DIOMEDE

And is't not pity, Gods, ah Gods of heaven To see from love such hateful fruits to spring? And is't not pity that this firebrand so Lays waste the trophies of Phillippi fields? Where are those sweet allureme ̄ ts, those sweet looks, Which gods the ̄ selves right heart sick would have made What does that beauty, rarest gift of heaven, Wonder of earth? Alas! what do those eyes? And that sweet voice all Asia understood, And sunburnt Africa wide in deserts spread? Is their force dead? have they no further power? Can not by them Octavius be suppriz'd? Alas! if Jove in midst of all his ire, With thunderbolt in hand some land to plague, Had cast his eyes on my Queen, out of hand His Plaguing bolte had fallen out of his hand: Fire of his wrath into vain smoke should turn, And other fire within his breast should burn. Nought lives so fair. Nature by such a work Her self, should seem, in workmanship hath passed. She is all heavenly: never any man But seeing his was ravished with her sighed. The Allablaster covering of her face, The coral coullor his two lips engrains, Her beamy eyes, two Suns of this our world, Of his fair hair the fine and flaming gold, Her brave straight stature, and her winning parts Are nothing else but fierce, fetters, darts. Yet this is nothing enchanting skills Of her celestial Sprite, his training speech, Her grace, his majesty, and forcing voice, Whither she it with fingers speech consort, Or hearing sceptred kings ambassadors Answer to each in his own language make. Yet now at need it aides her not at all With all these beauty's, so her sorrow stings. Darkened with woe her only study is To weep, to sighs, to seek for loneliness. Careless of all, his hair disordered hangs: His charming eyes whence murdering looks did fly, Now rivers grown', whose wellspring anguish is, Do trickling wash the marble of his face. His fair discovered breast with sobbing swollen Self cruel she still martirith with blows, Alas! It's our ill hap, for if his tears She would convert into her loving charms, To make a conquest of the conqueror, (As well she might, would she his force employ) She should us safety from these ills procure, His crown to his, and to his raze assure. Unhappy he, in whom self-succour lies, Yet self-forsaken wanting succour die. I will obey your will.