JULIA

Thou art dearly welcome good Assassino: Now cease to wonder why I sent for thee; I had a daughter once, Assassino, A comfort to mine age, life to my veins, A living Image of her father's virtues, Fair, modest, and which is half monstrous In these polluted times, inwardly chaste: I do remember such a one I had. No, no, poor Girl, rumour has oft belied her. Seest thou this Scarf? And dost not see the letters writ in blood, That tell me she is dead, murdered, and on The Mountains buried in obscure contempt? Why no, I thought as much. But look Assassino, if thou hadst felt The gripes of woe that have through pierced my soul, Seen and appalling sighed would make thee tremble, Or through the spectacles of love didst view A lose as deer as heaven, thou wouldst discern These bloody Characters, and meet her pale Ghost In every slumber, begging with silent shows And deep fetched groans a mother's slow revenge. Then to recount the wrongs, the infamy Heaped on her youth, when by most treacherous plots She was attaint of murder, and became The mark for every vulgar tongue to spit Slander and treason on her fair report; And last her undeserved imprisonment— And now to force her fly her dearest Country, Friends, Hope's, contents, betwixt opposite love and hate, To live in obscure exile, poor, forlorn, Suspicious still of death, and flying that, To wade each hour deep into misery, To meet another death before her, and sink Under the double hand of murder, not Into a Tomb, but a poor Mountain grave, No rites nor obsequies at her interment, Buried without a tear, unpitied, unrespected. That's full of hazard, for a peace being sworn, The enterprise may make them happier, Us still more miserable: But if my grief Were armed with such a hand, as would o'rturne The frame of all those Hope's for which they sweat, And spurn that in the dust, which they would raise With hateful deeds, up to the point of state: That I might see them grieve, and wail the lose Which now afflicts my careful widowhood, Know what it were to loose a child, sole comfort Of their declining years, and send their a- Ged Coarses to the grave, hopeless of issue. Thou art within me already? And mark Assassino how easy it's, Since time, occasion, travail, and his soleness, Thy self not known, gives advantageous means To second thine attempt: do but resolve And Fate will straight resolve to second thee In such a righteous and just revenge. I have dogged the rumour of his journey, and can Exactly inform thee, come take directions, And gold to furnish thee. Now thou dost pour fresh youth Upon my hairs, newly revivest my soul, Puttest spirits to my heart dried up with sighs, And makest fresh blood traverse my empty veins, For the sweetest heaven the spleens of women find Is full revenge to our aggrieved mind. Great Lord, if woes with woes may be compared, Or to the measure of our cause of grief We might in sad contention drop our tears, Shower for your drop, Pound for your dram of woe My breast and eyes would yield, which now are grown A boundless harbour for the depth of care. For though we meet in this, that both have lost The dearest treasures of desired life, Yet hath your Grace a partner in distress A comfort to the residue of your years, And therefore hope that Heaven may yet restore This ruin of your House. Beside you have The body of your son, on whose dead Coarse You may bestow your tears, and honour him With fitting place and Royal exequies: When Heaven hath shut those comforts from my heart, Left me a widow to sustain the weight Of all this burden, and no partner else To bring mine aged hairs unto the grave But still repining grief: and am denied The ashes of my child, on whose cold Hearse Mine eyes might pay those tributary tears Which her misfortune, and my woes exact, And only can embrace and empty shrine. Yet my good Lord, I oft forget my cares To grieve at yours, and wish Althea's death Might have sufficed the anger of the Fates, Without Lucilio's blood, whose guiltless fallen Hath strook a sadness through th'appalled looks Of all your Subject's, made them stand amazed, And wonder there should live upon the earth Envy enough to blast such graceful Hope's. No my good Lord, she was not innocent, In that she bounded not her loosest thoughts Within our element but would admit The dangerous fires, of ambitious love Into her Virgin breast, that's safelyest knit Where all proportion justly equals it. Alas good Madam, I have felt your Grace Still loving to my daughters poor deserts, And nothing did increase my sorrows more Then that I wanted means how to requite Your Graces love. Alas Antonio, what would you have me do, When I beheld my daughter murdered thus betwixt love and hate, and I no means of help To take revenge, or comfort to my grief? Thanks good Antonio, There the gift is free, When it's bestowed on deepest misery. Exeunt. No my deer daughter, see I safely live Never blessed till now, and now o'r-joyd with bliss, Where shall I run to meet, that, which beheld Kills with a deadlyer wound then do the eyes Or coldest poison of a Basilisk. Althea stay—and let thy wretched Parent Take the last farewell of her dying child. Ah why did Nature make my unhappy womb Fruitful by thee, and yet reserve mine age To outlive the extremities of grief, and see Thy dismal end by and untimely death? Was I reserved for this? Or were the crimes Of our black gilded so horrid in the eyes Of Heaven, that nothing but the fatal scourge Of severe justice in the woefullest form Could expiate our sin? How were I blessed If the first instant that imparted life To thy scarce featured self (joy to my womb) Had been the last in which we both had breathed! Canst thou persuade the Ocean in a storm To leave her swelling? Or a Bullet shot To stop its passage? No Althea! no! The lightest Arrow is not more powerful sent Unto his Mark than we are thrown to death. Therefore farewell, I'll haste to meet thee there, Where no injustice nor oppressing tyranny Shall sever our embraces; and let this kiss Seal up that vow upon thy dying lips— What's here? has sorrow so transformed thy shape? Or dulled the wonted vigour of my sighed, That it sees nothing right proportioned? My Lord Lucilio, do you mock my woes? Oh where's Althea? have you murdered her? And come to upbraid the Misery's we feel? Is it not enough that I must loose that stay On which my aged widowhood relied; But you must jest at anguish? Is not our blood Enough to satisfy the thirst of Treason, But you must swallow more? I'll not conceal Your murdering plots, but lay these Actions open To the wide world's eyes; and leave the rest, In hope that Heaven, who does your treacheries view, As you have dealt, so they may deal with you. My soul Assassino labours for revenge; Yet I'm a woman, and can sprinkle them But with a few salt tears, and curse, and pray, Which is a weak foundation for my revenge To climb and overlook them. Vow't; & propose the sum; my House, my Purse, My Means, and whatsoever is mine is thine: Be bold and faithful, I'll ever hold thee deer, Call thee our Houses Champion, and the hand Of heaven's justice marked to punish sin, And plague the guilty thoughts of tyranny.