JOCASTA

Can any greater be than that you told before? Of Father slain by sons own hand? Betwixt and old man and a young: but nearer to and old. Some by the way deceived were, and some deterd by pain. A few by toil and labour long, did with their Prince remain. 'Tis ten years since: you now revive my chifest cares again. The Destentes are in fault. Blame them, Alas, alas, not we. Oh dying heart: Oh sindrownd soul. Why dost thou faint alas? Why dost thou seek and toil in vain these ills to overpass? What mean these sighs, & scalding tears? why dost thou death refuse? Thou mate of all his mischiefs thou, by whose means only rues The law of nature all: by whom, Ah, Ah, confounded lies, Both God, and man, and beast, and all that either lives or die. Die thou, dispatch at once thrust through thy vile incestuous breast: Thou hast none other means (alas) to set thine heart at rest. Not thou, if God him self, if he his flaming fierce should throw On thee, or mischiefs all by heaps upon thy body strow Couldst once for thy deserved ills endue pains or vengeance pay: Some means therefore to wreak Gods wrath upon thy self assay. Death, death now best contents me, then seek a way to die. So mayest thou yet at length find end for all thy misery. Oh Son lend me thy hand: sith that thou art a Paracyde. This labour last of all remains, this labour thee does bide. Dispatch rid me thy mother deer from all my deadly woe It will not be: no prayers avail. Thy self this deed must do. Take up this sword. Go to, with this thy husband late was slain. Husband? thou termest him false: he was thy syer: Oh deadly pain. Shall I quite through my breast it driven? or through my throat it thrust? Canst thou not choose thy wound? away: die, die, (alas) thou must. This hateful womb then wou ̄ worser (Oh wretch) this, this w to thine own hand Strike, strike it hard: (Oh spare it not) sith both a husband, and (The same a Son it bore.) What boots it , great w to piteous plaints to ag gre ate. Stoutly to bear adverse , estate. When dreaded and danger most assay when cruel Cares do crush Thy princely breast, spant thou most to bear and bide the push. It is no poin of courage slout to yield to Fortune's frown. What makes you wish for death to late, and wave your words in wind. You might have died than (you know) for Sphinx so nobly slave. This kingdom unto you, and yours for ever shall remain. Of one report is rife, Who continued stant in his princes cause full stoutly lost his life. Fain would I speak, I am afraid. For what should I thee call My Son? doubt not. Thou art my Son. My Son thou art for all These mischiefs great: alas, alas I shame my Son to see. Oh cruel Son. Where dost thou turn thy Face? Why dost thou slee From me. From me thy Mother deer? Why dost thou shun my sighed? And leave me thus in misery, with Cares consumed quite.