The Monarchic Tragedies

The Monarchick Tragedies.

By William Alexander of Menstry.

Printed at London by V.S. for Edward Blount. 1604.

To his sacred Majesty.

Disdain not (mighty Prince) these humble lines,

Though too mean Music for so Noble ears!

Thou glorious pattern of all good engines,

Whose sacred brow a twofold Laurel bears;

To whom Apollo his own harp resigns,

And everlasting Trophighs virtue rears;

Thou can afford that which my soul affects:

Let thy perfections shadow my defects.

Although my wit be weak, my vows are strong,

Which consecrate devoutly to thy name

My Muses’ labours, that ere it be long

May cast some feathers to impen in Fame,

Wherewith emboldened, in a sweetr Song,

Thy praises, and inestimable worth,

Through all great Britain’s coasts from South to North.

No doubt our warlike Calidonian coast

(Still kept unconquered by heaven’s decree)

Expelled the Picts, repelled the Danes, did host

In spite of all the Roman legions free,

As that which was ordained (though long time crossed

In this Herculean birth) to bring forth thee,

Whom many a famous Sceptred Parent brings

From an undaunted Race to do great things.

Of this divided Isle the nurslings brave,

Erst could not from intestine wars desist,

Yet did in foreign fields their names engrave,

Whilst whom th’one spoiled, still th’other would assist.

Those now made one, whilst such a head they have,

What world of worlds were able to resist?

Thus hath thy worth (great James) conjoined them now,

Whom many a bloody battle could not bow.

And so most justice thy renowned deeds

Do raise thy fame above the starry round,

Which in the world a glad amazement breeds

To see thy virtues as thy merits crowned,

Whilst thou (great Monarch) that in power exceeds,

With a good conscience does thy greatness bound.

Where if thou liked to be more great than good,

Thou might soon build a Monarchy with blood.

For this fair world without the world, no doubt

Which Neptune strongly guards with liquid bands,

As aptest so to rule as most majestick stands,

Thence (the world’s mistress) to give judgement out,

With full authority for other lands,

Which on the seas would gaze attending still,

By wind-winged messengers their Sovereigns will.

Th’Antartic regions did all realms surpass,

And were the first that reach’d great armies forth.

Yet Sovereignty had there first founded was,

Still by degrees has drawn unto the North

To this great Climate that it could not pass,

The fatal period bounding all true worth:

For it can not from hence a passage find,

Within our circle mouing floods confined.

As waters that a mass of earth restrains,

If they be swelling high begin to vent,

Do rage disdainfully over all the plains,

As scorning in strict limits to be pent;

Even so this mass of earth that thus remains,

Walled in with liquid waves, if too high bent

That if be forced t’overflow the floods, o then

It will wrack the world with a deluge of men.

Then since (great Prince) the torrent of thy power

May drown whole nations in a scarlet flood,

On th’infidels thine indignation power,

And bathe not Christian bounds with Christian blood!

The tyrant Ottoman (that would devour

All the redeemed souls) may be withstood,

While as thy troops (great Albion’s Emperour) once

Do comfort Christ’s afflicted flock that moans.

Thy thundering troops may take the stately rounds

Of Constantine’s great town renown’d in vain,

And bar the barbarous Turks the baptized bounds,

Reconquering Geoffrey’s conquests once again.

O well spent labours! O illustrious wounds!

Whose triumph shall eternal glory gain,

And make the Lion to be feared far more,

Then ever was the Eagle of before.

But o thrice happy thou that of thy throne,

Th’unbounded power for such an use controls

Which if some might command, to reign alone

Of all their life they would be-blood the scrolls,

And to content to ambition but of one,

Would sacrifice a thousand thousand souls –

Which thou doest spare, though having spirit and might

To challenge all the world as thine own right.

Then unto whom more justly could I give

The ruind Monarchys of those great States,

That did the world of liberty deprive,

To rear tyrannical and evil-conquered Seats,

Then unto thee, that may, and will not lie

Like those proud Monarchs born to stormy Fates?

But whilst, frank-spirited Prince, thou this would flee,

Crowns come unsought, and Sceptres seek to thee.

Unto the Ocean thy worth I send

Those runls rising from a rash attempt –

Not that I to augment that depth pretend,

Which is from all necessity exempt.

The gods’ small gifts of Zealous minds comend,

While Hecatombs are held in contempt.

So Sir, I offer at your Virtue’s shrine,

This little incense, or this smoke of mine.

To the Author of the Monarchick Tragedies.

Well may the program of your tragic stage

Invite the curious pomp-expecting eyes,

To gaze on present shows of passd age,

Which just desert Monarchick dare baptize.

Crowns thrown from Thrones to tombs, detomb’d arise

To match your Muse with a Monarchick theme.

That whilst her sacred soaring cuts the skies,

A vulgar subject may not wrong the same:

And which gives most advantage to thy fame.

The worthighst Monarch that the sun can see

Does grace thy labours with his glorious Name,

And deigns Protector of thy birth to be.

Thus all Monarchic, Patron, subject, style,

Make thee, the Monarch-tragic of this Isle.

Robert Ayton.

The Argument.

At that time when the States of Greece began to grow great, and Philosophy to be thought precious, Solon, the first light of the Athenian commonwealth, like a prouident Bee gathering honey over many fields, learning knowledge over many countries, was sent for by Croesus King of Lidia as famous for his Wealth, as the other was for his Wisdom. And not so much for any desire the King had to profit by the experience of so profound a Philosopher, as to have the report of his (as he thought it) happiness approved by the testimony of so renowned a witness. But Solon, always like himself, entering the regal Palace and seeing the same very gloriously apparelled, but very incommodiously furnished with Courtiers (more curious to have their bodies decked with a womanishly affected form of rayment, and some superficial complements of pretended courtesies, then to have their minds enriched with the true treasure of inestimable virtue), he had the same altogether in disdain. Therefore after some conference he had with Croesus concerning the felicity of man, his opinion not seconding the King’s expectation, he was returned with contempt as one of no understanding, but yet comforted by Aesop (Author of the witty fables, who for the time was resident at Court, and in credit with the King).

  Immediately after the departure of Solon, Croesus having two sons (whereof the eldest was dumb, and the other a brave youth) dreamed that the youngest died by the wound of a dart. Wherewith being marvellously troubled, he married him to a Gentlewoman named Caelia, and for farther disappointing the suspected, though inevitable destiny, he discharged the using of all such weapons as he had dreamed of. Yet who could cut away the occasion from the heavens of accomplishing that which they had designd? The spiritful youth, being long restrained from the fields, was invited by some countrymen to the chase of a wild Boar, yet could very hardly impetrate leave of his louingly suspicious father.

  Now in the meantime there arrived at Sardis a youth named Adrastus, son to the King of Phrigia, one no less unfortunate then valourous. He, having lost his mistress by a great disaster, and having killed his brother by a far greater, came to Croesus, by whom he was courteously entertained, and by the instancy of the King, and the instigation of others against his own will, who feared the frowardeness of his infectious fortune, he got the custody of Atis (so was the Prince called) whom in time of the sport thinking to kill the Boar, by a monstrous mishap he killed. After which disastrous accident, standing above the dead corpse, after the inquiry of the truth being pardoned by Croesus, he punished himself by a violent death. There after, Croesus, sorrowing exceedingly this exceeding misfortune, was comforted by Sandanis, who laboured to dissuade him from his unnecessary journey against the Persians. Yet he, reposing on superstitious and wrong interpreted responses of deceiving oracles, went against Cyrus, who having defeated his forces in the field, and taken himself in the City, tied him to a stake to be burned. Whereby he, exclaiming diverse times on the name of Solon, mouing the Conquerour to compassion, he was set at liberty, and lamenting the death of his son, and the loss of his Kingdom, makes the Catastrophe of this present Tragedy.

The scene in Sardis

Actors.

Croesus King of Lydia.

Atis his son.

Caelia wise to Atis.

Adrastus.

Sandanis a Counsellour.

Chorus of all the Lidians.

Solon.

Aesop.

Cyrus king of Persia.

Harpagus Lieutenant to Cyrus.

Chorus of some Countrymen.

The Tragedy of Croesus.

ACT. 1.

Solon. Look how the trustless world the worldlings tosses,

And leads her lovers headlong unto death!

Those that do court her most have the most cross,

And yet vain man, this half-spent spark of breath,

This dying substance, and this living shadow,

The sport of Fortune, and the spoil of Time,

Who like the glory of a half-mow’d meadow

Does flourish now, and straight falls in his prime,

Still toils t’attain (such is his foolish nature)

A constant good in this inconstant ill.

Unreasonable reasonable creature

That makes his reason subject to his will!

Whilst in the stage of Contemplation plac’d

Of worldly humours I behold the strife.

Though different spirits have diverse pares embraced,

All act this transitory scene of Life:

Of curious minds who can the fancys fetter,

The soul unsatisfyd, a prey t’each snare,

Still loathing what it has, does dream of better,

Which gotten, but begets a greater care.

And yet all labour for t’attain the top

Of th’unsure sovereign bliss that they surmise,

Flowers of Felicity, that few can crop,

Yea, scarce can be discerned by the wise.

Some place their happiness (unhappy beasts,

And I must say, more senseless then their treasures)

In gorgeous garments, and in dainty feasts,

To pamper breath-toss’d flesh with flying pleasures.

Some more austerely with a wrinckled brow

That triumph over their Passions with respects,

With neither fortune mou’d to brag or bow,

Would make the world enamour’d of their sects.

Some ravish’d still with virtue’s purest springs,

Feed on th’Idea of that divine brood,

And search the secrets of celestial things

As most undoubted heirs of that high good.

Thus with conceited ease and certain pain,

All seek by several ways a perfect bliss,

Which (O what wonder!), if they not obtain,

Who cannot well discern what thing it is?

What happiness can be imagin’d here?

Though we our hopes with vain surmises cherish,

Who hardly conquer first what we hold dear,

Then fear to lose it still that once must perish,

Think – though of many thousands scarcely any

Can at this point of Happiness arrive;

Yet if it chance, it chances not to many,

Only to get for what a world did strive.

And though one swim in th’Ocean of delights,

Have none above him, and his equals rare,

Ears joying pleasant sounds; eyes Stately sights;

His treasures infinite; his buildings fair.

Yet does the world on Fortune’s wheel rely,

Which love t’advance the wretched, wrack the great;

Whose course resembles an inconstant eye,

Ever in motion compassing deceit.

Then let the greedy of his substance boast,

Whilst th’excrements of th’earth his senses smother:

What has he gain’d, but what another lost?

And why may not his loss enrich an other?

But ah! all lose, who seek to profite thus,

And found their confidence on things that fade.

We may be robbed from them, they robbed from us,

All’s grieved for th’one, as for the other glad.

Vain fool, that thinks solidity to find

In this frail world, where for a while we range,

Which like sea-waves, depending on the wind,

Ebbs, flows, calms, storms, still mouing, still in change!

Each surge, we see, does drive the first away;

The foam is whitest, where the Rock is near,

And as one grows, another does decay.

The greatest dangers oft do least appear.

Their seeming bliss that trust in frothy shows,

In Fortune’s danger, burden’d with the Fates,

First to a full, then to confusion grows:

A secret Destiny does guide great States.

But I scorn Fortune, and was ever free

From that dead wealth that wavers in her power:

I bear my treasure still about with me,

Which neither Time nor Tyrants can devour.

Light author of events, and vain adventures,

Now do thy worst, I know how to undo thee!

The way is stopped by which thy poison enters,

You can harm none but them that trust unto thee.

And I have learn’d to moderate my mind,

Contentment is the crown of my desires:

My clothes are course, my fare such as I find.

He has enough that to no more aspires.

What satisfaction does over-flow my soul,

While as I weigh the world which few hold fast,

And in my memory’s unblotted scroll,

Judge of the present by the time that’s passd?

The poor-rich heir of breath that boasts of smoke,

And come of dust, yet of the dross still thinks,

Whilst baser passions do his virtues choke,

The soul over-balanc’d with the body sinks.

Yet need I not to loath the world and live,

As one whom stepdam she would never nourish.

I had a part of all that she could give:

My race, my house, by fame and wealth did flourish.

And if that I would vaunt of mine own deeds,

Fair City where mine eyes first sucked the light,

I challenge might what most thy glory breeds

Whose labours both enlarg’d thy fame and might.

When Salamina utterly was lost,

And by the rascal multitude neglected,

A counterfeited fool, I went and crossed

All their designs, whose courses were suspected.

And when I had by policy persuaded

My country to embrace the wars again,

I both by stratagems and strength invaded

That famous Isle which vanquished did remain.

Then having compass’d that exploited with speed,

And turn’d in triumph decked with stranger’s spoils,

No perfect bliss below worse did succeed:

The peace that was abroad bred civil broils.

What with more violence does fury lead,

Then a rash multitude that wants a head?

The meaner sort could not their minds conform,

T’abide at what their betters did command;

Then the weal public in a dangerous storm,

All joined to place the ruler in my hand.

I re-united that divided State,

And manag’d matters with a good success,

Which farther kindled had been quenched too late,

That Hydra-head tumult to suppress.

When I had both these glorious works effected,

And troad the path of sovereignty a space,

The minion of the people most respected,

None could be great save such as I would grace.

Thus carried with the force of Fortune’s stream,

I absolutely acted what I would:

For the Democraty was but a name,

My hand the rains did of the City hold.

I might a Tyrant still have govern’d so,

But my pure soul could no such thought conceive.

And that oversight yet made me never woe:

If I may rule myself it’s all I crave.

Yet some that seem’d to be more subtle-witd

Said my base spirit could not aspire t’a crown,

And foolish Solon had a fault committed,

Who would not do the like in every town.

My mind in this a more contentment finds,

Then if a Diadem adorn’d my brow,

I chain d th’affections of undaunted minds,

And made them civil that were wild ‘til now.

I hardly could rich Citizens entice,

T’embrace the Statutes that my Laws contain’d:

What one approu’d another did despise,

Some lou’d, some loath’d, ev’n as they thought they gain’d.

At last at least in show, all rest content,

Ev’n those that hate me most lend their applause.

A worthy mind needs never to repent

T’have suffered cross for an honest cause.

I travel now with a contented thought:

The memory of this my fancy feeds,

When all their Empires shall be turn’d to nought,

Time cannot make a prey of Virtue’s deeds.

Where seven-mouth’d Nile from a conceald source

Inunding over the fields, no banks can bind,

I saw their wonders, heard their wise discourse,

Rare sights enrich’d mine eyes, rare lights my mind.

And if it were but this, yet this delights:

Behold, how Croesus here the Lidian King,

To be his guest us earnestly invites,

The which to some would great contentment bring.

But I disdain that world-bewitched man,

Who makes his gold his God, the earth his heaven.

Yet I will try by all the means I can

To make his judgement with his fortune even.

Chorus.

What can confine man’s wandering thought,

Or satisfy his fancys all?

Is ought so great, but it seems small

To that tossed spirit, which still as flought

Does dream of things were never wrought,

And would gripe more then it can hold.

This sea-environ’d centered ball

Is not a bound unto that mind,

That mind, which big with monsters,

The right delivery never consters,

And seeking here a solid ease to find,

Would but melt mountains and imbrace the wind.

What wonder, though the soul of man

(A spark of heav’n, that shines below,

Does labour by all means it can,

Itself like to itself to show),

This heav’nly essence heaven would know,

But married with this mass we see,

With pain they spend lives little span,

The better part would be above,

The earth from th’earth cannot remove?

How can two contrairs well agree?

Thus as the best or worst part does prevail,

Man is of much, or else of no avail.

O from what source can this proceed,

T’have humours of so many kinds?

Each brain does divers fancys breed,

All’s many men, all’s many minds,

And in the world, a man scarce finds

Another of his humour right.

There are not two so like indeed,

If we remark their several graces

And lineaments of both their faces,

That can abide the proof of sight:

If the outward forms then differ as they do,

Of force th’affections must be different to.

Ah! Passions spoil our better part,

The soul is vexed with their dissentions;

We make a God of our own heart,

And worship all our vain inventions.

This brain-bred mist of apprehensions

The mind does with confusion fill,

Whilst reason in exile does smart;

And few are free from this infection,

For all are slaves to some affection,

Which does extorse the senses still.

These partial tyrants rage the sight oversiles,

And does eclipse the clearst judgement whiles.

A thousand times O happy he,

Who does his passions so subdue,

That he may with clear reason’s eye,

Their imperfections fountain’s view,

And as it were himself renew.

If that one might prescribe them laws,

And set his soul from bondage free,

From reason never for to swerve,

And make his passions him to serve,

And be but mou’d as he had cause:

O greater were that monarch of the mind,

Then if he might command from Thule to Inde.

ACT. II.

SCEN. I.

Croesus. Aesop. Solon.

Croesus. Who ever was so favour’d by the Fates,

As could like us of full contentment boast?

Lou’d of mine own, and feard of foreign States,

I know not what it is for to be crossed.

No thwarting chance my good hap does importune:

In all attempts my success has been such,

(The darling of heaven, the minion of fortune),

I wot not what to wish I have so much.

Mine eyes did never yet dismay my heart

With no delightless object that they saw;

My name applauded is in every part

My word an Oracle, my will a Law.

My breast cannot contain this flood of joys

That with a mighty stream o’erflows my mind,

Which never dream’d of sorrow or annoys,

But did in all a satisfaction find.

My soul then be content and take thy pleasure,

And be not vexed with fear of any ill!

My bliss abounds, I cannot count my treasure,

And gold that conquers all, does what I will.

Aesop. That Greek (sir) is at the Court arriv’d,

Whose wisdom, Fame so prodigally praises.

Craes. And have you not t’extend my greatness striv’d,

And entertain’d his ears with courteous phrases?

Aesop. I think in all the parts where he has been,

In foreign Countries or his native home,

He never has such Stately wonders seen,

As since unto this princely Court he came.

When first he in the regal Palace entered –

As one, who born amongst the craggy Mountains,

That never for to view the plains adventured,

Acquainted but with due and little Fountains,

If he be forc’d for to frequent the Vales,

And there the wanton water-Nimphs to see,

The rareness of the sight so far prevails,

Each strip appears a flood, each flood a sea –

So all that he re’ncountred by the way,

Did to his mind a great amazement bring:

The gold-embroidred Gallants made him stay,

Each groom appear’d a Prince, each squire a King.

And now he comes t’attain your Grace’s sight,

Whom in his mind, no doubt he does adore.

He gazed on those, who held of you their light:

Of force he must admire yourself far more.

Now he will set your happy Empire forth,

And be eye-witness of your glorious Reign.

One wise man’s testimony is more worth

Then what a world of others would maintain.

