 | The Tragedy of Locrine |  |
Scena Quinta.
Enter the Ghost of Corineus, with thunder & lightning.Ghost.
Behold, the circuit of the azure sky
Throws forth sad throbs, and grievous suspirs,
Prejudicating Locrine's overthrow:
The fire casteth forth sharp darts of flames,
The great foundation of the triple world
Trembleth and quaketh with a mighty noise,
Presaging bloudy massacres at hand.
The wandring birds that flutter in the dark,
When hellish night in cloudie chariot seated,
Casteth her mists on shadie Tellus face,
With sable mantles covering all the earth,
Now flies abroad amid the cheerfull day,
Foretelling some unwonted misery.
The snarling curres of darkned Tartarus,
Sent from Avernus ponds by Radamanth,
With howling ditties pester every wood;
The watrie Ladies and the lightfoot Fawns,
And all the rabble of the woodie Nymphs,
All trembling hide themselves in shadie groves,
And shrowd themselves in hideous hollow pits.
The boysterous Boreas thundreth forth revenge:
The stonie rocks cry out on sharp revenge:
The thornie bush pronounceth dire revenge.
Sound the alarme.
Now Corineus stay and see revenge,
And feed thy soul with Locrine's overthrow,
Behold they come, the Trumpets call them forth:
The roaring drumms summon the souldiers.
Loe where their army glistereth on the plains.
Throw forth thy lightning, mighty Jupiter,
And pour thy plagues on cursed Locrine's head.
Stand aside.
Enter Locrine, Estrild, Assaracus, Habren and their souldiers at one door, Thrasimachus, Guendoline, Madan and their followers at another.
Loc.
What is the Tygre started from his cave?
Is Guendoline come from Cornubia,
That thus she braveth Locrine to the teeth?
And hast thou found thine armour, pretty boy,
Accompanied with these thy stragling mates?
Believe me but this enterprise was bold,
And well deserveth commendation.
Guen.
I Locrine, trairerous Locrine, we are come,
With full pretence to seek thine overthrow:
What have I done that thou should'st scorn me thus?
What have I said that thou should'st me reject?
Have I been disobedient to thy words?
Have I bewray'd thy arcane secrecie?
Have I dishonoured thy marriage bed
With filthy crimes, or with lascivious lusts?
Nay it is thou that hast dishonoured it,
Thy filthy mind orecome with filthy lusts,
Yieldeth unto affections filthy darts.
Unkind, thou wrong'st thy first and truest feer,
Unkind, thou wrong'st thy best and dearest friend;
Unkind, thou scorn'st all skilfull Brutus lawes,
99
Estr.
Believe me Locrine, but the girle is wise,
And well would seem to make a vestal Nun,
How finely frames she her oration.
Thra.
Locrine we came not here to fight with words,
Words that can never win the victory,
But for you are so merry in your frumps,
Unsheath your swords, and trie it out by force,
That we may see who hath the better hand.
Locr.
Think'st thou to dare me, bold Thrasimacus?
Think'st thou to fear me with thy taunting braves,
Or do we seem too weak to cope with thee?
Soon shall I shew thee my fine cutting blade,
And with my sword, the messenger of death,
Seal thee an acquittance for thy bold attempts.
Exeunt.
Sound the alarum. Enter Locrine, Assaracus, and a souldier at one door, Guendoline, Thrasimacus, at an other, Locrine and his followers driven back.
Then let Locrine and Estrild enter again in a maze.
Locr.
O fair Estrilda, we have lost the field,
Thrasimachus hath won the victory,
And we are left to be a laughing stock,
Scoft at by those that are our enemies,
Ten thousand souldiers arm'd with sword and shield,
Prevail against an hundred thousand men,
Thrasimachus incest with fuming ire,
Rageth among'st the faint-heart souldiers
Like to grim Mars, when covered with his targe
He fought with Diomedes in the field,
Close by the banks of silver Simois,
Sound the alarum.
O lovely Estrild now the chase begins,
Ne're shall we see the stately Troynovant
Mounted with coursers garnisht all with pearles
Ne're shall we view the fair Concordia,
Unlesse as captives we be thither brought.
