Classic Poem

[SCENE I.]

Alarums within; let the chambers be discharged; then enter to the battle; and the Moors fly .

Skirmish still: then enter A BDELMELEC in his chair , Z AREO , and their train .

Abdelm. Say on, Zareo, tell me all the news,
Tell me what Fury rangeth in our camp,
That hath enforced our Moors to turn their backs;
Zareo, say what chance did bode this ill,
What ill enforced this dastard cowardice?
Ar. Zareo. My lord, such chance as wilful war affords;
Such chances and misfortunes as attend
On him, the god of battle and of arms.
My lord, when with our ordnance fierce we sent
Our Moors with smaller shot, as thick as hail
Follows apace, to charge the Portugal;
The valiant duke, the devil of Avero,
The bane of Barbary, fraughted full of ire,
Breaks through the ranks, and with five hundred horse,
All men-at-arms, forward and full of might,
Assaults the middle wing, and puts to flight
Eight thousand harquebuze that served on foot,
And twenty thousand Moors with spear and shield,
And therewithal the honour of the day.
Abdelm . Ah, Abdelmelec, dost thou live to hear
This bitter process of this first attempt? —
Labour, my lords, to renew our force
Of fainting Moors, and fight it to the last. —
My horse, Zareo! — O, the goal is lost,
The goal is lost! — Thou King of Portugal.
Thrice-happy chance it is for thee and thine
That heavens abates my strength and calls me hence. —
My sight doth fail; my soul, my feeble soul
Shall be released from prison on this earth:
Farewell, vain world! for I have play'd my part.

A long skirmish; and then enter his brother M ULY M AHAMET S ETH .

Muly Mah. Seth . Brave Abdelmelec, thou thrice-noble lord!
Not such a wound was given to Barbary,
Had twenty hosts of men been put to sword,
As death, pale death, with fatal shaft hath given.
Lo, dead is he, my brother and my king,
Whom I might have revived with news I bring!
Zareo . His honours and his types he hath resign'd
Unto the world, and of a manly man,
Lo, in a twinkling, a senseless stock we see!
Muly Mah. Seth. You trusty soldiers of this warlike king,
Be counsell'd now by us in this advice;
Let not his death be bruited in the camp,
Lest with the sudden sorrow of the news
The army wholly be discomfited.
My Lord Zareo, thus I comfort you;
Our Moors have bravely borne themselves in fight,
Likely to get the honour of the day,
If aught may gotten be where loss is such.
Therefore, in this apparel as he died,
My noble brother will we here advance,
And set him in his chair with cunning props,
That our Barbarians may behold their king,
And think he doth repose him in his tent.
Zareo. Right politic and good is your advice.
Muly Mah. Seth Go, then, to see it speedily perform'd. —
Brave lord, if Barbary recover this,
Thy soul with joy will sit and see the fight.

Alarums: enter to the battle; and the Christians fly: the Duke OF A VERO slain . Enter S EBASTIAN and S TUKELEY .

K. Seb . Seest thou not, Stukeley, O Stukeley, seest thou not
The great dishonour done to Christendom!
Our cheerful onset cross'd in springing hope;
The brave and mighty prince, Duke of Avero,
Slain in my sight; now joy betide his ghost,
For like a lion did he bear himself!
Our battles are all now disordered,
And by our horses' strange retiring-back
Our middle wing of footmen overrode.
Stukeley, alas, I see my oversight!
False-hearted Mahamet, now, to my cost,
I see thy treachery, warn'd to beware
A face so full of fraud and villany.

Alarums within, and they run out, and two set upon S TUKELEY , and he driveth them in. Then enter the Moor and his Boy, flying .

