These Arms, that have fuftain'd their Master's Life?
Come with your Razors rip my Bowels up,
With your sharp Fire-forks crack my starved Bones.
Ufe me as you will, fo Humber may not live.
Accurfed Gods that rule the ftarry Poles,
Accurfed Jove, King of th' accurfed Gods,
Caft down your Lightning on poor Humber's Head,
That I may leave this Death-like Life of mine;
What hear you not, and fhall not Humber die ?
Nay I will die, though all the Gods fay nay.
And gentle Aby take my troubled Corps,
Take it and keep it from all mortal Eyes,
That none may fay, when I have loft my Breath,
The very
Floods confpir'd 'gainst Humber's Death.
[Flings himself into the River.

Enter the Ghoff of Albanact.

En cadem fequitur, cades in cede quiefco.

Humber is dead, joy Heav'ns, leap Earth, dance Trees;
Now may'st thou reach thy Apples Tantalus,
And with 'em feed thy hunger-bitten Limbs.
Now Syfiphus leave the tumbling of thy Rock,
And reft thy restless Bones upon the fame.
Unbind Ixion, cruel Rhadamanth,

And lay proud Humber on the whirling Wheel.
Back will I poft to Hell Mouth Tanarus,
And pafs Cocytus, to the Elysian Fields,
And tell my Father Brutus of this News.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

[Exit.

Enter Ate as before. Jafon leading Creon's Daughter. Me dea following, a Garland in her Hand, and putting it on Creon's Daughter's Head, fetteth it on Fire, and then killing Jafon and her, departs.

Ate.

NON

ON tam Trinacriis exastuat Ætna cavernis,
Lafa furtivo quam cor mulieris amore.

Medea feeing Fafon leave her Love,

And chufe the Daughter of the Theban King,
Went to her devilish Charms to work Revenge;
And raifing up the triple Hecate,

With all the rout of the condemned Fiends,
Framed a Garland by her magick Skill,

With which the wrought Jafon and Creon's Ill.
So Guendeline seeing her felf mifus'd,
And Humber's Paramour poffefs her place,
Flies to the Dukedom of Cornubia,
And with her Brother ftout Thrafimachus,
Gathering a Power of Cornish Soldiers,
Gives Battel to her Husband and his Hoft,
Nigh to the River of great Mercia:
The Chances of this dismal Maffacre,
That which enfueth fhortly will unfold.

SCENE II.

[Exit.

Enter Locrine, Camber, Affaracus, and Thrafimachus. Affa. But tell me, Coufin, dy'd my Brother fo? Now who is left to hapless Albion,

That as a Pillar might uphold our State,

That might ftrike Terror to our daring Foes?
Now who is left to hapless Britany,

That might defend her from the barb'rous Hands
Of those that ftill defire her ruinous fall,
And feek to work her downfal and decay?

Cam. Ay Uncle, Death's our common Enemy,
And none but Death can match our matchlefs Power;
Witness the Fall of Albioneius Crew,

Witness the Fall of Humber and his Hunns,

And this foul Death hath now increas'd our Woe,

By taking Corineius from this Life,

And in his room leaving us Worlds of Care.

Thra. But none may more bewail his mournful Hearfe,

Than I that am the iffue of his Loins,

Now foul befal that curfed Humber's Throat,

That was the caufer of his lingring Wound.

Loc. Tears cannot raise him from the Dead again,

But where's my Lady Miftrefs Guendeline ?

Thra. In Cornwall, Locrine, is my Sifter now,

Providing for my Father's Funeral.

Loc. And let her there provide her mourning Weeds, And mourn for ever her own Widow-hood,

Ne'er fhall fhe come within our Palace Gate,

Nn 3

Το

To countercheck brave Locrine in his Love.
Go, Boy, to Deucolitum, down the Lee,
Unto the Arch where lovely Eftrild lies,
Bring her and Sabren strait unto the Court,
She fhall be Queen in Guendeline's room.
Let others wail for Corineins Death,

I mean not so to macerate my Mind,

For him that barr'd me from my Heart's Defire.
Thra. Hath Locrine then forfook his Guendeline ?
Is Corineius death fo foon forgot?

If there be Gods in Heav'n, as fure there be ;
If there be Fiends in Hell, as needs there muft,
They will revenge this thy notorious wrong,
And pour their Plagues upon thy curfed Head.
Loc. What, prat'it thou, Peafant, to thy Soveraign?
Or art thou ftrucken in fome Extafie?

Doft thou not tremble at our Royal Looks?
Doft thou not quake when mighty Locrine frowns?
Thou beardlefs Boy, were't not that Locrine fcorns
To vex his Mind with fuch a Heartless Child,
With the sharp Point of this my Battel-axe,
I'd fend thy Soul to Puryphlegiton.

