Pour down your tears, you watery regions, For mighty Locrine is bereft of life!
O fickle fortune! O unstable world!
What else are all things that this globe contains, But a confused chaos of mishaps, Wherein, as in a glass, we plainly see, That all our life is but a Tragedy?
Since mighty kings are subject to mishap--
Aye, mighty kings are subject to mishap!--
Since martial Locrine is bereft of life, Shall Estrild live, then, after Locrine's death?
Shall love of life bar her from Locrine's sword?
O no, this sword, that hath bereft his life, Shall now deprive me of my fleeting soul;Strengthen these hands, O mighty Jupiter, That I may end my woeful misery.
Locrine, I come; Locrine, I follow thee.
[Kill her self.]
[Sound the alarm. Enter Sabren.]
SABREN.
What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offered to my hapless heart?
My father slain with such a fatal sword, My mother murthered by a mortal wound?
What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon, Would not relent at such a rueful case?
What fierce Achilles, what had stony flint, Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy?
