ESTRILD. Break, heart, with sobs and grievous suspires! Stream forth, you tears, from forth my watery eyes; Help me to mourn for warlike Locrine’s death! Pour down your tears, you watery regions, For mighty Locrine is bereft of life! O fickle fortune! O unstable world! What else are all things that this globe contains, But a confused chaos of mishaps, Wherein, as in a glass, we plainly see, That all our life is but a Tragedy? Since mighty kings are subject to mishap— Aye, mighty kings are subject to mishap!— Since martial Locrine is bereft of life, Shall Estrild live, then, after Locrine’s death? Shall love of life bar her from Locrine’s sword? O no, this sword, that hath bereft his life, Shall now deprive me of my fleeting soul; Strengthen these hands, O mighty Jupiter, That I may end my woeful misery. Locrine, I come; Locrine, I follow thee. [_Kill herself._] Sound the alarm. Enter Sabren. SABREN. What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offered to my hapless heart? My father slain with such a fatal sword, My mother murthered by a mortal wound? What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon, Would not relent at such a rueful case? What fierce Achilles, what had stony flint, Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy? Locrine, the map of magnanimity, Lies slaughtered in this foul accursed cave, Estrild, the perfect pattern of renown, Nature’s sole wonder, in whose beauteous breasts All heavenly grace and virtue was inshrined: Both massacred are dead within this cave, And with them dies fair Pallas and sweet love. Here lies a sword, and Sabren hath a heart; This blessed sword shall cut my cursed heart, And bring my soul unto my parents’ ghosts, That they that live and view our Tragedy May mourn our case with mournful plaudities. [_Let her offer to kill herself_] Ay me, my virgin’s hands are too too weak, To penetrate the bulwark of my breast; My fingers, used to tune the amorous lute, Are not of force to hold this steely glaive. So I am left to wail my parents’ death, Not able for to work my proper death. Ah, Locrine, honored for thy nobleness! Ah, Estrild, famous for thy constancy! Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal ends! Enter Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, Madan and the soldiers. GWENDOLINE. Search, soldiers, search, find Locrine and his love; Find the proud strumpet, Humber’s concubine, That I may change those her so pleasing looks To pale and ignominious aspect. Find me the issue of their cursed love, Find me young Sabren, Locrine’s only joy, That I may glut my mind with lukewarm blood, Swiftly distilling from the bastard’s breast. My father’s ghost still haunts me for revenge, Crying, Revenge my overhastened death. My brother’s exile and mine own divorce Banish remorse clean from my brazen heart, All mercy from mine adamantine breasts.