Locrine, the map of magnanimity, Lies slaughtered in this foul accursed cave, Estrild, the perfect pattern of renown, Nature's sole wonder, in whose beauteous breasts All heavenly grace and virtue was inshrined:
Both massacred are dead within this cave, And with them dies fair Pallas and sweet love.
Here lies a sword, and Sabren hath a heart;
This blessed sword shall cut my cursed heart, And bring my soul unto my parents' ghosts, That they that live and view our Tragedy May mourn our case with mournful plaudities.
[Let her offer to kill her self.]
Ay me, my virgin's hands are too too weak, To penetrate the bulwark of my breast;My fingers, used 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, honored for thy nobleness!
Ah, Estrild, famous for thy constancy!
Ill may they fare that wrought your mortal ends!
[Enter Gwendoline, Thrasimachus, Madan, and the soldiers.]
GWENDOLINE.
Search, soldiers, search, find Locrine and his love;Find the proud strumpet, Humber's concubine, That I may change those her so pleasing looks To pale and ignominious aspect.