Sol. Disdain not, mighty Prince, the louing zeal,

Which a mean man, yet a good kind affords,

And who perchance as much affects your weal,

As those that paint their love with fairer words.

Croes. Thy love, sage Greek, is grateful unto us,

Whom Fame long since enamour’d of thy deeds.

We of thy virtues have heard her discuss,

Who in extolling of the same exceeds.

I wish that many such should here resort,

Whose unstain’d life would teach us what were best;

Whose grave aspect would grace so great a Court,

And like clear Lamps give light unto the rest.

Sol. My sovereign sire, I merit no such praise.

I am but one that does the world despise,

And would my thoughts to some perfection raise:

A Wisdom-lover that would fain be wise.

Yet with great toil all that I can attain

By long experience, and in learnd schools,

Is for to know my knowledge is but vain,

And those that think them wise are greatest fools.

Croes. This is the nature of a worthy mind.

It rather would be good then be so thought,

As if it had no aim but Fame to find,

Such as the shadow not the substance sought.

Yet that pursues thee too which you so flys,

Still troops applaude thy worth though thou not spy them,

Whilst thou would press it down, it mounts up high:

For Fame and Honor follow those that fly them.

And now I think in all the world none lives,

That better may unfold what I would learn,

Than thou to whom frank Nature largely gives

The grace to see, the judgement to discern.

Sol. I’ll answer freely to what you propose,

If my small skill can comprehend the sense.

Croes. Lo, you have seen in what I most repose

My treasures huge, my great magnificence.

Sol. This is the dream of bliss that Fortune brings,

On which the wisest never have presum’d.

I saw nought but a heap of senseless things,

A momentary treasure soon consum’d.

This only serves the body to decore,

And for corruption fram’d cannot persever.

The mind immortal lays up better store

Of unconsuming joys that last for ever.

Croes. I wot not what you mean by such surmises,

And fained Ideas of imagin’d bliss.

This portrait of Fancy but entices

Sick brains to dream that which indeed they miss.

But I brook more than their conceits can show,

Whose rich conjectures breed but poor effects,

And I beseech you: did you ever know

A man more blessed than I in all respects?

Sol. Yes: I knew Tellus, an Athenian born,

Whom I hold happy in the first degree.

Who ev’n the harvest of Happiness has shorn,

He liv’d with fame, and did with honour die,

For having long time liv’d, lou’d and respected,

His country in a conflict had the worst,

He came, and there falln courage re-erected,

And having won the field did die unforced.

More happy now nor when he was alive:

He dead, does reap the guerdon of his merit,

And in his children does again revive,

Who all their fathers worthy parts inherit.

Croes. Well, since that to a private Citizen

You do ascribe the first most blessed estate,

Now in the second rank of happy men

Whom would you number in your own conceit?

Sol. O Cleobis and Biton! Now I may

No doubt prefer you next, without reproach.

Their mother chanc’d on a festival day

To want two horses, for to draw her coach.

Them to supply the place, Love kindly raised,

Who drew her to that place of public mirth,

And both of them exceedingly were praised,

They for their piety, she for her birth.

This charitable office being ended,

Both in the Church were found dead the next morrow.

I think the gods who this good work comended,

Were loth to let them taste of farther sorrow.

For why? Our lives are frail, do what we can,

And like the brittle glass, are but a glance,

And often the heavens t’abate the height of man,

Do entertain our sweets with some sad chance.

Croes. Then from this cathegory am I secluded,

And is my State so vile unto thine eyes,

That as one of all happiness denuded,

Thou thus do my felicity despise?

Or think thou me of judgement too remiss,

A miser that in misery remains,

The bastard child of Fortune, barr’d from bliss,

Whom heavens do hate, and all the world disdains?

Are base companions then to be compar’d

With one that may consume such in his wrath?

Who, as I please, do punish and reward,

Whose words, nay, even whose looks yield life or death?

Sol. Sir, be not thus commou’d without all reason,

Nor misconceive my meaning as you do!

Those that speak freely, have no mind of treason;

I cannot be your friend and flatter too.

Unto us Greeks, sir, the gods have granted

A moderate measure of a humble wit,

And in our Country there have never wanted

Some whom the world for wise men did admit.

And yet amongst us all, the greatest number

Have here dispair’d of any perfect rest,

Though some awhile in Fortune’s bosom slumber,

And to world-blindeed eyes seem to be blessed.

Yet over all mortal States, change so prevails,

We alterations daily do attend,

And hold this for a ground that never fails:

None should triumph in bliss before the end.

I may compare our State to table-plays,

Where by dumb judges matters are decided.

Their many doubts, the earnest mind dismays:

The dice must first cast well, then be well guided.

So all our days in doubt what thing may chance us,

Time runs away, the breath of man does chance it,

And when th’occasion come’s for to advance us,

Amongst a thousand one can scarce embrace it.

When two by generous indignation moved,

Would try by sword, whose glory, fame will smother,

Whilst valour blindly by th’event is proved,

And th’one’s overthrow can only grace the other.

O what a fool his judgment will commit

To crown the one with undeserv’d applauses,

Where fortune is for to give sentence yet,

While bloody agents plead such doubtful causes!

This world, it is the field, where each man ventures,

And arm’d with reason, resolutely gos,

To fight against a thousand misadventures,

Both with external and internal foes.

And how can he the victor’s title gain,

That yet is busied with a doubtful fight,

Or he be happy that does still remain

In Fortune’s danger for a small delight?

Th’abortive course of man away fast wears,

Course that consists of hours, hours of a day,

Day that give’s place to night, night full of fears.

Thus all things alter, still all things decay:

Who flourish now in peace, may fall in strife,

And have their fame with infamy suppressed.

The evening shows the day, the death the life,

And many are fortunate, but few are blessed.

Croes. I see this Greek of a simple spirit,

The which is capable of no great things.

Men but advance him far above his merit:

He cannot comprehend the States of Kings.

Fame did so largely of his worth report,

It made me long to have him in my house;

But all my expectations are come short.

I think a Mountain has brought forth a mouse.

Exit Croesus.

ACT. II. SCEN. II.

Solon. Aesop.

Sol. This king has put his trust in trustless treasures,

Cloy’d with th’abundance of all worldy bliss,

And like a hooded hawk gorg’d with vain pleasures

At random flys, and wots not where he is.

O how this makes me wonderfully sorry,

To see him keep this lifeless wealth so straight,

Whilst witless worldlings wonder at his glory,

Which I not envy, no, but pity greatly!

Thus worms of th’earth, whose worse part does prevail,

Love melting things, whose show the body fits,

Where souls of clearr sight do never fail

To thesaurize the gifts of gallant wits.

Those worldly things do in this world decay,

Or at the least we leave them with our breath,

Whereas the other makes us live forever:

So differ they as far as life and death.

Aesop. And yet what wonder though that he be thus,

Whose knowledge clouded is with prosp’rous winds?

Though this indeed seem somewhat strange to us,

Who have with learning purified our minds.

Was he not born heir of a mighty State?

And used with Fortune’s smiles, not fear’d for frowns,

Does measure all things by his own conceit.

Th’infirmity that fatal is to Crowns:

He has been from his infancy addicted

To all the pompous shows wealth could devise,

And still entreated, never contradicted,

Now does all liberty of speech despise.

Though I durst not so to his sight appear,

Whose corrupt judgement was from reason sweruing,

I griev’d to see your entertainment here

So far inferior to your own deseruing.

That divine Wisdom which the world admires,

And ravish’d with delight amazed hears,

Because it answer’d not his vain desires,

Did seem unsavory to distemper’d ears –

Ears that are ever stopped to all discourses

Save such as enter fraughted with his praises.

He can love none but them that love his courses,

And thinks all fools that use not flattring phrases.

This wracks the great, and makes the heavens despight them:

Let virtue spread forth all her heavenly powers,

If not in their own livery to delight them,

They will not deign her audience a few hours.

Sol. I care not, Aesop, how the King conceited

Of my frank speeches, which I ever use.

I came not here, till I was first entreated,

Nor being come, will I my name abuse.

Should I his poisonous Sycophants resemble,

A hateful thing to honest men that know it?

I would not for his Diadem dissemble:

What the heart thinks, the tongue was made to show it.

And what, if his vain humor to have cherish’d,

I had my speeches for the purpose painted?

I had but gotten gifts that would have perish’d,

But nothing could have clear’d my fame once tainted.

If I had shown myself toward him officious,

It would in end have but procured my shame:

To have our virtue prais’d by one that’s vicious,

This in effect is but a secret blame.

He thinks him simple, who his anger raises,

But better simply good, then doubly ill:

I never value my worth by others praises,

Nor by opinions do direct my will.

And it contents me more to be applauded

By one of judgement (though of mean degree)

Then by a Prince of princely parts defrauded,

Who has more wealth, but not more wit then he.

Aesop. Who come to Court, must with King’s faults comport.

Sol. Who come to Court, should truth to Kings report.

Aesop. A wise man at their imperfections winks.

Sol. An honest man will tell them what he thinks.

Aesop. So should you lose yourself, and them not win.

Sol. But I would bear no burden of their sin.

Aesop. By this you should their indignation find.

Sol. Yet have the warrant of a worthy mind.

Aesop. It would be long, ere you were thus preferr’d.

Sol. Then it should be the King, not I, that err’d.

Aesop. They guerdon as they love, they love by guess.

Sol. Yet when I merit well, I care the less.

Aesop. It’s good to be still by the Prince approved.

Sol. It’s better to be upright, though not loved.

Aesop. But by this mean, all hope of Honor fails.

Sol. Yet honesty in end ever prevails.

Aesop. I think they should excel as oft they do

All men in wit, that unto men give laws.

Kings are the Center of the Kingdom, to

The which each weighty thing by nature draws.

For as the mighty Rivers, little streams,

And all the liquid powers that rise or fall,

Do seek in sundry parts by several seams

To the main Ocean that receives them all,

(Who as he were but steward of those waters

Returns them back by many secret veins,

And as the earth has need of moisture, scatters

His humid treasures to refresh the plains),

So are King’s breasts the depth where daily flows

Clear streams of knowledge with rare treasures charg’d,

And thus continually their wisdom grows

By many helps that others want enlarg’d.

For those that have intelligence over all,

Do commonly communicate to Kings

All th’accidents of weight that chance to fall,

Their greatness to them this advantage brings.

They being jealous find out many drifts,

And by a long experience learn to scance them,

Then those whom Art or Nature lends great gifts,

All come to Kings as who may best advance them.

No doubt, those Powers who put them in their places

To make their qualities with their charge even,

Do dote them with some supernatural graces,

Vice-gods on th’earth, great Lieutenants of heaven.

Sol. As you have shown, Kings have a good occasion

Whereby t’attain unto the height of wit,

Which who so do embrace by good persuasion,

Are surely worthy on a Throne to sit.

But ah! those Rivers are not ever pure,

The which through tainted channels whiles convaid,

Vile flatt’ries poison rendered has impure.

Thus are Kings’ hearts oft by their ears betrayed:

For impudent effronted persons dare

Court with vain words and detestable lies,

Whilst purer spiritd men must stand afar.

The light is loathsome to diseased eyes,

But this does ravish oft my soul with wonder:

Some that are wise, with flatt’ry can comport,

And though of all men best mens parts they ponder,

Yet ever entertain the baddest sort.

Is’t that such men as those cannot control them,

Nor never cross their appetite in ought,

But for each purpose that they speak extoll them,

Where better wits would argue as they thought,

Or as they would have none for to resist them,

So for th’advancement of the worthighst sorry,

They will have none that may seem to assist them,

Lest any challenge intrest in their glory.

This self-conceit is a most dangerous shelf,

Where many have made shipwreck unaware:

He that does trust too much unto himself,

Can never fail to fall in many snares.

Of all that live, great Monarchs have most need

To balance all their actions, and their words,

And with advice in all things to proceed:

A faithful Counsel oft great good affords.

Lo, how th’inferior spheres their courses bend

There, whither the first Mover does them drive:

The Commons customs on the Prince depend,

His manners are the rules by which they live.

No man is only for himself brought forth,

And Kings for th’use of many are ordained.

They should like suns, clear Kingdoms with their worth,

Whose life a pattern must be kept unstained.

Those that are virtuous have an ample field

T’express their wisdom and t’extend their merit,

Where mean men must to their misfortune yield,

Whilst lack of power does burst a gallant spirit.

As precious stones are th’ornaments of rings,

The stone decores the ring, the ring the hand,

So Countries are conform unto their Kings,

The King decores the Court, the Court the Land.

And as a drop of poison spent alone,

Th’infected fountain does with venom fill,

So mighty States may be overthrown by one:

A vicious Prince is a contagious ill.

Aesop. This is an easy thing, for us to spy

And paint in th’air the shadows of our minds,

And t’apprehend with th’intellectual eye:

A blessing that no worldly Kingdom finds.

Sol. I grant imaginary grounds of ours

Will never move a world-bewitched Prince,

To disenchant himself, and spend some hours

His own dissigns of folly to convince.

Ere Croesus can refrain from this his fury,

He must forsake himself, and be renew’d,

And in the Lethe of oblivion bury

The vanities that have his soul subdued.

He first must his prerogatives all smother,

And be a man, a man to be controlled;

Then all his faults as they were in another

Like an unpartial Arbiter behold.

Could he cast off this veil of fond self-love,

Through which all things not as they are he spies,

He would those wicked Parasites remove,

Vile instruments of shame that live by lies.

And th’only means to force them to depart,

That he might judge more freely of his State,

Were to cast out the Idol of his heart

Which puffs him up with a pride-swollen conceit.

For foreign flatterers could not find access,

Wer’t not over-valving his own worth too much,

He flattered first himself and thinks no less

But all their praises ought for to be such.

And when these hireling Sycophants have found

A Prince whose judgement self-conceit disarms,

They breach his weakst part, and bring to ground

The greatness of his State with flattery’s charms.

Then bearing over his Passions once the sway,

Least by the better sort he be advised,

To wholesome counsel they close up the way,

And used all means t’have honest men despised.

Aesop. If you at Court to credit would arise,

You must not seek by truth t’acquire renown,

But learn t’applaud whiles what you most despise,

And smile in show, whilst in effect you frown.

Sol. From Court in time I will myself retire:

I find my humour is not fit for Court.

I am none of those whom Croesus does desire,

I cannot always of his worth report.

O that he cannot see light Fortune flout him

While as he glories in this outward show,

Hedg’d in with greedy Harpies round about him,

That gape t’enrich themselves with his overthrow!

Exeunt.

CHORUS.

Of all the creatures below

We must call Man most miserable,

Who all his time is never able

T’attain unto a true repose.

His very birth may well disclose

What miseries his bliss overthrow,

For being born he can not know

Who to his State is friend or foe.

Nor how at first for to stand stable,

But even with cries and tears does show

What dangers do his life enclose,

Whose griefs are sure, whose joys a fable.

Thus still his days in dolour so

He to all perils must expose,

And with vexation lives, and dies with woe,

Not knowing whence he come nor where to go.

While as he brooks this lowest place,

O how uncertain is his State,

Which governed by a secret fate

Is subject to inconstancy,

And ever changing as we see

Is still in toil, never in peace.

For if man prosper but a space,

With each good success too too bold,

And puffed up in his own conceit,

He but abuses Fortune’s grace;

And when that with aduersity

His pleasures come to end their date,

And with disasters are controlled,

Straight he begins for grief to die.

And still the top of some extreme does hold,

Not suffering summer’s heat, nor winter’s cold.

His State does in most danger stand

That most abounds in worldly things,

And soars too high with Fortune’s wings,

Which carry up aspiring minds

For to be beaten with all winds.

The course of such being rightly scanned,

Whilst men can not themselves command

Transported with a powerless name,

Oft unexpected ruin brings.

We have seen examples in this land,

How worldly bliss the senses blind,

And on a reed unsurely hangs,

He that presumes upon the same

Hidden poison in his pleasure finds,

And sailing rashly with the winds of fame,

Does oftentimes sink into a sea of shame.

It is to be fear’d our King at last

Whilst he for nothing is afraid,

Be by prosperity betray’d.

For growing thus in greatness still,

And having worldly things at will,

He thinks though Time should all things wasted,

Yet his estate shall ever last,

The wonder of th’inferiour round.

And in his own conceit has said,

No course of heaven his State can cast,

Nor make his success to be ill:

If Fortune once those thoughts t’obraid

Will have our King to be un-crowned,

She may that mind with horror fill,

And in an instant utterly confound

The State, that stands upon so slippery ground,

When such a Monarch’s mind is bent

To follow most the most unwise.

Who can their folly disguise

With sugared speeches poisonous baits,

The secret canker of great States,

From which at first few dissent,

The which at last all do repent,

While as repenting lust must go.

When Kings begin for to despise

Of honest men the good intent,

Who to assure their sovereign’s seats,

Would fain in time some help devise,

And would cut off all cause of woe,

Yet can not second their conceits.

These dreadful Comets commonly forgo

The Kings destruction that’s miscarried so.

ACT. III. SCEN. I.

Croesus. Adrastus.

Croes. What uncoth fancys do affright my soul,

And have captiv’d it to a thousand fears?

Strange cares suggesting grief my joys control,

My mind some coming evil character bears,

And credulous suspicion too too wise,

To fortify my fears does means invent,

Whilst sodden terrors do my spirit surprise,

An ominous presage of some bad event.

I think the soul, come of immortal brood

As being partner of a divine power,

Has a foverknowledge both of evil and good,

Although she can not fly a fatal hour.

Though with this mortal veil being made half blind,

She can not soar outright with her own wings,

Yet she communicates unto the mind

In cloudy dreams and misteries strange things.

Th’imagination wonderful in force

Often foils the judgement with confusion so,

That presupposing all things to be worse

Then they fall forth, we double our own woe.

For as the shadow seems more monstrous still

Then does the substance whence it has the being,

So th’apprehension of approaching ill

Seems greater than itself, whilst fears are lying.

This alteration too seems more then strange,

Which at an instant has over-whelmed my sences:

I see (more then I thought) all States may change,

Against the heaven th’earth can find no defences.

My soul her wonted pleasure else is loathing.

This has indeed so deep impression left,

A dream, a fantasy, a shadow, nothing

Has all my mirth even in a moment rest.

Adras. Whence, mighty sovereign, can this change proceed,

That does obscure the rays of princely grace?

Those that are schooled in woe may clearly read

A mighty passion written in your face.

And if a stranger may presume so far,

I would the copy of your passions borrow.

I else conjecture in what State you are,

Taught by a secret sympathy in sorrow.

