Ghost.
Behold, the circuit of the azure sky
Throws forth sad throbs, and grievous suspires,
Prejudicating Locrine's overthrow.
The fire casteth forth sharp darts of flames;
The great foundation of the triple world
Trembleth and quaketh with a mighty noise,
Presaging bloody massacres at hand.
The wandering birds that flutter in the dark,
(When hellish night in cloudy chariot seated* ^note
,

Casteth her mists on shady Tellus' face,
With sable mantles covering all the earth* ^note
)
Now flies abroad amid the chearful day,
Foretelling some unwonted misery.
The snarling curs of darken'd Tartarus,
Sent from Avernus' ponds by Rhadamanth,
With howling ditties pester every wood.
The watry ladies9Q1347^{2 note}, and the lightfoot fawns,
And all the rabble of the woody nymphs,
All trembling hide themselves in shady groves,
And shroud themselves in hideous hollow pits.
The boisterous Boreas thundreth forth revenge:
The stony rocks cry out on sharp revenge:
The thorny bush pronounceth dire revenge. [Alarum.
Now, Corineus, stay and see revenge,
And feed thy soul with Locrine's overthrow.
Behold they come; the trumpets call them forth;
The roaring drums summon the soldiers.
Lo where their army glistereth on the plains.
Throw forth thy lightning, mighty Jupiter,
And pour thy plagues on cursed Locrine's head! [Stands aside. Enter Locrine, Estrild, Assaracus, Sabren and their Soldiers at one side; Thrasimachus, Guendolen, Madan, and their followers at another.

Loc.
What, is the tiger started from his cave?
Is Guendolen come from Cornubia,
That thus she braveth Locrine to the teeth?
And hast thou found thine armour, pretty boy,
Accompanied with these thy straggling mates?

Believe me, but this enterprize was bold,
And well deserveth commendation.

Guen.
Ay, Locrine, traiterous Locrine, we are come,
With full pretence to seek thine overthrow.
What have I done, that thou shouldst scorn me thus?
What have I said, that thou shouldst me reject?
Have I been disobedient to thy words?
Have I bewray'd thy arcane secrecy^{3 note}?
Have I dishonoured thy marriage bed
With filthy crimes, or with lascivious lusts?
Nay, it is thou that hast dishonour'd it;
Thy filthy mind, o'ercome with filthy lusts,
Yieldeth unto affection's filthy darts.
Unkind, thou wrong'st thy first and truest feere^{4 note}


;
Unkind, thou wrong'st thy best and dearest friend;
Unkind, thou scorn'st all skilful Brutus' laws,
Forgetting father, uncle, and thyself.

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

Thra.
Locrine, we came not here to fight with words,
Words that can never win the victory;
But, for you are so merry in your frumps^{5 note},
Unsheath your swords, and try it out by force,
That we may see who hath the better hand.

Loc.
Think'st thou to dare me, bold Thrasimachus?
Think'st thou to fear me with thy taunting braves?
Or do we seem too weak to cope with thee?

Soon shall I shew thee my fine cutting blade,
And with my sword, the messenger of death,
Seal thee an acquittance for thy bold attempts. [Exeunt. Alarum. Enter Locrine, Assaracus, and Soldiers at one door; Guendolen, Thrasimachus, and his forces at another. They fight. Locrine and his followers are driven back. Then re-enter Locrine and Estrild.

Loc.
O fair Estrilda, we have lost the field;
Thrasimachus hath won the victory,
And we are left to be a laughing-stock,
Scoff'd at by those that are our enemies.
Ten thousand soldiers, arm'd with sword and shield,
Prevail against an hundred thousand men.
Thrasimachus, incens'd with fuming ire,
Rageth amongst the faint-heart soldiers,
Like to grim Mars, when, cover'd with his targe,
He fought with Diomedes in the field,
Close by the banks of silver Simois. [Alarum.
O lovely Estrild, now the chase begins:
Ne'er shall we see the stately Troynovant,
Mounted on coursers garnish'd all with pearls;
Ne'er shall we view the fair Concordia,
Unless as captives we be thither brought.
Shall Locrine then be taken prisoner
By such a youngling as Thrasimachus?
Shall Guendolena captivate my love?
Ne'er shall mine eyes behold that dismal hour,
Ne'er will I view that ruthful spectacle;
For with my sword, this sharp curtle-axe,
I'll cut in sunder my accursed heart.
But, O you judges of the nine-fold Styx,
Which with incessant torments rack the ghosts
Within the bottomless abyssus' pits;
You gods, commanders of the heav'nly spheres,
Whose will and laws irrevocable stand,

