Chapter 29

Enter the ghost of Corineus with thunder and lightening.

CORINEUS’ GHOST. Behold, the circuit of the azure sky Throws forth sad throbs and grievous suspires, 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 bloody massacres at hand. The wandering birds that flutter in the dark, When hellish night, in cloudy chariot seated, Casteth her mists on shady Tellus’ face, With sable mantles covering all the earth, Now flies abroad amid the cheerful day, Foretelling some unwonted misery. The snarling curs of darkened Tartarus, Sent from Avernus’ ponds by Radamanth, With howling ditties pester every wood. The watery ladies and the lightfoot fawns, And all the rabble of the woody Nymphs, All trembling hide themselves in shady groves, And shroud themselves in hideous hollow pits. The boisterous Boreas thundreth forth revenge; The stony rocks cry out on sharp revenge; The thorny bush pronounceth dire revenge.

[_Sound the alarm._]

Now, Corineus, stay and see revenge, And feed thy soul with Locrine’s overthrow. Behold, they come; the trumpets call them forth; The roaring drums summon the soldiers. Lo, where their army glistereth on the plains! Throw forth thy lightning, mighty Jupiter, And power thy plagues on cursed Locrine’s head.

[_Stand aside_]

Enter Locrine, Estrild, Assarachus, Sabren and their soldiers at one door: Thrasimachus, Gwendoline, Madan and their followers at an other.

LOCRINE. What, is the tiger started from his cave? Is Gwendoline come from Cornubia, That thus she braveth Locrine to the teeth? And hast thou found thine armour, pretty boy, Accompanied with these thy straggling mates? Believe me, but this enterprise was bold, And well deserveth commendation.

GWENDOLINE. Aye, Locrine, traitorous Locrine! we are come, With full pretence to seek thine overthrow. What have I done, that thou shouldst scorn me thus? What have I said, that thou shouldst me reject? Have I been disobedient to thy words? Have I bewrayed thy Arcane secrecy? Have I dishonoured thy marriage bed With filthy crimes, or with lascivious lusts? Nay, it is thou that hast dishonoured it: Thy filthy minds, o’ercome with filthy lusts, Yieldeth unto affections filthy darts. Unkind, thou wrongst thy first and truest feer; Unkind, thou wrongst thy best and dearest friend; Unkind, thou scornst all skilfull Brutus’ laws, Forgetting father, uncle, and thyself.

ESTRILD. Believe me, Locrine, but the girl is wise, And well would seem to make a vestal Nun. How finely frames she her oration!

THRASIMACHUS. 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 try it out by force, That we may see who hath the better hand.

LOCRINE. Thinkst thou to dare me, bold Thrasimachus? Thinkst 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 acquitance for thy bold attempts.

[_Exeunt._]

Sound the alarm. Enter Locrine, Assarachus and a soldier at one door; Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, at an other; Locrine and his followers driven back. Then let Locrine & Estrild enter again in a maze.

LOCRINE. O fair Estrild, 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 soldiers, armed with sword & shield, prevail against an hundreth thousand men; Thrasimachus, incensed with fuming ire, Rageth amongst the faintheart soldiers, 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 alarm._]

O lovely Estrild, now the chase begins; Ne’er shall we see the stately Troynouant, Mounted on the coursers garnished all with pearls; Nor shall we view the fair Concordia, Unless as captives we be thither brought. Shall Locrine then be taken prisoner By such a youngling as Thrasimachus? Shall Gwendoline captivate my love? Ne’er shall mine eyes behold that dismal hour; Ne’er will I view that ruthful spectacle, For with my sword, this sharp curtleaxe, I’ll cut in sunder my accursed heart. But O! you judges of the ninefold Styx, Which with incessant torments rack the ghosts Within the bottomless Abissus’ pits, You gods, commanders of the heavenly spheres, 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 saved 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, beauty’s paragon, Framed in the front of forlorn miseries! Ne’er shall mine eyes behold thy sunshine 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 overburthened heart!

[_Thrust himself through with his sword._]

ESTRILD. Break, heart, with sobs and grievous suspires! Stream forth, you tears, from forth my watery eyes; Help me to mourn for warlike Locrine’s death! Pour down your tears, you watery 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 glass, we plainly see, That all our life is but a Tragedy? Since mighty kings are subject to mishap— Aye, 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 woeful misery. Locrine, I come; Locrine, I follow thee.

[_Kill herself._]

Sound the alarm. Enter Sabren.

