The golds that pitied thy continual grief Transformed thy corps, and with thy corps thy care;Poor Estrild lives despairing of relief, For friends in trouble are but few and rare.
What, said I few? Aye! few or none at all, For cruel death made havoc of them all.
Thrice happy they whose fortune was so good, To end their lives, and with their lives their woes!
Thrice hapless I, whom fortune so withstood, That cruelly she gave me to my foes!
Oh, soldiers, is there any misery, To be compared to fortune's treachery.
LOCRINE.
Camber, this same should be the Scithian queen.
CAMBER.
So may we judge by her lamenting words.
LOCRINE.
So fair a dame mine eyes did never see;
With floods of woe she seems overwhelmed to be.
CAMBER.
O Locrine, hath she not a cause for to be sad?
LOCRINE.
[At one side of the stage.]
If she have cause to weep for Humber's death, And shed salt tears for her overthrow, Locrine may well bewail his proper grief, Locrine may move his own peculiar woe.
He, being conquered, died a speedy death, And felt not long his lamentable smart:
I, being conqueror, live a lingering life, And feel the force of Cupid's sudden stroke.
