O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death.
Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech.
Eub. Patient, your grace, perhaps he liveth yet,
With wound received, but not of certain death.
Gorb. O let us then repair unto the place,
And see if Porrex live, or thus be slain.
Marc. Alas! he liveth not, it is too true,
That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince,
Son to a king, and in the flower of youth,
Even with a twink1 a senseless stock I saw.
Arost. O damned deed!
Marc. But hear his ruthful end.
The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wound,
Out of his wretched slumber hastely start,"
Whose strength now failing, straight he overthrew,
When in the fall his eyes, even new unclosed,
Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help.
We then, alas! the ladies, which that time.
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed,
And hearing him oft call the wretched name
Of mother, and to cry to her for aid,
Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound,
Pitying, alas! (for nought else could we do)
His ruthful end, ran to the woful bed,
Despoiled straight his breast, and all we might,
Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand,
The sudden streams of blood that flushed fast
Out of the gaping wound. O what a look,
O what a ruthful stedfast eye methought
He fix'd upon my face, which to my death
Will never part from me,—when with a braid
A deep-fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithal
Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight,
And straight pale death pressing within his face,
The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook.
Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact.
Marc. O hard and cruel hap, that thus assigned
Unto so worthy a wight so wretched end :
But most hard cruel heart, that could consent
To lend the hateful destinies that hand,
By which, alas! so heinous crime was wrought.
O
queen of adamant! O marble breast!
If not the favour of his comely face,
If not his princely cheer and countenance,
His valiant active arms, his manly breast,
If not his fair and seemly personage,
His noble limbs in such proportion cast
As would have rapt a silly woman's thought,
If this might not have moved thy bloody heart,
And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon
Even to let fall, and kiss'd him in the face,
With tears for ruth to reave such one by death
Should nature yet consent to slay her son?
O mother, thou to murder thus thy child!
Even Jove with justice must with lightning flames
From heaven send down some strange revenge on
Ah, noble prince, how oft have I beheld
Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed, Shining in armour bright before the tilt, And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy helm, And charge thy staff to please thy lady's eye, That bowed the head-piece of thy friendly foe! How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace! How oft in arms on foot to break the sword, Which never now these eyes may see again. Arost. Madam, alas! in vain these plaints are shed, Rather with me depart, and help to assuage The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king Must needs by nature grow, by death of this His only son, whom he did hold so dear.
Marc. What wight is that which saw that I did see,
And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears? Not I, alas! that heart is not in me.
But let us go, for I am grieved anew,
To call to mind the wretched father's woe.
[Exeunt. Chorus of aged men. When greedy lust, in royal seat
Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men,
And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain,
Within the ambitious breast are lodged, then
Behold how mischief wide herself displays,
And with the brother's hand the brother slays.
When blood thus shed doth stain this heaven's
face,
Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed,
The mighty God even moveth from his place
With wrath to wreak; then sends he forth with
The dreadful Furies, daughters of the night, With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire, With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire. These for revenge of wretched murder done, Doth cause the mother kill her only son.
Blood asketh blood, and death must death requite;
Jove by his just and everlasting doom
Justly hath ever so requited it.
The times before record, and times to come,
Shall find it true, and so doth present proof
Present before our eyes for our behoof.
O happy wight that suffers not the snare
Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood :
And happy he that can in time beware
By others' harms, and turn it to his good :
But woe to him that fearing not to offend,
Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end.
[The style of this old play is stiff and cumbersome, like the dresses of its times. There may be flesh and blood underneath, but we cannot get at it. Sir Philip Sidney has praised it for its morality. One of its authors might easily furnish that. Norton was an associate to Hopkins, Sternhold, and Robert Wisdom, in the Singing Psalms. I am willing to believe that Lord Buckhurst supplied the more vital parts. The chief beauty in the extract is of a secret nature. Marcella obscurely intimates that the murdered prince Porrex and she had been lovers.]
TANCRED AND GISMUND:
ACTED BEFORE THE COURT BY THE GENTLEMEN OF THE INNER TEMPLE, 1591.
A Messenger brings to GISMUND a cup from the King her Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction. Mess. Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath
The thing to joy and comfort thee withal
Which thou lovedst best, even as thou wast content To comfort him with his chief joy of all. Gis. I thank my father, and thee, gentle squire, For this thy travail: take thou, for thy pains, This bracelet, and commend me to the king.
So, now is come the long-expected hour,
The fatal hour I have so looked for ;
Now hath my father satisfied his thirst
With guiltless blood, which he so coveted.
What brings this cup? ay me! I thought no less;
It is mine earl's, my county's pierced heart.
Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love,
Extremely rated at too high a price.
Ah, my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life,
But in thy life thou provest passing sweet.
A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold
Could not be lotted to so good a heart.
My father therefore well provided thus
To close and wrap thee up in massy gold,
And therewithal to send thee unto me,
To whom of duty thou dost best belong.
My father hath in all his life bewray'd
A princely care and tender love to me;
But this surpasseth, in his latter days
To send me this, my own dear heart, to me.
Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my
love
Danced and play'd upon thy golden strings ?
Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my love
Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings?
Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be,
Therefore my
father sendeth thee to me.
Ah, pleasant harborough,1 of my heart's thought!
Ah, sweet delight, the quickener of my soul !
Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought
Thee this despite, to mangle thee so foul;
Yet in this wound I see my own true love,
And in this wound thy magnanimity,
And in this wound I see thy constancy.
Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb,
Receive this token at thy last farewell.
[She kisseth it.
Thy own true heart anon will follow thee,
Which panting hasteth for thy company.
Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race,
And rid thy life from fickle fortune's snares;
Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares,
And of thy foe, to honour thee withal,
Receiv'd a golden grave to thy desert.
Nothing doth want to thy just funeral,
But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound;
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