder sonne can beare no peere,
Or Porrex not content, aspires to more
Then you him gaue, aboue his Natiue right:
Ioyne with the iuster side, so shall you force
Them to agree: and holde the Lande in staie.
Eubulus.
What meaneth this? Loe yonder cōmes in hast
Philander from my Lord your yonger sonne.
Gorboduc.
The Goddes sende ioyfull newes.
Philander.
The mightie Ioue
Preserue your Maiestie, O noble kinge.
Gorboduc.
Philander, welcome: But how doth my sonne?
Philander.
Your sonne, sir, lyues and healthie I him left:
But yet (O kinge) this want of lustfull health
Could not be half so griefefull to your Grace,
As these most wretched tidynges that I brynge.
O heauens yet more? no ende of woes to me?
Philander.
Tyndar, O kyng, came lately from the Courte
Of Ferrex, to my Lorde your yonger sonne,
And made reporte of great prepared store
Of warre, and saith that it is whollie ment
Against Porrex for highe disdaine that he
Lyues nowe a kynge and egall in degree
With him, that claimeth to succede the whole.
As by due title of discendinge right
Porrex is nowe so set on flamynge fire,
Partely with kindled rage of cruell wrathe,
Partely with hope to gaine a Realme therby,
That he in haste prepareth to inuade
His Brothers Lande, and with vnkindely warre
Threatens the murder of your elder sonne,
Ne coulde I him perswade that first he should
Sende to his Brother to demaunde the cause,
Nor yet to you to staie his hatefull strife.
Wherfore sithe there no more I can be harde,
I come my selfe nowe to enforme your Grace:
And to beseche you, as you loue the liefe
And safetie of your Children and your Realme,
Nowe to emploie your wisdome and your force
To staie this mischiefe ere it be to late.
Gorboduc.
Are thei in Armes? would he not sende for me?
Is this the honour of a Fathers name?
In vaine we trauaile to asswage their mindes
As if their hartes whome neither Brothers loue
Our Coūsels could withdrawe from ragyng heat
Ioue slaye them both, and ende the cursed Lyne
For though perhappes feare of suche mightie force
As I my Lords, ioyned with your noble Aides
Maye yet raise, shall represse their present heate,
The secrete grudge and malyce will remayne
The fire not quentched, but kept in close restraint
Fead stil within, breakes forth with double flame
Their death and mine must peaze the angrie gods
Philander.
Yelde not, O king, so muche to weake dispaier
Your sonnes yet lyue, and long I trust, they shall:
Yf fates had taken you from earthly life
Before begynning of this ciuyll strife:
Perhaps your sonnes in their vnmaistered youth,
Lose from regarde of any lyuyng wight,
Wolde ronne on headlonge, with vnbridled Race
To their owne death and ruine of this Realme.
But sith the Gods that haue the care for kinges,
Of thinges and times dispose the order so
That in your life this kindled flame breakes forth
While yet your lyfe, your wisdome & your power,
Maye staie the growing mischiefe, and represse
The fierie blaze of their inkindled heate
It seemes, and so ye ought to deeme therof,
That louyng Ioue hath tempred so the time
Of this debate to happen in your daies
That you yet lyuynge maye the same appeaze,
And adde it to the glorie of your latter age
And they your sonnes maye learne to liue in peace
Lest by your wayleful plaints your hastened death
Yelde larger roume vnto their growyng rage:
Preserue your lyfe, the onely hope of staie:
And if your highnes herein list to vse
Wisdome or force, Counsell or knightly aide:
Loe we our persons, powers and lyues are yours,
Use vs tyll Death, O king, we are your owne.
Eubulus.
Loe here the perill that was erst forsene
When you, (O king) did first deuide your Lande,
And yelde your present raigne vnto your sonnes.
But nowe (O noble Prince) nowe is no time
To wayle and plaine, and wast your wofull lyfe,
Nowe is the time for present good aduise,
Sorowe doth darke the Iudgement of the wytte
The Hart vnbroken and the courage free
From feble faintnes of booteles dispaier
Doth either ryse to safetie or renowme
By noble valure of vnuanquisshed minde
Or yet doth perishe in more happie sorte
Your Grace maye sende to either of your sonnes
Some one both wise and noble personage,
Which with good counsel & with weightie name
Of father shall present before their eyes
Your hest, your liefe, your safetie and their owne
The present mischiefe of their deadlie strife
And in the while, assemble you the force
Whiche your Cōmaundement and the spedie hast
Of all my Lordes here present can prepare:
The terrour of your mightie power shall steye
Nuntius.
O King the greatest griefe that euer Prince dyd here
That euer wofull Messenger did tell,
That euer wretched Lande hath sene before
I brynge to you. Porrrex your yonger sonne
With soden force, inuaded hath the lande
That you to Ferrex did allotte to rule:
And with his owne most bloudie hande he hath
His Brother slaine, and doth possesse his Realme.
Gorboduc.
O Heauēs send down the flames of your reuenge,
Destroie I saie wt flasshe of wrekefull fier
The Traitour sonne, and than the wretched sire:
But let vs go, that yet perhappes I maye
Die with reuenge, and peaze the hatefull gods.
Chorus.
The lust of kingdomes knowes no sacred faithe
No rule of Reason, no regarde of right
No kindlie loue, no feare of heauens wrathe:
But with contempt of Goddes, and mans despite,
Through blodie slaughter doth prepare the waies
To fatall Scepter and accursed reigne.
The sonne so lothes the fathers lingerynge daies,
Ne dreades his hand in Brothers blode to staine
O wretched Prince, ne doest thou yet recorde
The yet fresshe Murthers done within the Lande
Of thie forefathers, when the cruell sworde
Bereft Morgan his liefe with Cosyns hande?
Thus fatall plagues pursue the giltie race
Whose murderous hand imbrued wt giltles blood
With endles mischiefes on the cursed broode.
The wicked childe this bringes to wofull Sier
The mournefull plaintes to wast his wery life:
Thus do the cruell flames of Ciuyll fier
Destroye the parted reigne with hatefull strife
And hence doth spring the well frō which doth flo:
The dead black streames of mournings, plaints & woe.
| The Tragedie of Gorbodvc | |