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And every night doth live, again to die.

But stay! methinks I hear some fainting voice,

Mournfully weeping for their luckless death.

SABREN.

You mountain nymphs, which in these deserts reign,

Cease off your hasty chase of savage beasts;

Prepare to see a heart oppressed with care;

Address your ears to hear a mournful style!

No humane strength, no work can work my weal,

Care in my heart so tyrant like doth deal.

You Dryads and lightfoot Satyri,

You gracious Faries which, at evening tide,

Your closets leave with heavenly beauty stored,

And on your shoulders spread your golden locks;

You savage bears in caves and darkened dens,

Come wail with me the martial Locrine's death;

Come mourn with me for beauteous Estrild's death.

Ah! loving parents, little do you know

What sorrow Sabren suffers for your thrall.

GWENDOLINE.

But may this be, and is it possible?

Lives Sabren yet to expiate my wrath?

Fortune, I thank thee for this courtesy;

And let me never see one prosperous hour,

If Sabren die not a reproachful death.

SABREN.

Hard hearted death, that, when the wretched call,

Art furthest off, and seldom hearest at all;

But, in the midst of fortune's good success,

Uncalled comes, and sheers our life in twain:

When will that hour, that blessed hour, draw nigh,

When poor distressed Sabren may be gone?

Sweet Atropos, cut off my fatal thread!

What art thou death? shall not poor Sabren die?

GWENDOLINE.

[Taking her by the chin shall say thus.]

Yes, damsel, yes; Sabren shall surely die,

Though all the world should seek to save her life;

And not a common death shall Sabren die,

But after strange and grievous punishments

Shortly inflicted upon thy bastard's head,

Thou shalt be cast into the cursed streams,

And feed the fishes with thy tender flesh.

SABREN.

And thinkst thou then, thou cruel homicide,

That these thy deeds shall be unpunished?

No, traitor, no; the gods will venge these wrongs,

The fiends of hell will mark these injuries.

Never shall these blood-sucking masty curs,

Bring wretched Sabren to her latest home;

For I my self, in spite of thee and thine,

Mean to abridge my former destinies,

And that which Locrine's sword could not perform,

This pleasant stream shall present bring to pass.

[She drowneth her self.]

GWENDOLINE.

One mischief follows on another's neck.

Who would have thought so young a maid as she

With such a courage would have sought her death?

And for because this River was the place

Where little Sabren resolutely died,

Sabren for ever shall this same be called.

And as for Locrine, our deceased spouse,

Because he was the son of mighty Brute,

To whom we owe our country, lives and goods,

He shall be buried in a stately tomb,

Close by his aged father Brutus' bones,

With such great pomp and great solemnity,

As well beseems so brave a prince as he.

Let Estrild lie without the shallow vaults,

Without the honour due unto the dead,

Because she was the author of this war.

Retire, brave followers, unto Troynouant,

Where we shall celebrate these exequies,

And place young Locrine in his father's tomb.

[Exeunt omnes.]

[Enter Ate.]

ATE.

Lo here the end of lawless treachery,

Of usurpation and ambitious pride;

And they that for their private amours dare

Turmoil our land, and set their broils abroach,

Let them be warned by these premises.

And as a woman was the only cause

That civil discord was then stirred up,

So let us pray for that renowned maid,

That eight and thirty years the scepter swayed,

In quiet peace and sweet felicity;

And every wight that seeks her grace's smart,

Would that this sword were pierced in his heart!

[Exit.]

[Finis.]

THE LONDON PRODIGAL

A comedy set in London, this play tells the story of a prodigal son, who eventually learns the error of his ways. The play was published in quarto in 1605 by the stationer Nathaniel Butter, and printed by Thomas Cotes. In 1664 it was one of the seven plays that publisher Philip Chetwinde added to the second impression of his Third Folio of Shakespeare's plays. The play was not entered