University of Virginia Library

THE SECONDE SCEANE

Thiestes
alone.
O beaten bosomes dullde so longe with woe,
Laie down your cares, at length your greues relēt
Let sorowe passe, and all your dread let goe,
And fellow eke of fearefull banishment,
Sad pouertye and ill in misery
The shame of cares, more whense thy fall thou haste,
Then whether skylles, great hap to him, from hye
That falles, it is in surety to be plast
Beneath and great it is to him agayne
That prest with storme, of euylls feeles the smart,
Of kyngedome loste the payses to sustaine
VVith necke vnbowde: nor yet detect of heart
Nor ouercome, his heauy haps alwayes
To beare vpright but now of carefull carkes
Shake of the showres, and of thy wretched dayes
Away with all the myserable markes.
To ioyfull state returne thy chearefull face.
Put fro thy mynde the olde Thyestes hence.
It is the woont of wight in wofull case,
In state of ioy to haue no confidence.
Though better haps to them returned be,
Thafflicted yet to ioy it yrketh sore.
VVhy calst thou me abacke, and hyndrest me
This happy day to celebrate? wherefore
Bidst thou me (sorrow) wepe without a cause?
VVho doth me let with flowers so fresh and gay,
To decke my hayres? it lets and me withdrawes
Downe from my head the roses fall away:
My moysted haire with oyntment ouer all,
With so dayne mase standes vp in wondrous wyse,
From face that would not weepe the streames do fall.
And howling cryes amid my wordes aryse.
My sorrowe yet thaccustomd teares doth loue
And wretches stil delyght to, weepe and crye.
Vnpleasant playntes it pleaseth them to moue:
And florisht fayre it likes with Tyrian die
Their robes to rent, to waile it likes them still
For sorrow sendes (in signe that woes draw nie)
The mind that wots before of after yll.
The sturdy stormes the shipmen ouer lye,
VVhen voyd of wynd thasswaged seas do rest.
VVhat tumult yet or countenaunce to see
Makste thou mad man? at length at trustful breast
To brother gene, what euer now it be,
Causeles, or els to late thou art a dred.
I wretch would not so feare, but yet me drawes
A trembling terrour: downe myne eyes do shed
Their sodayne teares and yet I know no cause,
Is it a greefe, or feare? or els hath teares great ioy it selfe.