LOCRINE. Aye, they are beasts that seek to usurp our land, And like to brutish beasts they shall be served. For mighty Jove, the supreme king of heaven, That guides the concourse of the Meteors, And rules the motion of the azure sky, Fights always for the Brittains’ safety.— But stay! me thinks I hear some shriking noise, That draweth near to our pavilion. Enter the soldiers leading in Estrild. ESTRILD. What prince so ere, adorned with golden crown, Doth sway the regal scepter in his hand, And thinks no chance can ever throw him down, Or that his state shall everlasting stand: Let him behold poor Estrild in this plight, The perfect platform of a troubled wight. Once was I guarded with manortial bands, Compassed with princes of the noble blood; Now am I fallen into my foemen’s hands, And with my death must pacific their mood. O life, the harbour of calamities! O death, the haven of all miseries! I could compare my sorrows to thy woe, Thou wretched queen of wretched Pergamus, But that thou viewdst thy enemies’ overthrow. Night to the rock of high Caphareus, Thou sawest their death, and then departedst thence; I must abide the victor’s insolence. The golds that pitied thy continual grief Transformed thy corps, and with thy corps thy care; Poor Estrild lives despairing of relief, For friends in trouble are but few and rare. What, said I few? Aye! few or none at all, For cruel death made havoc of them all. Thrice happy they whose fortune was so good, To end their lives, and with their lives their woes! Thrice hapless I, whom fortune so withstood, That cruelly she gave me to my foes! Oh, soldiers, is there any misery, To be compared to fortune’s treachery. LOCRINE. Camber, this same should be the Scithian queen. CAMBER. So may we judge by her lamenting words. LOCRINE. So fair a dame mine eyes did never see; With floods of woe she seems overwhelmed to be. CAMBER. O Locrine, hath she not a cause for to be sad? LOCRINE. [_At one side of the stage_.] If she have cause to weep for Humber’s death, And shed salt tears for her overthrow, Locrine may well bewail his proper grief, Locrine may move his own peculiar woe. He, being conquered, died a speedy death, And felt not long his lamentable smart: I, being conqueror, live a lingering life, And feel the force of Cupid’s sudden stroke. I gave him cause to die a speedy death, He left me cause to wish a speedy death. Oh that sweet face painted with nature’s dye, Those roseall cheeks mixed with a snowy white, That decent neck surpassing ivory, Those comely breasts which Venus well might spite, Are like to snares which wily fowlers wrought, Wherein my yielding heart is prisoner caught. The golden tresses of her dainty hair, Which shine like rubies glittering with the sun, Have so entrapt poor Locrine’s lovesick heart, That from the same no way it can be won. How true is that which oft I heard declared, One dram of joy, must have a pound of care.