Two strings in diverse Lutes set in accord,

(Although th’one be but touched) together sound:

Even so souls tun’d to grief the like afford,

And other with a mutual motion wound.

Croes. No doubt but it disburdens much the mind,

A secretary in distress to have,

Who by his own another’s grief can find,

Where glad minds scorn what they can not conceive.

And I, Adrastus, would the cause declare

With which I so destiny myself invain.

O but I blush t’unfold my foolish care:

It’s but th’illusion of a drowsy brain.

Adras. According to the body’s constitution,

The soul by night with fancys is afflicted,

Or by these thoughts continual revolution,

To which by day the mind is most addicted.

Craes. Now whilst the sun did peep through Thetis’ bower,

And on the beautys of Aurora gaz’d,

Out of my body spoiled of mouing power

All faculties of life dull sleep had raz’d,

While as the spirit more powerful than ever,

Since least impeached with this earthly part,

The verity from lies could best discern,

Hidden mysteries unclouding to the heart.

I only have two sons, and th’one you see

The sign of Nature’s indignation bears,

And from his birthday dumb is dead to me,

Since he can not power no pleasure in my ears.

The other, Atis, all my life’s delight,

In whom the treasures of my soul are kept,

I thought (vain be my thought) in the twilight

(I wot not whether yet I waked or slept),

Whilst he was sporting void of worldly cares,

Not in a lists belonging to his merits,

A pointed tool of iron fell unaware,

And pierc’d his temples, and expelled his spirits.

Whilst the pale carcass seem’d t’upbraid mine eyes,

The horror of the sight my sense recalled.

Which when I think of, yet my comfort dies,

Such an exceeding fear my spirit appalled.

This has me mou’d, it touch’d my State so nearly,

To match my son in marriage at this time

With beauteous Caelia, whom he lou’d most dearly,

That both might reap the pleasure of their prime.

And if the heavens his overthrow have decreed

By destiny that cannot be revoked,

So shall we have behind some of his seed,

Ere in his blossom all our hopes be choked.

Thus ere his soul lodge in the lightless shade,

T’have of his race that will mitigate my mind:

I cannot hold him altogether dead,

That leaves his Image in someone behind.

And for the time we do all that seems best

For to prevent those but surmis’d annoys.

Yet for all this my mind has never rested,

Some secret terror still disturbs my joys.

Adras. Ah sir! If but th’imagind evil of this

Has plung’d your soul in such a gulf of grief,

Unhappy I who wail a thing that is,

And have not means to hope for no relief.

If all these dreadful fancys took effect

(Which heavy chance th’almighty Iove withhold)

It could not be compar’d in no respect

With those misfortunes that my State enfold.

For when your son fell by another’s hand,

You should but wail his death, and not your crime;

The heavens of me my brothers blood demand,

His fate, my fault, mourn must I all my time.

Croes. In what strange form could this disaster fall,

That is th’occasion of so great distress,

Tell on at length th’origin of all.

To hear of greater grief t’will make mine less.

Adras. I have concealed my sorrows still till now,

As too offensive food for dainty ears;

Yet since of such a subject you allow,

I’ll tell a tale that may move stones to tears.

My Father, of the Phrigian Princes come,

Had in my growing age a tender care,

That all my education might become

One whom he might for mighty hopes prepare.

As yet four lusters scarcely had begun

For to discern my sex with downy cheeks,

When I into that Labirinth was run,

Whence back in vain the straying entrer seeks.

I lou’d – O fatall love! unlovely fate –

The vertuously fair, yet fairest Dame

That ever was enshrin’d in souls conceit,

Or gave a ditty to the sounds of fame.

Straight were my fancys to her beautys tied,

None can paint passions but in feeling minds.

I burned, freezed, hoped, dispaired, and lived, and died,

My actions chang’d as oft as th’ Autumn’s winds.

Yet after many doubtful hopes and fears

That I attained the height of my desires,

She had subscrib’d a truce unto my tears,

And tempered with encountring flames my fires.

For as she was the most affected Saint,

Whose image was erected in my thought,

She had compassion too of my complaint,

And to acquit my firm affection sought.

Thus whilst I triumphed in mine own conceit,

As one whose love his Lady did prefer,

I was co-rivaled (O unhappy fate!)

By one who lou’d, but was not lou’d by her.

He looking as I look’d, saw what I saw,

Saw Nature’s wonder, and the worlds delight,

And as a blind god blind guide did him draw

Still like a lizard liv’d but by her sight.

Then straight he strives the Jewel for to won,

Whose unstained worth he rates above his breath.

He hates the light that comes not from my sun,

And thinks to live without her worse then death.

And this affection favour’d was by Fortune

Which seem’d to ratify his high rear’d hopes:

The Nymph her parents daily did importune,

For to confine his flying fancy’s scopes.

Now judge if that my miseries were rife,

Who threatened thus with eminent mishap:

Was like to lose a dearer thing then life,

Whilst others striv’d my treasure to entrap.

The man that sought my joys to undermine,

I could not wish for this t’have him overthrown,

Nor blame the spirit that sympathiz’d with mine,

I envied not his hap, but wail’d mine own.

Now in my breast a battle did begin,

Which forc’d my soul with inward wounds to bleed.

Some fancys fear’d to what his love might win,

And possibility for to come speed;

Then others call’d her constancy to mind,

Which would not yield although she were invaded,

Yet forc’d to fear the frailty of her kind

(A woman that has ears may be persuaded).

Thus toss’d with doubts into a deep of woe,

Which with suspition had my joys supplanted,

I blam’d the thoughts that durst accuse her so,

As virtue’s pattern had one virtue wanted.

As I concluded, so it come to pass,

Th’affliction serv’d for fuel to affection:

For she who th’ornament of women was,

Would never wrong her worth with a defection.

When in my absence they had oft assay’d

To have me from her memory remou’d:

The sun burns hottest when his beams are stay’d,

The more that they would let, the more she lou’d.

And finding that delay no end affords,

And that fair generals are th’abuser’s Art,

She did repel him with disdainful words

To raze all thought of her out of his heart.

Love is a joy that upon pain depends,

A drop of sweet drown’d in a sea of sorrows.

What Folly does begin, oft Fury ends:

They hate for ever, that have lou’d for hours.

When all his arguments prou’d of no force,

Straight with disdain his soul in secret burned,

And what he thought was evil, to make far worse,

He unto furour all his favour turn’d.

As he extremely lou’d, far more he hated,

And mused of many means how to annoy her.

Which was the best a long time he debated:

To see her dead, or to see me enjoy her.

‘What?’ says he when he first had mused a space,

(So hard it is to quench a great affection),

‘Shall I disfigure that angelic face,

And make the world eclipsed of all perfection?

Shall she by me be to confusion brought,

To whom I vows and prayers did impart,

To whom I sacrific’d my secret thought,

And on her beautys altar burn’d my heart?

Or shall I see her in another’s power,

And in his bosom lie t’upbraid my loss,

Whilst both with scornful smiles then death more sorrow,

To point me out for sport report my cross?

That sight which sometime did me sweetly charm,

Should it become a cause of grief to me?

No, none that lives shall glory in my harm:

Since she will not be mine, she shall not be.’

Th’unlouing Lover having vow’d her death,

Did with a cup of poison drown my joys:

The fairest body from the sweetst breath

Was parted thus (O Ocean of annoys!).

That Monster Fame – whose many mouths and ears

Must know, but not conceal a rare thing long,

And prodigal of ill, most chiefly bears

The worst news first – inform’d me of this wrong.

For neighbouring near the most unhappy part

That had been spoiled of such a beeauteous guest,

No soonr had death seized on the chaste heart

Then sorrow on my ears to rob my rest.

How the sad news first sounded in my soul,

I will not weary you with long laments:

Rage did the outward signs of grief controlled.

When great winds blow the fire, the smoke worst vents.

Whilst generous disdain disguised my grief,

(As one transported with a mighty rage)

I ran unto the Theater of mischief,

A tragic Actor for a bloody stage.

For I was come no soonr to the place

Whereas I thought the Murderer to have found,

But I re’ncountered (O unhappy case)

To dear a friend to catch an enemy’s wound.

Ah passions! Dimmed mine eyes, wrath led my hand,

I was no more myself, sorrow had killed me.

The first (it was night) that did before me stand,

I fiercely did pursue, as Furor willed me.

And as it chanced, ere one could speak a word,

I filled his bosom with a lukewarm flood,

And in his kind breast drowned the cruel sword,

That in another’s body drank my blood.

When as a Torch had partly robbed the night,

Proud of supposed revenge (ah bitter gain)

I saw, I knew, black knowledge, cruel sight,

T’was mine own brother that myself had slain.

O bitter loss that nothing can repair!

My soul at once with all woes’ army wounded,

Grief, rage, spite, shame, amazement and despair,

Galled, tossed, burned, dashed, astonished, and confounded.

The thought of my offence destinys me most,

Yet am I while by my Loves verdict cleansed,

And while my brothers violated ghost

By dreadful dreams does boast to be revenged.

Croes. Now whilst this great disaster did occur,

What came of him who was the cause of all?

Adra. He having heard this lamentable story,

Whom self-accusing thoughts did guilty call,

Straight stricken with a wonderful remorse

(I wot not whether fear or pity mou’d him,

If not t’over-live her death, or dreading worse)

He killed himself: his conscience so disproved him.

Croes. I grant the manner of so rare mischances

Would force compassion from your greatest foe,

Where all the grief-begetting circumstances

Do join to make a harmony in woe.

But natural love does at ourself begin,

It moves far more to feel then hear mishaps,

The perturbation that my spirit is in,

Me in a maze of miscontentments wraps.

We should such past misfortunes pretermit,

At least no more immoderately lament them;

And as for those which are but coming yet,

Use ordinary means for to prevent them.

Adrast. No wonder sir, although you take great care,

Lest all your hopes in Atis’ person perish.

Croes. I will by all the means I may, prepare

To save his youth, that he my age may cherish.

If it be possible for mortal States

To strive against the stars and be more strong,

I’ll unharm Fortune, and resist the fates,

By barring both all means to do me wrong.

I have commandd under pain of death,

That no such weapon be within my walls,

As I suppos’d should have abridg’d his breath,

T’eschew such sudden evil as rashly falls.

He shall go rarely to the fields, and then

With chosen bands be guarded all the time.

Lo where he communes with some countrymen:

We will go try what they would have of him.

ACT. III. SCEN. II.

Chorus of countrymen. Croesus. Atis. Adrastus. Caelia.

Chorus. Lend, sir, a willing ear to humble words.

Let not our baseness bar us from your grace,

Which still itself alike to all affords

Who bless their sight with that Majestic face.

My sovereign all his subjects well remembers,

As vile as our estate is thought of now.

You are our head, and we are of your members,

And you must care for us, we care for you.

Our poverty to us is no reproach,

Which th’innocency of our mind adorns.

We never on our neighbours bounds encroach,

But by our labours live amidst many thorns;

And ever busied for the Country’s good,

We have no time to muse of vain conceits,

Yet earning with continual toil our food

We entertain the pomp of prouder States.

And, sir, conceive not of our meaning ill,

That thus dare speak so freely as we do,

Whilst mediators do dilate our will

They wrest it as they will, and wrack us too.

To count’nance such as us you need not shun,

A great man too well grac’d may do more harm:

And t’is no stain unto the glorious sun,

Though oft his beams an abject object warm.

Croes. Be not discourag’d by your base estate:

You are my people, and I’ll hear your plaint.

A King must care for all, both small and great,

And for to help th’afflicted never faint.

The scepter such as these should chiefly shroud

(Not cottages, but Castles spoil the Land)

T’advance the humble and t’abate the proud:

This is a Virtue that makes Kings to stand.

Chor. Sir, our estate some speedy help requires.

In Misia near unto the famous Mountain

Of great Olympus that the World admires,

There haunts a Boar by Diana’s Fountain

Of a big body, and a hideous form.

His fomy jaw with tusks like Javelins strikes,

And all parts in deformity conform,

His back has bristles like to iron pikes.

This Monster of Nature, wonder of Men,

The Forest’s tyrant, and the Country’s terror,

Tears all to death, and draws them to his Den,

That chance into his way by fatal error.

Whilst tender-hearted Mothers do bewail

The goared Infants toiling in their blood,

Th’abominable beast them does assail,

And in his bowels burys both for food.

Then when we fly the field where he sojourns,

To have his hunger or his rage alaid,

He wastes the fruits, and ruins all the corns:

Thus the poor husband’s hopes are all betrayed.

Ere this, of true Repose we were the tipes,

And pastur’d on each plain our fleecy flocks,

And made a consort of our warbling pipes,

With mouing crystals th’issue of the rocks.

And sometime to refresh us after travail,

With flowery garlands shighlded from sunbeams

We gazed upon Pactolus’ golden gravel,

Glassed, bathed, and quenched our thirst with his pure streams:

Whilst we prefered, the River seemed amazed,

Unto his golden bed, his grassy bank,

And lay and looked whereas our cattle grazed,

Without all envy of a greater rank.

That to repress oppression you take care,

This rest of ours is an effectual token.

Your Laws like spider’s webs do not ensnare

The feeble flys, and by the Bees are broken,

For we by them are fenced from great men’s pride.

The Heav’ns perpetuate your prosp’rous reign,

And suffer not this savage Boare t’abide,

To turn that ease which men have spar’d to pain.

Croes. What would ye then, that should be done by me?

For to repay your loss, repair this wrong.

Chorus. We crave none of your wealth, yet wish to see

This Boar be-blood the staff of the most strong.

Let valorous Atis worthily your son,

Backed with the best of all the Lidian Youth,

Go to the fields before the rising sun

Quenchs with the mornings tears his mid-day’s drouth,

And we shall lead them crowned with laurel forth

Where in a circuit small, yet a large Theater

For men to make a trial of their worth

This Monster stays. Th’earth never nurs’d a greater.

So shall we both reap profit, and they pleasure,

Which may be brought to pass without great obstacle,

By making this waster of the world’s treasure,

Of a horrid sight, a delightful spectacle.

Croes. I may not spare my son for a respect,

Which is not needful now for to be known;

But I’ll send others for the same effect,

That this pestiferous Beast may be overthrown.

Th’ossedentive gallants that our Grace attend,

And wait th’occasion but t’advance their strength,

Against the Boar shall all their forces bend,

With hounds and darts still till he falls at length.

I swear this Monster shall, when he is dead,

A memorable monument remain:

To Dian’s Church I’ll consecrate his head.

The Virgin-goddess darts no shaft in vain.

Atis. Ah wherein Father have I thus offended?

Or what vile sign of a degenered mind

Have you remarked in me that ever tended

To the reproach of our Imperial kind?

That of this praise you would give me no part,

But bar me from a famous enterprise,

As one unworthy for to weeld a dart?

Who still in vile repose inglorious lies,

Lies like a wanton with vain thoughts bewitched,

Who spoil’d of force effeminately lives,

A Peacock but with painted pennes enrichd,

Yet poor in all the parts that Glory gives.

What glory gives those glorious styles to me

Which by succession fall, not by desert,

Should but my Fame with borrowd feathers flee?

For come of Kings a kingdom is my part,

Who only by his Birth advancement claims,

Like a base bastard does his birth-right bloat.

I will not beg my worth from dead men’s names,

Nor conquer Credit only by my Cote:

What comforts this to brook th’Imperial seat,

And all the bliss that Majesty imparts?

If those whom only we exceed in State,

Be our superiors in far better parts.

More then a Crown true Worth is to be valued:

Th’one Fortunes gift, and th’other our own merit,

By which oft times th’afflicted Mind is salved,

When Fortune takes what we by her inherit.

Croes. I see what brave Desires boil in thy soul,

And make thee with immortal wings to flee:

This high-bent courage, nothing can control,

All Lidia is not large enough for thee.

Go, seek an Empire equall with thy mind,

No common limits can confine thy thought;

But while a full perfection thou would find,

I fear thy fall turn all our hopes to nought.

And pardon me, dear son, it’s a great Love

That makes me watch so wearily over thy ways.

Th’affection of a Father what may move,

Whom such an eminent danger not dismays?

The Heavens of late advertised me by Dream,

That some sad fortune did attend thy Youth:

New Meteors and strange stars through th’air still stream,

Which are as Oracles of Jove’s own mouth.

This was the cause that hastened us so much

To have thee bound to Hymen’s hallow’d Law.

This was the cause that all our care was such,

Out of our sight all weapons to withdraw.

Scorn not th’amazing Comets that thou notes:

The stars to mortal States have termes prefixed,

And think not only that my love but dotes,

For if thou fall, my fate with thine is mixed.

Atis. Would God I had some means once ere my death

To satisfy that infinite desert,

Which I shall hold so long as I have breath,

Deep registred with rev’rence in my heart.

Yet, sir, we see it is a natural thing

For too excessive love t’engender fears:

A sport like this can no great peril bring

Where either all delights the eyes or th’ears.

If from my former deeds I now should shrink,

As void of virtue to soft pleasure thrall,

Of your two sons what might your subjects think,

Th’one wanting but one sense, and th’other all?

What fancys might my late spoused love possess,

To see her husband hateful in their sights,

And from the height of Honour to digress,

To womanize with courtly vain delights?

Though women love t’have men at their devotion,

They hate base minds that hatch no noble motion.

Croes. Well, well, my son, I see thou must prevail:

Go follow forth the chase, use thine own will.

Yet stay, or let my words thus much avail:

Walk warily now t’eschew this threatened ill.

Thy haughty spirit t’attempt all hazards bent,

I fear transport thee to a fatal strife

(God grant I be deceiv’d). Yet take good tent:

Thy over-frank courage may betray thy life.

And, dear Adrastus, I must let him know

What benefites I have bestow’d on thee,

Not to upbraid thee, no, but for to show

How I may trust thee best that’s bound to me.

When thou from Phrigia come defiled with blood,

And a fraternal violated love;

When in a most extreme estate thou stood,

Chas’d from thy father’s face, cursed from above,

Thou found me friendly, and my Court thy rest,

A sanctuary sacred for thy safety,

Where thou were entertain’d as pleas’d thee best,

I think those dangers escap’d should make thee crafty.

Yet though I grac’d thee earst, t’was but a sign

Of a heroic mind that helps the wretched:

But in thy hands my soul I’ll now consign,

And give a proof of love not to be matched.

Behold how Atis of our age the shighld,

Whose harm as you have heard I fear’d ere now,

Is to go take his pastime in the field,

And with his custody I’ll credit you.

I must my friend even fervently exhort:

Wait on my son, remember of my dream.

This dangerously delectable sport,

Does make me fear the grief exceed the game.

Adras. I never shall those courtesies neglect.

