INTRODUCTION.
It appears from William Webbe's Epistle prefixed to this piece, that after its first exhibition it was laid aside, and at some distance of time was new-written by R. Wilmot. The reader, therefore, may not be displeased with a specimen of it in its original dress. It is here given from the fragment of an ancient MS. taken out of a chest of papers formerly belonging to Mr Powell, father-in-law to the author of "Paradise Lost," at Forest Hill, about four miles from Oxford, where in all probability some curiosities of the same kind may remain, the contents of these chests (for I think there are more than one) having never yet been properly examined. The following extract is from the conclusion of the piece.—Reed. [Reed's extract has been collated with the two MSS. before-mentioned; where the Powell MS. may now be, the editor cannot say. The differences, on the whole, are not material; but the Lansdowne MS. 786 has supplied a few superior readings and corrections.]
But in thy brest if eny spark remaine
Of thy dere love. If ever yet I coulde
So moche of thee deserve, or at the least
If with my last desire I may obtaine
This at thy handes, geve me this one request
And let me not spend my last breath in vaine.
My life desire I not, which neither is
In thee to geve nor in my self to save,
Althoughe I wolde. Nor yet I aske not this
As mercye for myne Erle in ought to crave,
Whom I to well do knowe howe thou hast slayen.
No, no, father, thy hard and cruell wronge
With pacience as I may I will sustaine
In woefull life which now shall not be longe.
But this one suite, father, if unto me
Thou graunt, though I cannot the same reacquite
Th'immortall goddes shall render unto thee
Thy due reward and largely guerdon it,
That sins it pleased thee not thus secretly
I might enjoy my love, his corps and myne
May nathelesse together graved be
And in one tombe our bodies both to shrine
With which this small request eke do I praie
That on the same graven in brasse thou place
This woefull epitaphe which I shall saye,
That all lovers may rue this mornefull case;
Loe here within one tombe where harbor twaine
Gismonda Quene and Countie Pallurine!
She loved him, he for her love was slayen,
For whoes revenge eke lyes she here in shrine.
[GISMONDA dieth
TANCRED. O me alas, nowe do the cruell paines
Of cursed death my dere daughter bereave.
Alas whie bide I here? the sight constraines
Me woefull man this woefull place to leaue.
SCENE III.
TANCRED cometh out of GISMOND'S Chamber.
TANCRED. O dolorous happe, ruthefull and all of woe
Alas I carefull wretche what resteth me?
Shall I now live that with these eyes did soe
Beholde my daughter die? what, shall I see
Her death before my face that was my lyfe
And I to lyve that was her lyves decay?
Shall not this hand reache to this hart the knife
That maye bereve bothe sight and life away,
And in the shadowes darke to seke her ghoste
And wander there with her? shall not, alas,
This spedy death be wrought, sithe I have lost
My dearest ioy of all? what, shall I passe
My later dayes in paine, and spende myne age
In teres and plaint! shall I now leade my life
All solitarie as doeth bird in cage,
And fede my woefull yeres with waillfull grefe?
No, no, so will not I my dayes prolonge
To seke to live one houre sith she is gone:
This brest so can not bende to suche a wronge,
That she shold dye and I to live alone.
No, this will I: she shall have her request
And in most royall sorte her funerall
Will I performe. Within one tombe shall rest
Her earle and she, her epitaph withall
Graved thereon shal be. This will I doe
And when these eyes some aged teres have shed
The tomb my self then will I crepe into
And with my blood all bayne their bodies dead.
This heart there will I perce, and reve this brest
The irksome life, and wreke my wrathful ire
Upon my self. She shall have her request,
And I by death will purchace my desyre.
FINIS.
EPILOGUS.
If now perhappes ye either loke to see
Th'unhappie lovers, or the cruell sire
Here to be buried as fittes their degree
Or as the dyeng ladie did require
Or as the ruthefull kinge in deepe despaire
Behight of late (who nowe himself hath slayen)
Or if perchaunse you stand in doutfull fere
Sithe mad Megera is not returnde againe
Least wandring in the world she so bestowe
The snakes that crall about her furious face
As they may raise new ruthes, new kindes of woe
Bothe so and there, and such as you percase
Wold be full lothe so great so nere to see
I am come forth to do you all to wete
Through grefe wherin the lordes of Salerne be
The buriall pompe is not prepared yet:
And for the furie, you shall onderstand
That neither doeth the litle greatest god
Finde such rebelling here in Britain land
Against his royall power as asketh rod
Of ruth from hell to wreke his names decaie
Nor Pluto heareth English ghostes complaine
Our dames disteyned lyves. Therfore ye maye
Be free from feare, sufficeth to maintaine
The vertues which we honor in you all,
So as our Britain ghostes when life is past
Maie praise in heven, not plaine in Plutoes hall
Our dames, but hold them vertuous and chast,
Worthie to live where furie never came,
Where love can see, and beares no deadly bowe,
Whoes lyves eternall tromp of glorious fame
With joyfull sounde to honest eares shall blowe.