Does bind me to her.
We are three queens, whose sovereigns fell before
The wrath of cruel Creon; who endure
The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites,
And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes:
He will not suffer us to burn their bones,
To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence
Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye
Of holy Phoebus, but infects the winds
With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, duke!
Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear’d sword
That does good turns to the world; give us the bones
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them;
And, of thy boundless goodness, take some note
That for our crowned heads we have no roof
Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s,
And vault to everything!
Pray you, kneel not:
I was transported with your speech, and suffer’d
Your knees to wrong themselves. I’ve heard the fortunes
Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting
As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em.
King Capaneus was your lord: the day
That he should marry you, at such a season
As now it is with me, I met your groom
By Mars’s altar; you were that time fair,
Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses,
Nor in more bounty spread her; your wheaten wreath
Was then nor thrash’d nor blasted; Fortune at you
Dimpled her cheek with smiles; Hercules our kinsman—
Then weaker than your eyes—laid by his club;
He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide,
And swore his sinews thaw’d. O, grief and time,
Fearful consumers, you will all devour!
O, I hope some god,
Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood,
Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth
Our undertaker!
O, no knees, none, widow!
Unto the helmeted Bellona use them,
And pray for me, your soldier.—
Troubled I am. Turns away.
Honour’d Hippolyta,
Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain
The scythe-tusk’d boar; that, with thy arm as strong
As it is white, wast near to make the male
To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord—
Born to uphold creation in that honour
First Nature styl’d it in—shrunk thee into
The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing
Thy force and thy affection; soldieress,
That equally canst poise sternness with pity;
Who now, I know, hast much more power on him
Than e’er he had on thee; who ow’st his strength
And his love too, who is a servant for
The tenor of thy speech; dear glass of ladies,
Bid him that we, whom flaming War doth scorch,
Under the shadow of his sword may cool us;
Require him he advance it o’er our heads;
Speak’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman
As any of us three; weep ere you fail;
Lend us a knee;
But touch the ground for us no longer time
Than a dove’s motion when the head’s pluck’d off;
Tell him, if he i’ the blood-siz’d field lay swoln,
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,
What you would do!
Poor lady, say no more:
I had as lief trace this good action with you
As that whereto I’m going, and nev’r yet
Went I so willing, way. My lord is taken
Heart-deep with your distress: let him consider;
I’ll speak anon.
To Emilia. O, my petition was
Set down in ice, which, by hot grief uncandied,
Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form,
Is press’d with deeper matter.
Pray, stand up:
Your grief is written in your cheek.
O, woe!
You cannot read it there; there through my tears,
Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream,
You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack!
He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth
Must know the centre too; he that will fish
For my least minnow, let him lead his line
To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me!
Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits,
Makes me a fool.
Pray you, say nothing; pray you:
Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in’t,
Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were
The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you
T’instruct me ’gainst a capital grief indeed;—
Such heart-pierc’d demonstration!—but, alas,
Being a natural sister of our sex,
Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me,
That it shall make a counter-reflect ’gainst
My brother’s heart, and warm it to some pity,
Though it were made of stone: pray have good comfort.
Forward to th’ temple! leave not out a jot
O’ the sacred ceremony.
O, this celebration
Will longer last, and be more costly, than
Your suppliant’s war! Remember that your fame
Knolls in th’ ear o’ the world: what you do quickly
Is not done rashly; your first thought is more
Than others’ labour’d meditance; your premeditating
More than their actions; but—O Jove!—your actions,
Soon as they move, as asprayes do the fish,
Subdue before they touch: think, dear duke, think
What beds our slain kings have!
What griefs our beds,
That our dear lords have none!
None fit for the dead!
Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance,
Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves
Been death’s most horrid agents, humane grace
Affords them dust and shadow.
But our lords
Lie blistering ’fore the visitating sun,
And were good kings when living.
It is true;
And I will give you comfort,
To give your dead lords graves: the which to do
Must make some work with Creon.
And that work
Presents itself to the doing:
Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone to-morrow;
Then bootless toil must recompense itself
With its own sweat; now he is secure,
Not dreams we stand before your puissance,
Wrinching our holy begging in our eyes,
To make petition clear.
Now you may take him
Drunk with his victory.
And his army full
Of bread and sloth.
Artesius, that best know’st
How to draw out fit to this enterprise
The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number
To carry such a business; forth and levy
Our worthiest instruments; whilst we despatch
This grand act of our life, this daring deed
Of fate in wedlock.
Dowagers, take hands;
Let us be widows to our woes; delay
Commends us to a famishing hope.
We come unseasonably; but when could grief
Cull forth, as unpang’d judgment can, fitt’st time
For best solicitation?
Why, good ladies,
This is a service, whereto I am going,
Greater
