CARADOC

Eternal peace, free from the hate of men, Inspheare thy soul, and mount it to the stars. Brother's, surcease your grief, go to the field, Cheer up the Soldiers, while I single forth This bloody Monmouth, that I may sacrifice His canceled life unto my father's ghost, And rid the land of this Egean filth, His usurpation stables. O, 'tis good, To scourge with death, that crying sin of blood. Why, death, man. He is in heaven already. It is a place of rest, and Angels bliss. I cannot tell, but from his dying tongue He did report Monmouth the bloody means. Farewell, good Cousin; while I range about The mangled bodies of this bloody field, To find the Traitor forth, whose spo ted soul I'll send posthaste unto that low Abyss, That with the snaky furies he may dwell, And ease Prometheus of his pains in hell. Alarm again. Out, thou incarnate Devil; guard thee, slave: Although thou fearest not hell, I'll dig thy graven. The Devil hath donè that long ago. Alarm there. Accept of it, great King! The Thracian Orpheus never entertained More Joy in sighed of his Eurydice, When with his silver tunes he did inchant The triple-headed dog, and reassumde, His souls beatitude, from Pluto's Court, Then your devoted servant in this gift, Wherein such unrespected joy concurs, That every sense dances within his blessed circumference, And calls my bliss, A Newyeeres gift from Jove ; And not from that which reason or discourse Proudly from beasts does challenge, as from man. In brief, my Lord, Look how proud Nature in her store, Because she hath one Phoenix and no more, Whose individual substance being but one, Makes Nature boast of her perfection: So is't with me, great King; more blessed in this, Then man turned constellation, starred in bliss. Her gracious answer, and I am content. O my good Lord, this honourable cause Is able to inflame the coward breast Of base Thersites, to transform a man, Thats Planet-struck with Saturn, into Mars ; To turn the Caucasus of peasant thoughts, Into the burning Aetna of revenge, And manly Execution of the foe. What man is he, if Reason speak him man, Or honour spurs on, that immortal fame May canonise his Acts to after times, And Kingly Homers in their Swanlike tunes Of sphearelike Music, of sweet Poesy, May tell their memorable acts in verse; But at the name of Romans, is all war, All courage, all compact of manly vigour Totally magnanimous, fit to cope Even with a band of Centaur's, or a host Of Cretan Minotaurs? Then let not me be barred: The way to honour's craggy, rough, and hard. Then here I'll take my leave; He kisses his hand. First, as my duty binds, of you great King. Next, of you, fair Princess. He kisses her. Come brother's, and Lord Morgan, I must entreat Your company along. Disgraced by letters? shifted to a hill? Found King, thy words, and all the treacherous plots Of secret mischief, sink into the gulf Of my oblivion: memory, be dull, And think no more on these disgraceful airs, My fury relished. King, Set punies to keep hills, that scarce have read The first material Elements of war, That wink to see a Canoneere give fire, And Like and Aspen, shakes his coward joints, At musket shot. Within these noble veins, There runs a current of such highborn blood, Achilles well may father for his own. These honourable sparks of man we keep, Descended linially from Hector's raze, And must be put in Actium. Shall I stand, Like gazing Figure-flingers on the stars, Observing motion, and not move my self? Hence with that baseness. I that am a star, Must move, although I move irregular. Go you unto the hill, in some disguise. I'll purchase honour by this enterprise. Exeunt. Alarm. Then yield thy self, proud Roman, Or by those gods the Britain's do adore, Not all thy Roman host shall save thy life. Fair Prince, you question that you know already. I am not what I seem, but hither sent, He discloses himself. On honourable terms, to aid this King; Which he unkingly, basely did refuse, And in reward of this his proffered good, Ungratefully returned (what other Kings With princely donatives would recompense) My service with injurious contempt: But I, in lieu of this disgraceful wrong, Have done him right, and through the jaws of death, Have brought a glorious triumph to his Crown, And hung sweet peace about his palace gates. True honour should do that, which envy hates. Most willingly, kind Prince: And may as yet this Embrio of our loves Grow to his manly vigour: it's love alone, That, of divided souls, makes only one. Who then adores not love, whose sacred power Unites those souls, division would devour? Come, gentle Prince, let us go see our friends I left upon you Hill, to keep our forts, And thence to Wales, where double joys attend A beauteous wife, and a most constant friend. Exeunt I was not wont, deer friends, to be so dull. I am all led, as if my subtle soul Had left his lodging in this house of clay. Each empty corner of my faculties, And understanding powers, swell with dreams And dire presages of some future ill: Ghastly and fearful specters haunt my sleep. And, if there be, as Heathen men affirm, Some godlike sparks in men divining soul, Then my prophetic spirit tells me true, That some sad news attends my steps in Wales. I long to hear what mischief, or what good, Hath happened, since I parted from the King. O, loving Prince, thus the Physician speaks To the disordered Patient: thus healthful Art Confers with wounded Nature. 