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LOCRINE.

       Thus from the furty of Bellona’s broils,

       With sound of drum and trumpets’ melody,

       The Brittain king returns triumphantly.

       The Scithians slain with great occasion

       Do equalize the grass in multitude,

       And with their blood have stained the streaming brooks,

       Offering their bodies and their dearest blood

       As sacrifice to Albanactus’ ghost.

       Now, cursed Humber, hast thou paid thy due,

       For thy deceits and crafty treacheries,

       For all thy guiles and damned strategems,

       With loss of life, and everduring shame.

       Where are thy horses trapped with burnished gold,

       Thy trampling coursers ruled with foaming bits?

       Where are thy soldiers, strong and numberless,

       Thy valiant captains and thy noble peers?

       Even as the country clowns with sharpest scythes

       Do mow the withered grass from off the earth,

       Or as the ploughman with his piercing share

       Renteth the bowels of the fertile fields,

       And rippeth up the roots with razours keen:

       So Locrine with his mighty curtleaxe

       Hath cropped off the heads of all thy Huns;

       So Locrine’s peers have daunted all thy peers,

       And drove thin host unto confusion,

       That thou mayest suffer penance for thy fault,

       And die for murdering valiant Albanact.

       CORINEIUS.

       And thus, yea thus, shall all the rest be served

       That seek to enter Albion gainst our wills.

       If the brave nation of the Troglodites,

       If all the coalblack Aethiopians,

       If all the forces of the Amazons,

       If all the hosts of the Barbarian lands,

       Should dare to enter this our little world,

       Soon should they rue their overbold attempts,

       That after us our progeny may say,

       There lie the beasts that sought to usurp our land.

       LOCRINE.

       Aye, they are beasts that seek to usurp our land,

       And like to brutish beasts they shall be served.

       For mighty Jove, the supreme king of heaven,

       That guides the concourse of the Meteors,

       And rules the motion of the azure sky,

       Fights always for the Brittains’ safety.—

       But stay! me thinks I hear some shriking noise,

       That draweth near to our pavilion.

       [Enter the soldiers leading in Estrild.]

       ESTRILD.

       What prince so ere, adorned with golden crown,

       Doth sway the regal scepter in his hand,

       And thinks no chance can ever throw him down,

       Or that his state shall everlasting stand:

       Let him behold poor Estrild in this plight,

       The perfect platform of a troubled wight.

       Once was I guarded with manortial bands,

       Compassed with princes of the noble blood;

       Now am I fallen into my foemen’s hands,

       And with my death must pacific their mood.

       O life, the harbour of calamities!

       O death, the haven of all miseries!

       I could compare my sorrows to thy woe,

       Thou wretched queen of wretched Pergamus,

       But that thou viewdst thy enemies’ overthrow.

       Night to the rock of high Caphareus,

       Thou sawest their death, and then departedst thence;

       I must abide the victor’s insolence.

       The golds that pitied thy continual grief

       Transformed thy corps, and with thy corps thy care;

       Poor Estrild lives despairing of relief,

       For friends in trouble are but few and rare.

       What, said I few? Aye! few or none at all,

       For cruel death made havoc of them all.

       Thrice happy they whose fortune was so good,

       To end their lives, and with their lives their woes!

       Thrice hapless I, whom fortune so withstood,

       That cruelly she gave me to my foes!

       Oh, soldiers, is there any misery,

       To be compared to fortune’s treachery.

       LOCRINE.

       Camber, this same should be the Scithian queen.

       CAMBER.

       So may we judge by her lamenting words.

       LOCRINE.

       So fair a dame mine eyes did never see;

       With floods of woe she seems overwhelmed to be.

       CAMBER.

       O Locrine, hath she not a cause for to be sad?

       LOCRINE.

       [At one side of the stage.]

       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 conquered, died a speedy death,

       And felt not long his lamentable smart:

       I, being conqueror, live a lingering life,

       And feel the force of Cupid’s sudden stroke.

       I gave him cause to die a speedy death,

       He left me cause to wish a speedy death.

       Oh that sweet face painted with nature’s dye,

       Those roseall cheeks mixed 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 entrapt poor Locrine’s lovesick heart,

       That from the same no way it can be won.

       How true is that which oft I heard declared,

       One dram of joy, must have a pound of care.

       ESTRILD.

       Hard is their fall who, from a golden crown,

       Are cast into a sea of wretchedness.

       LOCRINE.

       Hard is their thrall who by Cupid’s frown

       Are wrapt in waves of endless carefulness.

       ESTRILD.

      

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