The Spanish Tragedie.
Where bloodie furies shakes their whippes of steele,
And poore Ixion turnes an endles wheele:
Where Vzurers are choakt with melting gold,
And Wantons are imbraste with ouglie Snakes,
And Murderers greeue with euerkilling woundes,
And Periured wightes scalded in boyling lead,
And all foule sinnes with tormentes ouerwhelmd,
Twixt these two wayes, I trode the middle path,
Which brought me to the faire Elizian greene:
In midsdst whereof, there standes a stately Towre,
The Walles of Brasse, the Gates of Adamant:
Heere finding Pluto with his Proserpine,
I shewed my Pasport humbled on my knee:
Whereat faire Proserpine began to smile,
And begd that onely she might giue my doome.
Pluto was pleasd, and sealde it with a kisse.
Foorthwith Reuenge she rounded thee in th'eare,
And bade thee lead me though the gates of Horror:
Where dreames haue passage in the silent night.
No sooner had she spoke, but we were heere,
I wot not how, in the twinckling of an eye.
And poore Ixion turnes an endles wheele:
Where Vzurers are choakt with melting gold,
And Wantons are imbraste with ouglie Snakes,
And Murderers greeue with euerkilling woundes,
And Periured wightes scalded in boyling lead,
And all foule sinnes with tormentes ouerwhelmd,
Twixt these two wayes, I trode the middle path,
Which brought me to the faire Elizian greene:
In midsdst whereof, there standes a stately Towre,
The Walles of Brasse, the Gates of Adamant:
Heere finding Pluto with his Proserpine,
I shewed my Pasport humbled on my knee:
Whereat faire Proserpine began to smile,
And begd that onely she might giue my doome.
Pluto was pleasd, and sealde it with a kisse.
Foorthwith Reuenge she rounded thee in th'eare,
And bade thee lead me though the gates of Horror:
Where dreames haue passage in the silent night.
No sooner had she spoke, but we were heere,
I wot not how, in the twinckling of an eye.
Reuenge.
Then know Andrea that thou ariued,
Where thou shalt see the author of thy death:
Don Balthazar the Prince of Portingale,
Depriu'd of life by Bel-imperia:
Heere sit we downe to see the misterie,
And serue for Chorus in this Tragedie.
Then know Andrea that thou ariued,
Where thou shalt see the author of thy death:
Don Balthazar the Prince of Portingale,
Depriu'd of life by Bel-imperia:
Heere sit we downe to see the misterie,
And serue for Chorus in this Tragedie.
Enter Spanish King, Generall, Castille, Hieronimo.
King.
Now say, Lord Generall, how fares our Campe?
Now say, Lord Generall, how fares our Campe?
Gen. All wel my soueraigne Liege, except some few,
That are deceast by fortune of the Warre.
That are deceast by fortune of the Warre.
King. But what portendes thy cheeerefull countenance,
And posting to our presence this in haste?
Speake man? hath fortune giuen vs victorie?
And posting to our presence this in haste?
Speake man? hath fortune giuen vs victorie?
Gen.
