University of Virginia Library

Scen. 6.

Narete.
And is it true? and am I not trans-form'd
With cold amazement yet unto a Stone?
Have I a voice still, and yet do not send
Loud exclamation up to Heaven above?
O wretched off-spring! Oh unfortunate
Unhappy Lovers! you are carried now
Unto the Temple, harmlesse innocent,
There to be made a horrid sacrifice,
And love that sees this, who would ere beleev't?
Even love himself doth put the fatal knife
Into the Tyrants hand.
Could not our own sad miseries suffice,
Woes me! but strangers too must come
From forreign parts, to adde the mournfull Pomp
Of their sad ruine to our endlesse Woes?
Why do the Heavens lend their glorious light
Still to these Fields? And why about this shore
Doth still the sea, contain his angry Waves?
And neither heaven yet doth hide his light
Nor yet the Sea ore-flow this wretched Isle
Alass for pitty let these sinful fields
Now made the horrid stage of wrath and ire
Be overwhelm'd by inundation,
And so conceal'd under the raging waves
Of a tumultuous Sea.