It irks me not to think nor hear the same:

For while this spirit these members does direct,

All shall concur to celebrate your fame.

If t’were your will I would not hence depart,

Who all such motives unto mirth abhor,

But with my passions here, retired apart,

Would wail woe past and shun all cause of more.

For if I strive t’abandon my annoys,

I fear my fellowship infect with woe:

Those that would recreat themselves with joys,

still strange mishaps attend me where I go.

Yet since you will commit this charge to me,

I’ll use all means that you may not repent you.

At lest all my defects faith shall supply,

I covet nothing more then to content you.

Atis. Now for to see this monster’s ugly shape,

With an enflam’d desire my thoughts do burn.

And Father, be not feared for no mishap:

I hope soon, and victorious to return.

Caelia. Return? And whither love? O deadly word,

That does import thy parting from my sight,

I heard thee name, mishap, ah my dear Lord!

Should such strict limits bound so large delight?

O cruel resolution, unkind dealing,

And can thou condiscend to leave me so?

Or from my presence privily thus stealing,

Think thou to rob a portion of my woe?

This might indeed to thee yield some relief,

To have thy ears not wounded with my moan,

But would wound me with a continual grief

To fear all things where I should fear but one.

Desist in time from this intended strife,

With which thy thoughts have unadvisedly entered.

Remember I have interest in thy life,

Which I consent not to be thus adventured.

Has thou not given a proof in thy green prime,

That may content the most ambitious hopes,

Whilst Atis was his own? O then t’was time

To follow fancy’s unconfined scopes.

Thyself then only camp’d in Fortune’s bounds,

Thou do endanger Caelia likewise now.

You sigh her breath, she suffers in your wounds:

You live in her, and she must die in you.

Atis. Life of my soul, how do such broken speeches

From confused passions thus abruptly rise?

I know my love, thy love my mind over-reaches,

Affection schooled with fears is too too wise.

I go over-thwart the fields for sport to range.

Thy sighs do but my soul with sorrow fill,

And pardon, dear, I find this wondrous strange:

Thou never did till now resist my will.

If I trespass in aught against my duty,

Which makes thee thus my faith for to mistrust,

Mistrust not yet the chains of thine own beauty,

Which bind all my desires and so they must.

Are we not now made one such fears overcome,

Though I would fly myself myself do fetter?

And if that I would fly, from whom? To whom?

I can love none so well, none loves me better.

Have pity of those pearls, sweet eyes’ soul’s pleasures,

Lest they presage what thou would not have done:

The heav’ns had not giv’n me those precious treasures

Of such perfections to be spoil’d so soon.

Chorus.

Those that domain above,

High presidents of heaven,

By whom all things do move

As they have order given,

What worldling can arise

Against them to repine?

Whilst castel’d in the skies

With prouidence divine

They force th’inferior round

Their judgements to confess,

And in their wrath confound

Proud mortals that transgress

The covenant they made

With Nature in heavens stead.

Base brood of earth, vain man,

Why brag thou of thy might?

The heavens thy courses scan,

Thou walk still in their sight.

Ere thou were born, thy deeds

Their registers dilate,

And think that none exceeds

The compass of his fate.

What heavens would have thee to

Though they thy ways abhor,

That thou of force must do,

And thou may do no more.

This reason would fulfill,

Their work should serve their will.

Are we not heirs of death,

In whom there is no trust,

Who tossed with circling breath,

Are but a dram of dust?

Yet fools when as we err

And do th’heaven’s wrath contract,

If they a while defer

A just revenge t’exact,

Pride in our bosom creeps,

And misinforms us thus,

That the Eternal sleeps,

Or takes no care of us.

No, th’eye of heaven beholds

All what our heart enfolds.

The gods digest no crime

Though they continue long,

And in th’offenders time

seem to neglect their wrong,

Till others of their race

Fill up the cup of wrath,

Whom wine and disgrace

Long time attended has.

And Giges’ fault we fear

To Croesus charge be laid,

Which love will not forbear

Though it be long delayed.

For o sometime the gods

Must plague sin with sharp rods.

And lo how Croesus still

Destinyed in his mind,

Like a reed on a hill,

Is shivering with each wind.

Each step a terrour brings,

Dreams do by night afflict him,

And by day many things,

All his thoughts do convict him.

He his star would control:

This makes evil not the worst,

Whilst he wounds his own soul

With th’apprehension first.

Man may his fate foresee,

But not shun heaven’s decree.

ACT. IIII. SCEN. I.

Adrastus. Croesus. Chorus.

Adras. Can heaven behold hands stained with blood ofttimes,

And to the Stigian streams not headlong hurled?

Can th’earth support one burden’d with such crimes,

As may prouoke the wrath of all the world?

Why sends not Iove t’have my curs’d course confined,

A death-denouncing flash of rumbling thunder,

Or a tempestuous terror-breeding wind,

With violence to tear me all asunder?

What unknown corner from the world remou’d

T’inhabit in th’horizon of dispair

shall I go now possess and be approu’d

By monsters like myself that hate repair?

I’ll go indeed whom all the world detests,

Who have no interest in the fields of bliss,

And barbarize among the barbarous beasts,

Where Tigers rage, Toads spew, and serpents hiss.

Yet though both th’Artic and Antartic Pole

I should overpass, and find th’unpeopled zones,

A wilderness where nought were to control

My damnable crueltys but trees and stones.

Yet of my deeds which all the world do tell,

All this could not deface th’infamous scroll,

Within my breast I bear about my hell,

And cannot escape the horrors of my soul.

Those fearful monsters of confused aspects,

Chimera, Gorgon, Hydra, hellish apes,

Which in the world wrought wonderful effects,

And borrowd from th’infernal shades their shapes.

Their devilish forms that did the world amaze,

Not half so monstrous as myself I find,

When on mine own deformities I gaze,

In the black depth of a polluted mind.

No, but my mind untainted still remains,

My thoughts in this delict have had no part,

Which accidentally this foul fact stains:

My hands had no commission of my heart.

Yet, whether it was fortune or my fate,

Or some hell-hag that did direct my arm,

I quailed the Lidians’ hopes abortive date,

And am the instrument of all their harm.

Then swelling mountains come and fall upon me,

Your height may hide me from the wrath of heaven!

But this needs not, my fault has else undone me:

No destiny can with my offence be even.

Ah of what desert shall I now make choice,

T’avoid the countenance of an angry King?

I know th’avenging sword of Croesus’ voice,

To wound my soul of rebukes does bring.

No, th’object of distress I’ll stand alone,

A memorable monster of mishap,

For though Pandora’s plagues were pour’d in one,

All were too few so vile a wretch t’entrap.

Chor. O how the King is mou’d with Atis’ death!

His face th’impression of a passion bears

With bended eyes, crossed arms, and quivering breath;

His princely robe he desperately tears.

Lo, with a silent pity-pleading look,

Which shows with sorrow mixed a high disdain,

He whilst his soul seems to dissolve in smoke,

While eyes the corpse while him by whom ’tis slain.

Croes. Thou ruthless Tyrant, ruin of my bliss,

And did thou so disguise thy devilish nature

To recompence my courtesies with this?

Ah cruel wretch, abhominable creature!

Thy Tigrish mind who could have well detected?

In mortal breasts so great barbarity?

What forward spirit could have such spight suspected?

In hospitality hostlity?

Did I revive thee when thy hopes were dead,

When as thy life thy parents had not spar’d,

And having heapt such favours on thy head,

Is this? Is this?

Chor. He would say the reward.

Adrast. I grant what you alledge, and more, is true.

I have unto the height of hatred run,

A blood-staind Wretch, not worthy for to view

The rolling Circles, nor the raying sun.

I’ll never strive to cloak my foul abuses,

so for to make my forfeit to seem less,

And paint my fault with imperfect excuses:

‘Tis greater far then words can well express.

Nor go I thus to aggravate my crime,

And damn myself to be absolv’d by others:

No, no, such Rhetorick comes out of time.

I’ll not survive his death, as earst my brother’s,

Whose unkind fall if I had followed straight,

As then indeed I died to all delight,

I had not groan’d charged with this inward weight,

But slept with shadows in eternal night.

Yet must I die at last, though late grown wise.

This in my mind most discontentment breeds:

A thousand tort’ring deaths cannot suffise

To plague condignely for so heinous deeds.

Come, cause him, who the spiritless body burys,

Upon the Tomb to sacrifice my blood,

No fitter offring for th’infernal Furies

Then one, in whom they reign’d while as he stood,

In whom they oft infused their div’lish rage,

And in my bosom all their serpents nestled,

so that this hellish horror to assuage,

I all my days have with disasters wrestled.

Croes. I find Adrastus, when I deeply scan

Th’effectual motives of this fatal cross,

That not thy malice, but mine own mischance

Has been th’occasion of our bitter loss.

Whilst barely with a superficial wit

We weigh the outside of such strange events,

If but the mediate means our judgements hit,

We search not the first cause, this much contents.

When such prodigious accidents fall out,

Though they amaze our minds, and so they must,

The ground of all comes from ourself no doubt.

Ah! man has sin’d, the heau’ns are always just.

Now when I search the secrets of my soul,

And rip the corners of my corrupt mind,

Mark of my former life th’offensive scroll,

And do examine how I was inclined,

O then I see the angry hosts of heaven

Come girt with flames to plague for my offences,

Which once no doubt will with the world be even,

And judge our thoughts, words, acts, and vain pretenses.

Son, ‘tis my pride that has procured thy fall:

I’m guilty of thy blood, I gave the wound

Which was thy death, and whose remembrance shall

My life each day with many deaths confound.

Then injust stars, your Statutes I condemn.

O! if I were confronted with the gods,

I would their partiall prouidence condemn,

That in such sort do exercise their rods.

Ah! My son’s death does show their judgement naught.

What could he perpetrate against such Powers?

Should he have suffred for his Father’s fault,

Whom without cause their wrong-spent wrath devours?

Now all the world those deities may despise,

Which plague the guiltless, and the guilty spare.

Cease hapless man t’outrage thyself this way:

I pardon thee, and pity thy despair.

Adrast. O cruel judgement of a rigorous fate!

Must I over-live myself t’entomb my Fame?

All things that I behold upbraid my State,

Too many monuments of one man’s shame.

All (and no more than I) my deeds detest,

Yet some not find a friend, I find no foe

To rid the world of such a dangerous pest,

Born but to be an instrument of woe.

I know what makes all worthy minds refrain

The sword against a Captive for to stretch:

They this opprobrious office do disdain,

To be the Deaths-men of so base a wretch.

Or must I yet a fouler fact commit,

And fill the world with th’horror of my name?

Is there some new disaster resting yet,

And other funerals famous by my shame?

Or would some bastard thought life’s cause debate,

That in the blasted field of comfort gleams?

No, no, in spite of heav’n I’ll force my fate,

One that’s resolv’d to die, cannot want means.

Proud tyrant Death, and must thou make it strange,

T’involve my wearied soul in further strife?

Unless my courage with my fortune change,

I can appoint a Period to my life.

But this (Ay me) all hope of help devours:

What gains my soul by death in those sad times?

If potent still in all her wonted powers

she must remember of my odious crimes.

What though unbodyd she the world forsake?

Yet cannot from her conscience be divorc’d:

It will but vex her at the shadowy Lake,

Till even to groan the god of ghosts be forc’d.

But welcome death, and O would God I had

Less famous or more fortunately liv’d!

Then had I never shown myself so mad

T’have only been by infamy surviv’d.

Ah! have I liv’d to see my Lady die,

And die for me, for me not worth so much;

Ah! have I liv’d (unnatural man) to be

My Brother’s death, whose love to me was such;

Ah! have I liv’d, with mine own hands to kill

A gallant Prince committed to my charge,

And do I gaze on the dead body still,

And in his Father’s sight my shame enlarge.

Ah! have I liv’d (O execrable Monster)

To be accounted of a div’lish nature,

And even by them that best my actions conster,

For to be call’d (and justly call’d) a Traitor.

Yet with my blood this stain away I’ll wash,

And lest my memory make th’earth detracted,

Let my name perish in my bodies ash,

And all my life be as a thought unacted.

Brave Atis, now I come to plead for grace,

Although thou frown’st on my affrighted ghost,

And to revenge thy wrong this wound embrace.

Thus, thus, I toil t’attain the Stygian coast.

Cho. The man himself does desperately wound,

With leaden lights, weak legs, and head declined.

The body in disdain does beat the ground,

That of his members one has prou’d unkind.

The fainting hand falls trembling from the sword

With this micidial blow for shame grown red,

Which straight the blood pursues with vengeance stor’d

To drown the same with the same floods it shed.

Who of those parties can the combat show,

Where both but one, one both, strook and sustained,

Or who shall triumph for this strange overthrow

Whereas the Victor lost, the Vanquish’d gained.

Croes. Cursed eyes, what sudden change has drowned your lights,

And made your mirthful objects mournful now?

Ye that were still injured to Stately sights

since seated under an Imperial brow,

Overclouded now with vapours of my cares,

Are low thrown down unto a hell of grief,

And have no prospect but my soul’s despairs,

The sad beholdrs of a rare mischief.

O dead Adrastus I absolve thy ghost,

Whose hand some secret destiny did charm.

Thou hated by the Heav’ns, wert to thy cost

An accidental Actor of our harm.

No doubt some angry God has laid this snare,

And whilst thy purpose was the Boar to kill,

Did intercept thy shaft amidst the air,

And threw it at my son against thy will.

Ah son! Must I be witness of thy death,

Who view thee thus with violence to bleed,

And yet want one on whom to power my wrath,

To take just vengeance for so vile a deed?

This wretch whose guiltless mind has cleard his hand

Griev’d for his error, lo, unforced does fall,

And not as one that did in danger stand,

For he liv’d still till I forgave him all.

Thus have I but the heav’ns on whom I may

Pour forth the poison of my troubled spirit.

In my soul’s bitterness I’m forced to say,

This second not their custom and my merite.

ACT. IIII. SCEN. II.

Sandanis. Croesus.

Sand. Why spend you, sir, with sighs th’Imperious breath,

Which nought but words of sovereignty should breed?

O weak revenge for one that’s wronged by death,

T’adorn his triumph with a mourning weed!

This pale-fac’d tyrant, author of our ill,

Who did, t’eclipse our Joys, that black shaft borrow,

should you frame Trophighs to his Tigrish will,

And wear his livery, and succumb to sorrow?

No, though he might this outward bliss overthrow,

And you save you of all that’s yours might spoil,

Yet whilst of one that yields no sign you show,

You triumph still, and he receives the foil.

Th’over-flowing humor that would drown your soul,

In baser breasts might better be excused,

Who want the spirit their passions to control,

As from their birth still to subjection used.

But you, in whom high Thoughts have been innate,

To this decay how is your Virtue come?

I blush to see my sovereign so abated,

And Majesty by misery overcome.

Nor are my words out of a rocky mind,

T’unnaturalize you, as not feeling smart:

No, none can bar a Prince from being kind,

Th’undoubted badge of an Heroic heart.

That supreme Power, by which great States do stand,

should order but th’affection, not undo it.

And I could wish you might your self command,

Which though you may not well, yet seem to do it.

Croes. I will not now rehearse, t’enlarge my grief,

On what just reasons my laments are grounded,

But still will muse upon mine own mischief,

While as my soul a thousand ways is wounded.

What pensive pensil ever limm’d aright

The sad conceits of soul-consuming woe?

Ah! words are weak to show the swelling hight

Of th’inward anguish that over-whelms me so.

Though many Monarchs jealously despise

The rising sun that their declining stains,

And hate the Heir, who by their fall must rise,

As griev’d to hear of death, or others reigns,

My love towards Atis otherwise appeared,

Whom, whilst for him I did my cares engage,

I as a Father lou’d, as King not feard,

The comfort, not th’encombrance of mine age.

And had thou son, as reason would, surviv’d me,

Who glanced and vanish’d like a lightning-flash,

Then death of life could never have depriv’d me,

Whilst such a Phoenix had reviv’d my ash.

San. Let not these woes eclipse your Virtue’s light.

Croes. Ah! rage and grief must once be at a height.

San. Strive of your sorrows for to stop the source.

Croes. These salt eye-floods must flow and have their course.

San. That is not kingly.

Croes. And yet it is kindly,

Where passions do domain they govern blindly.

San. Such woeful plaints cannot repair your State.

Croes. Th’infortunate at least may wail their Fate.

The meanest comfort can a wretch return,

Is in calamite t’have leave to mourn.

San. What grave-browed stoic void of all affections,

With tearless eyes could that Youth’s death behold?

Though green in yeares, yet ripe in all perfections,

A hoary judgment under lockes of gold.

No, no man lives but must lament to see

The world’s chief hope even in his blossome choked.

But men cannot control the Heav’ns decree,

And mischief done, can never be revoked.

Then let not this destiny your mind no more:

This cross with you alike your Country bears.

If wailing could your ruind State restore,

souls fraught with grief should sail in seas of tears,

Lest all our comfort dash against one shelf

And his untimely end occasion yours.

Have pity of your people, spare yourself,

If not to your own use, yet unto ours.

Croes. When Sandanis, I first thy faith did find,

Thou div’d so deeply in my bosom then,

That since thou kept the key still of my mind,

And knew what I conceald from other men.

Behold, I go to open up to you,

Dear Treasurer of all my secrets still,

A mighty enterprise I mind for now,

A Phisic in some sort t’assuage my ill,

Which may unto my soul yield some relief,

And make me to forgo sad thoughts’ content,

Or else acquire copartners in my grief,

If not for me, yet with me to lament.

Sand. This benefit must bind me with the rest,

To love your Majesty, and wish you well.

I’ll give you my advise, and I protest,

That you take friendly what I freely tell.

Croes. Since that it has not pleased the Divine powers,

That of my offspring I might comfort claim,

Yet lest the ravenous course of flying hours

Should make a prey of my respected name,

I hope t’engender such a generous brood,

That the unborn shall know how I have liv’d,

And this no doubt would do my ghost great good,

To be by famous Victories revib’d.

I’ll Eagle-like so are with Fame’s immortal wings,

Unless my high-bent thoughts themselves deceive,

That having acted admirable things,

I may scorn death, and triumph over the grave.

Yet have I not so settled my conceit

That all opinions are to be despised:

Unfold your judgement touching my estate,

Take heed I’ll tell you what I have devised.

Some Scithian shepherd in a high disdain,

As I have heard rehearsed by true discourses,

To plague some of the Medes with endless pain,

Did entertain them with Thiestes’ courses;

And to content their more then Tigrish wishes,

They with the infants flesh the parents fed,

Who not suspecting such polluted dishes,

Did in their bowels bury whom they bred.

