A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. VII (4th edition) | Page 7

Greece But I, with love that bold'ned Paris' heart? What bond of nature, what restraint avails[34] Against our power? I vouch to witness truth. The myrrh tree,[35] that with shamefast tears bewails Her father's love, still weepeth yet for ruth,[36] But now, this world not seeing in these days Such present proofs of our all-daring[37] power, Disdains our name, and seeketh sundry ways To scorn and scoff, and shame us every hour. A brat, a bastard, and an idle boy: A[38] rod, a staff, a whip to beat him out! And to be sick of love, a childish toy: These are mine honours now the world about, My name disgrac'd to raise again therefore, And in this age mine ancient renown By mighty acts intending to restore, Down to the earth in wrath now am I come; And in this place such wonders shall ye hear, As these your stubborn and disdainful hearts In melting tears and humble yielding fear Shall soon relent by sight of others' smarts. This princely palace will I enter in, And there inflame the fair Gismunda so, Enraging all her secret veins within, Through fiery love that she shall feel much woe.[39] Too-late-Repentance, thou shalt bend my bow; Vain Hope, take out my pale, dead, heavy shaft, Thou, Fair Resemblance, foremost forth shalt go, With Brittle Joy: myself will not be least, But after me comes Death and deadly Pain. Thus shall ye march, till we return again.[40] Meanwhile, sit still, and here I shall you show Such wonders, that at last with one accord Ye shall relent, and say that now you know Love rules the world, Love it a mighty lord.[41]
[CUPID with his train entereth into KING TANCRED'S palace.

ACT I., SCENE 2.
GISMUNDA _in purple cometh out of her chamber, attended by four maids that are the Chorus_.
GISMUNDA. "O vain, unsteadfast state of mortal things! Who trust this world, leans to a brittle stay: Such fickle fruit his flattering bloom forth brings, Ere it be ripe, it falleth to decay." The joy and bliss that late I did possess, In weal at will, with one I loved best, Is turned now into so deep distress, As teacheth me to know the world's unrest.[42] For neither wit nor princely stomachs serve Against his force, that slays without respect The noble and the wretch: ne doth reserve So much as one for worthiness elect. Ah me, dear lord! what well of tears may serve To feed the streams of my foredulled eyes, To weep thy death, as thy death doth deserve, And wail thy want in full sufficing wise? Ye lamps of heaven, and all ye heavenly powers,[43] Wherein did he procure your high disdain? He never sought with vast huge mountain towers To reach aloft, and over-view your reign: Or what offence of mine was it unwares, That thus your fury should on me be thrown, To plague a woman with such endless cares? I fear that envy hath the heavens this shown: The sun his glorious virtues did disdain; Mars at his manhood mightily repin'd; Yea, all the gods no longer could sustain, Each one to be excelled in his kind. For he my lord surpass'd them every one;[44] Such was his honour all the world throughout. But now, my love, oh! whither art thou gone? I know thy ghost doth hover hereabout, Expecting me, thy heart, to follow thee: And I, dear love, would fain dissolve this strife. But stay awhile, I may perhaps foresee Some means to be disburden'd of this life, "And to discharge the duty of a wife,[45] Which is, not only in this life to love, But after death her fancy not remove." Meanwhile accept of these our daily rites, Which with my maidens I shall do to thee, Which is in songs to cheer our dying sprites With hymns of praises of thy memory.
_Cantant.
Quae mihi cantio nondum occurrit_.[46]

ACT I, SCENE 3.
_The song ended_, TANCRED the King cometh out of his palace with his guard.
TANCRED. Fair daughter, I have sought thee out with grief, To ease the sorrows of thy vexed heart. How long wilt thou torment thy father thus, Who daily dies to see thy needless tears? Such bootless plaints, that know nor mean nor end, Do but increase the floods of thy lament; And since the world knows well there was no want In thee of ought, that did to him belong, Yet all, thou seest, could not his life prolong. Why then dost thou provoke the heavens to wrath? His doom of death was dated by his stars, "And who is he that may withstand his fate?" By these complaints small good to him thou dost, Much grief to me, more hurt unto thyself, And unto nature greatest wrong of all.
GISMUNDA. Tell me not of the