ADRASTUS

Whence (mighty Sovereign) can this change proceed, That does obscure the rays of princely grace, Those that are schooled in woe may clearly read, A mighty passion written in your face. And if a stranger may presume so far, I would the copy of your passion borrow, I else conjecture in what state you are, Taught by a secret sympathy in sorrow. Two strings in diverse Lutes set in accord, (Although th'one be but touched) together found, Even so souls tuned to grief the Like afford, And other with a mutual motion wound. According to the bodies constitution, The soul by night with fancies is afflicted, Or by these thoughts continual revolution, To which by day the mind is most addicted. Ah Sir! if but imagined evil of this Hath plunged your soul in such a gulf of grief, Unhappy I who wail a thing that is, And have not means to hope for no relief. If all these dreadful fancies took effect (Which heavy chance almighty Jove withhold) It could not be compared in no respect With those misfortunes that my state enfold. For when your son fell by another's hand, You should but wail his death, and not your crime, The heavens of me my brother's blood demand, His fate, my fault, mourn must I all my time. I have concealed my sorrows still till now, As too offensive food for dainty ears, Yet since of such a subject you allow, I'll tell a tale that may move stones to tears. My Father of the Phrigian Princes come, Had in my growing age a tender care, That all my education might become One whom he might for mighty Hope's prepare: As yet four lusters scarcely had begun For to discern my sex with downy cheeks, When I into that Labyrinth was run, Whence back in vain the straying entrer sheekes. I loved, Oh fatal love! unlovely fate, The virtuously fair, yet fairest Dame That ever was enshrined in souls conceit, Or gave a ditty to the sounds of fame. Straight were my fancies to her beauty's tied, None can paint passion but in feeling minds, I burned, freezd, hoped, dispaird, and lived, and died, My actions changed as oft as the Autumns winds. Yet after many doubtful Hope's and fears That I attained the height of my desires, She had subscribed a truce unto my tears, And tempered with encountering flames my fires. For as she was the most affected Saint, Whose image was erected in my thought, She had compassion too of my complaint, And to acquit my firm affection sought. Thus while I triumphd in mine own conceit, As one whose love his Lady did prefer, I was corrivald (Oh unhappy fate!) By one who loved, but was not loved by her. He looking as I looked, saw what I saw, Saw Nature's wonder, and the world's delight: And as a blind God blind guide did him draw Still Like a lizard lived but by her sighed. Then strait he strives the Jewel for to won, Whose unstained worth he rates above his breath, He hates the light that comes not from my Sun, And thinks to live without her worse then death. And this affection favoured was by Fortune Which seemed to ratify his high reared Hope's, The Nymph her parents daily did importune, For to confine his flying fancies scopes. Now judge if that my Misery's were rife, Who threatened thus with eminent mishap, Was Like to loose a dearer thing then life, While others strived my treasure to entrap. The man that sought my joys to undermine, I could not wish for this to-have him overthrown, Nor blame the sprite that sympathized with mine, I envied not his hap, but wailed mine own. Now in my breast a battle did begin, Which forced my soul with inward wounds to bleed, Some fancies feared to what his love might win, And possibility for to come speed. Then others called her constancy to mind, Which would not yield although she were invaded, Yet forced to fear the frailty of her kind. A woman that hath ears may be persuaded. Thus tossed with doubts into a deep of woe, Which with suspicion had my joys supplanted, I blamed the thoughts that durst accuse her so, As virtues pattern had one virtue wanted. As I concluded, so it come to pass, Th'affliction served for fuel to affection, For she who ornament of women was, Would never wrong her worth with a defection. When in my absence they had oft assayed To have me from her memory removed, The Sun burn's hottest when his beams are stayed, The more that they would let, the more she loved. And finding that delay no end affords, And that fair generals are abusers Art, She did repel him with disdainful words To raze all thought of her out of his heart. Love is a joy that upon pain depends, A drop of sweet drowned in a sea of sours, What Folly does begin, oft Fury ends, They hate for ever, that have loved for hours. When all his arguments proved of no force, Strait with disdain his soul in secret bur'nd, And what he thought was evil, to make far worse, He unto furor all his favour turned. As he extremely loved, far more he hated, And mused of many means how to annoy her, Which was the best a long time he debated, To see her dead, or to see me enjoy her. What? says he when he first had mused a space, So hard it is to quench a great affection: Shall I disfigure that angellike face, And make the world ecclypsde of all perfection? Shall she by me be to confusion brought, To whom I vows and prayers did impart, To whom I sacrificed my secret thought, And on her beauty's altar burned my heart? Or shall I see her in another's pour, And in his bosom lie t'vpbraid my lose, While both with scornful smiles then death more sour, To point me out for sport report my cross? That sighed which sometime did me sweetly charm, Should it become a cause of grief to me? No, none that live's, shall glory in my harm, Since she will not be mine, she shall not be. Unloving Lover having vowed her death, Did with a cup of poison drown my joys. The fairest body from the sweetest breath Was parted thus, (Oh Ocean of annoys!) That Monster Fame, whose many mouths and ears Must know, but not conceal a rare thing long, And prodigal of ill, most chiefly bears The worst news first, informed me of this wrong. For neighbouring near the most unhappy partly That had been spoiled of such a beeauteous guest, No sooner