TANCRED. Gods! are ye guides of justice and revenge? O thou great Thunderer! dost thou behold With watchful eyes the subtle 'scapes of men Harden'd in shame, sear'd up in the desire Of their own lusts? why then dost thou withhold The blast of thy revenge? why dost thou grant Such liberty, such lewd occasion To execute their shameless villainy? Thou, thou art cause of all this open wrong, Thou, that forbear'st thy vengeance all too long. If thou spare them, rain then upon my head The fulness of thy plagues with deadly ire, To reave this ruthful soul, who all too sore Burns in the wrathful torments of revenge. O earth, the mother of each living wight, Open thy womb, devour this wither'd corpse. And thou, O hell (if other hell there be Than that I feel), receive my soul to thee. O daughter, daughter (wherefore do I grace Her with so kind a name?) O thou fond girl, The shameful ruin of thy father's house, Is this my hoped joy? Is this the stay Must glad my grief-ful years that waste away? For life, which first thou didst receive from me, Ten thousand deaths shall I receive by thee. For all the joys I did repose in thee. Which I, fond man, did settle in thy sight, Is this thy recompense--that I must see The thing so shameful and so villanous: That would to God this earth had swallowed This worthless burthen into lowest deeps, Rather than I, accursed, had beheld The sight that hourly massacres my life? O whither, whither fly'st thou forth, my soul? O whither wand'reth my tormented mind? Those pains, that make the miser[70] glad of death, Have seiz'd on me, and yet I cannot have What villains may command--a speedy death. Whom shall I first accuse for this outrage? That God that guideth all, and guideth so This damned deed? Shall I blaspheme their names-- The gods, the authors of this spectacle? Or shall I justly curse that cruel star, Whose influence assign'd this destiny? But may that traitor, shall that vile wretch live, By whom I have receiv'd this injury? Or shall I longer make account of her, That fondly prostitutes her widow's shame?-- I have bethought me what I shall request. [_He kneels_. On bended knees, with hands heav'd up to heaven, This, sacred senate of the gods, I crave: First on the traitor your consuming ire; Next on the cursed strumpet dire revenge; Last on myself, the wretched father, shame. [_He riseth_. O! could I stamp, and therewithal command Armies of furies to assist my heart, To prosecute due vengeance on their souls! Hear me, my friends; but as ye love your lives, Reply not to me; hearken and stand amaz'd. When I, as is my wont, O fond delight! Went forth to seek my daughter, now my death-- Within her chamber, as I thought, she was; But there I found her not--I deemed then For her disport she and her maidens were Down to the garden walk'd to comfort them; And thinking thus, it came into my mind There all alone to tarry her return: And thereupon I, weary, threw myself Upon her widow's bed, for so I thought,