Loc.
Thus from the fury of Bellona's broils,
With sound of Drum and Trumpets melody,
The Britain King returns triumphantly,
The Scythians slain with great occision,
Do equalize the Grass in multitude,
And with their Blood have stain'd the streaming Brooks,
Offering their Bodies and their dearest Blood
As sacrifice to Albanactus Ghost.
Now cursed Humber hast thou paid thy due,
For thy Deceits and crafty Treacheries,
For all thy guiles, and damned stratagems,
With loss of Life and everduring shame.
Where are thy Horses trap'd with burnish'd Gold,
Thy trampling Coursers rul'd with foaming bits?
Where are thy Soldiers strong and numberless?
Thy valiant Captains, and thy noble Peers;
Ev'n as the Country Clowns with sharpest Scythes,
Do mow the wither'd Grass from off the Earth,
Or as the Plough-man with his piercing Share
Renteth the Bowels of the fertile Fields,
And rippeth up the Roots with Razors keen;
So Locrine, with his mighty curtle Axe,
Hath cropped off the Heads of all thy Hunns,
So Locrine's Peers have daunted all thy Peers,
And drove thine Host unto confusion,
That thou may'st suffer penance for thy fault,
And die for murdering valiant Albanact.

Cori.
And thus, yea thus, shall all the rest be serv'd,
That seek to enter Albion 'gainst our wills.
If the brave Nation of the Troglodites,
If all the coal-black Æthiopians,

If all the Forces of the Amazons,
If all the Hosts of the Barbarian Lands,
Should dare to enter this our little World,
Soon should they rue their over-bold attempts,
That after us our Progeny may say,
There lyes the Beast that sought to usurp our Land.

Loc.
Ay, they are Beasts that seek to usurp our Land,
And like to brutish Beasts they shall be serv'd.
For mighty Jove, the supream King of Heav'n,
That guides the concourse of the Meteors,
And rules the motion of the azure Sky,
Fights always for the Britains safety.
But stay, methinks I hear some shrieking noise,
That draweth near to our Pavilion. Enter Soldiers leading in Estrild.

Est.
What Prince soe'er adorn'd with golden Crown,
Doth sway the Regal Sceptre in his hand;
And thinks no chance can ever throw him down,
Or that his state shall everlasting stand,
Let him behold poor Estrild in this plight,
The perfect Platform of a troubled Wight.
Once was I guarded with mavortial bands,
Compact with Princes of the noble Blood,
Now am I fall'n into my Foe-mens hands,
And with my death must pacifie their mood.
O Life, the harbour of calamities,
O Death, the haven of all miseries,
I could compare my sorrows to thy woe,
Thou wretched Queen of wretched Pergamus,
But that thou viewd'st thy Enemies overthrow,
Nigh to the Rock of high Caphareus.
Thou saw'st their death, and then departed'st thence,
I must abide the Victors insolence.
The Gods that pitied thy continual grief,
Transform'd thy Corps, and with thy Corps thy care,
Poor Estrild lives despairing of relief,
For Friends in trouble are but few and rare.
What, said I, few? Ay, few or none at all,
For cruel Death made havock of them all.
Thrice happy they whose fortune was so good,
To end their lives, and with their lives their woes,

Thrice hapless I, whom Fortune so withstood,
That cruelly she gave me to my Foes.
O Soldiers, is there any misery
To be compar'd to Fortune's treachery.

Loc.
Camber, this same should be the Scythian Queen.

Cam.
So may we judge by her lamenting words.

Loc.
So fair a Dame mine Eyes did never see,
With floods of woes she seems o'erwhelm'd to be.

Cam.
O Locrine, hath she not a cause for to be sad? [Locrine at one side of the Stage.

Loc.
If she have cause to weep for Humber's death,
And shed salt tears for her overthrow:
Locrine may well bewail his proper grief,
Locrine may move his own peculiar woe,
He being Conquer'd, died a speedy death,
And felt not long his lamentable smart,
I being a Conqueror, live a lingring Life,
And feel the force of Cupid's sudden stroke.
I gave him cause to die a speedy death.
He lest me cause to wish a speedy death.
O that sweet Face painted with Nature's dye,
Those roseal Checks mixt with a snowy white,
That decent Neck surpassing Ivory,
Those comely Breasts which Venus well might spite,
Are like to snares which wily fowlers wrought,
Wherein my yielding Heart is prisoner caught.
The golden tresses of her dainty Hair,
Which shine like Rubies glittering with the Sun,
Have so entrap'd poor Locrine's love-sick Heart,
That from the same no way it can be won.
How true is that which oft I heard declar'd,
One dram of Joy must have a pound of Care.