The Moor. Villain, a horse!
Boy. O, my lord, if you return, you die!
The Moor. Villain, I say, give me a horse to fly,
To swim the river, villain, and to fly.
Where shall I find some unfrequented place,
Some uncouth walk, where I may curse my fill,
My stars, my dam, my planets, and my nurse,
The fire, the air, the water, and the earth,
All causes that have thus conspired in one,
To nourish and preserve me to this shame?
Thou that wert at my birth predominate,
Thou fatal star, what planet e'er thou be,
Spit out thy poison bad, and all the ill
That fortune, fate, or heaven, may bode a man.
Thou nurse infortunate, guilty of all,
Thou mother of my life, that brought'st me forth,
Cursed mayst thou be for such a cursed son!
Cursed be thy son with every curse thou hast!
Ye elements of whom consists this clay,
This mass of flesh, this cursed crazed corpse,
Destroy, dissolve, disturb, and dissipate,
What water, earth, and air congeal'd.

Alarums, and enter the Boy.

Boy. O, my lord,
These ruthless Moors pursue you at the heels,
And come amain to put you to the sword!
The Moor. A horse, a horse, villain, a horse!
That I may take the river straight and fly.
Boy. Here is a horse, my lord,
As swiftly paced as Pegasus;
Mount thee thereon, and save thyself by flight.
The Moor. Mount me I will:
But may I never pass the river, till I be
Revenged upon thy soul, accursed Abdelmelec!
If not on earth, yet when we meet in hell,
Before grim Minos, Rhadamanth, and Æacus,
The combat will I crave upon thy ghost,
And drag thee thorough the loathsome pools
Of Lethes, Styx, and fiery Phlegethon.

Alarums. Enter S TUKELEY with two Italians , H ERCULES and J ONAS

Herc. Stand, traitor, stand, ambitious Englishman,
Proud Stukeley, stand, and stir not ere thou die.
Thy forwardness to follow wrongful arms,
And leave our famous expedition erst
Intended by his Holiness for Ireland,
Foully hath here betray'd and tied us all
To ruthless fury of our heathen foe;
For which, as we are [here] sure to die,
Thou shalt pay satisfaction with thy blood.
Stuke. Avaunt, base villains! twit ye me with shame
Or infamy of this injurious war,
When he that is the judge of right and wrong
Determines battle as him pleaseth best?
But sith my stars bode me this tragic end,
That I must perish by these barbarous Moors,
Whose weapons have made passage for my soul
That breaks from out the prison of my breast;
Ye proud malicious dogs of Italy,
Strike on, strike down this body to the earth,
Whose mounting mind stoops to no feeble stroke.
Jon. Why suffer we this Englishman to live? —
Villain, bleed on; thy blood in channels run,
And meet with those whom thou to death hast done.
Stuke. Thus Stukeley, slain with many a deadly stab,
Dies in these desert fields of Africa.
Hark, friends; and with the story of my life
Let me beguile the torment of my death.
In England's London, lordings, was I born,
On that brave bridge, the bar that thwarts the Thames.
My golden days, my younger careless years,
Were when I touch'd the height of Fortune's wheel,
And lived in affluence of wealth and ease.
Thus in my country carried long aloft,
A discontented humour drave me thence
To cross the seas to Ireland, then to Spain.
There had I welcome and right royal pay
Of Philip, whom some call the Catholic King:
There did Tom Stukeley glitter all in gold,
Mounted upon his jennet white as snow,
Shining as Phaebus in King Philip's court:
There, like a lord, famous Don Stukeley lived,
For so they call'd me in the court of Spain,
Till, for a blow I gave a bishop's man,
A strife gan rise between his lord and me,
For which we both were banish'd by the king.
From thence to Rome rides Stukeley all aflaunt:
Received with royal welcomes of the Pope,
There was I graced by Gregory the Great,
That then created me Marquis of Ireland.
Short be my tale, because my life is short.
The coast of Italy and Rome I left:
Then was I made lieutenant-general
Of those small forces that for Ireland went,
And with my companies embark'd at Ostia.
My sails I spread, and with these men of war
In fatal hour at Lisbon we arrived.
From thence to this, to this hard exigent,
Was Stukeley driven, to fight or else to die,
Dared to the field, that never could endure
To hear God Mars his drum but he must march.
Ah, sweet Sebastian, hadst thou been well advised,
Thou mightst have managed arms successfully!
But from our cradles we were marked all
And destinate to die in Afric here.
Stukeley, the story of thy life is told;
Here breathe thy last, and bid thy friends farewell:
And if thy country's kindness be so much,
Then let thy country kindly ring thy knell.
Now go and in that bed of honour die,
Where brave Sebastian's breathless corse doth lie.
Here endeth Fortune['s] rule and bitter rage;
Here ends Tom Stukeley's earthly pilgrimage.

