_Vict_. I will; what sacred voice cryes 'follow'!
I am ready: Oh send me after him.
_King_. Thou shalt not,
Till thou hast fed my lust.
_Vict_. Thou foole, thou canst not;
All my mortality is shaken off;
My heart of flesh and blood is gone; my body
Is chang'd; this face is not that once was mine.
I am a Spirit, and no racke of thine
Can touch me.
_King_. Not a racke of mine shall touch thee.
Why should the world loose such a paire of Sunnes
As shine out from thine eyes? Why art thou cruell,
To make away thy selfe and murther mee?
Since whirle-winds cannot shake thee thou shalt live,
And Ile fanne gentle gales upon thy face.
Fetch me a day bed, rob the earths perfumes
Of all the ravishing sweetes to feast her sence;
Pillowes of roses shall beare up her head;
O would a thousand springs might grow in one
To weave a flowry mantle o're her limbes
As she lyes downe.
_Enter two Angels about the bed_.
_Vict_. O that some rocke of Ice
Might fall on me and freeze me into nothing.
_King_. Enchant our [her?] eares with Musicke; would I had skill
To call the winged musitians of the aire
Into these roomes! they all should play to thee
Till golden slumbers danc'd upon thy browes,
Watching to close thine eye-lids.
_Ang_. These Starres must shine no more; soule, flye away.
Tyrant, enioy but a cold lumpe of clay.
_King_. My charmes worke; shee sleepes,
And lookes more lovely now she sleepes.
Against she wakes, Invention, grow thou poore,
Studying to finde a banquet which the gods
Might be invited to. I need not court her now
For a poor kisse; her lips are friendly now,
And with the warme breath sweeting all the Aire,
Draw mee thus to them.--Ha! the lips of Winter
Are not so cold.
_Anton_. She's dead, Sir.
_King_. Dead?
_Dam_. As frozen as if the North-winde had in spight
Snatcht her hence from you.
_King_. Oh; I have murthered her!
Perfumes some creature kill: she has so long
In that darke Dungeon suck't pestiferous breath,
The sweete has stifled her. Take hence the body,
Since me it hated it shall feele my hate:
Cast her into the fire; I have lost her,
And for her sake all Christians shall be lost
That subjects are to me: massacre all,
But thou, _Eugenius_, art the last shall fall
This day; and in mine eye, though it nere see more,
Call on thy helper which thou dost adore.
_A Thunder-bolt strikes him_.
_Omnes_. The King is strucke with thunder!
_Eugen_. Thankes, Divine Powers;
Yours be the triumph and the wonder ours.
_Anton_. Unbinde him till a new King fill the throne;
And he shall doome him.
_A Hubert, a Hubert, a Hubert_!
_Flourish: Enter Hubert, armed with shields and swords.
Bellina and a company of Souldiers with him_.
_Hub_. What meanes this cry, 'a Hubert'? Where's your King?
_Omnes_. Strucke dead by thunder.
_Hub_. So I heare; you see, then,
There is an arme more rigorous than your _Iove_,
An arme stretcht from above to beate down Gyants,
The mightiest Kings on _Earth_, for all their shoulders
Carry _Colossi_ heads: the memory
Of _Genzericks_ name dyes here: _Henricke_ gives buriall
To the successive glory of that race
Who had both voyce and title to the Crowne,
And meanes to guard it.--Who must now be King?
_Anton_. We know not till we call the Lords together.
_Hub_. What Lords?
_Cosmo_. Our selves and others.
_Hub_. Who makes you Lords?
The Tree upon whose boughs your honours grew,
Your Lordships and your lives, is falne to th'ground.
_Dam_. We stand on our owne strength.
_Hub_. Who must be King?
_Within: A Hubert, a Hubert a Hubert_!
_Hub_. Deliver to my hand that reverent [_sic_] man.
_Epi_. Take him and torture him, for he cald down Vengeance
On _Henricks_ head.
_Hub_. Good _Eugenius_, lift thy hands up,
For thou art say'd from _Henricke_ and from these.
You heare what ecchoes
Rebound from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth,
Casting the name of King onely on me?
This golden apple is a tempting fruit;
It is within my reach; this sword can touch it,
And lop the weake branch off on which it hangs.
Which of you all would spurne at such a Starre,
Lay it i'th the dust when 'tis let down from heaven
For him to weare?
_Anton_. Who then must weare that Starre?
_Within: Hubert, Hubert, Hubert_!
_Hub_. The Oracle tells you; Oracle? 'tis a voyce
From above tells you; for the peoples tongues,
When they pronounce good things, are ty'd to chaines
Of twenty thousand linkes, which chaines are held
By one supernall hand, and cannot speake
But what that hand will suffer. I have then
The people on my side; I have the souldiers;
I have that army which your rash young King
Had bent against the Christians,--they now are mine:
I am the Center, and they all are lines
Meeting in me. If, therefore, these strong sinewes,
The Souldiers and the Commons, have a vertue
To lift me into the Throne, Ile leape into it.
