by Seneca
Not she that guydes the slipper wheele of Fate, doth so delay:
That she to al possession grauntes, of ten yeares settled stay.
With leave of Greece I wil confesse, I would have wonne the towne
But not with ruine thus extreme to see it beaten downe.
But loe the battel made by night and rage of fervent mynd,
Could not abide the brydling bitte that reason had assignd.
The happy sword once staind with bloud unsatiable is,
And in the darke the fervent rage doth strike the more amis.
Now we are wreakt on Troy so much let all that may remayne.
A Virgin borne of Princes bloud for ofrring to be slayne
And geven be to stayne the tombe and ashes of the ded,
And under name of wedlocke see the guiltles bloud be shed,
I wil not graunt for myne should bee thereof both fault and blame,
Who when he may, forbiddeth not offence: doth wil the same.
4 Id. 814(‘CHORUS altered by the translatour’; in fact borrowed, in part, from Hippolytus, 959 ff.):
O Jove that leadst the lampes of fire, and deckst with flaming starres the sky,
Why is it ever thy desire to care their course so orderly?
That nowe the frost the leaves hath worne, and now the spring oth close the tree.
Now fiery Leo rypes the corne, and stil the soyle should chaunged be?
But why art thou that all dost guide, betweene whose hands the poale doth sway,
And at whose wil the Orbs do slyde, careles of mans estate alway?
Regarding not the goodmans case, not caryng how to hurt the yll.
Chaunce beareth rule in every place and turneth mans estate at will.
She gives the wronge the upper hand, the better part she doth oppresse,
She makes the highest low to stand, her Kingdom all is order-lesse.
(and six more lines on the matter of the play)
5 Id. 997 (a mistranslation):
In meane time haps this deepe distress my cares can know no calme,
I ran the race with Priamus, but he hath won the palme.
6 Id. 1009–23 (the original is repetitive, but the translator expands it further):
A comfort is to mans calamity
A doleful flocke of felowes in distres.
And sweete to him that mournes in miserie
To here them wayle whom sorowes like oppres
In deepest care his griefe him bites the les,
That his estate bewayles not all alone,
But seeth with him the teares of many one.
For still it is the chief delight in woe,
And joy of them that sonke in sorrowes are,
To see like fates by fall to many moe,
That may take part of all their wofull fare,
And not alone to be opprest with care.
There is no wight of woe that doth complayne,
When all the rest do like mischaunce sustayne.
In all this world if happy man were none,
None (though he were) would thinke himselfe awretch,
Let once the rich with heapes of Gold be gone,
Whose hundred head his pastours overretch,
Then would the poore mans hart begin to stretch.
There is no wretch whose life him doth displease,
But in respect of those that live at ease.
7 Id. 1034 (Phrixus and Helle translated as Pyrrhus and Helen):
Ful sore did Pirrhus Helens losse complayne,
What time the leader of his flocke of shepe,
Uppon his backe alone he bare them twayne,
And wet his Golden lockes amid the deepe.…
8 OEDIPUS, by Alexander Nevyle (1563), 569–81 (much reconstructed):
Than out with thundring voyce agayne the Prophet calles and cryes,
And straight as much with mumbling mouth he champs in secret wyse.
The trees do turne. The Rivers stand. The ground with roring shakes.
And all the world as seemes to mee, with fearful trembling quakes.
I am heard, I am heard, than out aloude the Priest began to cry:
Whan all the dampned soules by heapes abrode outrushing fly.
Then woods with rumbling noyse, doe oft resounding make.
And Heaven, and Earth together goe. And bowes and trees do crake.
And Thunders roore. And Lightnings flash. And waves aloft do fly.
And ground retyres: and Dogs doe bawl: and Beastes are heard to cry.
And whyther long of Acheron, that lothsom flud that flowes
All stinking streames: or of the earth, that out her Bowels throwes,
Free place to Sprights to geve: or of that fierce infernall Hound,
That at such times doth bustling make with chaynes and ratling sound.
9 Id. 596–607:
The Priest himselfe unmoved stoode, and boldly cited out:
Whole Armies of king Ditis men, who clustring in a Rowt:
All flittring thin like Cloudes, disperst abrode in Ayre doe fly.
And bearing sundry shapes and formes doe scud about in Sky,
A thousand woods I think have not so many leaves on trees.
Ten thousand medowes fresh have not so many flowers for bees.
Ten hundred thousand rivers not so many Foule can show:
Nor all the drops and streams, and gulphes that in the Seas do flow,
If that they might be wayed, can sure so great a number make
As could those shapes and formes that flew from out of Limbo lake.
10 Id. 1009–12:
Fayne would I speake, I am afraide. For what should I thee call
My Son? doubt not. Thou art my Son. My Son thou art for all
These mischiefes great: alas, alas I shame my Son to see.
O cruell Son. Where dost thou turn thy Face? Why dost thou flee
From me. From me thy Mother deare? Why dost thou shun my sight
And leave me thus in misery, with Cares consumed quight.