had death seazde on the chaste heart Then sorrow on my ears to rob my rest. How the sad news first sounded in my soul, I will not weary you with long laments, Rage did the outward signs of grief control; When great winds blow the fire, the smoke worst vents. While generous disdain disguised my grief, (As one transported with a mighty rage) I ran unto the Theater of mischief, A tragic Actor for a bloody stage. For I was come no sooner to the place Whereas I thought the Murderer to have found, But I re'ncountred (Oh unhappy case) Too deer a friend to catch and enemies wound. Ah passion! dimmed mine eyes, wrath led my hand, I was no more my self, sorrow had killed me, The first (was night) that did before me stand, I fiercely did pursue, as Furor willed me. And as it chanced, ere one could speak a word, I filled his bosom with a luck warm flood, And in his kind breast drowned the cruel sword, That in another's body drank my blood. When as a Torch had partly robbed the night, Proud of supposed revenge (ah bitter gain) I saw, I knew, black knowledge, cruel sighed, Was mine own brother that my self had slain. Oh bitter lose that nothing can repair! My soul at once with all woes army wounded, Grief, rage, spite, shame, amazement and despair, Galled, tossd, burned, dashd, astonishd, and confounded. The thought of my offence torments me most, Yet am I while by my Loves verdict cleansed, And while my brother's violated ghost By dreadful dreams does boast to be revenged. I never shall those courtesies neglect, It irks me not to think nor hear the same: For while this sprite these members does direct, All shall concur to celebrate your fame. If t'were your will I would not hence depart, Who all such motives unto mirth abhor, But with my passion here, retired apart, Would wail woe passed and shun all cause of more. For if I strive t'abandon my annoys, I fear my fellowship infect with woe: Those that would recreate themselves with joys, Still strange mishaps attend me where I go. Yet since you will commit this charge to me, I'll use all means that you may not repent you, At lest all my defects faith shall supply, I covet nothing more then to content you. He having herd this lamentable stir, Whom self-accusing thoughts did guilty call, Srait strucken with a wondered remorse, I wot not whither fear or pity moved him, If not t'ore-liue her death, or dreading worse, He killed himself, his conscience so disproved him. No wonder Sir, although you take great care, Lest all your Hope's in Atis person perish. I grant what you allege, and more, is true, I have unto the height of hatred run, A bloodstained Wretch, not worthy for to view The rolling Circles, nor the rayie Sun. I'll never strive to cloak my foul abuses, So for to make my forfeit to seem less, And paint my fault with imperfect excuses, T'is greater far then words can well express. Nor go I thus to aggravate my crime, And damn my self to be absolved by others; No, no, such Rhetoric comes out of time, I'll not survive his death, as erst my brother's. Whose unkind fallen if I had followed straight, As then indeed I died to all delight, I had not groaned charged with this inward weight, But slept with shadows in eternal night. Yet must I die at last, though late grown wise, This in my mind most discontentment breeds, A thousand torturing death's cannot suffice To plague condignly for so heinous deeds. Come, cause him, who the Spriteless body buries, Upon the Tomb to sacrifice my blood, No fitter offering for infernal Furies Then one, in whom they reigned while as he stood. In whom they oft infused their devilish rage, And in my bosom all their Serpents nestled, So that this hellish horror to assuage, I all my days have with disasters wrestled. Oh cruel judgement of a rigorous fate! Must I o're-liue my self t'entombe my Fame? All things that I behold upbraid my state; Too many monuments of one men shame. All (and no more then I) my deeds detest, Yet some not find a friend, I find no foe To rid the world of such a dangerous pest, Born but to be and instrument of woe. I know what makes all worthy minds refrain The sword against a Caitiff for to stretch, They this opprobrious office do disdain, To be the Deaths-men of so base a wretch. Or must I yet a fouler fact commit, And fill the world with th'horrour of my name? Is there some new disaster resting yet, And other funerals famous by my shame? Or would some bastard thought life's cause debate, That in the blasted field of comfort gleans, No, no, in spite of heaven I'll force my fate, One that's resolved to die, cannot want means. Proud tyrant Death, and must thou make it strange? Tinvolue my wearied soul in further strife, Unless my courage with my fortune change, I can appoint a Perjod to my life. But this (Ay me) all hope of help devours, What gains my soul by death in those sad times? If potent still in all her wonted powers She must remember of my odious crimes. What though unbodied she the world forsake? Yet cannot from her conscience be divorced, It will but vex her at the shadowy Lake, Till even to groan the God of ghosts be forced. But welcome death, and Oh would God I had Less famous or more fortunately lived! Then had I never shown my self so mad To-have only been by infamy survived. Ah! have I lived to see my Lady die, And die for me, for me not worth so much; Ah! have I lived (unnatural man) to be My Brother's death, whose love to me was such. Ah! have I lived, with mine own hands to kill A gallant Prince committed to my charge, And do I gaze on the dead body still, And in his Father's sighed my shame enlarge. Ah! have I lived (Oh execrable Monster) To be accounted of a devilish nature, And even by them that best my actions construe, For to be called (and justly called) a Traitor. Yet with my blood this stain away I'll wash, And lest my memory make earth detracted, Let my name perish in my bodies ash, And all my life be as a thought unacted. Brave Atis, now I come to plead for grace, Although thou frownest on my affrighted ghost, And to revenge thy wrong this wound embrace; Thus, thus, I toil attain the Stygian coast.