Re-enter M ULY M AHAMET S ETH and his train, with drums and trumpets .

Muly Mah. Seth. Retreat is sounded through our camp, and now
From battle's fury cease our conquering Moors.
Pay thanks to heaven with sacrificing fire,
Alcazar, and ye towns of Barbary. —
Now hast thou sit as in a trance, and seen,
To thy soul's joy and honour of thy house,
The trophies and the triumphs of thy men,
Great Abdelmelec; and the god of kings
Hath made thy war successful by thy right,
His friends, whom death and fates hath ta'en from thee.
Lo, this was he that was the people's pride,
And cheerful sunshine to his subjects all!
Now have him hence, that royally he may
Be buried and embalmed as is meet.
Zareo, have you through the camp proclaim'd
As erst we gave in charge?
Ar. Zareo. We have, my lord, and rich rewards proposed
For them that find the body of the king;
For by those guard[s] that had him in their charge
We understand that he was done to death,
And for his search two prisoners, Portugals,
Are set at large to find their royal king.
Muly Mah. Seth. But of the traitorous Moor you hear no news
That fled the field and sought to swim the ford?
Ar. Zareo. Not yet, my lord; but doubtless God will tell
And with his finger point out where he haunts.
Muly Mah. Seth. So let it rest, and on this earth bestow
This princely corse,
Till further for his funerals we provide.
Ar. Zareo. From him to thee as true-succeeding prince,
With all allegiance and with honour's types,
In name of all thy people and thy land,
We give this kingly crown and diadem.
Muly Mah. Seth. We thank you all, and as my lawful right,
With God's defence and yours, shall I it keep.

Enter two Portugals with the body of the King.

First Port. As gave your grace in charge, right royal prince,
The fields and sandy plains we have survey'd,
And even among the thickest of his lords
The noble King of Portugal we found,
Wrapt in his colours coldly on the earth,
And done to death with many a mortal wound.
Muly Mah. Seth. Lo, here, my lords, this is the earth and clay
Of him that erst was mighty King of Portugal! —
There let him lie, and you for this be free
To make return from hence to Christendom.

Enter two Peasants bringing in [ the body of ] the Moor.

First Peas. Long live the mighty king of Barbary!
Muly Mah. Seth. Welcome, my friend: what body hast thou there?
First Peas. The body of th' ambitious enemy
That squander'd all this blood in Africa,
Whose malice sent so many souls to hell,
The traitor Muly Mahamet do I bring,
And for thy slave I throw him at thy feet.
Muly Mah. Seth. Zareo, give this man a rich reward;
And thanked be the god of just revenge,
That he hath given our foe into our hands,
Beastly, unarmed, slavish, full of shame, —
But say, how came this traitor to his end?
First Peas. Seeking to save his life by shameful flight,
He mounteth on a hot Barbarian horse,
And so in purpose to have pass'd the stream,
His headstrong steed throws him from out his seat;
Where, diving oft for lack of skill to swim,
It was my chance alone to see him drown'd,
Whom by the heels I dragg'd from out the pool,
And hither have him brought thus filed with mud.
Muly Mah. Seth. A death too good for such a damned wretch:
But sith our rage and rigour of revenge
By violence of his end prevented is,
That all the world may learn by him t'avoid
To hale on princes to injurious war,
His skin we will be parted from his flesh,
And being stiffen'd out and stuff'd with straw
So to deter and fear the lookers-on
From any such foul fact or bad attempt:
Away with him!
And now, my lords, for this Christian king:
My Lord Zareo, let it be your charge
To see the soldiers tread a solemn march,
Trailing their pikes and ensigns on the ground,
So to perform the prince's funerals.