Loc.
And is this true? Is Albanactus slain?
Hath cursed Humber with his straggling host,
With that his army made of mungrel curs,
Brought our redoubted brother to his end?
O that I had the Thracian Orpheus' harp,
For to awake out of the infernal shade
Those ugly devils of black Erebus,
That might torment the damned traitor's soul!
O that I had Amphion's instrument,
To quicken with his vital notes and tunes
The flinty joints of every stony rock,
By which the Scythians might be punished!
For, by the lightning of almighty Jove,
The Hun shall die, had he ten thousand lives:
And would to God he had ten thousand lives,
That I might with the arm-strong Hercules
Crop off so vile an hydra's hissing heads!
But say, my cousin, (for I long to hear)
How Albanact came by untimely death.

Thra.
After the traiterous host of Scythians
Enter'd the field with martial equipage,
Young Albanact, impatient of delay,
Led forth his army 'gainst the straggling mates;
Whose multitude did daunt our soldiers minds.
Yet nothing could dismay the forward prince;
But with a courage most heroical,
Like to a lion 'mong'st a flock of lambs,
Made havock of the faint-heart fugitives,
Hewing a passage through them with his sword.
Yea, we had almost given them the repulse,
When, suddenly from out the silent wood,
Hubba, with twenty thousand soldiers,
Cowardly came upon our weaken'd backs,
And murther'd all with fatal massacre:

Amongst the which old Debon, martial knight,
With many wounds was brought unto the death;
And Albanact, oppress'd with multitude,
Whilst valiantly he fell'd his enemies,
Yielded his life and honour to the dust.
He being dead, the soldiers fled amain;
And I alone escaped them by flight,
To bring you tidings of these accidents.

Loc.
Not aged Priam, king of stately Troy,
Grand emperor of barbarous Asia,
When he beheld his noble-minded son
Slain traiterously by all the Mirmidons,
Lamented more than I for Albanact.

Guen.
Not Hecuba the queen of Ilion,
When she beheld the town of Pergamus,
Her palace, burnt with all-devouring flames,
Her fifty sons and daughters, fresh of hue,
Murther'd by wicked Pyrrhus' bloody sword,
Shed such sad tears as I for Albanact.

Cam.
The grief of Niobe, fair Athens' queen* ^note

Cor.
In vain you sorrow for the slaughter'd prince,
In vain you sorrow for this overthrow.
He loves not most that doth lament the most,
But he that seeks to venge the injury.
Think you to quell the enemies' warlike train
With childish sobs and womanish laments?
Unsheath your swords, unsheath your conquering swords,
And seek revenge, the comfort for this sore.
In Cornwall, where I hold my regiment^{2 note},

Even just ten thousand valiant men at arms
Hath Corineus ready at command.
All these and more, if need shall more require,
Hath Corineus ready at command.

Cam.
And in the fields of martial Cambria,
Close by the boisterous Iscan's silver streams,
Where light-foot fairies skip from bank to bank,
Full twenty thousand brave courageous knights
Well exercis'd in feats of chivalry,
In manly manner most invincible,
Young Camber hath, with gold and victual.
All these and more, if need shall more require,
I offer up to venge my brother's death,

Loc.
Thanks, loving uncle, and good brother too;
For this revenge, for this sweet word, revenge,
Must ease and cease my wrongful injuries:
And by the sword of bloody Mars I swear,
Ne'er shall sweet quiet enter this my front,
Till I be venged on his traiterous head,
That slew my noble brother Albanact.
Sound drums and trumpets; muster up the camp;
For we will straight march to Albania. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section