Thra. Though I be young and of a tender Age,
Yet will I cope with Locrine when he dares.
My noble Father, with his conqu'ring Sword,
Slew the two Giants Kings of Aquitain.
Thrafimachus is not fo degenerate,

That he should fear and tremble at the looks,
Or taunting Words of a Venerean Squire.
Loc. Menaceft thou thy Royal Soveraign?
Uncivil, not befeeming fuch as you.
Injurious Traitor (for he is no lefs

That at Defiance ftandeth with his King)

Leave thefe thy Taunts, leave thefe thy bragging Words
Unless thou mean'ft to leave thy wretched Life.

Thra. If Princes ftain their glorious Dignity

With ugly fpots of monftrous Infamy,

They leefe their former Eftimation,
And throw themselves into a Hell of hate.
Loc. Wilt thou abufe my gentle Patience,

As though thou didst our high displeasure scorn?

Proud

Proud Boy, that thou may'ft know thy Prince is mov'd,
Yea, greatly mov'd at this thy fwelling Pride,
We banish thee for ever from our Court.

Thra. Then, lofel Locrine, look unto thy felf,
Thrafimachus will revenge this Injury.

[Exit.

Loc. Farewel, proud Boy, and learn to ufe thy Tongue. Aa. Alas, my Lord, you fhould have call'd to mind

The latest Words that Brutus fpake to you,

How he defir'd you, by the Obedience
That Children ought to bear their Sire,
To love and favour Lady Guendeline :
Confider this, that if the Injury
Do move her mind, as certainly it will,
War and Diffention follows fpeedily.

What though her Power be not fo great as yours,
Have you not feen a mighty Elephant

Slain by the biting of a filly Moufe?

Even fo the chance of War inconftant is.

Loc. Peace, Unkle, Peace, and ceafe to talk hereof;
For he that feeks by whispering this or that,
To trouble Locrine, in his fweetest Life,
Let him perfwade himself to die the Death.

Enter the Page, with Eftrild and Sabren,
Eft. O fay me, Page, tell me, where is the King?
Wherefore doth he fend for me to the Court ?
Is it to die? is it to end my Life?

Say me, fweet Boy, tell me and do not feign.

Page. No, truft me, Madam, if you will credit the little Honelty that is yet left me, there is no fuch Danger as you fear, but prepare your felf, yonder's the King.

Eft. Then, Eftrild, lift thy dazled Spirits up, [Kneeling. And bless that bleffed time, that Day, that Hour, That warlike Locrine firft did favour thee.

Peace to the King of Britany, my Love,

Peace to all thofe that love and favour him.

Loc. Doth Eftrild fall with fuch Submiffion [Taking her up. Before her Servant King of Albion?

Arife, fair Lady, leave this lovely Chear,

Lift up thofe Looks that cherish Locrine's Heart,
That I may freely view that roseal Face,

Nn4

Which

Which fo intangled hath my love-fick Breast.
Now to the Court, where we will court it out,
And pafs the Night and Day in Venus Sports.

Frolick, brave Peers, be joyful with your King. [Exeunt.

Enter Guendeline, Thrafimachus, Madan, and Soldiers.
Guen. You gentle Winds that with your modest Blafts
Pafs through the Circuit of the Heav'nly Vault,
Enter the Clouds unto the Throne of Jove,
And bear my Pray'rs to his all-hearing Ears,
For Locrine hath forfaken Guendeline,
And learnt to love proud Humber's Concubine.
You happy Sprites that in the Concave Sky,
With pleafant Joy, enjoy your fweetest Love,
Shed forth thofe Tears with me, which then you fhed,
When firft you woo'd your Ladies to your Wills:
Those Tears are fitteft for my woful Cafe,
Since Locrine fhuns my nothing-pleasant Face.
Blush Heav'ns, blush Sun, and hide thy fhining Beams,
Shadow thy radiant Locks in gloomy Clouds,
Deny thy chearful Light unto the World,
Where nothing reigns but Falfhood and Deceit.
What, faid I, Falfhood? Ay, that filthy Crime,
For Locrine hath forfaken Guendeline.

Behold the Heav'ns do wail for Guendeline :
The fhining Sun doth blush for Guendeline :
The liquid Air doth weep for Guendeline :
The very Ground doth groan for Guendeline.
Ay, they are milder than the Britain King,
For he rejecteth lucklefs Guendeline.

Thra. Sifter, complaints are bootlefs in this cause,
This open wrong must have an open Plague:
This Plague muft be repaid with grievous War,
This War muft finish with Locrinus Death,
His Death will foon extinguifh our Complaints.
Guen. O no, his Death will more augment my woes;
He was my Husband, brave Thrafimachus,
More dear to me than th' apple of mine Eye,
Nor can I find in Heart to work his Scathe.
Thra. Madam, if not your proper Injuries,
Nor my Exile, can move you to revenge :