A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. VII (4th edition) | Page 8

date of nature's days, Then in the April of her springing age: No, no, it was my cruel destiny, That spited at the pleasance of my life.
TANCRED. My daughter knows the proof of nature's course. "For as the heavens do guide the lamp of life, So can they reach no farther forth the flame, Than whilst with oil they do maintain the same."
GISMUNDA. Curst be the stars, and vanish may they curst, Or fall from heaven, that in their dire aspèct[47] Abridg'd the health and welfare of my love.
TANCRED. Gismund, my joy, set all these griefs apart; "The more thou art with hard mishap beset, The more thy patience should procure thine ease."
GISMUNDA. What hope of hap may cheer my hapless chance? What sighs, what tears may countervail my cares? What should I do, but still his death bewail, That was the solace of my life and soul? Now, now, I want the wonted guide and stay Of my desires and of my wreakless thoughts. My lord, my love, my life, my liking gone, In whom was all the fulness of my joy, To whom I gave the first-fruits of my love, Who with the comfort of his only sight All care and sorrows could from me remove. But, father, now my joys forepast to tell, Do but revive the horrors of my hell. As she that seems in darkness to behold The gladsome pleasures of the cheerful light.
TANCRED. What then avails thee fruitless thus to rue His absence, whom the heavens cannot return? Impartial death thy husband did subdue, Yet hath he spar'd thy kingly father's life: Who during life to thee a double stay, As father and as husband, will remain, With double love to ease thy widow's want, Of him whose want is cause of thy complaint. Forbear thou therefore all these needless tears, That nip the blossoms of thy beauty's pride.
GISMUNDA. Father, these tears love challengeth of due.
TANCRED. But reason saith thou shouldst the same subdue.
GISMUNDA. His funerals are yet before my sight.
TANCRED. In endless moans princes should not delight.
GISMUNDA. The turtle pines in loss of her true mate.
TANCRED. And so continues poor and desolate.
GISMUNDA. Who can forget a jewel of such price?
TANCRED. She that hath learn'd to master her desires. "Let reason work, what time doth easily frame In meanest wits, to bear the greatest ills."
GISMUNDA. So plenteous are the springs Of sorrows that increase my passions, As neither reason can recure my smart, Nor can your care nor fatherly comfort Appease the stormy combats of my thoughts; Such is the sweet remembrance of his life. Then give me leave: of pity, pity me, And as I can, I shall allay these griefs.
TANCRED. These solitary walks thou dost frequent, Yield fresh occasions to thy secret moans: We will therefore thou keep us company, Leaving thy maidens with their harmony. Wend[48] thou with us. Virgins, withdraw yourselves.
[TANCRED and GISMUNDA, _with the guard, depart into the palace; the four maidens stay behind, as Chorus to the Tragedy_.
CHORUS 1. The diverse haps which always work our care, Our joys so far, our woes so near at hand, Have long ere this, and daily do declare The fickle foot on which our state doth stand. "Who plants his pleasures here to gather root, And hopes his happy life will still endure, Let him behold how death with stealing foot Steps in when he shall think his joys most sure." No ransom serveth to redeem our days If prowess could preserve, or worthy deeds, He had yet liv'd, whose twelve labours displays His endless fame, and yet his honour spreads. And that great king,[49] that with so small a power Bereft the mighty Persian of his crown, Doth witness well our life is but a flower, Though it be deck'd with honour and renown.
CHORUS 2. "What grows to-day in favour of the heaven, Nurs'd with the sun and with the showers sweet, Pluck'd with the hand, it withereth ere even. So pass our days, even as the rivers fleet." The valiant Greeks, that unto Troia gave The ten years' siege, left but their names behind. And he that did so long and only save His father's walls,[50] found there at last his end. Proud Rome herself, that whilome laid her yoke On the wide world, and vanquish'd all with war, Yet could she not remove the fatal stroke Of death from them that stretch'd her pow'r so far.
CHORUS 3. Look, what the cruel sisters once decree'd, The Thunderer himself cannot remove: They are the ladies of our destiny, To work beneath what is conspir'd above. But happy he that ends this mortal life By speedy death: who is not forc'd to see The many cares, nor feel the sundry griefs, Which we sustain in woe and misery. Here fortune rules