SISIGAMBIS

Help, help, alas, alas the Empress falls. This heavy sighed my panting heart appals: Heaven, earth, and all, are now become our foes. Dear daughter, strive your passion to restrain, Lest that the torrent of your grief grow such, That both it carry you where horiours reign; And him overwhelm for whom you mourn so much; No doubt but he, if we rest captives thus Disdaining those indignities of ours, To venge himself in reobtaining us, Will hazard all his oriental powers; But ah, what comfort can a wretch afford, Whose care-worn breast the worst of woe contains: Yet though my heart would feign impugn my word, I hopeless speak of hope, to ease her pains. I wail my Son. No woe Like mine, mine cannot be relieved, I wail his woe who should my woe assuage, Who lives by me, by whom I should have lived, Sport of my youth, and pillar of mine age. I mourn for him who in my womb was formed. Shall I no more in him my Image see? Would God my ruin might his ransom be. Must those grey hairs my Sons green youth furvive? But whilst our wretched state we justly moan, We may lament this Infant too a space, Who in mishap inferior were to none, If he could apprehend his Tragic case. By many signs we may our selves assure T'is Alexander whom we longed not for. Spare, spare such speeches now, lest all go wrong, We are environed with outrageous hosts; Those who are weak must yield unto the strong: For, Victor's rage when as the vanquished bosts; I will entreat him too, not for my self (Age bows my body to embrace pale death) But that you yet may shun this wrackful shelf, Whose youth and beauty worthy are of breath. Most gracious Prince, forgive me if I erred In taking him for you, who stands you by. My sorrows so confounded have my mind That scarce I know my self, another less; My soul in such and agony I find, As words, nor tears, nor groans cannot express. This tender name of Mother wounds my heart, Whilst named by him, who of that name me spoils: I was (woe that I was) a Mother late Of two fair Sons (fair Suns) lights of my life, But one is dead, and in a worse estate, The other lives, involved in woe, and strife; Like to the trunk of some disbranched tree Which Aeolus hath to confusion brought, Since spoiled of those brave Imps which sprung from me Unprofitable stock, I serve for nought. Most mighty King thou dost deserve indeed, That (as for Darius ) we should pray for thee, Who dost so much in clemency exceed, That thou bewailest our lose, no less then he; Not only thou surmount'st all other Kings, In glory rising from thy labours gone; And for those benefits which Fortune brings, But in all virtues worthy of a Throne; Thou dost vouchsafe on me (more then I crave) The title of a Queen, and Mother still, But I confess my self thy humble slave, Whose life hath now no limits but thy will; The dreamed good, that Greatness gave, forgotten, My countenance shall be free from clouds of cares, And I'll allow of this my present lot, As one who for my fate my force prepares; Yea, if this woeful woman here were free, Who hath no heaven except her husbands face; I could content my self (great Prince) to be The meanest handmaid that attends your Grace. Heavens recompense this courtesy of thine, Which in all ages thousands shall admire. Ah! shall I see (no, let me first be blind) That body breathless, which I brought to light? Where would my soul a force sufficient find That could encounter with so sad a sighed? Oh flinty heart! what hinders thee to break, Since (crushed with cares) a stranger to repose? Why partest thou not (poor soul) that whilst I speak In opening of my lips, mine eyes may close? This heritage of death, this withered stock Is but a place appointed for despairs, A torture to it self, a stumbling block, Whose aged furrows fertile are in cares. Once for good Fortune's, now for bade designed, (To state betrayed) drawn forth from calm repose, To have been happy most afflicts my mind, Who, raised to fallen, God much, the more to loose. Ah me! malicious fates have done me wrong, Who first come to the world, should first depart, And ah! why should the old o're-live the young? This Nature wrongs by a preposterous art; Ah! why should Death so indiscreet be found To spare a caitiff, and to spoil a Prince? My half-dead body, bending to the ground, Through grief is grown ripe for the grave long since. Be not a niggard of ill news. Fame will tell all the world. Tell soon. Then let me die. Why opens not the Earth straight to devour A hopeless caitiff who all good hath lost? The longer that I live, my grief grows more, As but to mischief born, kept to be crossed; Would God this mass where misery remains, A weight of Earth from sighed of men might keep; Or that the Seas all raging through the plains Would make my tomb amidst their tumid deep. Oh Alexander! hast thou robbed his life, Yet entertained me still in hope to find him? Why didst thou not first kill this poor old wife, Who was not worthy to have lived behind him? That I should live till thou my Son hadst slain, Was all thy kindness for this cause employed? What impious thoughts durst dream so vile a deed, A monarchs murder, Asia's glories end? Tell on thy message, messenger of death, And load my mind with mountains of distress, That tears may drown my sighed, sighs choke my breath, While sorrow all my senses does possess.