University of Virginia Library

Scene 3.

Darius.
O stormy state of Kings, vaine Mortalls choice,
The glorious height whence greatnesse grones to fall!
Ah! we (who courting fame, do hunt each voyce)
To seeme but Soveraigne must be slaves to all:
“Yet blowne like bladders, with Ambitions winde,
“On envy'd Scepters weakly we relye;
“And (whil'st swoln fancies do betray the minde)
“Not onely th'earth, but heavens themselves defie.
“Whil'st loftie thoughts tumultuous mindes do tosse,
“Which are puft up with popular applause,
“A state extended by our Neighbours losse,
“For further trouble but procures a cause;
“If Fortunes dark ecclipse cloud glories light,
“Then what avails that pomp which pride doth claim?
“A meere illusion made to mock the sight,
“Whose best was but the shadow of a dreame;
“Of glassie Scepters, let fraile greatnesse vaunt,
“Not Scepters, no, but reeds, which (rais'd up) break,
“And let eye-flatt'ring shows our wits enchaunt,
“All perish'd are, ere of their pomp men speak,
“Those golden palaces, those gorgeous Halls,
“With furniture superfluously faire,
“Those stately Courts, those skie-encountring walls
“Do vanish all like vapours in the ayre.
“O! what affliction jealous greatnesse beares,
“Which still must travell to hold others downe,
“Whil'st all our guards not guard us from our fears,
“Such toile attends the glory of a Crowne?
Where are they all who at my feet did bow,
Whil'st I was made the Idoll of so many?
What joy had I not then? what have I now?
Of all once honour'd, and now scarce of any.
“Our painted pleasures but apparrell paine:
“We spend our nights in feare, our dayes in dangers,
“Balls toss'd by Starres, thrals bound to Fortunes raigne,
“Though known to all, yet to our selves but strangers.
“A golden Crowne doth cover leaden cares;
“The Scepter cannot lull their thoughts asleep,
“Whose souls are drown'd with flouds of cold despaires,
“Of which base vulgars cannot sound the deep.
“The Bramble grows, although it be obscure,
“Whil'st loftie Cedars feele the blust'ring windes,
“And milde Plebeian souls may live secure,
“While mighty tempests tosse Imperiall mindes;
“What are our dayes but dreames, our raigne a glance,
“Whil'st Fortunes feaver makes us rage and rave,
“VVhich with strange fits doth to a height advance,
“Till, ere paine us, we first our life must leave?
“For glist'ring greatnesse by Ambition lov'd,
“I was the wonder of all gazing eyes,
“But free from shadows (reall essence prov'd)
“States just proportion ruine onely tryes.
Loe, charg'd with chains which (though they be of gold)
My states distresse diminish not the more,
When this prepost'rous honour I behold,
It but upbraids me what I was before,
And what was I before (as now I see)
(Though what afflicted was not clearly knowne)
But still in fetters, whilst appearing free,
And in a labyrinth of labours throwne.
Was I not forc'd to serve a thousand humours,
To scape the censure of a Criticke storie,
Still clog'd with cares, enrag'd with many rumours;
O glorious bondage, and ô burd'nous glory!
That dignity which deifi'd me late,
And made the world doe homage to my name,
Doth not oppose that which pursues my state,
But by my fall gives feathers unto fame;
My best was but a momentary blisse,
Which leaves behind this ever-lasting sting,
That of all woes no woe is like to this,
To thinke I was, and am not now a king.
No man with me in all th'accomplish'd joyes
That satisfie the soule, could once compare;
No man may match me now in sad annoyes,
Or any crosse which can provoke despaire.
Thrice fortune did my gallant troups entrap,
And I to fall did desperately stand,
Yet could not be so happy in mishap,
As to have di'd by some renowned hand;
But for my greater griefe, disgrace, and scorne
(The mindes of men so apt are to deceave)
They whom aloft my favours wings had borne,
Even they have made their Master thus a slave.
Ah! did not death in prison from me reave,
The sacred Soveraigne of my soules desires?
And I (wretch'd I) not present to receave,
The last cold kisse that should have quench'd my fires?
Yet, o thrice happie thou, who hast not liv'd
To beare a burden of this great disgrace!
More then a thousand deaths this had thee grievd,
To know I di'd, and di'd in such a case.
Ah! doe the pledges of our mutuall love,
(The onely comfort that the fates have left)
Rest prison'd yet? and may I not remove
My mother thence, as of all power quite reft?
My paines are more then with my pleasures even,
Since first my head was burden'd with a Crowne;
Was I exalted once up to the Heaven,
That to the Center Iove might throw me downe?
My ample Empire, and my Princely birth,
My great magnificence, and vaine excesse,
All cannot yeeld my minde one minutes mirth,
To ease me now in this my great distresse.
Loe here reduc'd vnto the worst of ills,
Past helpe, past hope, and onely great in griefe,
Two abject vassals make me waite their willes,
Not looking, no, nor wishing for reliefe.
If that my honour had beene first repair'd,
Then what though death had this fraile fortresse wonne?
I waile my life (since for disgrace prepar'd)
Not that it ends, but that it was begunne:
What fatall conflict can my count'nance marre,
Though me to bragge, death all his horrours bring?
I never shall wrong Majestie so farre,
As ought to doe that not becomes a king.

Chorus.