Then after this abhominable crime,

They come unto my fathers’ famous court,

And working on th’advantage of the time,

Did as they pleas’d of what was past report.

They show’d what serv’d to help, and hid the rest.

Whilst pity pleaded for affliction’s part,

He noble-minded favouring the distressed,

Was won to them by this sinonic art.

San. Oft Kings of Judges thence have parties gone,

Where both their ears were patent but to one.

Croes. Then Ciaxares, Monarch of the Medes,

To prosecute those fugitives to death,

In indignation of my father’s deeds,

Did boast them both with all the words of wrath.

My father, thinking that his court should be

A sanctuary for all supplicants,

Did levy men, that all the world might see

He helped the weak, and scorn’d the mighty vaunts.

Thus mortal wars on every side proclaim’d,

With mutual damage did continue long,

Till both the armies by Bellona tam’d,

Did irk t’avenge or to maintain a wrong.

It chanc’d whilst peace was at the highest dearth,

That all their forces furiously did fight,

A sudden darkness courtain’d up the earth,

And violently dispossessed the light.

I think for Phaeton the sun looked sad,

And that the bloody objects that he saw

Did wound his memory, with grief gone mad,

He from the world his wagon did withdraw.

Yet Ignorance, the mother of confusion,

With wresting nature’s course found cause of fears,

Which well edg’d on by wiser mens’ illusion,

Was cause of concord and of truce from tears.

Then straight there was a perfect peace begun,

And that it might more constantly endure,

Astiages the King of Media’s son,

A marriage with my sister did procure.

A deadly rancour reconcil’d again,

Must seal’d with consanguinity remain.

He since his father’s age-worn course was ended,

Has ruled his people free from blood or strife,

Till now a Viper of his loins discended,

Would by his ruin make himself a life.

I mean by Cyrus, base Cambises’ brood,

Who by a Bitch nursed with the country swains,

Degener’d far from any princely blood,

The doggish nature of his nurse retains.

He come against his Grandfather to field,

And unexpected with a mighty power,

Overthrew his forces, forc’d himself to yield,

Who captive kept now waits for death each hour.

That you may see now what my interest is,

I made recital of this ruthfull story.

Those circumstances show that shame of his

Tends to the derogation of our glory,

That any dare presume to trouble thus

One whom our kingdom’s favour should defend,

In strict affinity combined with us,

Yet not respected for so great a friend.

My joyless soul with this will be rejoic’d,

Whilst I to war against that rebel go.

I hope that both shall know how they have choic’d,

Th’one a kind friend, and th’other a feirce foe.

San. Though Nature’s law you car’d not to transgress,

And this your wrong’d ally would not repair,

Yet the regard t’a Monarch in distress,

Should move the mighty with a mutual care.

These terrours to that thunder in your ear,

I think the Lidians will not well allow,

For when the Cedar falls, the Oak may fear:

Th’ Assirians’ overthrow may astonish you.

And when we see our neighbour’s house afire,

Then we may judge our own to be in danger:

It’s better first with others to conspire,

Or we be forc’d ourselves t’invade that stranger.

Ah this is but the outside of your course,

A dangerous ambush by ambition planted!

There may come raging rivers from this source,

To drown your State whilst fancys are undanted:

I know these new-born monsters of your mind

Have arm’d your ravish’d thoughts with fair conceits.

Yet may these wonders that you have divin’d

Prove traitrous projects painted for deceits.

And (pardon sir) it is not good to be

Too rashly stout nor curiously wise,

Lest that you from that which is certain flee,

And not attain to that which you devise.

Croes. I grant indeed which very few shall know.

Though I design but to relieve my friend,

My thoughts are aim’d (this unto you I’ll show)

And not without great cause, t’a greater end.

You see how Fortune nought but change affects:

Some are reproach’d that others may be praised,

And every age brings forth some strange effects.

Some must be ruin’d, others must be raised.

I doubt not you have heard who was the first

Whom fame for warring with the world revives,

Who had of sovereignty so great a thirst,

That it could not be quenched with a thousand lives.

T’was he who first obtain’d the name of Iove,

Who was reputed for his glorious acts

The most imperious of the powers above,

That vows and offrings of the world exacts.

He all his time could nought but terrour breathe,

To make the world acquaint with war and death,

The chiefest sergeant deputed by death,

That made th’Assirians sovereigns of the earth.

Yet since his course the world’s first plague was past,

His successours who many ages reign’d,

Made shipwreck of their Empire at the last,

And by the Medes were thral’d, scorn’d, and disdain’d.

This was the cause of that great kingdom’s fall:

A King who could not judge of kingly treasures,

With loss of scepter, honour, life and all,

Did buy his base delights and servile pleasures.

To that distressed Monarchy’s decay,

Th’aspiring Persians purpose to succeed,

But I intend to cross them by the way,

And quail their courage ere that they can speed.

The Persians once the Lidians force must prove,

And, O who knows but that it is ordain’d

At the Tribunal of the States above,

That I should reign where famous Ninus reign’d.

This all the host of heaven ofttimes foretells,

To this the gods of Greece my mind have mou’d,

And he that in th’Arabian desert dwells,

By his response this enterprise approu’d.

San. Thus still in love with what we mind to do,

What we affect we first still conceive.

This feeds our humour whilst we labour, to

Seem full of wit ourselves for to deceive.

You flatter so yourself, you can not spy

What secret danger this design does bear;

But whilst I look with an indifferent eye

On your intentions, I find cause of fear.

You unadvisedly purpose to pursue

A barbarous people that are foes to peace,

Who but by rapine to their greatness grew,

And would for each light cause the war’s embrace.

No dainty silks of the Assirian die

Do deck their bodies to abase their minds,

But cloth’d with wild beasts skins they do defy

The force of Phoebus’ rays, and Eolus’ winds.

They simply feed and are not griev’d each day

With stomachs cloyed decocting diverse meats;

They fare not as they would, but as they may,

Of judgement sound not carried with conceits.

These uncorrupted customs that they hold

Make all things easy that they feel no pain:

This cools the summer’s heat, kills Winter’s cold,

This makes the Rivers dry, the Mountains plain.

Those whose ambition poverty did bound,

Of the delights of Lidia if they taste

Will have in hatred straight their barren ground,

And insolently all our treasures waste.

To govern such although that you prevail,

You shall but buy vexation with your blood,

And do yourself and yours, if fortune fail,

From a possessed sovereignty seclude.

Yea, though this rash desire your judgement leads,

I for my part must praise the gods for you,

They have not put into the Persians’ heads

To war against the Lidians long ere now.

Croes. These flames that burn my brest must once burst out!

Your councel for more quiet minds I leave,

And be you still thought wise, so I prove stout.

I’ll conquer more, or lose the thing I have.

Caelia. Yet am I forc’d out of affliction’s store

To ease my mind a few sad words to strain,

And but unload it now to load it more,

I empty but mine eyes to fill again.

My soul must sound even as my passions strike,

Which now are tun’d to nothing but mischief;

My breast and eyes are both accursed alike,

The cabinet of care, the cells of grief.

O cruel heaven, fierce star, unhappy fate,

Too foul injustice of the divine powers,

Whose high disdain t’wards me with partial hate,

The comfort of the world (sad world) devours.

Cursed be the day in which I first was born,

When lying tongues affirm’d I come to light:

A monstrous blasphemy, a mighty scorn,

Since t’was to darkness and a joy-set night.

O happy if I then had chanc’d to smother,

That the first hour had been the last to me,

Then from one grave t’have gone unto another,

I should have died to live, not liv’d to die.

What profited to me my parents’ joys,

That with such pomp did solemnize my birth,

When I must be the mirror of annoyances,

And all my days taste but one dram of mirth?

Which serv’d for nothing but to make me know

The height of horror that was to succeed,

I was but raised up high to be brought low,

That short-liv’d joys might endless anguish breed.

That nothing might for my confusion lack,

All my best actions but betray’d my State:

My virtues too were guilty of my wrack,

And warr’d against me banded with my fate.

For whilst my Virgin-years with praise I passd,

Which did (ah that it did) too much import,

My modest eye told that my mind was chaste:

This gain’d the warrant of the world’s report

(And Maids must have a great respect to fame:

No greater dowry then an unstain’d name).

Fair beauty’s Goddess, thou can bear record,

My offering never made thine altar rich:

All such lascivious fancys I abhord,

My free-born thoughts no folly could bewitch,

Till happily (ah so it seem’d to some) ...

Ah but unhappely th’event has prou’d.

All this and more to Atis’ ears did come,

Who straightway liked, and after liking lou’d.

Then to our ears his purpose did impart,

Not lip-sick-lover-like with words far sought:

His tongue was but the agent of his heart,

Yet could not tell the tenth part of his thought.

And lest his travels should have seem’d to tend

To breach my honour, work my fame’s decay,

He brought his wishes to a lawful end,

And by th’effect, th’affection did bewray.

Their Iuno president of wedlock’s vow,

And Hymen with his saffron-colour’d coat,

Our love with sacred customs did allow,

Whilst th’ominous Owls no cross did denote.

The blessing that this marriage did procure,

It was too great to have continv’d long:

A thing that’s vehement can not endure.

Our joys far past th’expressing of the tongue,

Who ever did full satisfaction find,

Yet with satiety were never cloy’d.

We seem’d two bodies govern’d by one mind,

Such was the happines that we enjoy’d.

He lou’d me dearly, I obey’d his will,

Proud of myself because that I was his.

A harmony remained betwixt us still,

Each in another plac’d their chiefest bliss.

This mou’d th’Immortals to a high disdain,

That thus two worldlings who of death were heirs,

Should in a paradise of joys remain,

Which did exceed, at least did equal theirs.

But chiefly Iuno did despised it most,

Who through a jealousy still jars with Iove

That body-prison’d souls of that could boast,

Which she (although Heaven’s Queen) had not above.

Thus, even for envy of our rare delights,

The fatal sisters by the heavens subhorn’d,

Of my soul’s treasure closed the lovely lights,

By which they thought the earth too much adorn’d.

O but he is not dead, he lives in me ...

Ah but I live not, for I died in him:

The one without the other cannot be.

If death have set his eyes, mine must look dim,

Since to my sight that sun no more appear’d,

From whom my beautys borrowed all their rays.

A long eclipse that never shall be clear’d,

Has darkened all the points of my sad days.

Ay me! I live too long, he died too soon!

Thus still the worst remain, the best depart,

Of him who told how this black deed was done.

The words like swords shall ever wound my heart.

Fierce tyrant Death, that in thy wrath did take

One half of me, and left an half behind,

Take this to thee, or give me th’other back:

Be altogether cruel, or all kind.

For whilst I live, thou can not wholly die.

O! even in spite of death, yet still my choice,

Oft with th’Imagination’s love-quick eye,

I think I see thee, and I hear thy voice.

And to content my languishing desire,

Each thing to ease my mind some help affords:

I fancy whiles thy form, and then afire,

In every found I apprehend thy words.

Then with such thoughts my memory to wound,

I call to mind thy looks, thy words, thy grace,

Where thou did haunt, yet I adore the ground,

And where thou stepped, O sacred seems that place!

My solitary walks, my widowed bed,

My dreary sighs, my sheets oft bathed with tears,

These can record the life that I have led

Since first sad news breath’d death into mine ears.

I live but with despair my spirit to dash.

Thee first I lou’d, with thee all love I leave;

For my chaste flames extinguished in thy ash

Can kindle now no more but in thy grave.

By night I wish for day, by day for night;

Yet wish far more, that none of both might be;

But most of all, that banished from the light

I were no more, their courses for to see.

At night revolving my despaired estate,

I go to sum with sighs my wonted joys,

When in an agony, a griev’d conceit

Does blot th’unperfect comped with new annoys.

When Sleep, the eldest brother of pale Death,

The Child of darkness, and Father of rest,

In a free prison has confined my breath,

That it may vent, but not with words expressed,

Then with my spirit thou enter for to speak

With honeyed speechs to appease my grief,

And my sad heart that laboured for to break,

In this fayn’d comfort finds a while relief.

Yea, if our souls remained united so,

This late divorcement would not vex my mind;

But when I wake, it augments my woe,

Whilst this a dream, and me a wretch I find.

O happy, if I had been happy never,

But happier, if my happiness had lasted;

Yet had I in this State chanc’d to persever,

My days had with excessive joys soon wasted.

Why waste I thus, whilst vainly I lament,

The precious treasure of that swift Possessed Time?

Ah! pardon me, (dear Love) for I repent

My lingering here, my Fate, and not my crime,

Since first thy body did enrich the Tomb,

In this spoiled world, my eye no pleasure sees.

And Atis, Atis, lo, I come, I come

To be thy Mate, amongst the Mirtle trees.

Chorus.

Loe all our time even from our birth,

In nought but misery exceeds:

For where we find a moment’s mirth,

A Month of mourning still succeeds.

By all the evils that Nature breeds,

Which daily do our spirits appall,

Th’infirmitys that frailty sends,

The loss of it, that fortune lends:

And such disasters as oft fall.

Yet to far worse our States are thrall,

Whilst wretched man with man contends,

And every one his whole force bends,

How to procure anothers loss.

But this destinys us most of all:

The mind of man, which many a fancy toss,

Does forge unto itself a thousand crosses.

O how the soul with all her might

Does all her heav’nly forces strain!

How to attain unto the light

Of Nature’s wonders, that remain

Hid from our eyes, we strive in vain

To seek out things that are unsure.

In sciences to seem profound,

We dive so deep we find no ground,

And the more knowledge we procure,

The more it does our minds allure,

Of mystery’s the depth to sound.

Thus our desires we never bound,

Which by degrees thus drawn on still,

The memory may not endure.

But like the tubes that Danaus’ daughters fill,

Does drink no faster then it’s forc’d to spill.

Yet how comes this? and O how can

Divine Knowledge, the soul’s chief treasure,

Occasion such a cross to man,

That should afford him greatest pleasure?

O it’s because we cannot measure

The limits that to it belong!

But for to tempt forbidden things,

Do soar too high with Nature’s wings;

Still weakst whilst we think us strong,

The Heavens that think we do them wrong,

To try what in suspence still hangs,

This cross upon us justly brings:

With knowledge, knowledge is confused,

And grows a grief ere it be long.

That which a blessing is, being rightly used,

Does grow the greatest cross, when it’s abused.

Ah! what avails this unto us?

Who in this vale of woes abide,

With endless toil to study thus,

To learn the thing that Heav’n would hide;

And trusting in too blind a guide,

To spy the Planets how they move,

And too transgressing common bars

The constellation of the stars,

And all that is decreed above,

Whereof as oft th’event does prove,

Th’intelligence our welfare mars,

And in our breasts breeds endless wars,

Whilst what our Horoscopes foretell,

Our expectations do disprove.

Those apprehended plagues prove such a Hell,

That we would wish t’unknow them till they fell.

This is the pest of great Estates:

They by a thousand means devise

How to foreknow their doubtful Fates,

And like new Giants scale the skies,

Heav’ns secret stoverhouse to surprise.

Which sacriligious skill we see

With what great pain they apprehend it,

And then how foolishly they spend it,

To learn the thing that once must be.

Why should we seek our destiny?

If it be good, we long attend it,

If it be evil, none may amend it:

Such knowledge further rest exiles.

T’is best to abide the Heaven’s decree.

It’s to be feared, those whom this Art beguiles,

Do change their fate and make their Fortune wheeles.

And loe of late, what has our King

By his prepossed’rous travels gained,

In searching each particular thing

That Atis’ Horoscope containd.

But what the Heav’ns had once ordained,

He could not by no means prevent,

And yet he labours to find out

Through all the Oracles about.

Of future things th’unsure event,

This does his raving mind torment.

Now in his age unwisely stout

To fight with Cyrus, but no doubt

The Heavens are griev’d for to hear told

Long ere the time their hid intent.

Let Tantalus b’a terror to th’over-bold

That dare Iove’s cloudy secrecies unfold.

ACT. V. SCEN. I.

Cyrus. Harpagus.

Cyrus. Go, let us triumph over these unthron’d thralls,

Whose maimed greatness to confusion runs,

Who forfeited their glory by their falls:

No hand that fights is pure, but that which wins.

The ravished world that fraught with doubts did stand,

To see the bloody end of this day’s toil,

Saw how the Heavens placed lightning in my hand,

To thunder on all those that sought my foil.

Now therefore let us first devoutly go

And lose our vows: the gods detest th’ingrate,

And who delight t’adore their deities so,

Do never fail t’establish their estate.

Go load the Altars, smoke the sacred places

With Bullocks, Incense, Odours of all kinds;

Though none can give the gods that flow in graces

A sweetr sacrifice then thankefull minds.

Har. Though all that indenized in this Vale

Walk here confined within this fertile Round,

And are tapestred with this azure Pale,

T’adore the gods by many means are bound.

Yet there are some particularly, I find,

Whose names are written in their dearest scrolls,

Whom extraordinary favours bind,

Even to prefer them to their very souls.

Of which (sir) you are one: your deeds declare

Of you amidst innumerable broils.

Even from your cradle they have had a care,

And led you safe through all your greatest toils.

Though of the dangers of your youth I see

The thought no more with grief your mind importunes;

Yet I think on who had the hap to be

An Actor in your Tragic-Comic fortunes.

Cyr. The accidents that in our Nonage chance,

When as our years grow ripe, slide out of thought

Like fabulous dreams that Darkness does advance,

And are by Day disdained as things of nought

(For our Conceptions are not then so strong

As for to leave th’impression long behind)

Yet mix (dear Friend) old griefs new Joys among,

And call afflicted Infancy to mind.

Har. Who would not wonder at thy wondrous Fate,

Whose ruin ere thy Birth appeard conspir’d?

Who unbegun, seemed to expire that date,

Which now begun, shall never be expir’d.

Your Mother first her Syre with cares did sting,

While as he dreamed, which yet his soul confounds:

That from her womb there did a Vine-tree spring,

Which did over-shadow all great Asia’s bounds.

Then to the Mages straight he gave in charge,

To try what this strange Vision did presage,

Who having studied their dark Art at large,

Gave this response with a prophetick rage:

That once his Daughter should bring forth a son,

For glorious Acts exceedingly renowned,

By whom th’Empire of Asia should be won,

By whom his Grandfather should be uncrowned.

This to Astiages a terrour bred,

Who labouring to anull the heavens’ decree,

Advised as best his Daughter for to wed

T’a powerless stranger, but of base degree.

Then of Cambises he by chance made choice,

And for his barb’rous Country’s cause the rather,

Whom by your birth the Princess did rejoice,

And further then before affright her Father.

