Which I, fond man, did settle in thy sight,
Is this thy recompense--that I must see
The thing so shameful and so villanous:
That would to God this earth had swallowed
This worthless burthen into lowest deeps,
Rather than I, accursed, had beheld
The sight that hourly massacres my life?
O whither, whither fly'st thou forth, my soul?
O whither wand'reth my tormented mind?
Those pains, that make the miser[70] glad of death,
Have seiz'd on me, and yet I cannot have
What villains may command--a speedy death.
Whom shall I first accuse for this outrage?
That God that guideth all, and guideth so
This damned deed? Shall I blaspheme their names--
The gods, the authors of this spectacle?
Or shall I justly curse that cruel star,
Whose influence assign'd this destiny?
But may that traitor, shall that vile wretch live,
By whom I have receiv'd this injury?
Or shall I longer make account of her,
That fondly prostitutes her widow's shame?--
I have bethought me what I shall request. [_He kneels_.
On bended knees, with hands heav'd up to heaven,
This, sacred senate of the gods, I crave:
First on the traitor your consuming ire;
Next on the cursed strumpet dire revenge;
Last on myself, the wretched father, shame. [_He riseth_.
O! could I stamp, and therewithal command
Armies of furies to assist my heart,