Act V

PROLOGUE

Enter Ate as before. Jason, leading Creon’s daughter. Medea, following, hath a garland in her hand, and putting it on Creon’s daughter’s head, setteth it on fire, and then, killing Jason and her, departeth.

ATE. Non tam Tinacriis exaestuat Aetna cavernis, Laesae furtivo quam cor mulieris amore.

Medea, seeing Jason leave her love, And choose the daughter of the Theban king, Went to her devilish charms to work revenge; And raising up the triple Hecate, With all the rout of the condemned fiends, Framed a garland by her magic skill, With which she wrought Jason and Creons. So Gwendoline, seeing herself misused, And Humber’s paramour possess her place, Flies to the dukedom of Cornubia, And with her brother, stout Thrasimachus, Gathering a power of Cornish soldiers, Gives battle to her husband and his host, Nigh to the river of great Mertia. The chances of this dismal massacre That which insueth shortly will unfold.

SCENE I. A chamber in the Royal Palace

Enter Locrine, Camber, Assarachus, Thrasimachus.

ASSARACHUS. But tell me, cousin, died my brother so? Now who is left to helpless Albion? That as a pillar might uphold our state, That might strike terror to our daring foes? Now who is left to hapless Brittain, That might defend her from the barbarous hands Of those that still desire her ruinous fall, And seek to work her downfall and decay?

CAMBER. Aye, uncle, death is our common enemy, And none but death can match our matchless power: Witness the fall of Albioneus’ crew, Witness the fall of Humber and his Huns. And this foul death hath now increased our woe, By taking Corineus from this life, And in his room leaving us worlds of care.

THRASIMACHUS. But none may more bewail his mournful hearse, Than I that am the issue of his loins. Now foul befall that cursed Humber’s throat, That was the causer of his lingering wound.

LOCRINE. Tears cannot raise him from the dead again. But where’s my Lady, mistress Gwendoline?

THRASIMACHUS. In Cornwall, Locrine, is my sister now, Providing for my father’s funeral.

LOCRINE. And let her there provide her mourning weeds And mourn for ever her own widow-hood. Ne’er shall she come within our palace gate, To countercheck brave Locrine in his love. Go, boy, to Devrolitum, down the Lee, Unto the arch where lovely Estrild lies. Bring her and Sabren straight unto the court; She shall be queen in Gwendoline’s room. Let others wail for Corineus’ death; I mean not so to macerate my mind For him that barred me from my heart’s desire.

THRASIMACHUS. Hath Locrine, then, forsook his Gwendoline? Is Corineus’ death so soon forgot? If there be gods in heaven, as sure there be, If there be fiends in hell, as needs there must, They will revenge this thy notorious wrong, And power their plagues upon thy cursed head.

LOCRINE. What! prat’st thou, peasant, to thy sovereign? Or art thou strooken in some extasy? Doest thou not tremble at our royal looks? Dost thou not quake, when mighty Locrine frowns? Thou beardless boy, wer’t not that Locrine scorns To vex his mind with such a heartless child, With the sharp point of this my battle-axe, I would send thy soul to Puriflegiton.

THRASIMACHUS. Though I be young and of a tender age, Yet will I cope with Locrine when he dares. My noble father with his conquering sword, Slew the two giants, kings of Aquitaine. Thrasimachus is not so degenerate That he should fear and tremble at the looks Or taunting words of a venerian squire.

LOCRINE. Menacest thou thy royal sovereign, Uncivil, not beseeming such as you? Injurious traitor (for he is no less That at defiance standeth with his king) Leave these thy taunts, leave these thy bragging words, Unless thou mean to leave thy wretched life.

THRASIMACHUS. If princes stain their glorious dignity With ugly spots of monstrous infamy, They leese their former estimation, And throw themselves into a hell of hate.

LOCRINE. Wilt thou abuse my gentle patience, As though thou didst our high displeasure scorn? Proud boy, that thou mayest know thy prince is moved, Yea, greatly moved at this thy swelling pride, We banish thee for ever from our court.

THRASIMACHUS. Then, losell Locrine, look unto thyself, Thrasimachus will venge this injury.

LOCRINE. Farewell, proud boy, and learn to use thy tongue.

ASSARACHUS. Alas, my Lord, you should have called to mind The latest words that Brutus spake to you: How he desired you, by the obedience That children ought to bear unto the sire, To love and favour Lady Gwendoline. Consider this, that if the injury Do move her mind, as certainly it will, War and dissention follows speedily. What though her power be not so great as yours? Have you not seen a mighty elephant Slain by the biting of a silly mouse? Even so the chance of war inconstant is.

LOCRINE. Peace, uncle, peace, and cease to talk hereof; For he that seeks, by whispering this or that, To trouble Locrine in his sweetest life, Let him persuade himself to die the death.

Enter the Page, with Estrild and Sabren.

ESTRILD. O, say me, Page, tell me, where is the king? Wherefore doth he send for me to the court? Is it to die? is it to end my life? Say me, sweet boy, tell me and do not feign!