'Tis a common trick, Men being found, give Physic to the sick. Fair Prince, misconstrue not my discontent; I grieve not, that Octavian is deprived Of life; but that he hath exchanged His life, for such a miserable death. What villain, but a prodigy of nature, Engendered by some Comet, would have forced His aged soul to wander in the air? Bearing a packet of such ponderous sins, Would crack the Axeltree of heaven to bear. And not have given him liberty to pray? But I am armed with patience. First with words Weel seek to conquer; and if not, by swords. March round; I hear their Drums. Be patient, Cousin. Codigune, in brief, I come to claim my right, that thou usurpest, And by sinister means, black as thy sins, Hast basely stolen: surrender first my wife, My sister, and the Kingdom of Southwales; Or by the gods, to whom I stand obliged, In sacred bonds of Orisons and thanks, For life and motion: if thou refuse to do it, Or move that blood boils within my veins, At the memorial of thy hellish sin, I'll tear the Crown from off thy cursed head, And either die my self, or strike thee dead. Then as we are, Soldiers, begirt us round, And let no man disturb the Combatants, Till one, or both, fallen to our mother earth. For thus be well assure, the cause being right, Immortal spirits do for justice fight. Alarm. Rise. I'll spare thy life. Revenge sufficient for thy damned facts; For to a seared conscience these do well, Long life, men's hate, and a perpetual hell. Yet, that thou mayest live, to atone thy soul Unto the angry heavens, I freely give The Kingdom of North-Wales for term of life, To thy dispose; only reserving tribute to my self, In joust acknowledgement of me and mine. Cornwall, although thy actions not deserve The least respect of us, in taking partly With the aspiring Bastard, and the rest Of his adherents; yet we do omit All former injuries, and reunite Cornwall unto our love. We thank you Princes. This being done, weel see Our beauteous Queen and sister both set free. Now, Gloucester, in this still and silent wood, Whose unfrequented paths do led thy steps Unto the dismal cave of hellish fiends; With whom, a Witch, as ugly to confront, As are the fearful Furies she commands, Lives in this solitary uncouth place; Begin thy damned plots, banish that threadbare thought Of Virtue, Which makes us men so senseless of our wrong, It makes us bear the poison of each tongue. No, Gloucester, no; he, whose meek blood's so cool To bear all wrongs, is a religious fool: Or he that cannot finely knit revenge, Like to Aracne, in a curious web, May wounds still fit a Nightcap for his head. Since I am forced to fly with foul disgrace, And since of gods or men no hope I find, I'll use both hell and Fiends to ease my mind. Here dwells a famous Witch, who, with her son, As black in art, as art it self is black, Both memorable for their Magic skill, That can command stern vengeance from beneath The centre of the earth, for to appear As quick as thought. To her I'll tell the tale Of my revenge, and with the golden Chimes Of large rewards, inchant her hellish ears. And see: their monstrous shapes themselves appears. Now, beauteous Queen & sister, though our tedious absence In warlike Bryttaine, hath been the cause Of your imprisonment, yet, at our return, The gods in justice have repaid the wrong, Done to your beauty's by base treachery, And forced that damned instrument of sin, To hide his bastard head in endless shame. Then, Royal Queen, (for that's a style befits The royal virtues of such peerless lustre) Ascend your Throne, whilst equally with me, You partly, with full applause, your sovereignty. Thanks, gentle Love. Now sister Voada, The duty and the care that ever since My reason could distinguish, and that fraternal love Nature imposed, that many Moons and years Have been imployde unto the good I owe Thy riper years, shall in this minutes space Be full discharged: Therefore, thrice noble friend, I give unto thy hand and Orient Pearl Of more esteem, then that, which at a health Great Cleopatra did carouse in wine, To Roman Anthony. Love her well, sweet Prince; Let it suffice; partly of our Royal blood Runs through the channels of her Azure veins, And that she is our sister. Cousin Morgan, look what Trumpet's this. Now, Roman, for thy habit speaks thee so: Is