Will you consent or no? be quick in answer;
I must be swift in execution else.
_Omnes_. Let us consult.
_Hub_. Doe, and doe't quickly.
_Eugen_. O noble Sir, if you be King shoot forth
Bright as a Sunne-beame, and dry up these vapours
That choake this kingdome; dry the seas of blood
Flowing from Christians, and drinke up the teares
Of those alive, halfe slaughter'd in their feares.
_Hub_. Father, Ile not offend you.--Have you done?
So long chusing one Crowne?
_Anton_. Let Drums and Trumpets proclaime
_Hubert_ our King!
_Omnes_. Sound Drummes and Trumpets!
_Hub_. I have it, then, as well by voyce as sword;
For should you holde it backe it will be mine.
I claime it, then, by conquest; fields are wonne
By yeelding as by strokes: Yet, noble _Vandals_,
I will lay by the Conquest and acknowledge
That your hands and your hearts the pinnacles are
On which my greatnesse mounts unto this height.
And now in sight of you and heaven I sweare
By those new sacred fires kindled within me,
'Tis not your ho[o]pe of Gold my brow desires;
A thronging Court to me is but a Cell;
These popular acclamations, which thus dance
I'th Aire, should passe by me as whistling windes
Playing with leaves of trees. I'me not ambitious
Of Titles glorious and maiesticall;
But what I doe is to save blood, save you;
I meane to be a husband for you all,
And fill you all with riches.
_Epi_. 'Tis that we thirst for;
For all our bagges are emptied in these warres
Rais'd by seditious Christians.
_Hub_. Peace, thou foole:
They are not bags of gold, that melts in fire,
Which I will fill your coffers with; my treasury
Are riches for your soules; my armes are spread
Like wings to protect Christians. What have you done?
Proclaim'd a Christian King; and Christian Kings
Should not be bloody.
_Omnes_. How? turn'd Christian?
_Eugen_. O blest King! happy day!
_Omnes_. Must we forsake our Gods then?
_Hub_. Violent streames
Must not bee stopt by violence; there's an art
To meete and put by the most boysterous wave;
'Tis now no policy for you to murmure
Nor will I threaten. A great counsell by you
Shall straight be cal'd to set this frame in order
Of this great state.
_Omnes_. To that we all are willing.
_Hub_. Are you then willing this noble maid
Shall be my Queene?
_Omnes_. With all our hearts.
_Hub_. By no hand but by thine will we be crown'd:
Come, my _Bellina_.
_Bellina_. Your vow is past to me that I should ever
Preserve my virgin honour, that you would never
Tempt me unto your bed.
_Hub_. That vow I keepe:
I vow'd so long as my knees bow'd to _Iove_
To let you be your selfe; but, excellent Lady,
I now am seal'd a Christian as you are:
And you have sworne oft that, when upon my forehead
That glorious starre was stucke, you would be mine
In holy wedlocke. Come, sweete, you and I
Shall from our loynes produce a race of Kings,
And ploughing up false gods set up one true;
Christians unborne crowning both me and you
With praise as now with gold.
_Bellina_. A fortunate day;
A great power prompts me on and I obey.
(_Flourish_)
_Omnes_. Long live _Hubert_ and _Bellina_, King and Queene
Of Goths and Vandals.
_Hub_. Two royall Iewels you give me, this and this:
Father, your hand is lucky, I am covetous
Of one Gift more: After your sacred way
Make you this Queene a wife: our Coronation
Is turn'd into a bridall.
_Omnes_. All ioy and happinesse.
_Hub_. To guard your lives will I lay out mine owne,
And like Vines plant you round about my throne.
_The end of the fift and last Act_.
To the Reader of this Play now come in Print.
That this play's old 'tis true; but now if any
Should for that cause despise it we have many
Reasons, both iust and pregnant, to maintaine
Antiquity, and those, too, not all vaine.
We know (and not long since) there was a time
Strong lines were not lookt after, but, if Rime,
O then 'twas excellent. Who but beleeves
That Doublets with stuft bellies and big sleeves
And those Trunk-hose[177] which now our life doth scorne
Were all in fashion and with custome worne?
And what's now out of date who is't can tell
But it may come in fashion and sute well?
With rigour therefore iudge not but with reason,
Since what you read was fitted to that season.
The Epilogue.
_As in a Feast, so in a Comedy,
Two Sences must be pleas'd; in both the Eye;
In Feasts the Eye and Taste must be invited,
In Comedies the Eye and Eare delighted:
And he that only seekes to please but either,
While both he doth not please, he pleaseth neither.
What ever Feast could every guest content,
When as t'each man each Taste is different?
But lesse a Scene, when nought but as 'tis newer
Can please, where Guests are more and Dishes fewer.
Yet in this thought, this thought the Author eas'd;
Who once made all, all rules all never pleas'd.[178]
Faine would we please the best, if not the many;
And sooner will the best be pleas'd then any.
Our rest we set[179] in pleasing of the best;
So we wish you, what you may give us, Rest_.