Thus tyranny by feeble spirits begun

Does force the Parents in despair to fall,

A dastard to attempt, proud having won,

Which being feared of all, does still fear all

(And tyrants no security can find,

For every shadow frights a guilty mind).

This Monarch, whom scarce Armies could surprise,

Whom gallant Guards and Stately Courts delighted,

Who triumphd over th’Earth, threatened the skies,

A Babe scarce born, come of himself, affrighted.

And whilst Lucina the last help did make,

As if some ugly Monster had been born,

A Minotaur, a Centaur or a Snake,

The world’s terror, and the Mother’s scorn,

The Nephews birth, that would have seemed t’impart

Unto the Grandfather great cause of joy,

As if the naked hand had pierc’d his heart,

Did wind him in a maze of sad annoys.

And to prevent a but suspected spight,

By giving an occasion of just hate,

He sought by robbing you the new-found Light,

To make your birth and burial of one date.

Soon after this he sent for me in hast,

Whom at that time (and not in vain) he lou’d,

Then showed me all the circumstances past,

Wherewith his marble mind seemed nothing mou’d:

Out of the which, as he would let me know,

All complements of pity were not blotted.

He would this superficial favour show,

Not with your blood to have his own hands spotted.

Thus having lulled asleep the conscience, still

The wickd would extenuate their crimes,

Not knowing those that but allow of ill,

Are Actors in effect, guilty all times.

Yet with his fault he would have burdened me,

And willed that I an Innocent should slay.

I promised to perform his rash decree,

Well weighing whom, but not wherein t’obay.

When I had parted from his Highness’ face,

And carried you (then swadled) with me too,

Through th’apprehended horror of my case,

I stood perplex’d and wist not what to do.

Necessity took place: I waild with tears

Th’untimely funerals (as I thought) of you.

My soul confounded, with a swarm of fears,

Did with sad sighs my message disallow.

Yet t’him I send a servant of mine own,

Who for the time was Herdsman to the King,

To whom I made all my commission known,

But as direct to him show’d every thing.

Delivering you with an unwilling breath,

Then with a mantle of pure gold array’d,

I threatened him with many a cruel death,

If that your death were any way delay’d.

Straight for to execute th’intended doom,

He from my sight did all astonish’d go:

Too great a charge for such a simple groom,

The show of Majesty amaz’d him so.

O what a wonder is’t for to behold

Th’unfailing prouidence of powerful Iove,

Whose brazen edicts can not be controlled:

Firm are the Statutes of the States above.

That mortal whom th’Immortals favour shields,

No worldly force is able to confound:

He may securely walk through danger’s fields,

Times and occasions are t’attend him bound.

For lo before the Herdsman was come home,

His wife of a dead burden was delivered,

Who wondered so to see her Husband come,

That with a secret terror faintly shivered.

She straight grew curious for to know the form

How he a Babe so beautiful obtained,

Who did her suddenly of all inform,

And to what cruelty he was constrained.

See quickly then th’occasion to embrace,

(No doubt inspir’d by some celestial power)

Prayed him t’expose her dead child in your place,

Yet where no beasts repair’d him to devour.

“So shall we have (saith she) a double gain:

Our off-spring shall receive a Stately tomb,

And we a princely infant, to remain

Still nursed with us as th’issue of my womb.”

The Husband liked so well his Wive’s intent,

That all what she affected he effected,

And soon I had one of my household sent,

To try if all were done as t’was directed.

He seeing the babe dead, dead in that weed,

With that rich funeral furniture about him,

Told what the fellow told, and I indeed

Reposed on his report: for who could doubt him?

In end, Time, posseding with hour-feth’red wings,

Had given you strength with others of your years.

You passd the time, not nephews unto Kings,

But for that time admitted for your peers.

They fail, call Fortune blind: she sight bewrayed,

And your authority by lot enlarg’d,

In pastural sports who still the scepter swayed,

And as but born for that, that best discharg’d.

Then with the other children, as it chanc’d,

A noble man of Medea’s son remaind,

Who swollen with envy to see you advanc’d,

Your childish charge with scornful words disdained.

You spighting at that proud attempt of his,

Did punish him as it became a Prince.

I doubt now (sir) if that you think on this,

The rest of rashness did your deed convince.

Cyr. More mighty matters now to muse upon:

My memory with the remembrance cloy,

That those are all forgot. And yet tell on,

For I delight to hear this childish toy.

Harpa. The father of the child inform’d the King

How such a base-born boy abused his son,

And caused an Esquire straightway you to bring,

To suffer for the fault that you had done.

And when the King accused you in his sight,

As the presumptuous brat of a base clown,

You boldly did maintain that you had right

To scourge one that rebelled against your crown.

The King astonish’d at th’imperious words

Of one so magnanimous, and so young,

Does pause awhile, and straightway he records,

That you were you, and I had done him wrong.

The tortour to the Netheard was presented,

Who soon for fear confessed (O sudden change).

The King as seem’d exceedingly contented,

Sent one for me to hear the tidings strange.

And as he had good cause, in show delighted,

Did for a solemn sacrifice prepare,

And me as his most special guest invited,

Who with my son did straight to Court repair.

When light was banish’d by night’s shadow sable,

The candles by his forfeit taking place,

They serv’d me with my son’s flesh at the table,

Then did upbraid me with his bloodless face.

What anguish, or what rage overflow’d my soul,

A louing father may imagin best!

Yet at that time I did my rage control,

But laid it up for ever in my brest.

Cyr. Some of the wise men then I heard remain’d,

Who from their former sentence did recoil,

Saying, no danger was since I had reigned,

And so dismissed me for my native soil.

Where when I had my unripe season spent,

Your Letter came to give my fire new fuel,

And told how many of the Medes were bent

T’abandon their own Lord that prou’d so cruel;

And wish’d if to that scepter I aspir’d,

That I should move the Persians to rebel:

Which did succeed even as my soul desir’d,

For they disdain’d in servitude to dwell.

I plac’d my gallant troops in warlike order,

And lest th’occasion should have slipped away,

March’d with my army to my enemy’s border,

Whereas you had the conduct for that day.

Harpa. Lo how those wretches that the heav’ns would wrack

Are spoild of judgement! That proud Tyrant offered

The charge to me, not thinking I would take

A high revenge for th’injury I suffered,

Which was so deeply rooted in my heart.

My country’s thralldom, and mine own disgrace,

And all the horrors that death could impart,

Seem’d nought to me so my disdain took place.

Cyr. ‘Tis dangerous trusting one that’s wrong’d we see,

Just rancour unreveng’d can never die.

Harpa. That was the first beginning of your glory,

Which since has been augmented by degrees,

And which by time may breed so brave a story,

As may be pretious in all Princes’ eyes.

Cyr. Behold how Croesus, with his riches blinded,

Durst come t’encounter with my warlike bands,

And through a long prosperity high-minded,

Was not affrayed to fall before my hands.

But he and his confederates have seen

How Victory does still my troops attend,

And Persia must be once all Asia’s Queen,

Or we shall war unto the world’s end.

Now Croesus is overcome, rich Sardis taken,

And Lidia fraught with gold is made our spoil,

Th’Egiptians have th’unprosp’rous league forsaken:

This is the happy end of all our toil.

But ah one sorrow unseasons all my sweets:

Brave Abradatus, my brother in arms,

Whose praise through all the peopled circuit fleets,

And with his love each generous courage warms,

Whilst but over-bold for to be backed so badly,

Th’Egiptian Chariots desperatly he charg’d:

There with evil-fortun’d valour fighting madly,

His soul out of th’earth’s prison was enlarg’d.

Harpa. No doubt that dame this trouble hardly bears,

Who only seem’d for him t’account of life.

I heard him whilst she bath’d his Coach with tears

Wish to prove worthy of so rare a wife.

When their farewell was seal’d, last speechs spent,

She kissed the Coach that did contain her trust,

And with eyes big with pearl gaz’d where he went,

Still till her sight was choak’d with cloudes of dust.

Cyr. I hear you have not heard how his death prou’d

The black beginning of a bloody scene.

His wife Panthea, at the first not mou’d,

Seem’d as she had some marble image been;

The body that had oft her fancies fir’d

She caused bear out of sight, still dear, though dead;

But being to Pactolus banks retir’d,

She in her bosom did entomb his head.

And then from rage she did some respite borrow;

For sorrow by degrees a passage seeks,

Vapouring forth sighs that made a cloud of sorrow,

A tempest then of tears rain’d down her cheeks.

And whilst her eye the wonted object miss,

She many a languishing look does cast,

And on the senseless lips still lavish’d kiss,

As affectionedly as in times past.

I poasted thither for to have reliev’d

This Lady of a portion of her woes.

Heaven bear me witness, I was greatly griev’d,

Who would, to save one friend, spare hosts of foes.

She first a space me passionatly eyed,

Then with these words her lips did slowly move:

“My husband lo has valourously died,

Well worthy of your friendship, and my love.”

When I had all the flowers of comfort used,

That a sad soul overcharg’d with grief could show,

I went away with words that were confused,

And scarcely could my last farewell forth throw.

I was not well departed from her face,

When as she char’ged the Eunuchs out of sight,

Then pray’d her nurse to bury in one place

Her and her Lord, as they deserv’d of right.

Then looking on his corpse she drew a sword,

And even as if her soul had flown in him,

She stabbed herself; then falling on her Lord,

Her beautys blubbered stars were waxing dim.

The faithful Eunuchs, for their sou’reign sorry,

And scorning to survive so rare a date,

In emulation of their mistress’ glory,

Died, violently partners of her fate.

O sweet Panthea rich in rarest parts!

I must admire thy ghost though thou be gone,

Who mightst have made a monarchy of hearts,

Yet loth’d unlawful loves, and lou’d but one.

O wondrous wonders, wonders wondrous rare!

A woman constant, such a beauty chaste,

So pure a mind join’d with a face so fair,

Beauty and Virtue in one person placed!

Both were well match’d as any could devise,

Whose undivided end their choice allows:

He valorous, she vertvous, both wise,

She worthy such a mate, he such a spouse.

And Harpagus, lest that it should be thought,

The memory of virtuous minds may die,

Cause build a Stately tomb with Statues wrought,

Where their dead bodies may respected lie.

Har. I’ll raise a Pyramid of Croesus’ spoils,

Where all their famous parts shall be comprised.

But how t’insist in these tumultuous broils,

‘Tis best now (sir) that you were well advised.

Your adversary does attend your will,

This haughty city humbled has her crest,

And therefore go to pardon, or to kill,

To save, or sack, even as you shall think best.

Cyr. Abstract for old Croesus I am else resolv’d.

He with some captives which I keep in store,

Shall have their bodies by the fire dissolv’d,

As offrands to the Gods that I adore.

This city shall my soldiers pains defray,

Since by their force it has been brought to bow:

I yield it unto them as their just pray,

Who taste the sweetness of their travels now.

Of other things we shall so well dispose,

That our renown over all the world shall shine,

Till Cyrus name b’a terrour to all those,

That dare against his sou’reignty repine.

ACT. V. SCEN. II.

Nuntius. Chorus.

Nun. Ah to what part shall I my steps address,

The burden of base bondage to eschew?

Lo, desolation, ruin, and distress,

With horror does my native home pursue!

And now poor country take my last farewell,

Farewell all joy, all comfort, all delight!

Chor. What heavy tidings hast thou for to tell,

That tear’st thy garments thus? Tell thy sad plight.

Nun. I tell the wrack of us, and all that live

Within the circuit of this wretched soil.

Cho. A hideous shout we heard the City give:

Is’t in th’enemies’ hands, is’t made his spoil?

Nun. It’s made his spoil.

Cho. And is our sou’reign kild?

Nun. No, but yet nearly escaped does live in danger.

Cho. Then let our ears be with disasters filled:

And must we bear the yoke of that proud stranger?

Nun. You know how Croesus at th’advantage lay,

Still seeking means t’abate the Persians pride;

And his confederates had assign’d a day

When they should for th’intended war prouide.

But Cyrus, having heard how that they should

Against his State so great an army bring,

Straight raising all the forces that he could,

Prevents, invades, overcomes and takes our King.

Chor. This shows a Captain both expert and brave,

First well t’advise, then t’execute with speed;

No circumstance (friend) unrelated leave,

Which with our Kings did our confusion breed.

Nun. When Croesus saw that Cyrus came so soon,

He stood awhile with a distracted mind;

Yet what time would permit, left nought undone,

But made his Musters, march’d his Foe to find.

Our Stately Troops that glistered all with gold,

And with umbragious Feathers fann’d the air,

They with unwary insolence grown bold,

More how to triumph, then to overcome, took care.

The Lidian Horsemen are of great account,

And are for valour through the world renowned:

Them Cyrus chiefly laboured to surmount,

And this devise for that effect was found.

Untrusting all their baggage by the way,

Of the disburden’d Camels each did bear

A grim-fac’d Groom, who did himself array

Even as the Persian Horsemen use to wear.

To them th’Infantry did follow next,

A solid Squadron like a brasen wall;

But those in whom all confidence was fixed,

The brave Cavalry came last of all.

Then Cyrus by the rains his Courser took,

And being mounted, holding out his hands,

With an assured and Imperious look

Went breathing valour through th’unconquer’d bands.

He willed all them that at Death’s game should strive,

To spare none of their foes in any form,

But as for Croesus, to take him alive,

And keep him captive for a greater storm.

Where famous Hellus does to Hermus possede

In his broad waves t’entomb his strength and name,

Our Army ran against a greater Host

T’enrich it likewise with our force and fame.

Our Troops a time with equal valour stood,

Till giving place, at length we took the chance:

While as the River ran to hide our blood,

But still his borders blushed at our disgrace.

For so soon as the Camels once were come,

Our Horses loathing to endure their sight,

Ran raging back again, and of them some

Disordring rancks, put many to the flight.

Yet others that were of more martiall minds,

Perceiv’d the stratagem that did deride them,

And lighting on their feet, like mighty winds,

Bare down before them all that durst abide them.

There, whilst: the world prou’d prodigall of breath,

The headless troncks lay prostrated in heapes,

This field of funeralls, proper unto death,

Did paint out Horror in most hideous shapes.

There men unhorsed, horses unmastred, strayed,

some calld on them whom they most dearly tendred,

some ragde, some groand, some sigh’d, roard, wept & prayd,

Fighting, fainting, falling, desp’rate, maymde, rendred.

Those that escapt, like beasts unto a Den,

Fled to a Fortress, which true valour drowns,

Walles are for women, and the fields for men,

For Towns cannot keep men, but men keep Towns.

And we were scarcely entred at the Portes,

When as the enemies did the Town inclose,

And rearing many artificiall Fortes,

To the Defenders did huge pains impose.

There all the military slights werere found,

Which at the like encounters had prevaild,

Both for to use th’advantage of the ground,

Or for to help with Arte where Nature faild.

They ever compassing our Trench about,

still where the Walls were weakst, made a breach,

Which being straight repaird, we threw tools out,

And killd all those that came within our reach.

There all the bolts of death edgde by disdain,

That many curious wits inclind to ill,

Helpt by th’occasion, and the hope of gain,

Had power t’inuent, were put in practise still.

Yet as we see, it oft times has occurrde,

Where we suspected least, we were surprised,

Whilst fortune and the fates in one concurrde

To have our ruin in their rolles comprised.

The side of Sardis that was least regardd,

Which lyes t’wards Tmolus, and was thought most sure,

Through this presumption, whilst t’was weakly gvarded,

Th’orethrow of all Lidia did procure.

As one of ours (unhappily it chanc’d)

T’over-take his helmet that had scapt his hand,

Alongst that steepy part his steps advanc’d

And was returning back unto his Band:

He was well markt by one that had not spard

No kind of danger for to make us thralles,

For Cyrus had proposed a great reward

To any one that first could scale our walles.

And this companion seeing without stay,

One in his sight that craggie passage clim,

straight followd on his footsteps all the way,

And many a thousand followd after him.

By whom all those that durst resist were killd,

The rest were forc’d, and knew not where to flee:

For every street was with confusion filld,

There was no cornr from some mischief free.

O what a piteous clamour did arise,

Of ravished virgins, and of widowd wives!

Who pierc’d the heau’ns with lamentable cries,

And having lost all comfort, loathd their lives.

Whilst those proud Victors did insist t’have staind

Themselves with all the wrongs that such like use,

They by a charge from Cyrus were restraind,

And durst no more their captives thus abuse.

Chor.

No doubt but desolation then abounded,

Whilst with disdain the Conqu’rors bosom boylde,

some with the sword, some with disgrace confounded,

sacred Temples, private houses, all were spoylde.

None can imagine greater misery

Then all the suffrings of a captiv’d City.

But whilst this famous City was distressd,

What could become of the hard-fortun’d King?

Nun.

He seeing th’enemie of his State possessd,

And that confusion seazde on every thing,

stood first amazd, scarse trusting his own sight,

His formr fortune had him so transported,

Yet it is hard for to deny the light,

He saw a stranger that his wealth extorted.

And when that he had deeply apprehended

Th’unbounded horrors that overflow’d his soul,

As one whose Joys had long before been ended,

He could no more the signs of grief controul.

But bursting out in bitter sighs and tears,

Plungde in the deepst depth of black despair,

Through over great fear, leaving all kind of fears,

Did of his safetie take no further care,

And never wished he so for a long life,

But he over-wished it, wishing for death now,

still seeking danger in the bounds of strife,

Prouiding that he died, he car’d not how.

Whilst thus he fossedred furies in his breast,

A certain soldier by the way him meetes,

As insolent as any of the rest,

That drunke with blood, ran raging through the streetes:

And seeking but an object to his ire,

He made to him, and he to him again,

I wot not which of them did most desire,

Th’one for to slay, or th’other to be slain.

But whilst so base a hand towring aloft,

Did to so great a Monarch threaten death,

His eldest son, that as you have heard oft,

Was barrd from the right function of his breath.

I cannot tell you well, nor in what fashion,

If that the destinys had so ordained,

Or if the vehemency of his passion

Did breake the strings that had his tongue restraind.

But when he saw his Syre in such a danger,

He bursted forth into those words the rather,

Hold, hold thy hand in haste thou furious stranger,

Kill not King Croesus, murther not my Father.

The other hearing this, his hand retyrde,

Then call’d his Kings commandment to mind,

And to no small preferment he aspyrde,

To whom this desert did his sou’reign bind.

Now, when that Croesus, who for death did languish,

Was of this fair occasion disappointed,

Over-chargd with grief, and surfeiting of anguish,

To see himself for further evils appointed.

He with sad sighs those syllables did accord,

Now cruel destiny do what thou can,

Which would not unto me the grace afford

That I might perish like a private man.

Ah! must I live to wish t’have been unborn,

Charactring shame in a deyected face?