it to us thy message is directed? Dares that damned Traitor open his hellish throat Against our right? Or is't your Roman guise, To back black Treasons and conspiracies? Ambassador, return unto thy Lord: Within these ten days he shall hear from us. Aside. But by the gods that do uphold the frame And fabric of the world, lest it should fallen Upon the head of that damned murderer, It shall be to his cost. Come, let's a way. A Serpent? where? when? how came it thither? I'll not demur, Shepherd, lead on the way. I'll follow thee. There's danger in delay. Come, Cousin Morgan, go along with us. Princes, farewell awhile. Now, shepherd, are we yet within the ken Of this fell monster? Then here weel stay: it may be, being hungry, The dreadful monster now will seek his prey, Enter old man. And range towards us. Come, let's walk about. Thanks, gentle Father. And see, the Serpent comes. Now Caradoc, pursue this hellish Fiend. Cursed Imposter, damned Inginer of plots, As black in cursed purposes, as night, When by your hellish charms, she mourns in black And sable vestments; tell me, thou son of darkness, Where that Inventor of mischievous ills Gloucester remains. Wertenberg thou the author? tell upon thy life. Rise, come forth, thou ugly Hag, from thy dark Cell. He plucks the Witch out by the heals. Cousin Morgan, throw her into the flames Of the burning Temple. On this condition do I give thee life, That first, if such and hellish art as this May serve to virtuous uses, then direct The scope of all thy skill, to aid poor men, Distressed by any casualty or chance, And specially our friends. Come, Cousin Morgan, Kings in this are known, That for their subjects lives, neglect their own. How now, Sirs, what heavy spectacle affronts our eyes? Whose body is that, my friends? Alack, alack, a wretched case. A Traitors body, then heavens justice shown. That in contriving mischief for his own. Nay, good Sir Morgan. Damned Cornwall, mayest thou sink to hell for this, Wracked by the Furies on Ixion's wheel, And whipped with steel for this accursed treason. Alarm. Art thou a Roman, and canst speak that language, The mother tongue of fugitives and slaves? No, Romans: spare these two; and if I fly, The Roman host shall bear me company. Fashion thy self, thou great and glorious light, To my disguise, and mask thy sub till sighed, That peeps through every cranny of the world; Put on thy nightgown of black foggy clouds, And hide thy searching eye from my disgrace. O Cornwall, Cornwall, this thy treacherous act, That hath eclipsed the glory of great Wales, Shall to succeeding ages tell thy shame, And honour found, to hear of Cornewals name. The gods with forked thunder strike thy wrong, And men in shameful Ballads sing thy fact, That basely thus hast recompensed thy King. But curses are Like arrows shot upright. That often times on our own heads do light: And many times our selves in rage prove worst. The Fox never better thrives, but when accursed. This is a time for policy to move, And lackey with discretion, and not rage. My thoughts must now be suited to my shute; And common patience must attend the helm, And steer my reason to the Cape of hope. At York the noble Prince Venusius dwells, That bears no small affection to our self, To him I'll write a letter, whose contents Shall certify affairs concern my self, Which I my self in this disguise will bear, And found the depth of his affection, Which if but Like a friend, he lend his hand, I'll chase the Romans from this famous land. Exit. An't please you, Madam, from the King of Wales, I bring this letter to Venusius, Your Royal husband. Madam, a glorious victory to Room, The Town of Gloucester vildly being betrayed By Cornewals complots and conspiracies, Even in the dead of night: and to augment His Treasons to the height of his desert, Even in the absence of his Lord and King, Whilst Caradoc, at his return, in rage, Though single, and environed round with foes, Fought Like a Lybian Lion: But to conclude, Not Hercules against a multitude. And thus at ods was forced to flee the place. In Wales, my Lord, and stays for your reply. Then know, kind Prince, that thus I have presumed, To put thy honoured love unto the test, In this disguise, and with auricular boldness Have herd your tale of professed amity. And noble friend, then here stands Caradoc, Who now is come petitioner to thy aid, Betrayed unto the Romans by a villain. And whilst by dint of sword I fearless passed, Thorough the Legions of the puissant host. My Queen and daughter they have prisoners taken, Whose memory quickens my dangers passed, And adds new fuel to my bleeding soul. Then, if thou be'st not verbal, but thy tongue Is with a single string strung to thy heart, All Wales shall honour thee and thy desert. Lady, I shall be troublesome: but ere long, I hope once more to meet this traitorous host, And seal my wrongs