PAGE. No, trust me, madame; if you will credit the little honesty that is yet left me, there is no such danger as you fear. But prepare yourself; yonder’s the king.

ESTRILD. Then, Estrild, life thy dazzled spirits up, And bless that blessed time, that day, that hour, That warlike Locrine first did favour thee. Peace to the king of Brittainy, my love! Peace to all those that love and favour him!

LOCRINE. [Taking her up.] Doth Estrild fall with such submission Before her servant, king of Albion? Arise, fair Lady; leave this lowly cheer. Life up those looks that cherish Locrine’s heart, That I may freely view that roseall face, Which so intangled hath my lovesick breast. Now to the court, where we will court it out, And pass the night and day in Venus’ sports. Frolic, brave peers; be joyful with your king.

SCENE II. The camp of Gwendoline

Enter Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, Madan and the soldiers.

GWENDOLINE. You gentle winds, that with your modest blasts Pass through the circuit of the heavenly vault, Enter the clouds unto the throne of Jove, And there bear my prayers to his all hearing ears. For Locrine hath forsaken Gwendoline, And learnt to love proud Humber’s concubine. You happy sprites, that in the concave sky With pleasant joy enjoy your sweetest love, Shed forth those tears with me, which then you shed, When first you would your ladies to your wills. Those tears are fittest for my woeful case, Since Locrine shuns my nothing pleasant face. Blush heavens, blush sun, and hide thy shining beams; Shadow thy radiant locks in gloomy clouds; Deny thy cheerful light unto the world, Where nothing reigns but falsehood and deceit. What said I? falsehood? Aye, that filthy crime, For Locrine hath forsaken Gwendoline. Behold the heavens do wail for Gwendoline. The shining sun doth blush for Gwendoline. The liquid air doth weep for Gwendoline. The very ground doth groan for Gwendoline. Aye, they are milder than the Brittain king, For he rejecteth luckless Gwendoline.

THRASIMACHUS. Sister, complaints are bootless in this cause; This open wrong must have an open plague, This plague must be repaid with grievous war, This war must finish with Locrine’s death; His death will soon extinguish our complaints.

GWENDOLINE. O no, his death will more augment my woes. He was my husband, brave Thrasimachus, More dear to me than the apple of mine eye, Nor can I find in heart to work his scathe.

THRASIMACHUS. Madame, if not your proper injuries, Nor my exile, can move you to revenge, Think on our father Corineus’ words; His words to us stands always for a law. Should Locrine live that caused my father’s death? Should Locrine live that now divorceth you? The heavens, the earth, the air, the fire reclaims, And then why should all we deny the same?

GWENDOLINE. Then henceforth, farewell womanish complaints! All childish pity henceforth, then, farewell! But, cursed Locrine, look unto thyself, For Nemesis, the mistress of revenge, Sits armed at all points on our dismal blades; And cursed Estrild, that inflamed his heart, Shall, if I live, die a reproachful death.

MADAN. Mother, though nature makes me to lament My luckless father’s froward lechery, Yet, for he wrongs my Lady mother thus, I, if I could, myself would work his death.

THRASIMACHUS. See, madame, see, the desire of revenge Is in the children of a tender age! Forward, brave soldiers, into Mertia, Where we shall brave the coward to his face.

SCENE III. The camp of Locrine

Enter Locrine, Estrild, Sabren, Assarachus and the soldiers.

LOCRINE. Tell me, Assarachus, are the Cornish chuffes In such great number come to Mertia? And have they pitched there their petty host, So close unto our royal mansion?

ASSARACHUS. They are, my Lord, and mean incontinent To bid defiance to your majesty.

LOCRINE. It makes me laugh, to think that Gwendoline Should have the heart to come in arms gainst me.

ESTRILD. Alas, my Lord, the horse will run amain, When as the spur doth gall him to the bone. Jealousy, Locrine, hath a wicked sting.

LOCRINE. Sayest thou so, Estrild, beauty’s paragon? Well, we will try her choler to the proof, And make her know, Locrine can brook no braves. March on, Assarachus; thou must lead the way, And bring us to their proud pavilion.

SCENE IV. The field of battle

Enter the ghost of Corineus with thunder and lightening.

CORINEUS’ 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, Casteth her mists on shady Tellus’ face, With sable mantles covering all the earth, Now flies abroad amid the cheerful day, Foretelling some unwonted misery. The snarling curs of darkened Tartarus, Sent from Avernus’ ponds by Radamanth, With howling ditties pester every wood. The watery ladies 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.

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 power thy plagues on cursed Locrine’s head.

Enter Locrine, Estrild, Assarachus, Sabren and their soldiers at one door: Thrasimachus, Gwendoline, Madan and their followers at an other.

LOCRINE. What, is the tiger started from his cave? Is Gwendoline 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 enterprise was bold, And well deserveth commendation.

GWENDOLINE. Aye, Locrine, traitorous 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 bewrayed thy Arcane secrecy? Have I dishonoured thy marriage bed With filthy crimes, or with lascivious lusts? Nay, it is thou that hast dishonoured it: Thy filthy minds, o’ercome with filthy lusts, Yieldeth unto affections filthy darts. Unkind, thou wrongst thy first and truest feer; Unkind, thou wrongst thy best and dearest friend; Unkind, thou scornst all skilfull Brutus’ laws, Forgetting father, uncle, and thyself.

