Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches, When many a frozen storm sung through my cuirass, Were the more stubborn metal, have I wrought through, And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans. Have I not seen the Britons Bon. What? Car. Disheart'ned, Run, run, Bonduca, not the quick rack swifter; Not half so fearful;—not a flight drawn home, Bon. O ye powers, What scandals do I suffer! Car. Yes, Bonduca, I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius; The Roman girl, cut through your armed carts, But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then, Took him, and, with my tough belt to my back, Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger, “Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine." I took his offer, THE BLOODY BROTHER; OR, ROLLO: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Rollo, Duke of Normandy, a bloody tyrant, puts to death his tutor Baldwin, for too freely reproving him for his crimes ; but afterwards falls in love with Edith, daughter to the man he has slain. She makes a show of returning his love, and invites him to a banquet; her design being to train him there, that she may kill him: but overcome by his flatteries and real or dissembled remorse, she faints in her resolution. ROLLO. EDITH. Rol. What bright star, taking beauty's form upon her, In all the happy lustre of heaven's glory, Has dropt down from the sky to comfort me? Edi. My gracious lord, no deity dwells here, Rol. Can it be flattery to swear those eyes Oh, look upon me with thy spring of beauty. Rol. By heaven, my Edith, Thy mother fed on roses when she bred thee. In all their pride and pleasures, call thee mistress. Rol. So you please sit by me. Fair gentle maid, there is no speaking to thee, The excellency that appears upon thee Ties up my tongue: pray speak to me. Edi. Of what, sir? Rol. Of anything, anything is excellent. Will you take my directions? speak of love then; Speak of thy fair self, Edith: and while thou speak’st, Let me thus languishing give up myself, wench. Edi. H'as a strange cunning tongue. Why do you sigh, sir? How masterly he turns himself to catch me! Rol. The way to paradise, my gentle maid, Is hard and crooked: scarce repentance finding, You weep extremely; strengthen me now, justice. Rol. Thou'lt never love me, If I should tell thee; yet there's no way left But swimming thither in these tears. Edi. I stagger. Rol. Are they not drops of blood? Rol. They're for blood then, For guiltless blood; and they must drop, my Edith, They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my mischiefs. Edi. If this be true, I have no strength to touch him. Rol. I prithee look upon me, turn not from me; Alas I do confess I'm made of mischiefs, Begot with all man's miseries upon me: But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou, Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness, Whose true condition, tenderness of nature Edi. My anger melts, oh, I shall lose my justice. Rol. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty, As I have done, to murder with thine eyes, (Those blessed eyes) as I have done with malice. When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn, (As I deserve it, lady) for my true love, When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever, As I was smear'd in blood, do not thou hate me ; In my heart's tears and truth of love to Edith, In my fair life hereafter. Edi. He will fool me. Rol. Oh, with thine angel eyes behold and bless me : On heaven we call for mercy and obtain it, To justice for our right on earth and have it, Of thee I beg for love, save me, and give it. Edi. Now, heaven, thy help, or I am gone for ever! His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity. THIERRY AND THEODORET: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. Thierry, King of France, being childless, is foretold by an Astrologer, that he shall have children if he sacrifice the first Woman that he shall meet at sun-rise coming out of the Temple of Diana. He waits before the Temple, and the first Woman he sees proves to be his own Wife Ordella. THIERRY. MARTEL, a Nobleman. Mart. Your grace is early stirring. Oh Martel! Whose happiness is laid up in an hour A power above these passions: this day France, Into forgotten ways, again I ransom, And his fair course turn right. Mart. Happy woman, that dies to do these things. |