Act III. Scene I. Troynouant. An Apartment In The Royal Palace.

[Enter Locrine, Gwendoline, Corineius, Assaracus,
Thrasimachus, Camber.]

And is this true? Is Albanactus slain?
Hath cursed Humber, with his straggling host,
With that his army made of mungrel curs,
Brought our redoubted brother to his end?
O that I had the Thracian Orpheus' harp,
For to awake out of the infernal shade
Those ugly devils of black Erebus,
That might torment the damned traitor's soul!
O that I had Amphion's instrument,
To quicken with his vital notes and tunes
The flinty joints of every stony rock,
By which the Scithians might be punished!
For, by the lightening of almighty Jove,
The Hun shall die, had he ten thousand lives:
And would to God he had ten thousand lives,
That I might with the arm-strong Hercules
Crop off so vile an Hydra's hissing heads!
But say me, cousin, for I long to hear,
How Albanact came by untimely death.

After the traitrous host of Scithians
Entered the field with martial equipage,
Young Albanact, impatient of delay,
Led forth his army gainst the straggling mates,
Whose multitude did daunt our soldiers' minds.
Yet nothing could dismay the forward prince,
But with a courage most heroical,
Like to a lion mongst a flock of lambs,
Made havoc of the faintheart fugitives,
Hewing a passage through them with his sword.
Yea, we had almost given them the repulse,
When suddenly, from out the silent wood,
Hubba, with twenty thousand soldiers,
Cowardly came upon our weakened backs,
And murthered all with fatal massacre.
Amongst the which old Debon, martial knight,
With many wounds was brought unto the death,
And Albanact, oppressed with multitude,
Whilst valiantly he felled his enemies,
Yielded his life and honour to the dust.
He being dead, the soldiers fled amain,
And I alone escaped them by flight,
To bring you tidings of these accidents.

Not aged Priam, King of stately Troy,
Grand Emperor of barbarous Asia,
When he beheld his noble minded sons
Slain traitorously by all the Mermidons,
Lamented more than I for Albanact.

Not Hecuba, the queen of Ilium
When she beheld the town of Pergamus,
Her palace, burnst with all devouring flames,
Her fifty sons and daughters fresh of hue
Murthered by wicked Pirrhus' bloody sword,
Shed such sad tears as I for Albanact.

The grief of Niobe, fair Athen's queen,
For her seven sons, magnanimous in field,
For her seven daughters, fairer than the fairest,
Is not to be compared with my laments.

In vain you sorrow for the slaughtered prince,
In vain you sorrow for his overthrow;
He loves not most that doth lament the most,
But he that seeks to venge the injury.
Think you to quell the enemy's warlike train
With childish sobs and womanish laments?
Unsheath your swords, unsheath your conquering swords,
And seek revenge, the comfort for this sore.
In Cornwall, where I hold my regiment,
Even just ten thousand valiant men at arms
Hath Corineius ready at command:
All these and more, if need shall more require,
Hath Corineius ready at command.

And in the fields of martial Cambria,
Close by the boistrous Iscan's silver streams,
Where lightfoot fairies skip from bank to bank,
Full twenty thousand brave courageous knights,
Well exercised in feats of chivalry,
In manly manner most invincible,
Young Camber hath with gold and victual:
All these and more, if need shall more require,
I offer up to venge my brother's death.

Thanks, loving uncle, and good brother, too;
For this revenge, for this sweet word, revenge
Must ease and cease my wrongful injuries.
And by the sword of bloody Mars, I swear,
Ne'er shall sweet quiet enter this my front,
Till I be venged on his traitorous head
That slew my noble brother Albanact.
Sound drums and trumpets; muster up the camp.
For we will straight march to Albania.

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