Shall Locrine then be taken prisoner,
By such a youngling as Thrasimachus?
Shall Guendoline captivate my love?
Ne're shall mine eyes behold that dismal hour,
Ne're will I view that ruthfull spectacle,
For with my sword, this sharp curtle axe,
I'le cut in sunder my accursed heart.
But O you judges of the ninefold Stix,
Which with incessant torments rack the ghosts
Within the bottomlesse Abyssus pits,
You gods, commanders of the heavenly spheers,
Whose will and laws irrevocable stands,
Forgive, forgive, this foul accursed sin,
Forget O gods, this foul condemned fault:
And now my sword that in so many fights
kiss his sword.
Hast sav'd the life of Brutus and his son,
End now his life that wisheth still for death,
Work now his death that wisheth still for death,
Work now his death that hateth still his life.
Farewell fair Estrild, beauties paragon,
Fram'd in the front of forlorn miseries,
Ne're shall mine eyes behold thy sun-shine eyes,
But when we meet in the Elysian fields,
Thither I go before with hastened pace.
Farewell vain world, and thy inticing snares.
Farewell foul sin, and thy inticing pleasures.
And welcome death, the end of mortal smart,
Welcome to Locrine's over-burthened heart.
Thrusts himself through with his sword.
Estr.
Break heart with sobs and grievous suspirs,
Stream forth you tears from forth my watry eyes,
Help me to mourn for warlike Locrine's death,
Pour down your tears you watry regions,
For mighty Locrine is bereft of life.
O fickle fortune, O unstable world,
What else are all things, that this globe contains,
But a confused chaos of mishaps?
Wherein as in a glasse we plainly see,
That all our life is but a Tragedie.
Since mighty Kings are subject to mishap,
I, mighty Kings are subject to mishap,
Since martial Locrine is bereft of life,
Shall Estrild live then after Locrine's death?
Shall love of life bar her from Locrine's sword?
O no, this sword that hath bereft his life,
Shall now deprive me of my fleeting soul:
Strengthen these hands O mighty Jupiter,
That I may end my wofull miserie,
Locrine I come, Locrine I follow thee.
Kills her self.
Sound the alarme. Enter Sabren.
Sab.
What dolefull sight, what ruthfull spectacle
Hath fortune offred to my haplesse heart?
My father slain with such a fatal sword,
My mother murthred by a mortal wound?
What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon,
Would not relent at such a ruthfull case?
What fierce Achilles, what hard stony flint,
Would not bemone this mournfull Tragedie?
Locrine, the map of magnanimitie,
Lies slaughtered in his foul accursed cave,
Estrild, the perfect pattern of renown,
Natures sole wonder, in whose beauteous brests,
All heavenly grace and vertue was inshrind,
Both massacred are dead within this cave,
And with them dies fair Pallas and sweet love.
Here lies a sword, and Sabren hath a heart,
This blessed sword shall cut my cursed heart,
And bring my soul unto my parents ghosts,
That they that live and view our Tragedy,
May mourn our case with mournfull plaudities.
Let her offer to kill her self.
Ay me, my virgins hands are too too weak,
To penetrate the bullwarke of my brest,
My fingers us'd to tune the amorous Lute,
Are not of force to hold this steely glain,
So I am left to waile my parents death,
Not able for to work my proper death.
Ah Locrine, honour'd for thy noblenesse.
Ah Estrild, famous for thy constancie.
Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal ends.
Enter Guendoline, Thrasimachus, Madan, and the Souldiers.
Guen.
Search souldiers search, find Locrine & his Love,
Find the proud strumpet, Humber's concubine,
That I may change those her so pleasing looks,
To pale and ignominious aspect.
Find me the issue of their cursed love,
Find me young Sabren, Locrine's only joy,
That I may glut my mind with lukewarme bloud,
Swiftly distilling from the bastards brest,
My fathers ghost still hants me for revenge,
Crying, revenge my over-hastened death,
My brother's exile, and mine own divorce,
Banish remorse clean from my brazen heart,
100
Thra.
