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  • Title: The Tragedy of Locrine (Third Folio, 1664)

  • Copyright Digital Renaissance Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Authors: Anonymous, William Shakespeare
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    The Tragedy of Locrine (Third Folio, 1664)

    The Tragedy of Locrine.
    Thus in the prime of my felicity
    To cut me off by such hard overthrow.
    Hadst thou no time thy rancour to declare,
    But in the spring of all my dignities?
    825Hadst thou no place to spit thy venome out
    But on the person of young Albanact?
    I that ere while did scare mine enemies,
    And drove them almost to a shamefull flight:
    I that ere while full Lyon-like did fare
    830Amongst the dangers of the thick throng'd pikes,
    Must now depart most lamentably slain
    By Humber's treacheries and fortunes spights:
    Curst be their charmes, damn'd be her cursed charmes
    That doth delude the wayward hearts of men,
    835Of men that trust unto her fickle wheele,
    Which never leaveth turning upside down.
    O gods, O heavens, allot me but the place
    Where I may finde her hatefull mansion,
    I'le passe the Alpes to watry Meroe,
    840Where fiery Phoebus in his charriot,
    The wheeles whereof are dect with Emeralds,
    Cast such a heat, yea such a scorching heat,
    And spoileth Flora of her chequered grasse,
    I'le overturn the mountain Caucasus,
    845Where fell Chimaera in her triple shape,
    Rolleth hot flames from out her monstrous panch,
    Scaring the beasts with issue of her gorge,
    I'le passe the frozen Zone where Icy flakes
    Stopping the passage of the fleeting ships
    850Do lie, like mountains in the congeal'd Sea,
    Where if I find that hatefull house of Hers,
    I'le pull the fickle wheele from out her hands,
    And tie her self in everlasting bands:
    But all in vain I breathe these threatnings,
    855The day is lost, the Hunnes are conquerors,
    Debon is slain, my men are done to death,
    The currents swift swimme violently with blood,
    And last, O that this last night so long last,
    My self with wounds past all recovery,
    860Must leave my Crown for Humber to possesse.
    Strum. Lord have mercy upon us, Masters, I think
    this is a holy-day, every man lies sleeping in the fields,
    but God knowes full sore against their wills.
    Thra. Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self,
    865The Scythians follow with great celerity,
    And there's no way but fight, or speedy death,
    Flie, noble Albanact, and save thy self.
    Sound the Alarm.
    Alba. Nay let them flie that fear to die the death,
    870That tremble at the name of fatall Mors,
    Ne're shall proud Humber boast or brag himself,
    That he hath put young Albanact to flight:
    And least he should triumph a
    t my decay,
    This sword shall reave his Master of his life,
    875That oft hath sav'd his Masters doubtfull life:
    But oh my brethren if you care for me,
    Revenge my death upon his traiterous head.

    Et vos queis domus est nigrantis regia ditis,
    Qui regitis rigido stigios moderamine lucos:
    880Nox cæci regina poli furialis Erinnis,
    Diique deæque omnes Albanum tollite regem,
    Tollite flumineis undis rigidaque palude
    Nunc me fata vocant, hoc condam pectore ferrum.

    Thrust himself through
    885Enter Trumpart.
    O what hath he done? his Nose bleeds: but I smell a Fox,
    Look where my Master lies, Master, Master.
    Strum. Let me alone, I tell thee, for I am dead.
    Trum. Yet one, good, good, Master.
    890Strum. I will not speak, for I am dead I tell thee.
    Trum. And is my Master dead?
    O sticks and stones, brickbats and bones,
    and is my Master dead?
    O you cockatrices, and you bablatrices,
    895 that in the woods dwell:
    You briers and brambles, you Cook shops and shambles,
    come howle and yell.
    With howling and screeking, with wailing and weeping,
    come you to lament.
    900O Colliers of Croyden, and Rusticks of Royden,
    and Fishers of Kent.
    For Strumbo the Cobler, the fine merry Cobler
    of Cathnes town:
    At this same stoure, at this very hour
    905 lies dead on the ground.
    O Master, thieves, thieves, thieves.
    Strum. Where be they? cox me tunny, bobekin,
    let me be rising, be gone, we shall be robb'd by and by.

    Scena Octava.

    910Enter Humber, Hubba, Segar, Thrassier, Estrild,
    and the Souldiers.

    Hum. Thus from the dreadful shocks of furious Mars's
    Thundring alarmes, and Rhamnusia's Drum
    We are retired with joyfull victory,
    915The slaughter'd Trojans squeltring in their blood,
    Infect the aire with their carcasses,
    And are a prey for every ravenous bird.
    Estrild. So perish they that are our enemies.
    So perish they that love not Humber's weale.
    920And mighty Jove, Commander of the world,
    Protect my love from all false treacheries.
    Hum. Thanks lovely Estrild, solace to my soule.
    But, valiant Hubba, for thy Chivalry
    Declar'd against the men of Albany,
    925Loe here a flowring garland wreath'd of bay,
    As a reward for this thy forward minde.
    Set it on his head.
    Hub. This unexpected honour, noble Sire,
    Will prick my courage unto braver deeds,
    930And cause me to attempt such hard exploits,
    That all the world shall sound of Hubba's name.
    Hum. And now, brave Soldiers, for this good success,
    Carouse whole cups of Amazonian Wine,
    Sweeter then Nectar or Ambrosia,
    935And cast away the Clods of cursed care,
    With goblets crown'd with Semeleius gifts,
    Now let us march to Abis silver streames,
    That clearly glide along the Champane fields,
    And moist the grassy meads with humid drops.
    940Sound Drums and Trumpets, sound up cheerfully,
    Sith we return with joy and victory.