ALTHEA

They are of our line, Of which no branch did ever perish yet, By Cankers, blastings, or dry barrenness. But Meleager let me turn to thee, Whose birth the Fates themselves did calculate, 'Twas thus: the very instant thou wast born, The sisters, that draw, spin, and clip our lives, Entered my chamber with a fatal brand, Which hurling in the fire, thus said: One day, one date, Betide this brand and child, even be their fate. So parted they, the brand begins to burn: And as it wasted, so didst thou consume; Which I perceiving, leapt unto the flame, And quenching that, stayed thy consumption. The brand I (as a jewel) have reserved, And keep it in a casket, locked as safe As in thy bosom thou maintainest thy heart. Speak, how slain? By Meleagers, how? upon what quarrel? Could the proud boy ground such a damned act. My sorrows turn to rage, my tears to fire, My prayers to curses, vows into revenge. Althea what distraction's this within thee? A sister or a mother wilt thou be? Since both I cannot, (for these Princes slain) Sister I choose, a mother's name disdain: The fatal brand in which the murderers life Securely lies, I'll hurl into the fire And as it flames, so shall the slave expire. Mischief I'll heap on mischief, bade on ill, Wrong pay with wrongs, and slaughter these that kill. And since the Gods would all our glories thrall, I will with them have chief hand in our fallen. But he's my son: o pardon me deer brother's, Being a mother if I spare his life, Though it be fit his sin be plagued with death, And that his life lie in yond fatal brand, IT will not come fitly from a mother's hand. Is this the hope of all my ten months pain, Must he by hand of him that nursed him now be slain? Would he had perished in his cradle, when I gave him twice life: in his birth, and then When I the brand snatched from the ravenous flame, And for this double good, hast thou with shame And injury repayed me? I will now A sister be, no mother, for I vow Revenge and death; Furies, assist my hand While in read flames I cast his vital brand. Assist my rage you stern Eumenides, To you this black deed will I consecrate. Pity away, hence thou consanguine love, Maternal zeal, peccentall piety. All cares, loves, duties, offices, affections, That grow between sons and mother's, leave this place; Let none but furies, murders, parricides, Be my assistants in this damed attempt: All that's good and honest, I confine, Black is my purpose; Hell my thoughts are thine. Drink, quaff, be blithe; o how this festive joy Stirs up my fury to revenge and death, Thus, thus, (you Gods above, abject your eyes From this unnatural act) the murderer die. What hast thou done Althea? stay thy fury, And bring not these strange torments on thine own Thou hast too much already, back my hand, And save his life as thou conferust this brand. Shall mirth and joy crown his degenerate head? While his cold Uncles on the earth lie spread? No, wretehed youth while this hand can destroy, I'll cut thee off in amid of all thy joy. Burn, perish, wast, fire, sparkle, and consume And all thy vital spirits fly with this fume. So, now'tis done, The brand consumed, his vital thread quite spun. She shall not, Jason no, She shall not. Do you wonder Lords of Greece, To see this Prince lie dead? why that's no novel, All men must die, thou, he, and every one, Yea I my self must: but Il'e tell you that Shall stiff your hair, your eyes start from heads, Print fixed amazement in your wondering fronts, Yea and astonish all: This was my son, Born with sick throws, nursed from my tender breast Brought up with femine care, cherished with love: His youth, my pride; his honour all my wishes, So deer, that little less he was then life. But will you know the wonder (alas) too true, Him (all my sons) this my enraged hand slew, This hand, that Dians quenchless rage to fill, Shall with the slain sons sword the mother kill. What joy names Oeneus in this spectacle? This of a thousand the most sad and tragic, Whose murdered trunks be these? Shall I revenge or mourn them.