Nor doth thy husband, lovely Guendoline,
That wonted was to guide our stailesse steps,
Enjoy this light; see where he murdred lies:
By lucklesse lot and froward frowning fate,
And by him lies his lovely paramour
Fair Estrild goared with a dismal sword,
And as it seems, both murdred by themselves,
Clasping each other in their feebled armes,
With loving zeal, as if for company
Their uncontented corps were yet content
To passe foul Stix in Charon's ferry-boat.
Guen.
And hath proud Estrild then prevented me,
Hath she escaped Guendolina's wrath,
Violently by cutting off her life?
Would God she had the monstrous Hidra's lives,
That every hour she might have died a death
Worse then the swing of old Ixions wheel,
And every hour revive to die again,
As Titius bound to housles Caucason,
Doth feed the substance of his own mishap,
And every day for want of food doth die,
And every night doth live again to die.
But stay, me thinks I hear some fainting voice,
Mournfully weeping for their lucklesse death.
Sa.
You mountain nimphs which in these desarts raign,
Cease off your hasty chase of savage beasts,
Prepare to see a heart opprest with care,
Addresse your ears to hear a mournfull stile,
No humane strength, no work can work my weal,
Care in my heart so tyrant like doth deal.
You Driades and lightfoot Satiri,
You gracious Fairies which at evening tide,
Your closets leave with heavenly beauty stor'd,
And on your shoulders spread your golden locks,
You savage bears in Caves and darkned Denns,
Come wail with me the martial Locrine's death.
Come mourn with me, for beateous Estrilds death.
Ah loving parents little do you know,
What sorrow Sabren suffers for your thrall.
Guen.
But may this be, and is it possible,
Lives Sabren yet to expiate my wrath?
Fortune I thank thee for this curtesie,
And let me never see one prosperous hour,
If Sabren die not a reproachfull death.
Sa.
Hard hearted death, that when the wretched call.
Art farthest off, and seldome hear'st at all.
But in the mid'st of fortunes good successe,
Uncalled comes, and sheers our life in twain:
When will that hour, that blessed hour draw nigh,
When poor distressed Sabren may be gone.
Sweet Atropos cut off my fatal thred.
What art thou death, shall not poor Sabren die?
Guendoline taking her by the chin, shall say thus.
Guen.
Yes damsel, yes, Sabren shall surely die,
Though all the world should seek to save her life,
And not a common death shall Sabren die,
But after strange and grievous punishments,
Shortly inflicted upon thy bastards head,
Thou shalt be cast into the cursed streams,
And feed the fishes with thy tender flesh.
Sab.
And think'st thou then, thou cruel homicid,
That these thy deeds shall be unpunished?
No traitor, no, the gods will venge these wrongs,
The fiends of hell will mark these injuries.
Never shall these bloud-sucking masty currs,
Bring wretched Sabren to her latest home.
For I my self in spite of thee and thine,
Mean to abridge my former destinies,
And that which Locrine's sword could not perform,
This present streame shall present bring to passe.
She drowneth her self.
Guen.
One michief follows anothers neck,
Who would have thought so young a maid as she
With such a courage would have sought her death.
And for because this River was the place
Where little Sabren resolutely died,
Sabren for ever shall this same be call'd.
And as for Locrine our deceased spouse,
Because he was the son of mighty Brute,
To whom we owe our country, lives and goods,
He shall be buried in a stately tombe,
Close by his aged father Brutus bones,
With such great pomp and great solemnity,
As well beseems so b ave a Prince as he.
Let Estrild lie without the shallow vaults,
Without the honour due unto the dead,
Because she was the authour of this War.
Retire brave followers unto Troynovant,
Where we will celebrate these exequies,
And place young Locrine in his father's Tombe.
Exeunt omnes.
Atey.
Lo here the end of lawlesse treachery,
Of Usurpation and ambitious pride,
And they that for their private amours dare
Turmoile our land, and set their broils abroach,
Let them be warned by these premisses,
And as a woman was the onely cause
That civil discord was then stirred up,
So let us pray for that renowned maid,
That eight and thirty years the Scepter sway'd
In quiet peace and sweet felicitie,
And every wight that seeks her graces smart,
Would that this sword were pierced in his heart.
Exit.
| The Tragedy of Locrine | |