MARTHA

Our son is somewhat slack as we conceive By this delaying, while our heart is feared, And our eyes dimmed with expectation As are the lights of such as on the beach With many a longing, yet a little proof Stand waiting the return of those they love. kneel not Lorrique, I prithee glad my heart With thy tongues true report of my son Otho Whom since his Princely Father is deceased I am come from oppressed with grief In person to salute him for our Duke. Spread me a Carpet on the humble earth: My hand shall be the pillow to my head. This stepmy bolster, and this place my bed. Nay, never fear. A heart with sorrow filled sleeps any where, Will our son come to night? See our train lodged, and then Lorrique attend For captain of the guard; that wait on us, Go all away, no body stay with me Except our son, come if we chance to call, Trouble us not, God night unto you all. Quo fugiat mortal genm? nil denique tutum est, Crudelis nam morsomnia falce secat? Nil durum, nil non mortis penetrabile telis, Omniam vi demit, mors vio nesa suam. 'Tis true, the wise, the fool, the rich, the poor The fair, and the deformed fallen; their life turns Air: the King and Captain are in this alike None hath free hold of life, but they are still When death heavens steward comes, tenants at will. I lay me down, and rest in thee my trust, If I wake never more, till all flesh rise I sleep a happy sleep, sin in me die. Prince Otho, is our son come? who's there Lor rique? Whose that thou talkest with? I prithee friend be brief, what is thy name? I know thee not, what business hast thou here? Art thou a messenger come from our son? If so acquaint us with the news thou bringest. Living? heaven help, I trust my son has no commerce with death. My heart is smitten through thy answer, Lorrique, where is thy gracious Lord? What false impostor then hath mocked my care? Abused my Princely brother Ferdinand? Got his Dukedom in my dead sons name? What can be said now I have lost my son? Or how can this base two-tongu'd hypocrite Excuse concealing of his Master's death. Unhappy Marthan, in thy age undone, Robbed of a husban'd, cheated of a son. Art thou the luckless son of that sad man Lord of Burtholme some time admiral? Be brief, my swollen heart is at point to break. Why not aswell as he Lorrique does live, Or how was he found clasped upon his back Except he had had life to fold his hands. If this that you protest be true, your care Was Like a long reprieve, the date worn out; The execution of my woe is come, And I must suffer it with patience: Where have you laid the body of my son? I'll built me there a Cell, Made Like a tomb, till death, therein isle dwell: Yet for thy wrongs young man attend my words Snce neither Ferdinand, nor Saxony, Have any heirs, to sway their several states; I'll work what lies in e to make thee Duke, And since thou art accepted for my son, Attempting it only to do me good I here adopt thee: mine Christian thee Otho, Mine eyes are now the font, the water tears, That do baptise thee in thy borrowed name. Lights to our chamber, now our fears are passed, What we long doubted, is proved true at last. Attend us son. Lorrique return into the beaten path, I asked thee for a solitary plot, And thou hast brought me to the dismallest grove That ever eye beheld, no woodnimphes here Seek with their agill steps to outstrip the Roe, Nor does the sunsucke from the queachy plot The rankness and the venom of the Earth It seems frequentlesse for the use of men: Some basilisks, or poisonous serpents den! And where's the Chapel that you laid him in? But was the Hermet at his burial? Alas! poor son, the soul of my delights; Thou in thy end Wertenberg robbed of Funeral rites, None sung thy requiem, no friend closed thine eyes, Nor laid the hallowed earth upon thy lips, Thou Wertenberg not houseled, neither did the Bells' ring Blessed peals, nor towle thy funeral knell, Thou woe st to death, as those that sink to hell; Where is the apparel that I bade him wear Against the force of witches and their spells. Swear one thing to me, ere we leave this place; Whither young Hoffman did the most he might to save my son. How now what woman's this? what men are these? Run my lives blood, comfort my troubled heart, That trembles at the sighed of this attire: Lorrique, look on them, knowest thou not these clothes? Nor the distracted bringer? prithee speak. This is not seawet, if my son were drowned Then why thus dry is his apparel found? Alas! what are they? what are you that seem In civil habits to hide ruthless hearts; Lorrique, what are they? what wilt thou attempt? Help Gentlemen, if ye be Gentlemen, And stay this fellow from despairing ill. what hast thou done? I charge thee setting by all circumstance, Thou utter what thou knowest: my heart is steel, Nor can it suffer more then it does feel. Did Hoffman this? and thou concealest the deed? well, go on, I am confident to hear all cruelty, And am resolved to act some, if no hand Will else attempt the murderers and, but mine. what did he with the body of my son? Let them hang a while Hope of revenge in wrath does make me smile. Well, I that never knewreuenges power, Have entertained her newly in my breast: Determine what's to do. Thou meritest death indeed. I'll turn deceit to overthrow his fraud. To any thing how ever desperate. Your doubt was but and Embrio; I indeed Desired Lorrique to bring me to the place Where you beheld the shipwreck of my son; And he hath led me up and down the wood, But never brought me to the fatal beach, Inquire no more of that, I will anon Resolve you of his fate, this time for bear, Esteem this gentleman your Lord and Prince. Willingly, so you will promise me to walk to morrow And see the Earth that gently did receive My sons wracked body from the churlish foam. Heaven! what alterations these! Can I believe you love me as you swore, When you are so inconstant to your friend? What grown so loving? marry heaven defend, We shall deceive you if you dote on us, Fot I have sworn to led a widows life, And never more to be termed married wife. Must? use not force, I pray. What my adopted son become my lover? And make a want on minion of his mother? Now fie upon you fie you're too obscene If Like your words, your thoughts appear unclean. At the first? fie no. That were and abject course, but let us walk Into some covert, there are pretty caves, Lucky to lovers suits, for Virgil sings; That Dido being driven by a sharp storm Into a Lybian cave, was there enticed By silver-tongued Aeneas to affect; And should you serve me so, I were undone, Disgraced in Germany by every Boor, Who in their rhymes would jest at Martha's name Calling her Minion to her cozen son. Virtue and modesty bids me say no, Yet trust me Hoffman tha'rt so sweet a man, And so beloved of me, that I must go. Hateful slave, thou goest to meet destruction in the cave. Come forth deer friends, murder is in our powers They are Justices to punish thy bore bones, Look with thy bloodshed eyes on these bore bones, And tell me that which dead Lorrique confessed Who is't thou villained that least? who wast? Oh mercil sse and cruel murderer To leave me childl sse. Call upon heaven, base wretch, think on thy soul. I am the wretched childless widow sir. Well, forward;