GHOST. Vindicta, vindicta.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV. PROLOGUE.
[Enter Ate as before. Then let there follow Omphale, daughter to the king of Lydia, having a club in her hand, and a lion's skin on her back, Hercules following with a distaff. Then let Omphale turn about, and taking off her pantole, strike Hercules on the head; then let them depart, Ate remaining, saying:]
Quem non Argolici mandota severa Tyranni, Non potuit Juno vincere, vicit amor.
Stout Hercules, the mirror of the world, Son to Alemena and great Jupiter, After so many conquests won in field, After so many monsters quelled by force, Yielded his valiant heart to Omphale, A fearful woman void of manly strength. She took the club, and wear the lion's skin; He took the wheel, and maidenly gan spin. So martial Locrine, cheered with victory, Falleth in love with Humber's concubine, And so forgetteth peerless Gwendoline. His uncle Corineius storms at this, And forceth Locrine for his grace to sue. Lo here the sum, the process doth ensue.
[Exit.]
ACT IV. SCENE I. The camp of Locrine.
[Enter Locrine, Camber, Corineius, Assaracus, Thrasimachus, and the soldiers.]
LOCRINE. Thus from the furty of Bellona's broils, With sound of drum and trumpets' melody, The Brittain king returns triumphantly. The Scithians slain with great occasion Do equalize the grass in multitude, And with their blood have stained the streaming brooks, Offering their bodies and their dearest blood As sacrifice to Albanactus' ghost. Now, cursed Humber, hast thou paid thy due, For thy deceits and crafty treacheries, For all thy guiles and damned strategems, With loss of life, and everduring shame. Where are thy horses trapped with burnished gold, Thy trampling coursers ruled with foaming bits? Where are thy soldiers, strong and numberless, Thy valiant captains and thy noble peers? Even as the country clowns with sharpest scythes Do mow the withered grass from off the earth, Or as the ploughman with his piercing share Renteth the bowels of the fertile fields, And rippeth up the roots with razours keen: So Locrine with his mighty curtleaxe Hath cropped off the heads of all thy Huns; So Locrine's peers have daunted all thy peers, And drove thin host unto confusion, That thou mayest suffer penance for thy fault, And die for murdering valiant Albanact.
CORINEIUS. And thus, yea thus, shall all the rest be served That seek to enter Albion gainst our wills. If the brave nation of the Troglodites, If all the coalblack Aethiopians, If all the forces of the Amazons, If all the hosts of the Barbarian lands, Should dare to enter this our little world, Soon should they rue their overbold attempts, That after us our progeny may say, There lie the beasts that sought to usurp our land.
LOCRINE. Aye, they are beasts that seek to usurp our land, And like to brutish beasts they shall be served. For mighty Jove, the supreme king of heaven, That guides the concourse of the Meteors, And rules the motion of the azure sky, Fights always for the Brittains' safety.-- But stay! me thinks I hear some shriking noise, That draweth near to our pavilion.
[Enter the soldiers leading in Estrild.]
ESTRILD. What prince so ere, adorned with golden crown, Doth sway the regal scepter in his hand, And thinks no chance can ever throw him down, Or that his state shall everlasting stand: Let him behold poor Estrild in this plight, The perfect platform of a troubled wight. Once was I guarded with manortial bands, Compassed with princes of the noble blood; Now am I fallen into my foemen's hands, And with my death must pacific their mood. O life, the harbour of calamities! O death, the haven of all miseries! I could compare my sorrows to thy woe, Thou wretched queen of wretched Pergamus, But that thou viewdst thy enemies' overthrow. Night to the rock of high Caphareus, Thou sawest their death, and then departedst thence; I must abide the victor's insolence. The golds that pitied thy continual grief Transformed thy corps, and with thy corps thy care; Poor Estrild lives despairing of relief, For friends in trouble are but few and rare. What, said I few? Aye! few or none at all, For cruel death made havoc of them all. Thrice happy they whose fortune was so good, To end their lives, and with their lives their woes! Thrice hapless I, whom fortune so withstood, That cruelly she gave me to my foes! Oh, soldiers, is there any misery, To be compared to fortune's treachery.