with ruin of my foes. Fame wrongs the Romans with these noble stile Of honour, and unseconded deserts. These attributes are only fit for men, That Godlike should be qualified with hate Of such infectious sins as Treasons are. Weak-pated Romans! what fidelity Can be in Traitors, who are so unjust, That their own Country is deceived in trust? Come, Madam, will you show the way? Exeunt. What! Soldiers in every corner set? The Roman General. I am betrayed. Inhospitable woman, this with your sex began: The Serpent taught you to betray poor man. When God, Like Angels, man created first, God man him blessed, but woman most accursed. And since that time, the chiefest good in women Is to beguile most men, and true to few men. Yet Romans, know, that Caradoc here stands, In bold defiance, were you Like the sands. I take thy word, great General. And think not, for any fear of death, I prostitute my life to Caesars hands: But for I know, Caesar is Like a King, And cannot brook a base mechanic thought: But for to see those famous towers of Room, This golden Lion shall enlarge me soon. Caesar, a man, that scorns to bow to Jove, Were he a man Like Caesar: such a man, That neither cares for life, nor fears to die. I was not born to kneel, but to the Gods, Nor basely bow unto a lump of clay In adoration of a clod of earth. Were Caesar Lord of all the spacious world, Even from the Arctic, to the Antarticke poles, And but a man; in spite of death and him, Idem keep my legs upright, honour should stand Fixed as the Centre, at no Kings command. Thou mayest as well enforce the foaming surge Of high-swollen Neptune, with a word retire, And leave his flowing tide, as make me bow. Thinks Caesar, that this petty misery Of Servile bonds, can make true honour stoop? No, 'tis enough for Sycophants and slaves, To crouch to Tyrants, that fear their graves. I was not born when flattery begged land, And eat whole Lordship's up with making legs. Let it suffice: were Caesar thrice as great, Idem neither bow to Room, him nor his seat. Fair Princess, be not you dismayed at this; 'Tis honour bids me leave you for a while. It'll not long be absent. All the world, Except this honourable accident, Could not entreat, what now I must perform, Being ingadgde by honour. Let it suffice, That joy that lives with thee, without thee die. Sweet Patience, yet instruct my tongue awhile To speak the language of a temperate soul. Codigune, mark what I'll offer thee: Since that the wrongs, which basely thou hast bred Cannot be reconciled, but by the death Of millions, that must suffer for us two; And we the authors of what wars and blood Shall in her frantic outrage lavish out: (For 'tis a thing that honour'scornes to do, That multitudes should perish for us two:) Thou art a man, if actions Like thy words, Be but proportionable, that disdainest To fight with craven baseness all on ods: Nor do I think thy honour so profuse, That guiltless men should bleed for thy abuse: Then, if thou darest: And once more to augment Thy Bastard courage, again, I dare thee fight, Even in a single Monomachy, hand to hand: And, if by chance (as man is nought but chance) Thou conquerest me, I will become thy slave, Confirm my right to thee, and to thy heirs; And if I overcome, do thou the Like. How sayest thou? wilt thou accept this offer? Leave it to themselves, they cannot dispose too ill of the remainder of so black a villain. Our hideous work is done. Exit Caradoc & Morgan. From Caesar, or from such another man, That seemed no less in power then Caesar is, Whom I took captive, (and so Caesar was) And ransomless sent back unto his Tents. Then, if in all he Like to Caesar be, Caesar, I am deceived, but thou art he. No, Caesar : but disguised I left my troops, Being forbidden by the Bryttish King, To fight at all, and rushed into the host, Where, from thy hands I took this golden Lion. Know, Roman, that a Bryttayne scorns thy gold. Let Midas brood adore that Deity, And dedicate his soul unto this saint: Soldiers have mines of honourable thoughts, More wealthy then the Indian veins of gold, Beyond the valve of rich Tagus shore: Their Eagle-feathered actions scorn to stoop To the base lure of usurers and slaves. Let painful Merchants, whose huge riding ships Tear up the furrows of the Indian deep, To shun the slavish load of poverty, Gape after massy gold: the wealth we crave, Are noble actions, and and honoured graven. I'll take no money, Roman: But since thou seemest no counterfeit impression, But bearest the Royal Image of a man, Give me some private token from thy hands, That's generally known unto thy friends, That if by chance I come to Room, I may be known to be your friend. Rot from his cursed trunk that villains arm, That gave this fatal wound to reverend age. How fares our Princely father? Turn thee, Usurper, Harpey of this Climb, Ambitious villain, damned homicide.