11 MEDEA, by John Studley (1566), 740–51:
O flittring Flockes of grisly ghostes that sit in silent seat,
O ougsome Bugges, O Goblins grym of Hell I you intreat:
O lowring Chaos dungeon blynde, and dreadful darkened pit,
Where Ditis muffled up in Clowdes of blackest shades doth sit,
O wretched wofull wawling soules your ayde I doe implore,
That linked lye with gingling Chaynes on way ling Limbo shore,
O mossy den where death doth couche his gastly carrayne Face:
Release your pangues, O spryghts, and to this wedding hye apace.
Cause ye the snaggy wheele to pawse that rentes the Carkas bound,
Permit Ixions racked Lymmes to rest upon the ground:
Let hungry bitten Tantalus wyth gawnt and pyned panche
Soupe up Pirenes gulped streame his swelling thyrst to staunche.
Let burning Creon byde the brunt and gyrdes of greater payne,
Let payse1 of slippery slyding stone type over back agayne
His moyling Father Sisyphus, amonges the craggy rockes.
Ye daughters dyre of Danaus whom perced Pychers mockes
So oft with labour lost in vain this day doth long for you
That in your lyfe with bloudy blade at once your husband slewe.
And thou whose aares I honored have, O torch and lampe of night,
Approche O Lady myne with most deformed vysage dight.
12 HIPPOLYTUS, by John Studley (c. 1567), 713–18:
Avaunt, avaunt, preserve thy lyfe, at my hand nothing crave,
This filed sword that thou hast toucht no longer will I have.
What bathing lukewarme Tanais may I defilde obtaine,
Whose clensing watry Channell pure may wash me cleane againe?
Or what Maeotis muddy meare, with rough Barbarian wave
That boardes on Pontus roring sea? Not Neptune graundsire grave
With all his Ocean foulding floud can purge and wash away
This dunghill foule of stane: O woode, O salvage beast I say.
13 Id. 959–88 (see also 4):
O Nature Grandame greate of Heavenly Sprites,
Eake Jove that guides Olimpus mighty sway,
That rakes the race of twinckling heavenly lightes
On spinning Spheare and order dost for aye
The stragling course of roaming planets hie,
And weildes about the whirling Axeltree
The weltring Poales, th’ eternal course of Skie
To keepe in frame, what workes such care in thee
That earst the cold which hoary winter makes
Unclothes the naked wood, and now agayne
The shades returne unto the breary brakes.
Now doth the starre of Sommer Lyon raygne,
Whose scalded necke with boyling heate doth frie,
Perbraking flames from fiery foaming jawes:
With scorching heate the parched corne do drie:
Ech season so his kindly course in drawes.
But thou that weildes these thinges of massy might,
By whom the hugy world with egal payse
Even ballanced doth keepe in compasse right,
Each Spheare by measurd weight that justly swaise,
Alas why dost thou beare a retchles breast
Toward mankind? not casting any care
That wicked men with mischiefe be opprest,
And eake to see that good men wel do fare
Dame Fortune topsieturvy turnes at wil
The world, and deales her dole with blinded hand,
And fosters vice mayntayning mischiefe ill.
Fowle lust triumphes on good men brought in band
Deceipt in stately Court the sway doth weild,
In Lordinges lewde the vulgar sort delight,
With glee to such the Mace of might they yeeld,
Some magistrates they do both love and spight,
And pensive vertue brought to bitter bale,
Receyves reward that doth of right aryse,
The continent to Prison neede doth hale,
The Lecher raygnes enhaunced by his vice.
O fruitles shame, O counterfayted port.
14 Id. 1175–83 (much elaborated):
Appeare a while, receive my words, for speake I shall none ill:
This hand shal strike the stroake, wherwith thy vengeance quite
I wil.
And sith that I, I Caitiffe, I, abridged have thy life,
Lo here I am content, to yeelde thee mine with bloudy knife.
If ghost may here be given for ghost, and breath may serve for breath,
Hippolytus take thou my soule, and come againe from death.
Behold my bowles yet are safe my limms in lusty plight,
Would God that as they serve for me, thy body serve they might,
Mine eies to render kindly light unto thy Carkase ded,
Lo for thy use this hand of mine shall pluck them from my hed,
And set them in these empty cells and vacant holes of thine.
Thy weale of me a wicked Wight to win, do not repine.
And if a womans wofull heart in place of thine may rest,
My bosom straight breake up I shall, and teare it from my breast.
But courage stout of thine doth loth faint womans heart to have,
Thy Noble mind would rather go with manly heart to grave.
Alas be not so manly now, this manliness forbeare,
And rather choose to live a man with womans sprite and feare,
Then as no man with manly heart in darknesse deepe to sit:
Have thou thy life, give me thy death that more deserveth it.
Can not my profer purchase place? yet vengeance shal thou have,
Hell shall not hold me from thy syde nor death of dompish grave
Sith fates wil not permit thee life, though I behest thee mine,
My selfe I shall in spite of fate my fatall twist untwine.
This blade shall rive my bloudy breast, my selfe I will dispoile
Of soule, and sinne at once: through floods and Tartar gulphes that boyle,
Through Styx and through the burning Lakes I will come after thee.