Ah! must I live to my perpetvall scorn,

The finger-pointed object of disgrace?

Yet this unto his soul more sorrow bred,

He King-like as in formr times arrayde,

Was with a mighty acclamation led

straight to the Tent whereas their Emp’rour stayde.

so soon as Cyrus got him in his power,

He causde bring bands of yron, burd’nous chains,

And clogd him hand and foot at that same hour,

As one that was design’d for grievous pains.

Then causde in haste a pile of wood to make,

And in the midst where all men might espy him,

Causde bind the captiv’d King unto a stake,

With fourteen others of the Lydians by him.

There, as th’oblation for his Victory,

With sacred flames their bodies to combure,

Although Iove hates prepossedrous pietie,

And does delight in offrings that are pure.

Now whilst the fires were kindling round about,

As one that to some powerfull god had vowd,

With eyes bent up, and with his hands stretcht out,

O Solon, Solon, Croesus cride alowd.

some hearing him to vtter such a voyce,

And seeing Cyrus curious for to know,

Now of what Deity dying he made choice,

Did pray him liberally his mind to show.

He answered; upon one in wit profound

He calld, with whom he wished, if it might be,

That all the Rulers of th’inferior round

Had had some conference as well as he.

For he had told him whilst his fortune lasted,

As one expert in good advises giving,

That all his flowers of bliss might soon be blasted,

And could not be accomplished he being living.

Then he proceedd for to show at length

The Dialogue twixed Solon and twixed him,

Who prayd him not to trust in worldly strength,

By which unto true bliss no man could clim.

This speech mou’d Cyrus deeply, for to ponder

The great uncertaintie of worldly things,

As thinking that himself might be brought under,

Who had no priviledge more then other Kings.

Then having such a paterne plac’d before him,

Whose far-changd fortune throughly was revolv’d,

He freely did his libertie restore him,

And willd him from the fire to be absolv’d.

O now Devotion! well appeard thy force,

Which binds the earth and opens up the Heaven,

In the celestiall breasts a deep remorse

Was strangely wrought whilst Coesus prayd; for even

Whileas the flashing flames, in vain to quench,

All men did labour, but could do no good,

The cloudes were opend and a shour did drench

The firie ashes of the flaming wood.

Now whilst that Croesus coming from the fire,

saw ruthles sould’ers sacking all the City,

To save the same he had a great desire,

And spake to Cyrus melting all in pity.

Great Prince, for famous Victorys renownd,

Who dossed in arms all others so surmount,

That it contents me much to be uncrownd

By one so worthy, and in such account:

And since I am constraind your thrall to be,

I must conform myself unto my fate,

And cannot hold my pace whereas I see

Ought to prejudge the greatnes of your State,

Which ah! is wounded now with your own powers,

Whilst this rich City is sackt and overthrown,

It is not mine no more, no, it is yours,

And therefore (sir) have pity of your own.

Yea, though the loss of such a populous Town,

That’s rich, that’s yours, your mind could nothing move,

Yet think of this that does import your Crown;

A piece of policie which time will prove.

The barb’rous Persians born with stubborn minds,

Who but for povertie first followd you,

Their matchless worth in arms all Asia finds,

Their fear is fall’n upon all Nations now.

But if you suffer them in such a sort

T’enrich themselves with plenteous Lidiaes spoile,

Not able then their Conquest to support,

The Victor of the vanquished gets the foile.

For this will make them wealthigh out of measure:

Wealth to confusion many a Country leads;

Whilst feebled with delights, in-vild with pleasure,

No thought of honour harbours in their heads.

Then Cyrus straight approuing what he spake,

His soldiers from their pillage were restraind,

Pretending first the tenth part for to take,

As a rich offring for the Gods ordained.

Of our distress, this is the ruthfull story;

A stranger is possst of this Prouince;

Our King has with the loss of all his glory

Bought breath a while, a poor thing for a Prince.

Chor.

O wofull people! O unhappy King!

Our joys are spoyld, his happiness expyrde,

And no new chance can any comfort bring

To either now, whose fall the Fates conspyrde.

Go wofull messnger, hold on thy course,

For to have heard too much, it yrks our ears,

We ever must bewail thy sad discourse,

Accented with sighs, and poynted with tears.

Exevnt.

Croesus.

What needs me more of my mishap to pause?

Though I have tasted of afflictions cup,

Yet it may be, the gods for a good cause

Have cast me down to raise a thousand up.

And never let a Monarch after me,

Trust in betraying titles glorious bates,

Who with such borrow’d feathers rashly flee,

Fall melted with the wrath of greater States.

O had this pretious wit enrich’d my mind,

Which by experynce I have dearly bought,

Whilst fortune was within my court confind,

And that I could not think a bitter thought.

Then satisfide with sovereigntys earst prou’d,

I had disdain’d new dangers to imbrace,

And cloath’d with Majesty, admir’d and lou’d,

Had liv’d with pleasure, and had died in peace.

Yet it is wonderfull in any State,

To see a worldling prosper, and not proud;

But chiefly we whose fortunes grow so great,

It’s hard for us to have our high thoughts bowd.

What could the world afford, or man affect,

Which did not glad my soul whilst I was such?

Who now am past the compass of respect,

Plagu’d with prosperity, clog’d with too much.

Long luld asleep with scornfull fortunes lyes,

A slave to pleasure, drown’d in base delights,

I made a covenant with my wandring eyes,

T’have entertain’d them still with pleasant sights.

I held not from my heart none of her wishes,

But wallowing in vain-glory this worlds toy,

still serv’d with daintie, but suspitious dishes,

My soul was sick with pleasure, faint for joi.

There wanted nothing that might help to ease me,

All did divine my will, ayme at my though,

And strive to do that which they trow’d would please me,

Which if I but allowd, no more was sought.

What ever come of me was held of waight,

My words were ballanc’d and my looks were markd,

Those whom I grac’d were had in honour straight,

All speeches in my praises were imbarkd.

I in magnificence exceld all Kings,

Whilst drowsie in security I slumbred,

My coffers still were full of pretious things,

My treasure infinite could not be numbred.

I reard rare bvildings all emboast with gold,

Made ponds for fishes, forrests for wild beasts,

And with transported fancys uncontrold,

Oft spent the day in sport, the night in feasts.

I seem’d t’usurp the power that earst was Ioves,

And of the Elements the course would change,

For Stately fountains, artificiall groves,

These were so common, they were not thought strange.

With me (what more could any Monarch crave)

In all the parts of pomp none could compare,

My minions gallant, my counsellours grave,

My gvards were strong, my concubines were fair:

Yea ere my State was cast upon this shelfe,

I wanted nought that could with seeming merites

Breed wonder in the world, pride in ones self,

For to puffe up the flesh and spoile the spirits.

Thus pressing with delight the grapes of pleasure,

I quafft with Fortune still sense-pleasing vines,

Till drunke with wealth, and riotous out of measure,

I card not to consume all Tmolus mines.

Then wearie to be well, and tir’d of rest,

T’engender discord I th’occasion sought,

Yet for to cloke th’ambition of my brest,

Did with devotion long disguise my thought.

I send of all the Oracles to inquire,

What was to come of this intended war,

Who said as seem’d to second my desire,

That I a mighty Monarchy should marre.

Those doubtfull words I wresting to my will,

In hope t’expugne th’impertous Persians powers,

Did ruin quite whilst all succeedd ill,

What many a age had conquer’d in few hours.

And this most wondrous is, because most strange,

I who disdain’d an equall of before,

(What cannot Fortune do, being bent to change)

Must a superior now serve, and adore?

What eye not fraught with scorn my State surueyes?

Whom Fates have forc’d for to over-live my shame,

And in mine enemies danger for some days,

But borrowd with the intrest of my fame.

Though this sweet gale of life-bestowing winds,

Would seem a favour (so it seems to some,

Who by the baseness of their muddie minds,

show of th’ignoble multitude they come)

I scorn unlike myself for to be seen,

Though to my comfort this appeard to tend,

As if that all misfortunes past had been,

A Tragick entry to a Comick end.

Of all that plague my State the greatest pest

It is base life, that faints from th’earth to sever,

And has in one united all the rest,

To make me die each day, and yet die never.

Life in my breast no comfort can infuse,

An enemies gift could never come for good,

It but gives time of misery to muse,

And bathe my sorrows in a bitter flood.

Ah! had my breath evanish’d with my bliss,

And closed the windows that give light to life,

I had not apprehended as it is

The height of my mishaps that now are rife:

Whilst with a thousand sighes I call to mind,

The death of Atis and mine own decay,

My spirit in such perplexity I find,

That to lives passage I would fain make way.

But since I see reserv’d for further spight,

I with sad thoughts must burden yet my soul,

My memory t’a melancholious spright,

Of all my troubles shall present a scroll.

Of which while as th’account I go to cast,

Th’enormitys still numbring of my fate,

I’ll whiles look back upon my pleasures part,

And by them ballance my (now) hapless State.

Chorus.

Is’t not a wonder for to see

How by experynce each man reeds,

In practiz’d volumes pen’d by deeds,

Th’inconstant courses that there bee,

Yet whilst our selves continue free,

We ponder oft, but not apply,

That pretious oil, which we might buy

Best with the price of others pains;

Which as what nought to us pertains,

To use we will not condiscend,

As if we might the Fates defye,

While as untouch’d our State remains:

But soon the heau’ns a change may send,

No perfect bliss before the end.

When first we fill with frvitfull seed,

The apt-conceiving womb of th’earth,

And seem t’expell all fear of dearth,

With the increase that it may breed,

Yet dangers do our hopes exceed,

The frosseds may first with cold confound

The tender greens that dect the ground,

Whose wrath though th’ Aprils smiles assuage,

It has t’abide th’Eolian rage,

Which t’overpass whilst we attend,

T’have Ceres wandring tresss bound,

The rains let from their cloudie cage,

May spoil what we expect to spend,

No perfect bliss before the end.

Lo whilst the Vine-tree great with grapes

With nectard liquor strives to kiss

Th’imbracing Elme not lou’d amiss:

Those clusters loose their comely shapes,

Whilst by the thunder burnd in heapes,

All Bacchus hopes fall down and perish:

Thus many a thing does fairly flourish,

That no perfection can attain,

And yet we worldlings are so vain,

That our conceits we highlie bend,

If fortune but our spring-time cherrish,

Though we have storms for to sustain,

Ere to the haruest our yeares ascend,

No perfect bliss before the end.

By all that in this world have place,

There is a course that must be run,

And let none judge himself t’have wonne,

Till he have finish’d first his race,

The forrests through the which we trace,

Breed ravenous beasts that do abhor us,

And lye in wait for to devour us,

Whilst brambles do our steps beguile,

The fear of which though we exile,

And to our mark with gladenes tend,

Then balles of gold are laid before us,

To entertain our thoughtes a while,

And our good meaning to suspend,

No perfect bliss before the end.

Behold how Croesus long has liv’d,

Throughout this spatious world admir’d,

And having all that he desir’d

A thousand means of joi contriv’d,

Yet now is suddenly depriv’d

Of all that wealth, and strangely falls;

For every thing his spirit appalles;

His sons decease, his Countrys loss;

And his own State which huge storms toss:

Thus he, who could not apprehend,

Whilst as he slept in marble walles,

No, nor imagine any cross,

To bear all those, his breast must lend:

No perfect bliss before the end.

And we the Lydians that design’d

To reign over all that were about us,

Behold how Fortune too does flowt us,

And has us vtterly resign’d:

For we that had t’our selves assign’d

A Monarchy, but knew not how,

Yet thought to make the world to bow,

That at our forces stood afraid;

We, we, by whom these plots were laid,

To think of bondage must descend,

And bear the yoke of others now;

O it is truth, that Solon said,

While as he yet does breath extend;

No man is blessed, behold the end.

W. A.

Finis.

The Tragedie of Darius. By William Alexander of Menstry.

Omne tulit punctum qui miscvit vtile dulci.

London. Printed by G. Elde for Edward Blount. 1604.

In praise of the Author, and his Poem, a sonnet.

Give place all ye to dying Darius’ wounds

(While this great Greek him in his throne enstalls)

That fell before seven-ported Thebes’ walls,

Or under Ilion’s old sky-threatening rounds.

Your sorrow-sweet sighs not half so sadly sounds,

Though, I confess, most famous be your falls.

Slain, sacrificed, transported, and made thralls,

Precipitate, burned, banish’d from your bounds,

Whom Sophocles, Euripides have song,

Aeschylus end in Stately Tragick tune.

Yet none of all has so divinely done,

As matchless Menstry in his native tongue.

So Darius ghost seems glad for to be so

Triumphed on twice by Alexander too.

Io. Murray.

A sonnet.

When as the Macedonian conquerour came

To great Achilles’ Tomb, he sigh’d, and said:

“Well may thy ghost, brave champion, be appay’d,

That Homer’s Muse was trumpet of thy fame.”

But if that Monarch great in deeds and name,

Now once again with mortal vail array’d,

Came to the Tomb where Darius has been lay’d,

This speech more justly sighing might he frame:

“My famous foe, whom I less hate, then pity,

Even I, who vanquish’d thee, envy thy glory,

In that such one does sing thy ruin’s story,

As matches Homer in his sweetst ditty.”

Yet joy I that he Alexander height,

And sounds in thy overthrow my matchless might.

W. Quin.

Eiusdem in nomen Authoris Gulielmus Alexander, Anagramma. I, Largus Melle Exunda. Tetrasticon.

Cum tibi det Genius, Musa, ingeniumque, Poësis

Floribus é varijs Attica mella lega;

I, largus melle exunda, mellitáque funde

Carmina: sic facias nomine fata iubent.

The Argument.

Darius, the fourteenth from Cyrus King of Persia, being after the death of Occhus for his singular valour from the government of Armenia advanc’d to the Persian empire, became so arrogant (Fortune, as it were, setting him forward to confusion) as he sent to demand tribute of Philip, then King of Macedonia; who, being of a haughty nature and inferior to none of that age in courage or military discipline, requited this contumelious message with as disdainful an answer, threatening that he would come and deliver it in Persepolis. But being prevented by death he left the execution of his design to his son Alexander, who for the great victories which thereafter he obtained was surnamed the Great. He, inheriting the hatred of his Father towards Darius, and far surmounting him in ambition, passd in person to Asia with an army of thirty thousand only.

After his arrival, Darius wrote to him in a proud and contemptible manner, ascribing to himself the title of the King of Kings, and kinsman of the Gods, and naming Alexander his servant. He also in vaunting manner boasted that he would have that mad boy, the son of Philip (for so in derision he termed him) bound and beaten with rods, and after brought to his presense appareled like a Prince. For performance whereof he directed one of his Minions with fourty thousand, to make impediment to his passage at the river of Granick; where by the wonderful valour of Alexander they were overthrown. Darius, being advertised of this, came himself in proper person, accompanied with infinite (but evil ordered) numbers, and encountered Alexander beside Isso, in the straights of Cilicia, where, having fought a doubtful and bloody battle, in end by the invincible valour and never-failing Fortune of Alexander his army was defeated, himself put to flight, and his mother, wife, and children made captives. They were most courteously entertained by Alexander who, notwithstanding their exceeding great beauty, yet would not abuse them, or suffer them to be abused by others, nor visited he them more oft then once (and that to comfort them) all the time of their imprisonment.

Darius, notwithstanding of all his losses (his courage being in the full, whilst his Fortune was in the wain) wrote very proudly to Alexander, taking still the title of a King to himself, but not giving it him, offering him as much gold, as Macedon could contain, for ransom of the Captives. Which being very disdainfully refused by Alexander, he having re-enforced his troops and coming forwarder to fight with greater force then before, was enformed how his wife had died in prison, whose death he bewailed with exceeding great sorrow. And understanding what courtesy Alexander had used towards her, he sent to sue for peace, not for any fear of his force, but allured (as he alleged) by his courtesy. This suit being likewise rejected, he fought beside Arbela with no better Fortune then before; yet for all these misfortunes being of an invincible courage, and dispairing of peace, he re-assembled all his forces, which were augmented by the coming of the Bactrians, and was coming forward with intention at last either to die, or prevail. But in the meantime two traitrous subjects of his own, to wit, Bessus whom he had promoted to be governor of Bactria, & Nabarzanes one in special credit with him, conspired his death. Which danger, though it was revealed to him by Patron, Captain of the Greeks, yet he could not, or rather would not eschew. At length, those two traitors took and bound him with golden chains, and cast him in an old Chariot, with purpose to present him to Alexander. But they hearing how he would not accept their present, and how he was coming to invade them, threw their darts at Darius, and left him for dead. In this estate he was found by Polistratus, and after the delivery of some few words died. Alexander having exceedingly lamented his miserable and undeserved end, directed his body to his mother Sisigambis to be honourably buried.

The persons names that speaks.

Darius.

Sisigambis, his mother.

Statira Re. his wife.

Statira Virg. his daughter.

Tiriotes, their Evnuch.

Nabarzanes two traitours.

Bessus. two traitours.

Patron, Captain of the mercenary Greeks.

Nuntius.

Alexander.

Parmnio, his Lievtenant.

Hephestion, his Minion.

Polistratus, a soldier.

Artabazus, a noble man of Persia.

Chorus, all Persians.

The scene supposed in Babilon.

The Tragedy of Darjus.

ACTUS PRIMUS.

Darius. What thundering power grow’n jealous of my State

With such hostlity my troops over-throws,

And arm’d with lightning, breathing flames of hate,

Big with disdain, high indignation shows?

Whil’st sooth’d with self conceits asham’d to doubt,

In greatness shadow I securely slept,

Lo change-affecting Fortune wheels about,

And ruins all that me from ruin kept.

Thus I, whose only name amaz’d my foes,

Whom th’earth ador’d as Monarch, once over all,

Am so degraded now, and sunk in woes,

That who admir’d my might, admire my fall.

Ah then indeed I fell, when gallants stood,

And Phoenix-like renew’d their life by death,

Who having sealed their force and faith with blood,

Would rather die, then draw a borrowed breath.

Yet I, but then not I, view’d not aveng’d,

Those monstrous mountains of my subjects slain,

Although my conscience has my courage cling’d,

And knows what valour was employ’d in vain.

Through greatest dangers death I did pursue,

Till heaps of slaughtered bodies barr’d my way,

And chang’d my Chariot to a scarlet hue,

Ere wounded honour could be drawn away.

O how I envy yet their happy Ghosts,

Who died whil’st hope of victory remain’d,

And in the presence of two famous hosts

Left bloody records that they died unstain’d!

Shall I survive that soul-overwhelming shame,

To be th’eternal stain of Persians’ praise?