Forgive, forgive, this foul accursed sin!
Forget, O gods, this foul condemned fault!
And now, my sword, that in so many fights [Kisses his sword.
Hast sav'd the life of Brutus and his son,
End now his life that wisheth still for death,
Work now his death that wisheth still for death,
Work now his death that hateth still his life!
Farewel, fair Estrild, beauty's paragon,
Fram'd in the front of forlorn miseries!
Ne'er shall mine eyes behold thy sun-shine eyes,
But when we meet in the Elysian fields:
Thither I go before with hasten'd pace.
Farewel, vain world, and thy inticing snares!
Farewel, foul sin, and thy inticing pleasures!
And welcome, death, the end of mortal smart,
Welcome to Locrine's over-burthen'd heart! [Stabs himself, and dies.

Est.
Break, heart, with sobs and grievous suspires!
Stream forth you tears from forth my watry eyes;
Help me to mourn for warlike Locrine's death!
Pour down your tears, you watry regions,
For mighty Locrine is bereft of life!
O fickle Fortune! O unstable world!
What else are all things that this globe contains,
But a confused chaos of mishaps?
Wherein, as in a glass, we plainly see
That all our life is but a tragedy;
Since mighty kings are subject to mishap,
(Ay, mighty kings are subject to mishap;)
Since martial Locrine is bereft of life.
Shall Estrild live then after Locrine's death?
Shall love of life bar her from Locrine's sword?
O no; this sword that hath bereft his life,
Shall now deprive me of my fleeting soul.
Strengthen these hands, O mighty Jupiter,
That I may end my woeful misery!
Locrine, I come; Locrine, I follow thee. [Kills herself.

Alarum. Enter Sabren.

Sab.
What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle
Hath Fortune offer'd to my hapless heart?
My father slain with such a fatal sword,
My mother murder'd by a mortal wound!
What Thracian dog, what barbarous Myrmidon^{6 note}


,
Would not relent at such a ruthful case?
What fierce Achilles, what hard stony flint,
Would not bemoan this mournful tragedy?
Locrine, the map of magnanimity,
Lies slaughter'd in this foul accursed cave.
Estrild, the perfect pattern of renown,
Nature's sole wonder, in whose beauteous breasts
All heavenly grace and virtue was enshrin'd,
Both massacred, are dead within this cave;
And with them dies fair Pallas and sweet Love.
Here lies a sword, and Sabren hath a heart;
This blessed sword shall cut my cursed heart,
And bring my soul unto my parents' ghosts,
That they that live and view our tragedy,
May mourn our case with mournful plaudite. [Attempts to kill herself.
Ah me, my virgin hands are too too weak!
To penetrate the bulwark of my breast.
My fingers, us'd to tune the amorous lute,
Are not of force to hold this steely glaive^{7 note}
:
So I am left to wail my parents' death,
Not able for to work my proper death.
Ah, Locrine, honour'd for thy nobleness,

Ah, Estrild, famous for thy constancy,
Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal ends! Enter Guendolen, Thrasimachus, Madan, and Soldiers.

Guen.
Search soldiers, search; find Locrine and his love,
Find the proud strumpet, Humber's concubine,
That I may change those her so pleasing looks
To pale and ignominious aspect.
Find me the issue of their cursed love,
Find me young Sabren, Locrine's only joy,
That I may glut my mind with lukewarm blood,
Swiftly distilling from the bastard's breast.
My father's ghost still haunts me for revenge,
Crying, revenge my over-hasten'd death.
My brother's exile and mine own divorce
Banish remorse clean from my brazen heart,
All mercy from mine adamantine breasts.