Est.
Hard is their fall, who from a Golden Crown
Are cast into a Sea of wretchedness.

Loc.
Hard is their thrall, who by Cupid's frown
Are wrapt in Waves of endless carefulness.

Est.
O Kingdom, Object to all miseries.

Loc.
O Love, the extream'st of all extremities. [Goes into his Chair.

Sold.
My Lord, in ransacking the Scythian Tents,
I found this Lady, and to manifest

That earnest Zeal I bear unto your Grace,
I here present her to your Majesty.

Another Sold.
He lies, my Lord, I found the Lady first,
And here present her to your Majesty.

1 Sold.
Presumptuous Villain, wilt thou take my prize?

2 Sold.
Nay, rather thou depriv'st me of my right.

3 Sold.
Resign thy Title, Caitive, unto me,
Or with my Sword I'll pierce thy Cowards Loins.

2 Sold.
Soft words, good Sir, 'tis not enough to speak:
A barking Dog doth seldom Strangers bite.

Loc.
Unreverent Villains, strive you in our sight?
Take them hence, Jailor, to the Dungeon,
There let them lye and try their quarrel out,
But thou, fair Princess, be no whit dismay'd,
But rather joy that Locrine favours thee.

Est.
How can he favour me that slew my Spouse?

Loc.
The chance of War, my Love, took him from thee.

Est.
But Locrine was the causer of his death.

Loc
He was an Enemy to Locrine's State,
And slew my noble Brother Albanact.

Est.
But he was link'd to me in Marriage-bond,
And would you have me love his slaughterer?

Loc.
Better to live, than not to live at all.

Est.
Better to die renown'd for chastity,
Than live with shame and endless infamy.
What would the common sort report of me,
If I forget my love, and cleave to thee?

Loc.
Kings need not fear the vulgar sentences.

Est.
But Ladies must regard their honest Name.

Loc.
Is it a shame to live in Marriage-bonds?

Est.
No, but to be a Strumpet to a King.

Loc.
If thou wilt yield to Locrine's burning Love,
Thou shalt be Queen of fair Albania.

Est.
But Guendeline will undermine my State.

Loc.
Upon mine Honour, thou shalt have no harm.

Est.
Then lo, brave Locrine, Estrild yields to thee,
And by the gods, whom thou dost invocate,
By the dread Ghost of thy deceased Sire,
By thy right-hand, and by thy burning Love,
Take pity on poor Estrild's wretched thrall.

Cori.
Hath Locrine then forgot his Guendeline,

That thus he courts the Scythians Paramour?
What, are the words of Brute so soon forgot?
Are my deserts so quickly out of mind?
Have I been faithful to thy Sire now dead?
Have I protected thee from Humber's hand,
And do'st thou quit me with Ungratitude?
Is this the guerdon for my grievous wounds?
Is this the Honour for my labours past?
Now by my Sword, Locrine, I swear to thee,
This injury of thine shall be repaid.

Loc.
Uncle, scorn you your Royal Soveraign,
As if we stood for Cyphers in the Court?
Upbraid you me with those your benefits?
Why, it was a Subject's duty so to do.
What you have done for our deceased Sire
We know, and all know, you have your reward.

Cori.
Avant, proud Princox, brav'st thou me withal,
Assure thy self, though thou be Emperor,
Thou ne'er shalt carry this unpunished.

Camb.
Pardon my Brother, noble Corineius,
Pardon this once, and it shall be amended.

Assa.
Cousin, remember Brutus latest words,
How he desired you to cherish them:
Let not this fault so much incense your Mind,
Which is not yet passed all remedy.

Cori.
Then Locrine, lo I reconcile my self,
But as thou lov'st thy Life, so love thy Wife.
But if thou violate those promises,
Blood and revenge shall light upon thy Head.
Come, let us back to stately Troynovant,
Where all these matters shall be settled.

Loc.
Millions of Devils wait upon thy Soul. [To himself.
Legions of Spirits vex thy impious Ghost:
Ten thousand torments rack thy cursed bones.
Let every thing that hath the use of breath,
Be instruments and workers of thy death. [Exeunt.

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