ANDREA

W Hen this eternal substance of my soul, Did we imprisoned in my wanton lesh: Each in their unction serving others needs, I was a Courtier in the Spanish Court. My name was Done Andrea, my dissent Though not ignoble, yet inferior far To gracious Fortune's of my tender youth: For there in prime and pride of all my years, By duteous service and deserving love, In secret I pos est a wor high dame, Which hight sweet Bel-imperia by name. But in the harvest of my summer joys, Death's winter nipped the blossoms of my bliss, Forcing divorce betwixt my love and me. For in the late conflict with Portingale, My valour drew me into dangers mouth, Till life to death made passage through my wounds. When I was slain, my soul descended straight, To pass the flowing stream of Acheron: But churlish Charon only boatman there, Said that my rites of burial not performed, I might not fit amongst his passengers. Ere Solemnizing had slept three nights in The is lap, And slakte his smoking Chariot in her loud: By Done Horam io our knight Marshals son, My funerals and obsequies were done. Then was the Feriman of hell content, To pass me over to the slimy strand, That leads to fell Avernus's ugly waves: There pleasing Cerberus with honeyed speech, I passed the perils of the foremost porch. Not far from hence amid ten thousand souls, Sat Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamant, To whom no sooner gan I make approach, To crave a passport for my wandering Ghost: But Minos engraved leaves of Lottery, Drew forth the manner of my life and death. This knight (quoth he) both lived and died in love: And for his love tried fortune of the wars, And by wars fortune lost both love and life . Why then said Eacus, convey him hence, To walk with lovers in our fields of love: And spend the course of everlasting time, Under green myrtle trees and Cypress shades. No, no, said Rhadamant, it were not well, With loving souls to place a Martialist, He died in war, and must to martial fields: Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain, And Achilles mermedons do scour the plain. Then Minos mildest censor of the three, Made this device to end the difference. Send him (quoth he) to our infernal King: To dome him as best seems his Majesty: To this effect my passport straight was drawn. In keeping on my way to Plutos Court, Through dreadful shades of ever glooming night: I saw more sights then thousand tongues can tell, Or pens can write, or mortal hearts can think. Three ways there were, that on the right hand side, Was ready way unto the foresaid fields, Where lovers live, and bloody Mar ialists, But either sort contained within his bounds. The left hand path declining fearfully, Was ready downfall to the deepest hell. Where bloody furies shakes their whips of steel, And poor Ixion turns and endless wheel. Where Usurers are choked with melting gold, And wantons are imbraste with ugly snakes: And murderers groan with never killing wounds, And periurde wights scalded in boiling led, And all soul sins with torments overwhelmed Betwixt these two ways, I rod the middle path, Which brought me to the fair Elysian green. In amid whereof there stands a stately Tower, The walls of brass the gates of Adamant. Here finding Pluto with his Proserpine, I showed my passport humbled on my knee. Whereat fair Proserpine began to smile, And begged that only she might give my doom. Plum oh was pleased and sealde it with a kiss. Forthwith ( Revenge ) she rounded thee in th'eare, And bade thee led me through the gates of Hor: Where dreams have passage in the silent night. No sooner had she spoke but we were here, I wot not how, in twinkling of and eye. I, now my Hope's have end in their effects, When blood and sorrow finish my desires: Horatio murdered in his Father's bower, Vild Serberine by Pedringano slain, False Pedringano hanged by quaint device, Fair Isabella by her self misdone, Prince Balthazar by Bel-imperia stabbed, The Duke of Castille and his wicked Son, Both done to death by old Hieronimo. My Bel-imperia fallen as Dido fell, And good Hieronimo slain by himself: I these were spectacles to please my soul. Now will I beg at lovely Proserpine, That by the virtue of her Princely doom, I may consort my Friends in pleasing sort, And on my foes woe ke and sharp revenge. I'll led my friend H ratio through those fields, Where never dying wars are still I de. I'll led fair Isabella to that train, Where pity weeps but never feeleth pain. I'll led my Bel-imperia to those oyes, That vestal Virgins, and fair Queens possess, I'll led Hieronimo where Orpheus plays, Adding sweet pleasure to eternal days. But say Revenge, for thou must help or none, Against the rest how shall my hate be shown? Then sweet Revenge do this at my request, Let me be judge and doom them to unrest. Let lose poor Titius from the vultures gripe, And let Done Cyprian supply his room, Place Done Lorenzo on Ixion's wheel, And let the lovers endless pains surcease: Juno forgets old wrath and grants him ease. Hang Balthazar about Chineras neck, And let him there be wai e his bloody love, Repining at our joys that are above. Let Serberine go roll the fatal stone, And take from Siciphus his endless moan. False Pedringaco for his treachery, Let him be dragde through boiling Acheron, And there live dying still in endless flames, Blaspheming Gods and all their holy names. Awake Erictha, Cerberus awake, Solicit Pluto gentle Pro erpine, To combat Achinon and Ericus in hell. For near by Stix and Phlegeton: Nor ferried Caron to the fiery lak S, Such fearful sights, as poor Andrea see ? Re enge awake. Awake Revenge, for thou art ill advised, That sleep, away, what, thou art warned to watch. Awake Revenge, if love as love hath had, Have yet the power or preuailance in hell, Hieronimo with Lorenzo is joined in league, And intercepts our passage to revenge: Awake Revenge, or we are woe degone. Awake Revenge, reveal this mystery. Suffices me thy meanings understood, And thanks to thee and those infernal powers, That will not tolerate a Lovers woe, Rest thee for I will fit to see the rest. Come we for this from depth of under ground, To see him feast that gave me my death's wound? These pleasant sights are sorrow to my soul, Nothing but league, and love and banqueting? Broughtest thou me hither to increase my pain? I looked that Balthazar should have been slain: But 'tis my friend Horatis that is slain, And they abuse fair Bel-imperia. Or whom I doted more then all the world, Because she loved me more then all the world.