DERCETAS

A lamentable chance. Oh wrath of heavens! Oh Gods too pitiless! Alas too hard mishap! When I but dream of what mine eyes beheld, My heart does freeze, my limbs do quivering quake, I senseless stand, my breast with tempest tossed Kills in my throat my words, ere fully born. Dead, dead he is: be sure of what I say, This murdering sword hath made the man away. When Antony no hope remaining saw How war he might, or how agreement make, Saw him betrayed by all his men of war In every fight as well by sea, as land; That not content to yield them to their foes They also came against himself to fight: Alone in court he gan himself torment, Accuse the Queen, himself of his lament, Called his untrue and traitress, as who sought To yield him up she could no more defend: That in the harms which for his sake he bore, As in his blissful state, she might not share. But she again, who much his fury feared, Got to the tombs, dark horrors dwelling place: Made lock the doors, and pull the hearses down. Then fell she wretched, with his self to fight. A thousand plaints, a thousand sobs she cast From his weak breast which to the bones was torn. Of women his the most unhappy called, Who by his love, his woeful love, had lost His realm, his life, and more the love of him, Who while he was, was all his woes support. But that she faultless was she did invoke For witness heaven, and air, and earth, and sea. Then sent him word, she was no more alive, But lay enclosed dead within her tomb. This he believed; and fell to sighs and groan, And crossed his arms, then thus began to moan. What good God now my voice will reinforce, That tell I may to rocks, and hills, and woods, To waves of sea, which dash upon the shore, To earth, to heaven, the woeful news I bring?