SABREN. What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offered to my hapless heart? My father slain with such a fatal sword, My mother murthered by a mortal wound? What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon, Would not relent at such a rueful case? What fierce Achilles, what had stony flint, Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy? Locrine, the map of magnanimity, Lies slaughtered in this foul accursed cave, Estrild, the perfect pattern of renown, Nature’s sole wonder, in whose beauteous breasts All heavenly grace and virtue was inshrined: 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 mournful plaudities.

[_Let her offer to kill herself_]

Ay me, my virgin’s hands are too too weak, To penetrate the bulwark of my breast; My fingers, used to tune the amorous lute, Are not of force to hold this steely glaive. So I am left to wail my parents’ death, Not able for to work my proper death. Ah, Locrine, honored for thy nobleness! Ah, Estrild, famous for thy constancy! Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal ends!

Enter Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, Madan and the soldiers.

GWENDOLINE. Search, soldiers, search, find Locrine and 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 lukewarm blood, Swiftly distilling from the bastard’s breast. My father’s ghost still haunts me for revenge, Crying, Revenge my overhastened death. My brother’s exile and mine own divorce Banish remorse clean from my brazen heart, All mercy from mine adamantine breasts.

THRASIMACHUS. Nor doth thy husband, lovely Gwendoline, That wonted was to guide our stailess steps, Enjoy this light; see where he murdered lies By luckless lot and froward frowning fate; And by him lies his lovely paramour, Fair Estrild, gored with a dismal sword;— And as it seems, both murdered by themselves, Clasping each other in their feebled arms, With loving zeal, as if for company Their uncontented corps were yet content To pass foul Stix in Charon’s ferry-boat.

GWENDOLINE. And hath proud Estrild then prevented me? Hath she escaped Gwendoline’s wrath Violently, by cutting off her life? Would God she had the monstrous Hydra’s lives, That every hour she might have died a death Worse than the swing of old Ixion’s 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! methinks I hear some fainting voice, Mournfully weeping for their luckless death.

SABREN. You mountain nymphs, which in these deserts reign, Cease off your hasty chase of savage beasts; Prepare to see a heart oppressed with care; Address your ears to hear a mournful style! No humane strength, no work can work my weal, Care in my heart so tyrant like doth deal. You Dryads and lightfoot Satyri, You gracious Faries which, at evening tide, Your closets leave with heavenly beauty stored, And on your shoulders spread your golden locks; You savage bears in caves and darkened dens, Come wail with me the martial Locrine’s death; Come mourn with me for beauteous Estrild’s death. Ah! loving parents, little do you know What sorrow Sabren suffers for your thrall.

GWENDOLINE. But may this be, and is it possible? Lives Sabren yet to expiate my wrath? Fortune, I thank thee for this courtesy; And let me never see one prosperous hour, If Sabren die not a reproachful death.

SABREN. Hard hearted death, that, when the wretched call, Art furthest off, and seldom hearest at all; But, in the midst of fortune’s good success, 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 thread! What art thou death? shall not poor Sabren die?

GWENDOLINE. [_Taking her by the chin shall say thus_.] 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 bastard’s head, Thou shalt be cast into the cursed streams, And feed the fishes with thy tender flesh.

SABREN. And thinkst thou then, thou cruel homicide, 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 blood-sucking masty curs, Bring wretched Sabren to her latest home; For I myself, in spite of thee and thine, Mean to abridge my former destinies, And that which Locrine’s sword could not perform, This pleasant stream shall present bring to pass.

[_She drowneth herself._]

GWENDOLINE. One mischief follows on another’s 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 called. 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 tomb, Close by his aged father Brutus’ bones, With such great pomp and great solemnity, As well beseems so brave a prince as he. Let Estrild lie without the shallow vaults, Without the honour due unto the dead, Because she was the author of this war. Retire, brave followers, unto Troynouant, Where we shall celebrate these exequies, And place young Locrine in his father’s tomb.

[_Exeunt omnes._]

Enter Ate.

ATE. Lo here the end of lawless treachery, Of usurpation and ambitious pride; And they that for their private amours dare Turmoil our land, and set their broils abroach, Let them be warned by these premises. And as a woman was the only cause That civil discord was then stirred up, So let us pray for that renowned maid, That eight and thirty years the scepter swayed, In quiet peace and sweet felicity; And every wight that seeks her grace’s smart, Would that this sword were pierced in his heart!

[_Exit._]