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

Guen.
And hath proud Estrild then prevented me?
Hath she escaped Guendolena's wrath,
By violently cutting off her life?
Would God she had the monstrous Hydra's lives,
That every hour she might have died a death
Worse than the swing of old Ixion's wheel,
And every hour revive to die again!
As Tityus, bound to houseless Caucasus,

Doth feed the substance of his own mishap,
And every day for want of food doth die,
And every night doth live, again to die.
But stay; methinks, I hear some fainting voice,
Mournfully weeping for their luckless death.

Sab.
You mountain nymphs which in these deserts reign,
Cease off your hasty chase of savage beasts!
Prepare to see a heart oppress'd with care;
Address your ears to hear a mournful stile!
No human strength, no work can work my weal,
Care in my heart so tyrant-like doth deal.
You Dryades, and light-foot Satyri,
You gracious fairies, which at even-tide
Your closets leave, with heavenly beauty stor'd,
And on your shoulders spread your golden locks;
You savage bears, in caves and darken'd dens,
Come wail with me the martial Locrine's death;
Come mourn with me for beauteous Estrild's death!
Ah! loving parents, little do you know
What sorrow Sabren suffers for your thrall.

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

Sab.
Hard-hearted Death, that, when the wretched call,
Art farthest off, and seldom hear'st at all;
But in the midst of fortune's good success
Uncalled com'st, and sheer'st out life in twain;
When will that hour, that blessed hour draw nigh,
When poor distressed Sabren may be gone?
Sweet Atropos, cut off my fatal thread!
What art thou, Death* ^note? shall not poor Sabren die?

Guen.
Yes, damsel, yes, Sabren shall surely die,
Though all the world should seek to save her life.
And not a common death shall Sabren die,
But, after strange and grievous punishments,
Shortly inflicted on thy bastard's head,
Thou shalt be cast into the cursed streams,
And feed the fishes with thy tender flesh.

Sab.
And think'st thou then, thou cruel homicide,
That these thy deeds shall be unpunished?
No traitor, no; the gods will venge these wrongs,
The fiends of hell will mark these injuries.
Never shall these blood-sucking mastiff curs
Bring wretched Sabren to her latest home.
For I myself, in spite of thee and thine,
Mean to abridge my former destinies;
And that which Locrine's sword could not perform,
This present stream shall present bring to pass. [She drowns herself.

Guen.
One mischief follows on another's neck.
Who would have thought so young a maid as she
With such a courage would have sought her death?
And, for because this river was the place
Where little Sabren resolutely died,
Sabren for ever shall this same be call'd^{8 note}

And as for Locrine, our deceased spouse,
Because he was the son of mighty Brute,
To whom we owe our country, lives, and goods,
He shall be buried in a stately tomb,
Close by his aged father Brutus' bones,
With such great pomp and great solemnity,
As well beseems so brave a prince as he.
Let Estrild lie without the shallow vaults,
Without the honour due unto the dead,
Because she was the author of this war.
Retire, brave followers, unto Troynovant,
Where we will celebrate these exequies,
And place young Locrine in his father's tomb. [Exeunt. Enter Até.

Até.
Lo! here the end of lawless treachery^{9 note}

In quiet peace and sweet felicity;
And every wight that seeks her grace's smart,
Would that this sword were pierced in his heart²! [Exit. ²This play is to be regarded as a chronicle in metre, rather than as a story contrived for the purpose of moving the passions or promoting any moral end. There is no intricacy in the plot. The scenes follow the thread of history on which the drama is founded. The serious part is tumid, though not always without poetical merit. The comick intrusions are licentious, and sink alike beneath criticism and contempt. The massacre indeed is more gradual, but almost as general as that in Titus Andronicus, which, in point of style and versication, the tragedy of Locrine will be found to resemble, few dissyllable or trisyllable terminations being admitted from the beginning to the end of the piece. Steevens.9Q1348

SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE. PART I.

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