OLYMPIA

Come good my Lord, & let us haste from ̄ hence Along the cave that leads beyond the foe, No hope is left to save this conquered hold. Death, whither art thou gone that both we live: Come back again (sweet death) & strike us both: One minute end our days, and one sepulcher Contain our bodies: death, why comn'st thou not: Well, this must be the messenger for thee, Now ugly death stretch out thy Sable wings, And carry both our souls, where his remains. Tell me sweet boy, art thou content to die? These barbarous Scythians full of cruelty, And Moors, in whom was never pity found, Will hew us piecemeal, put us to the wheel, Or else invent some torture worse than that, Therefore die by thy loving mother's hand, Who gently now will lance thy Ivory throat, And quickly rid thee both of pain and life. Ah sacred Mahomet, if this be sin, Entreat a pardon of the God of heaven, And purge my soul before it come to thee. My Lord deceased, was dearer unto me, Than any Viceroy, King or Emperor. And for his sake here will I end my days. My Lord and husbands death, with my sweet sons, With whom I buried all affections, Save grief and sorrow which torment my heart, Forbids my mind to entertain a thought That tends to love, but meditate on death, A fitter subject for a pensive soul. No such discourse is pleasant in mine eaxes, But that where every perjod ends with death, And every line begins with death again: I cannot love to be and Empress. Stay good my Lord, and will you save my honour, I'll give your Grace a present of such price, As all the world cannot afford the Like. And ointment which a cunning Alcumist Distilled from the purest Balsamum, And simplest extracts of all Minerals, In which the essential form of Marble stone, Tempered by science metapyisical, And Spells of magic from the mouths of spirits, With which if you but noint your tender Skin, Nor Pistol, Sword, nor Lance can pierce your flesh. My purpose was (my Lord) to spend it so, But was prevented by his sudden end. And for a present easy proof hereof, That I dissemble not, try it on me, Now stab my Lord, and mark your weapons point That will be blunted if the blow be great. Killing my self, as I have done my son, Whose body with his father's I have burned, Least cruel Scythians should dismember him. Then carry me I care not where you will, And let the end of this my fatal journey, Be likewise end to my accursed life. Ah, pity me my Lord, and draw your sword, Making a passage for my troubled soul, Which beats against this prison to get out, And meet my husband and my loving son. To prove it, I will noint my naked throat, Which when you stab, look on your weapons point, And you shall se't rebated with the blow. Take pity of a Ladies ruthful tears, That humbly craves upon her knees to stay, And cast her body in the burning flame, That feeds upon her sons and husbands flesh.