ESTRILD. Believe me, Locrine, but the girl is wise, And well would seem to make a vestal Nun. How finely frames she her oration! THRASIMACHUS. Locrine, we came not here to fight with words, Words that can never win the victory; But for you are so merry in your frumps, Unsheath your swords, and try it out by force, That we may see who hath the better hand. LOCRINE. Thinkst thou to dare me, bold Thrasimachus? Thinkst thou to fear me with thy taunting braves, Or do we seem too weak to cope with thee? Soon shall I shew thee my fine cutting blade, And with my sword, the messenger of death, Seal thee an acquitance for thy bold attempts. [_Exeunt._] Sound the alarm. Enter Locrine, Assarachus and a soldier at one door; Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, at an other; Locrine and his followers driven back. Then let Locrine & Estrild enter again in a maze. LOCRINE. O fair Estrild, we have lost the field; Thrasimachus hath won the victory, And we are left to be a laughing stock, Scoft at by those that are our enemies. Ten thousand soldiers, armed with sword & shield, prevail against an hundreth thousand men; Thrasimachus, incensed with fuming ire, Rageth amongst the faintheart soldiers, Like to grim Mars, when covered with his targe He fought with Diomedes in the field, Close by the banks of silver Simois. [_Sound the alarm._] O lovely Estrild, now the chase begins; Ne’er shall we see the stately Troynouant, Mounted on the coursers garnished all with pearls; Nor shall we view the fair Concordia, Unless as captives we be thither brought. Shall Locrine then be taken prisoner By such a youngling as Thrasimachus? Shall Gwendoline captivate my love? Ne’er shall mine eyes behold that dismal hour; Ne’er will I view that ruthful spectacle, For with my sword, this sharp curtleaxe, I’ll cut in sunder my accursed heart. But O! you judges of the ninefold Styx, Which with incessant torments rack the ghosts Within the bottomless Abissus’ pits, You gods, commanders of the heavenly spheres, Whose will and laws irrevocable stands, Forgive, forgive, this foul accursed sin! Forget, O gods, this foul condemned fault! And now, my sword, that in so many fights [_Kiss his sword._] Hast saved the life of Brutus and his son, End now his life that wisheth still for death; Work now his death that wisheth still for death; Work now his death that hateth still his life. Farewell, fair Estrild, beauty’s paragon, Framed in the front of forlorn miseries! Ne’er shall mine eyes behold thy sunshine eyes, But when we meet in the Elysian fields; Thither I go before with hastened pace. Farewell, vain world, and thy inticing snares! Farewell, foul sin, and thy inticing pleasures! And welcome, death, the end of mortal smart, Welcome to Locrine’s overburthened heart! [_Thrust himself through with his sword._]