No rather let me die, and let my name

Be quite exstinguish’d with my hateful days.

Star-boasting Babilon, blush to behold

One called thy King surmounted and abated:

How may thy Towers but tremble, when it’s told,

Thy Prince entreats, whom Princes earst entreated

Not vassal-like? I will not yield to this:

Were all my Empire to a period come,

Yet none shall vaunt that ever I was his:

Hearts holding courage are not all overcome.

This tongue inur’d still to command does scorn

To breath base words, to scape a minute’s pains.

Let them obey, who to obey were born:

For Darius this indignity disdains.

Since I was once judg’d worthy to command,

Shall I return to be a base entreater?

No, whil’st a sword yields homage to this hand,

I’ll not acknowledge in the world a greater.

Brave spirits, who now possess the pleasant bowers

And glorious gardens of th’Elisian plain

(For if deserts may move th’infernal powers,

That happy shade your shadows must contain)

Those fields whereas your praises are set forth

Do bury but your bodies, not your fame:

Men shall adore the relics of your worth,

And rear immortal Trophies to your name.

I’ll sacrifice as incense to your souls

His dying sighs, and sorrowing parents’ tears,

Who now, while none his insolence controls,

Our conquer’d ensigns in his triumph bears.

For it may ease your Ghosts to hear his groans,

Whil’st th’earth over-burdened sends rebounding back

A plaintife Echo from the woods and stones,

To sound through all the air his armies wrack.

Why spend I speeches to disturb your rest?

What idle disputations do I hold?

A mighty furour has enflam’d my breast,

And burns me, till I be aveng’d seven-fold.

Did I that strong Cadusian first affront,

Who durst advance himself to brave our bands,

Then turn’d applauded, and in high account,

Charg’d with his spoils the honour of my hands?

And could I then all kind of doubt remouing,

Adventer only to an Army’s shame?

And should I now that ancient praise disprouing,

With squadrons compassd lose that glorious name?

Blind fortune, O, thy stratagems are strange:

Thou wrack’st my greatness, wound’st mine honour to,

And having made my State the stage of change,

Hast acted all inconstancy could do.

Lo I, who late of swarming troops did boast,

Am spoil’d of all in whom I then repos’d,

And those imprison’d, whom I fancy most,

Are to th’insulting victors pride expos’d.

O torment but to think, death to believe,

That any may command my dearest part,

And wretched I notable to relieve

The Jewel of mine eye, joy of my heart.

Dear object of my thoughts, my life, my love,

Sweet source of my delights, my one, my all,

Bright Image of excellencies above,

What? do’st thou breath, and com’st not when I call?

And can I be, and not be where thou art?

Has heaven the force me from thy face to bar?

Or are my hands grown traitors to my heart,

That they should shrink from doing what it dare?

O could my mind but distribute a space

These emulating thoughts that toss my breast,

Among those pointless Cyphers that spend place:

Then I alone might animate the rest.

Since in this great disgrace I chanc’d to fall,

Now nothing rests to rase my fame forlorn,

But to do desperatly, and hazard all.

I’ll live with praise, or by my death fly scorn.

Some prosperous issue afterward may purge

This crime, with which th’event would burden me,

This crime, that carries with itself a scourge:

No greater torment than the want of thee.

But what hope rests to re-obtain that treasure,

Which avaritious tyrants once possess?

Another now disposes at his pleasure

Of all my wealth: how can I look for less?

Now, not till now, I deem my State in danger,

When I imagine how my best belou’d

Must entertain my enemy a stranger,

I being far from offering aid remou’d.

A host of furies in my breast I find,

Which do my soul with dreadful horrors fill,

And foster in my melancholious mind

Strange apprehensions that affright me still.

And this surmis’d disgrace, grown throughly strong,

Reads hourly in my ears a hateful scroll

Of an imagin’d, yet recureless wrong:

Such poison’d thoughts like serpents sting my soul.

Blind love beguiles me not, sharp-sighted fears

Find great apparances for to suspect thee:

Would God I had no heart, nor eyes, nor ears,

To think, to see, or hear thou shouldst neglect me.

This aggravates the weight of my dispair,

When doubt objects, t’annull love’s fast defence,

How he is young and fierce, she young, and fair,

He bent t’offend, and she exposd t’offence,

From which I fear both cannot long abstain.

Her beauty is sufficient to allure,

His bravery is sufficient to obtain;

Captains will force, and captives must endure.

O Alexander, tender my renown,

Although thou travel to usurp my throne!

I rage to have a rival in my Crown,

But in my love I can comport with none.

Load her not with disgrace, and me with grief,

Least so thou rob her honour, and my life;

Spare in this point t’overcharge me with mischief:

In all things else let arms decide our strife.

But where does fury thus transport my spirits,

With light belief my best half to mistrust?

Dear, pardon, I trespass to wrong thy merits,

Whom I have still found faithful louing just.

Pure chastity does then most firmly stand,

When fortified it is with wedlock’s band;

Yet let me doubt, or let me leave to love:

To fear the worst it is affection’s part.

I’ll not mistrust thy truth? Yet it may prove,

Thy face betray thy faith, thy hap thy heart.

But on thy love approu’d my hope relies,

This does dissolve suspition’s power to nought.

I will repell reports as slanderous lies,

Which second not thy virtue, and my thought.

Though virtue’s foe, and worth-envying fortune,

Has wrong’d my valour with an evil success:

Life of my life, yet must I thee importune,

Join not with her to double my distress.

Exit.

Chorus.

O more then miserable mind,

That of all things itself worst knows,

And being through presumption blind

Is puffed up with every wind,

Which fortune in derision blows.

Such one no stable bliss can find,

Whose heart is guided by his eye,

And trusts unto betraying shows,

Which seem not as they be.

Oft short prosperity

Breeds long aduersity:

For who abuse the first, the last overthrows.

A dead security all care exiles:

‘Tis no small danger to be happy whiles.

Who on himself too much depends

And makes an Idol of his wit

For every favour fortune sends.

Self-flatterer himself comends

And will no sound advise admit,

But at himself begins and ends,

And never takes a moment’s leasure,

To try what fault he may commit,

But drunke with froths of pleasure,

Thirsts for praise above measure

(Imaginary treasure,

Which slowly comes, and soon away does flit),

And what is most affected at this time,

Succeeding ages may account a crime.

A Potentate that is respected,

And by his subjects thought a God,

Thinks, as his name on high erected

Has what he list at home effected,

It may like wonders work abroad.

O how his folly is detected!

For though he sit in Royal seat,

And as he list his vassalls load,

Yet others that are great

Live not by his conceit,

Nor ponder what he threatened,

But plague his pride oft ere he fear the rod.

There are rare qualities required in Kings:

A naked name can never work great things.

They who themselves too much esteem,

And vainly vilipend their foe,

Oft find not fortune as they deem,

And with their treasure would redeem

Their errour past. Behold even so:

From blame who can our King exempt,

Who his adversary to scorn,

Thought he who in his name did go

The laurell should have worn,

His triumphe to adorn?

But he with shame has shorn

The fruits of folly ever ripe with woe.

An enemy (if it be well advis’d)

Though he seem weakened, should never be despis’d.

But what? The Minions of our Kings

Who speak at large, and are believed,

Dare boast of many mighty things,

As they could fly, though wanting wings,

And deeds by words might be achieved.

But time at length their lies to light

Their sovereign to confusion brings.

Yet so they gain, they are not grieve’d,

But charm their Princes sight,

And make what’s wrong seem right.

Thus ruin they his might,

That when he would, he cannot be relieved.

More kings in chambers fall by flatterers’ charms,

Then in the field by th’adversaries arms.

All that the success has approved

By Charidemus was foreshown,

Yet with his words no man was moved:

For good men first must be removed,

Before their worth can well be known.

The King would hear but what he loved,

And what him pleased not did despise.

So were the beater sort o’er-thrown,

And Sycophants unwise,

Who could the truth disguise,

Were suffered for to rise,

That him, who rais’d them up, they might cast down.

Thus Princes will not hear, though such deceive them,

Things as they are, but as themselves conceive them.

ACTUS SECUNDUS.

Alexander. Parmnenio.

Alex.
Behold, the heavens with a benign aspect

To prosper this brave enterprise intend,

And with propitious stars seem to direct

This great beginning to a glorious end.

Who would be famous must of force aspire:

All those astonish’d, who my troops do view,

Doubt of those two which most they should admire,

My coming, or my conquering with so few.

So mighty minds t’achieve great actions bent

Force Fortune oft to favour them in all,

Where baser breasts devining evil event,

Through superstitious fears procure their fall.

O how I wonder, when I call to mind

That monstrous camp, which not so much as doubted!

Dim seem’d the sun, whileas their armour shined

Men had not heard the thunder, whil’st they shouted.

Th’avant-courrers, that came for to examine,

When they so mean my numbers had perceiv’d,

Did think them small to satisfy the famine,

That their huge host of daughter had conceiv’d.

And yet in end this prou’d a poison’d food,

Which of their own to their confusion yields

Mountains of murdered corps, and seas of blood:

Unburied bodies buried all the fields.

So now that few, whom they contemn’d so far

(See how mortality itself deceives)

Have far over-match’d their multitudes in war,

And made the world waste to people the graves.

Then, dear Parmenionn, since the fates afford

So fair an entry to our first designs,

Let us go prosecute with dint of sword

That fortune, which the heavens our hopes assigns.

Parm.

This high attempt, as we would wish succeed.

What hosts have we overthrow’n? what cities raz’d?

Lo, populous Asia trembles at our deeds,

And martial Europe does remain amaz’d.

Proud Greece, whose spirits oft preast to scorn the skies,

A prostrate supplicant before thee falls;

Rebellious Thebes, that durst thy power dispise,

Lies now entomb’d within her broken walls.

That sea-impyring Tyre, reposing much

In liquid Castles, and a waving main,

Has ratified thy forces to be such,

That nothing can resist thy just disdain.

No doubt the ancient Graecians ghosts are glad

To see the fierce Barbarians brought so low;

Yet are for envy of thy fortune sad,

And though unbodied blush at this overthrow.

Miltiades by all men was admir’d,

Who once in Greece their flying troops pursued,

And he that with a stratagem retir’d,

And Salamina’s straits with blood imbrued.

But yet for all the Captains of that age

The Eastern Monarchs’ empire was enlarg’d,

Who coming to their country, wars to wage,

The sea with ships, the land with armies charg’d.

He with more swarms of men then th’Autumns clusters,

Dri’d rivers up, & march’d on Neptune’s back,

By measure, not by number made his musters,

And did attempt the mountains plain to make.

Then Europe fear’d for to beforc’d to bow,

Wil’st th’earth did groan to bear so great an host?

But thou hast come, seen, and overcom’d them now

Even in the bounds wherein their might was most.

That haughty foe, who vilipended oft

Our predecessours’ armies, and our own,

Now laid as low, as he was once aloft,

With his disgrace must make thy valour known.

He cannot but acknowledge his distress

In labouring first to have his friends restor’d.

This message (potent Prince) imports no less:

By his request thy conquest is decor’d.

For the recovery of his captiv’d Queen

He offered has innumerable gold,

And would present a treasure to be seen

More, as they say, then Macedon may hold.

My counsel is that you accept those offers,

And render her, as th’ancient custome binds;

Who would make war must not have empty coffers:

For hope of gain moves mercenary minds.

And further, if those Princesses do tarry,

It sumptuous is to entertain their State.

Women and babes are cumbersome to carry:

Th’one young in years, and th’other in conceit.

Alex.

If I were come to traffic in this land

And like a greedy merchant to embrace

Before all hope of glory gain in hand,

This your inviled opinion might have place.

But soon I surfeit of such melting things,

And famish but for fame, and crowns of Kings.

Parm.

So, were I Alexander, would I do.

Alex.

If I Parmenion were, so would I to.

Par.

Their ransom would defray your soldiers’ fee.

Alex.

I’ll rather without ransom set them free.

Parm.

The good is lost that’s done unto a foe.

Alex.

The greater glory to overcome him so.

Parm.

Gold is the God that conquers in all parts.

Alex.

True magnanimity does ravish hearts.

Parm.

Rich treasures serve for th’arts of the war.

Alex.

No but couragious hearts that all things dare.

Parm.

The want of wages makes a mutinous band.

Alex.

But who dare disobey, when I command?

Par.

Why should you, sir, contemn so rich a treasure?

Alex.

A noble spirit with praise no gain does measure.

Parm.

But who delights in such an airy store?

Alex.

If I be singular, I ask no more.

Parm.

Although that you conceive no such suspicion,

Yet I hear how your soldiers oft exclaim,

They sacrifice their bloods for your ambition,

And perish to perpetuate your name.

And yet, without regard what they endure,

You compass all the empire of the East,

And more within your mind: this may procure

Some sudden tumult, when you fear it least.

Retire in time, while as the heavens are clear.

You have perform’d, perform’d, and that right soon,

More than your own could hope, your foes could fear,

Or then the world can credit when ‘tis done.

Your worth in war is wonderfully shown,

And to the terror of all Asia tried:

Now let your skill in peace be likewise known,

And for the maint’nance of your State prouide.

Good government the same of Kings does raise

No less then conquest made of Realms and towns:

‘Tis harder far, and does deserve more praise

To guide then: get to keep, then conquer crowns.

Your glory in her highest sphere is plac’d,

And may not move except it be more low;

And if it once discend to be disgrac’d,

Each artisan your Statues will overthrow.

For in the war, as you may well perceive,

No little part depends upon fame:

If we but once the least affront receive,

The world will gather to exstripe our name.

Then tempt not Fortune further than you need,

Let reason bridle this aspiring thought,

Least, whil’st your hopes with trophies fained you feed,

A moment turn your travels all to nought.

Let Darius be a lively patron now

Of th’ever-changing course of States and crowns:

That Prince to whom the Orynt once did bow,

His desolation only now renowns.

He scarsely loat length become content

To call you King, though twice put in disorder:

In dowry with his daughter does present

The famous Euphrates, to be your border.

Or otherwise he condiscends to give

Great store of Gold, or what yourself desires,

If that his mother, wife, and children live,

To have them rend’red, as he oft requires.

And let not vain ambition blind your eyes:

Remember what strange nations will embrace him,

Whom scarce he knows by name, or never sees,

Where if he fled, your troops would tire to chance him.

Alex.

Peace, peace Parmenion, now thou makest me rage,

With these words unworthy of our ears!

It seems the coldeness of decaying age

Has kill’d thy courage with a frossed of fears.

Did I abandon thee my native soil,

And shadow’d with my Ensigns unknow’n coasts;

That after infinite distress and toil,

Whil’st in contempt of us our foe yet boasts,

I should retire, effecting nought at last,

But sharpened a desire, t’augment my merits,

Then die in discontemment, when ‘tis past

The time, that should have pacified my spirits?

No, I will reign, and I will reign alone!

From this design my fancy never wanders,

For as the heav’ns can hold no sun but one:

The earth cannot contain two Alexanders.

The ample circuit of this spacious round

Seems insufficient to confine my thought,

And O would God there could more worlds be found,

That many might t’adorn our deeds be brought.

O, I could wish that th’Ocean were firm land,

Where none but hideous Giants had retreat,

Such as at Phlegra’s field in strife did stand

Against the Gods for the Etherial seat.

These could encourage martial minds to strike,

Who being won would yield eternal praise.

I conquer men, but many did the like,

And after-ages may my equall rise.

But since none such my triumphs are to grace,

Such as there are I’ll to subjection bring;

And here I swear no kind of ease t’embrace,

Till all the world adore me for their King.

If you or any else that live in dread

Withdraw your selves, your Princes part despising,

Remember always in his greatest need

You fly to stop his honor in the rising.

Pass home, and live like men in prison pent:

I measure not my courage by my numbers.

Parm.

Your Majesty misconstrues my intent!

You know what I have told, what cares, what cumbers,

And all for you: I to your eyes appeal,

Which well can witness what my hands have wrought.

All that I spake, proceed of a zeal

And not of cowardice, or fear of ought,

Nor match I will repose with honest pains.

My courage is nor yet become so cold,

That wounted vigour has not left my vains,

Which spurred my spirit in youth, though I be old.

Alex.

‘Tis not enough that you yourself be so:

To be the same you should the rest exhort.

Is he return’d, who was ordain’d to go

And view the Captives, what does he report?

Parm.

As we were since by some of them instructed

While they as yet not of support dispair’d,

And to a tent were courteously conducted,

Which we of purpose caus’d to be prepar’d.

Even in the way one fortun’d to espy

The Diadem that Darius erst had born,

Which on the earth so abjectly did lie,

As each thing his calamity would scorn.

Then they imagin’d, from his royal head,

Whose dignity it sometime did decor,

None could it cast, except himself were dead:

And if so were, they long’d to live no more.

When they had entered in the tent to weep,

Leonatus came and at the entry knocked.

They stood so still, he thought an yornie sleep

Had lock’d their eyes, or else that he was mocked.

At length by force he made a patent way,

And was advanc’d them louingly to greet;

When lo, these dolorous Ladies prostrate lay,

And with a flood of tears bedue’d his feet.

Then sobbing said, “We not refuse to die.

Let us entomb first Darius like a King,

Then when that we his latter honour see,

Death cannot but a great contentment bring.”

This so they urg’d, as he could scarce persuade

That Darius was not dead as they suppos’d,

But liv’d, in hope through dangers’ seas to wade

And in the pow’r of other Realms repos’d.

And further he protested on your part,

That they might look for clemency and grace.

Thus after that I had assuag’d their smart,

It seem’d they longed to see my sovereign’s face.

Alex.

Of my goodwill they may themselves assure:

I never war’d with such as were subjected.

And if my presence may their ease procure,

Straight to their tent my steps shall be directed.

Exeunt.

Chorus.

Of all the passions that possess the soul,

None so disturbs vain mortals’ minds

As this Ambition, that so blinds

The sense of man, that nothing can control

Nor curb their thoughts who will aspire.

This raging vehement desire

Of sovereignty no satisfaction finds,

But in the breasts of men does ever roll

The restless stone of Sisiph to torment them.

And as his heart, who steal’d the heav’nly fire,

The vulture gnaws, so does Ambition rent them:

Had they the world, the world would not content them.

This race of Ixion to embrace the clouds

Contemn the State wherein they stand,

And would all but themselves command,

As one desire is quench’d another buds.

When they have travel’d all their time,

Heaps blood on blood, and crime on crime,

There is a higher power that guides their hand.

More happy he whom a poor cottage shrouds

Against the tempest of the threatening heaven:

He stands in fear of none, none envy him,

His heart is upright, and his ways are even,

Where others States are still twixted six and seven.