15 Id. 1201–12 (a fairly close rendering, except for a mistranslation of 1210 – incidi in verum scelus):
O wanny jawes of blacke Averne, eake Tartar dungeon grim,
O Lethes Lake of woful Soules the joy that therein swimme,
And eake ye glummy Gulphes destroy, destroy me wicked wight
And stil in pit of pangues let me be plunged day and night.
Now, now, come up ye Goblins grim from water creekes alow,
What ever Proteus hugie swolne aloofe doth overflow,
Come dowse me drownd in swallowes depe, that triumphe in my sinne:
And father thou that evermore ful ready prest hath binne
To wreake myne yre, adventring I a deede deserving death
With new found slaughter have bereft mine onely Sonne of breath.
His tattred lims I scarred have the bloudy field about,
Whyle th’ innocent I punish doe, by chaunce I have found out
The truth of al this wickednes: heaven, starres, and sprites of hell
I pester with my treachery that me doth overquell.
No mischiefes hap remayneth more: iii kingdoms know mee well.
16 Id. 1250–3:
Least that but once, or onely I should be a guilty Wight,
I Sire attempting mischiefe have besought my Fathers might.
Lo I enjoy my fathers gift, O solitarinesse,
A grievous plague when feeble years have brought us to distresse.
(b) PASSAGES FROM ENGLISH DRAMATISTS
17 From R. Edwards’s Damon and Pythias (acted 1564):
DIONYSIUS: A mild prince the people despiseth.
EUBULUS: A cruel king the people hateth.
DION.: Let them hate me, so they fear me.
EUB.: That is not the way to live in safety.
DION.: My sword and my power shall purchase my quietness.
EUB.: That is sooner procured by mercy and gentleness.
DION.: Dionysius ought to be feared.
EUB.: Better for him to be well beloved.
(cf. Octavia, 455–7)
18 From Greene’s (?) The First Part of the Tragicall Raigne of King Selimus (published 1594):
AGA.: Do you not feare the people’s adverse fame?
ACO.: It is the greatest glory of a king
When, though his subjects hate his wicked deeds,
Yet they are forst to beare them all with praise.
AGA.: Whom fear constraines to praise their princes deeds,
That feare, eternall hatred in them feeds.
ACO.: He knows not how to sway the kingly mace,
That loves to be great in his peoples grace:
The surest ground for kings to build upon
Is to be feared and curst of every one.
What, though the world of nations me hate?
Hate is peculiar to a princes state.
AGA.: Where ther’s no shame, no care of holy law,
No faith, no justice, no integritie,
That state is full of mutabilitie.
ACO.: Bare faith, pure vertue, poore integritie,
Are ornaments fit for a private man;
Beseemes a prince for to do all he can.
(cf. Thyestes, 204–18)
19 From Hughes’s The Misfortunes of Arthur (1587):
Is’t meet a plague for such excessive wrong
Should be so short? Should one stroke answer all?
And wouldst thou die? Well, that contents the laws:
What, then, for Arthur’s ire? What for thy fame,
Which thou hast stain’d? What for thy stock thou sham’st?
Not death nor life alone can give a full
Revenge: join both in one – die and yet live.
Where pain may not be oft, let it be long.
Seek out some lingering death, whereby thy corpse
May neither touch the dead nor joy the quick.
Die, but no common death: pass nature’s bounds.
(cf. Oedipus, 936–51)
20 From the same:
CONAN: But whoso seeks true praise and just renown,
Would rather seek their praising hearts than tongues.
MORDRED: True praise may happen to the basest groom;
A forced praise to none but to a prince.
I wish that most, that subjects do repine.
(cf. Thyestes, 209–12)
21 From the same:
Even that I hold the kingliest point of all,
To brook afflictions well; and by how much
The more his state and tottering empire sags,
To fix so much the faster foot on ground.
(cf. Oedipus, 82–5)
22 From the same:
Thou, Lucius, mak’st me proud, thou heav’st my mind:
But what? Shall I esteem a crown ought else
Than as a gorgeous crest of easeless helm,
Or as some brittle mould of glorious pomp,
Or glittering glass which, while it shines, it breaks?
All this a sudden chance may dash, and not
Perhaps with thirteen kings, or in nine years;
All may not find so slow and lingering fates.
(cf. Troades, 271–5)
23 From Arden of Feversham (anon, published 1592):
Well fares the man, howe’er his cates do taste,
That tables not with foul suspicion;
And he but pines amongst his delicates,
Whose troubled mind is stuff’d with discontent.
My golden time was when I had no gold;
Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure;
My daily toil begat me night’s repose,
My night’s repose made daylight fresh to me.
But since I climb’d the top bough of the tree
And sought to build my nest among the clouds,
Each gentle stary gale doth shake my bed,
And makes me dread my downfall to the earth.
(cf. Thyestes, 445 ff.)
24 From Marston’s Antonio and Mellida (1599):
PIERO: ’Tis just that subjects act commands of kings.
PANDULFO: Command then just and honourable things.
PIERO: Where only honest deeds to kings are free,
It is no empire, but a beggary.
…
PIERO: Tush, juiceless graybeard, ’tis immunity