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Accompanied with thefe thy ftragling Mates?
Believe me but this Enterprize was bold,
And well deferveth Commendation.

Guen. Ay, Locrine, Traiterous Locrine, we are come, With full pretence to seek thine Overthrow.

What have I done that thou fhouldft fcorn me thus?

What have I faid that thou shouldft me reje&?
Have I been difobedient to thy Words?
Have I bewray'd thy arcane Secrecy?
Have I difhonoured thy Marriage Bed
With filthy Crimes, or with lafcivious Lufts?
Nay it is thou that hast dishonour'd it,
Thy filthy Mind o'ercome with filthy Lufts,
Yieldeth unto Affections filthy Darts.
Unkind, thou wrong'ft thy firft and trueft fear,
Unkind, thou wrong'ft thy beft and dearest Friend;
Unkind, thou fcorn'ft all skilful Brutus Laws,
Forgetting Father, Uncle, and thy felf.

Eft. Believe me, Locrine, but the Girl is wife,
And well would feem to make a Veftal Nun,

How finely frames the her Oration.

Thra. Locrine, we came not here to fight with Words, Words that can never win the Victory,

But for you are fo merry in your Frumps,

Unsheath your Swords, and try it out by force,
That we may fee who hath the better hand.

Loc. Think'ft thou to dare me, bold Thrafimachus?
Think'st thou to fear me with thy taunting braves,
Or do we feem too weak to cope with thee?
Soon fhall I fhew thee my fine cutting Blade,
And with my Sword, the Meffenger of Death,
Seal thee an acquaintance for thy bold attempts.
Sound the Alarum. Enter Locrine, Affarachus, and a Sol-
dier at one Door; Guendeline, Thrafimachus, at another:
Locrine and his Followers driven back.

Then Locrine and Eftrild enter again in amaze.
Loc. O fair Eftrilda, we have loft the Field,

Thrafimachus hath won the Victory,


And we are left to be a Laughing-ftock,

Scoft at by thofe that are our Enemies,

Ten thousand Soldiers arm'd with Sword and Shield,
Prevail against an hundred thoufand Men,


[Sound the Alarum.

Thrafimachas incenft with fuming Ire,
Rageth amongst the faint-heart Soldiers,
Like to grim Mars, when cover'd with his Targe,
He fought with Diomedes in the Field,
Close by the Banks of filver Simois.
O lovely Estrild now the Chafe begins,
Ne'er fhall we fee the ftately Troynovant
Mounted with Courfers garnifht all with Pearls,
Ne'er fhall we view the fair Concordia,
Unless as Captives we be thither brought.
Shall Locrine then be taken Prisoner,
By fuch a youngling as Thrafimachus?
Shall Guendeline captivate my Love?
Ne'er fhall mine Eyes behold that dismal hour,
Ne'er will I view that ruthful Spectacle,
For with my Sword, or this fharp Curtle-Axe,
I'll cut in funder my Accurfed Heart.

But O you Judges of the ninefold Styx,
Which with inceflant Torments rack the Ghofts
Within the bottomlefs Abyffus Pits,

You Gods, Commanders of the Heav'nly Spheres,
Whole Will and Laws irrevocable ftand,
Forgive, forgive, this foul accurfed Sin;
Forget, O Gods, this foul condemn'd fault:

And now my Sword, that in fo many Fights [Kiffes his Sword.
Haft fav'd the Life of Brutus and his Son,

End now his Life that wifheth ftill for Death,
Work now his Death that witheth ftill for Death,
Work now his Death that hateth ftill his Life.

Farewel, fair Eftrild, Beauty's Paragon,
Fram'd in the front of forlorn Miseries,

Ne'er fhall mine Eyes behold thy Sun-fhine Eyes,
But when we meet in the Elysian Fields,
Thither I go before with haften'd

Farewel, vain World, and thy inticing Snares,
Farewel, foul Sin, and thy inticing Pleasures,
And welcome Death, the end of Moral fmart,
Welcome to Locrine's over-burthen'd Heart.

[Thurfts himself through with his Sword. Eft. Break Heart with Sobs and grievous Sufpirs, Stream forth your Tears from forth my watry Eyes, Help me to mourn for warlike Locrine's Death,


Pour down your Tears you watry 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 confufed Chaos of mishaps?
Wherein as in a Glafs we plainly fee,
That all our Life is but a Tragedy,
Since mighty Kings are fubject to mishap,
Ay, mighty Kings are fubject to mishap,
Since martial Locrine is bereft of Life.
Shall Eftrild 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 woful Mifery,

Locrine I come, Locrine I follow thee.

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[Kills her felf.

