And by war's fortune lost both love and life." "Why then," said Eacus, "convey him hence To walk with lovers in our field of love And the course of everlasting time Under green myrtle-trees and cypress shades." "No, no!" said Rhadamant, "it were not well With loving souls to place a martialist. He died in war, and must to martial fields, Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain, And Achilles' Myrmidons do scour the plain." Then Minos, mildest censor of the three, Made this device, to end the difference: "Send him," quoth he, "to our infernal king, To doom him as best seems his Majesty." To this effect my passport straight was drawn. In keeping on my way to Pluto's court Through dreadful shades of ever-glooming night, I saw more sights than thousand tongues can tell Or pens can write or mortal hearts can think. Three ways there were: that on the right hand side Was ready way unto the 'foresaid fields Where lovers live and bloody martialists, But either sort contain'd within his bounds; The left hand path, declining fearfully, Was ready downfall to the deepest hell, Where bloody Furies shake their whips of steel, And poor Ixion turns an endless wheel, Where usurers are chok'd with melting gold, And wantons are embrac'd with ugly snakes, And murderers groan with never-killing wounds, And perjur'd wights scalded in boiling lead, And all foul sins with torments overwhelm'd; 'Twixt these two ways I trod the middle path, Which brought me to the fair Elysian green, In midst whereof there stands a stately tower, The walls of brass, the gates of adamant. Here finding Pluto with his Proserpine, I show'd my passport, humbled on my knee. Whereat fair Proserpine began to smile, And begg'd that only she might give me doom. Pluto was pleas'd, and seal'd it with a kiss. Forthwith, Revenge, she rounded thee in th' ear, And bad thee lead me though the gates of horn, Where dreams have passage in the silent night. No sooner had she spoke but we were here, I wot not how, in the twinkling of an eye. REVENGE. Then know, Andrea, that thou arriv'd Where thou shalt see the author of thy death, Don Balthazar, the prince of Portingal, Depriv'd of life by Bel-imperia: Here sit we down to see the mystery, And serve for Chorus in this tragedy. [ACT I. SCENE 1.] [The Spanish Court] Enter SPANISH KING, GENERAL, CASTILLE, HIERONIMO. KING. Now say, lord general: how fares our camp? GEN. All well, my sovereign liege, except some few That are deceas'd by fortune of the war. KING. But what portends thy cheerful countenance And posting to our presence thus in haste? Speak, man: hath fortune given us victory? GEN. Victory, my liege, and that with little loss. KING. Our Portugals will pay us tribute then?