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

THRASIMACHUS. 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, Unsheath your swords, and try it out by force, That we may see who hath the better hand.

LOCRINE. Thinkst thou to dare me, bold Thrasimachus? Thinkst 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 acquitance for thy bold attempts.

Sound the alarm. Enter Locrine, Assarachus and a soldier at one door; Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, at an other; Locrine and his followers driven back. Then let Locrine & Estrild enter again in a maze.

LOCRINE. O fair Estrild, we have lost the field; Thrasimachus hath won the victory, And we are left to be a laughing stock, Scoft at by those that are our enemies. Ten thousand soldiers, armed with sword & shield, prevail against an hundreth thousand men; Thrasimachus, incensed with fuming ire, Rageth amongst the faintheart soldiers, Like to grim Mars, when covered with his targe He fought with Diomedes in the field, Close by the banks of silver Simois.

O lovely Estrild, now the chase begins; Ne’er shall we see the stately Troynouant, Mounted on the coursers garnished all with pearls; Nor 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 Gwendoline 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 curtleaxe, I’ll cut in sunder my accursed heart. But O! you judges of the ninefold Styx, Which with incessant torments rack the ghosts Within the bottomless Abissus’ pits, You gods, commanders of the heavenly spheres, Whose will and laws irrevocable stands, Forgive, forgive, this foul accursed sin! Forget, O gods, this foul condemned fault! And now, my sword, that in so many fights

Hast saved 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. Farewell, fair Estrild, beauty’s paragon, Framed in the front of forlorn miseries! Ne’er shall mine eyes behold thy sunshine eyes, But when we meet in the Elysian fields; Thither I go before with hastened pace. Farewell, vain world, and thy inticing snares! Farewell, foul sin, and thy inticing pleasures! And welcome, death, the end of mortal smart, Welcome to Locrine’s overburthened heart!

ESTRILD. Break, heart, with sobs and grievous suspires! Stream forth, you tears, from forth my watery eyes; Help me to mourn for warlike Locrine’s death! Pour down your tears, you watery 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— Aye, 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.

Sound the alarm. Enter Sabren.

SABREN. What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offered to my hapless heart? My father slain with such a fatal sword, My mother murthered by a mortal wound? What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon, Would not relent at such a rueful case? What fierce Achilles, what had stony flint, Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy? Locrine, the map of magnanimity, Lies slaughtered 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 inshrined: 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 plaudities.

Ay me, my virgin’s hands are too too weak, To penetrate the bulwark of my breast; My fingers, used to tune the amorous lute, Are not of force to hold this steely glaive. So I am left to wail my parents’ death, Not able for to work my proper death. Ah, Locrine, honored for thy nobleness! Ah, Estrild, famous for thy constancy! Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal ends!

Enter Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, Madan and the soldiers.

GWENDOLINE. 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 overhastened death. My brother’s exile and mine own divorce Banish remorse clean from my brazen heart, All mercy from mine adamantine breasts.

THRASIMACHUS. Nor doth thy husband, lovely Gwendoline, That wonted was to guide our stailess steps, Enjoy this light; see where he murdered 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 murdered 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 Stix in Charon’s ferry-boat.

GWENDOLINE. And hath proud Estrild then prevented me? Hath she escaped Gwendoline’s wrath Violently, by 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 Titius, bound to housles Caucason, 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.

SABREN. You mountain nymphs, which in these deserts reign, Cease off your hasty chase of savage beasts; Prepare to see a heart oppressed with care; Address your ears to hear a mournful style! No humane strength, no work can work my weal, Care in my heart so tyrant like doth deal. You Dryads and lightfoot Satyri, You gracious Faries which, at evening tide, Your closets leave with heavenly beauty stored, And on your shoulders spread your golden locks; You savage bears in caves and darkened 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.

GWENDOLINE. 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.

SABREN. Hard hearted death, that, when the wretched call, Art furthest off, and seldom hearest at all; But, in the midst of fortune’s good success, Uncalled comes, and sheers our 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? shall not poor Sabren die?

GWENDOLINE. [Taking her by the chin shall say thus.] 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 upon thy bastard’s head, Thou shalt be cast into the cursed streams, And feed the fishes with thy tender flesh.

SABREN. And thinkst 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 masty 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 pleasant stream shall present bring to pass.

GWENDOLINE. 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 called. 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 Troynouant, Where we shall celebrate these exequies, And place young Locrine in his father’s tomb.

Enter Ate.

ATE. Lo here the end of lawless treachery, Of usurpation and ambitious pride; And they that for their private amours dare Turmoil our land, and set their broils abroach, Let them be warned by these premises. And as a woman was the only cause That civil discord was then stirred up, So let us pray for that renowned maid, That eight and thirty years the scepter swayed, In quiet peace and sweet felicity; And every wight that seeks her grace’s smart, Would that this sword were pierced in his heart!