The Spanish Tragedie.
O no, she enuies none but pleasant things,
Such is the folly of despitefull chance.
Fortune is blinde, and sees not my deserts.
So is she deafe, and heares not my laments;
And could she heare, yet is she wilfull mad,
And therefore will not pittie my distresse.
Suppose that she could pittie me, what then?
What helpe can be expected at her hands?
Whose foote standing on a rouling stone,
And minde more mutable then ficle windes.
Why waile I then wher's hope of no redresse?
O yes, complaining makes my griefe seeme lesse.
My late ambition hath distaind my faith,
My breach of faith occasion'd bloodie warres,
Those bloodie warres haue spent my treasure,
And with my treasure, my peoples blood,
And with their blood, my ioy and best beloued,
My best beloued, my sweete and onely Sonne.
O wherefore went I not to warre my selfe?
The cause was mine, I might haue died for both:
My yeeres were mellow, his but young and greene,
My death were naturall, but his was forced.
Such is the folly of despitefull chance.
Fortune is blinde, and sees not my deserts.
So is she deafe, and heares not my laments;
And could she heare, yet is she wilfull mad,
And therefore will not pittie my distresse.
Suppose that she could pittie me, what then?
What helpe can be expected at her hands?
Whose foote standing on a rouling stone,
And minde more mutable then ficle windes.
Why waile I then wher's hope of no redresse?
O yes, complaining makes my griefe seeme lesse.
My late ambition hath distaind my faith,
My breach of faith occasion'd bloodie warres,
Those bloodie warres haue spent my treasure,
And with my treasure, my peoples blood,
And with their blood, my ioy and best beloued,
My best beloued, my sweete and onely Sonne.
O wherefore went I not to warre my selfe?
The cause was mine, I might haue died for both:
My yeeres were mellow, his but young and greene,
My death were naturall, but his was forced.
Alex. No doubt my liege but still the prince suruies.
Vice. Suruies, I where?
Alex. In Spaine a prisoner by mischance of warre.
Vice. Then they haue slaine him for his fathers fault.
Alex. That were a breach to common law of Armes.
Vice. They reake no lawes that meditate reuenge.
Alex. His ransomes woorth will stay from foule reuenge.
Vice. No if he liued, the newes would soone be heere.
Alex. Nay, euill newes will flie faster still than good.
Vice. Tell me no more of newes, for he is dead.
Villup. My Soueraigne, pardon the Authour of ill newes,
And Ile bewray the fortune of thy sonne.
And Ile bewray the fortune of thy sonne.
Vice. Speake on, Ile guerdon thee what ere it be,
Mine eare is readie to receiue ill newes,
Mine heart grone hard gainst mischiefes batterie:
Mine eare is readie to receiue ill newes,
Mine heart grone hard gainst mischiefes batterie:
Stand