Sab. What doleful Sight, what ruthful Spectacle
Hath Fortune offer'd to my hapless Heart?
My Father flain with fuch a fatal Sword,
My Mother murther'd by a mortal wound?
What Thracian Dog, what barbarous Mirmidon,
Would not relent at fuch a ruthful cafe?
What fierce Achilles, what hard ftony Flint,
Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy?
Locrine, the Map of Magnanimity,

Lies flaughter'd in his foul accursed Cave;
Eftrild, the perfect pattern of Renown,
Nature's fole wonder, in whofe beauteous Breafts
All Heav'nly Grace and Virtue was infhrin'd,
Both maffacred are dead within this Cave,
And with them dies fair Pallas and fweet Love.
Here lies a Sword, and Sabren hath a Heart,
This bleffed Sword fhall cut my curfed Heart,
And bring my Soul unto my Parents Ghofts,
That they that live and view our Tragedy,
May mourn our cafe with mournful Plaudites.

[Offers to kill her felf...

Ay me, my Virgins Hands are too too weak,
To penetrate the bulwark of my Breaft;
My Fingers, us'd to tune the amorous Lute,


Are not of force to hold this steely Glaive,
So I am left to wail my Parents Death,
Not able for to work my proper Death.
Ah Locrine, honour'd for thy Nobleness.
Ah Eftrild, famous for thy Conftancy.

Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal Ends.
Enter Guendeline, Thrafimachus, Madan, and the Soldiers.
Guen. Search Soldiers, fearch, find Locrine and his Love,
Find the proud Strumpet, Humber's Concubine,

That I may change thofe her fo pleafing Looks,
To pale and ignominious Afpe&.

Find me the Iffue of their curfed Love,
Find me young Sabren, Locrine's only Joy,
That I may glut my Mind with lukewarm Blood,
Swiftly diftilling from the Baftard's breast.
My Father's Ghoft ftill haunts me for Revenge,
Crying; Revenge my over-haftened Death.
My Brother's Exile, and mine own Divorce,
Banish remorfe clean from my brazen Heart,
All Mercy from mine adamantine Breafts.

Thra. Nor doth thy Husband, lovely Guendeline,
That wonted was to guide our ftarlefs Steps,
Enjoy this Light; fee where he murdred lies,
By lucklefs Lot and froward frowning Fate:
And by him lies his lovely Paramour
Fair Eftrild, goared with a difmal Sword,
And as it feems, both murdred by themselves,
Clafping each other in their feebled Arms,
With loving zeal, as if for Company
Their uncontented Corps were yet content
To pafs foul Styx in Charon's Ferry-boat.

Guen. And hath proud Eftrild then prevented me,
Hath the escaped Guendelina's Wrath,

By violently cutting off her Life?

Would God fhe had the monftrous Hydra's Lives,
That every hour the might have died a Death
Worfe than the swing of old Ixion's Wheel,
And every hour revive to die again,
As Titius bound to houflefs Caucason,
Doth feed the Subftance of his own mishap,
And every Day for want of Food doth die,
And every Night doth live again to die.


But ftay, methinks, I hear fome fainting Voice,
Mournfully weeping for their lucklefs Death.

Sab. You Mountain Nymphs which in thefe Defarts reign,
Cease off your hafty chafe of Savage Beafts,
Prepare to fee a Heart oppreft with Care,
Address your Ears to hear a mournful Stile,
No human Strength, no Work can work my Weal,
Care in my Heart fo Tyrant like doth deal.
You Driades and lightfoot Satyri,

You gracious Fairies, which at Even-tide
Your Closets leave with Heav'nly Beauty ftor'd,
And on your Shoulders spread your golden Locks,
You favage Bears in Caves and darken'd Dens,
Come wail with me the martial Locrine's Death.
Come mourn with me, for beauteous Eftrild's Death.
Ah loving Parents, little do know
What Sorrow Sabren suffers for


your thrall. Guen. But may this be, and is it poffible, Lives Sabren yet to expiate my Wrath? Fortune I thank thee for this Courtefie, And let me never fee one profperous hour, If Sabren die not a reproachful Death.

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Sab. Hard-hearted Death, that when the wretched call, Art fartheft off, and feldom hear'ft at all,

But in the midft of Fortune's good Succefs,

Uncalled comes, and fheers our Life in twain:
When will that hour, that bleffed hour draw nigh,
When poor diftreffed Sabren may be gone.
Sweet Atropos cut off my fatal Thread.
What art thou Death, thall not poor Sabren die?

[Guendeline taking her by the Chin, fays,'
Guen. Yes Damfel, yes, Sabren fhall furely die,
Tho' all the World fhould feek to fave her Life,
And not a common Death fhall Sabren die,
But after ftrange and grievous Punishments,
Shortly inflicted on thy Baftard's Head,
Thou shalt be caft into the curfed Streams,
And feed the Fishes with thy tender Flesh.

Sab. And think'st thou then, thou cruel Homicide,
That these thy Deeds fhall be unpunished?
No Traitor, no, the Gods will venge thefe Wrongs,


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