The tragedie of Gorboduc, whereof three actes were wrytten by Thomas Nortone, and the two laste by Thomas Sackuyle. Sett forthe as the same was shewed before the Quenes most excellent Maiestie, in her highnes court of Whitehall, the. xviij. day of Ianuary, anno Domini. 1561. By the Gentlemen of thynner Temple in London

Actus tertius. Scena prima.

Gorboduc. Eubulus. Arostus. Philander. Nuntius.

Gorboduc.

O Cruell fates, O mindfull wrath of Goddes▪ whose vēgeaūice neither Simois streined strea∣mes. Flowing w^t blood of Troian Princes slaine Nor Phrygian fieldes made rancke w^t Corpses dead Of Asian kynges and Lordes can yet appease, He slaughter of vnhappie Pryams race Nor Ilions fall made leuell with the soile, Can yet suffice: but still continued rage, Pursue our lyues, and from the farthest Seas Doth chast the issues of distroyed Troye: Oh no man happie, tyll his ende be seene, If any flowyng wealth and seemynge Ioye In present yeresmight make a happy wight, Happie was Hecuba the wofullest wretche That euer lyued to make a Myrrour of And happie Pryam with his noble sonnes, And happie I till nowe, Alas, I see

And feele my most vnhappie wretchednes: Beholde my Lordes, reade ye this Letter here Loe it conteines the ruyne of our Realme If timelie speede prouide not hastle helpe Yet (O ye Goddes) if euer wofull kynge Might moue you kings of kinges, wreke it on me And on my Sonnes, not on this gilties Realme. Sende down your wasting flames from wrathful skies To reue me & my sōnes the hateful breath Reade, reade my Lordes: this is the matter whie I called ye nowe to haue your good aduyse.

¶The Letter from Dordan the Counsellour of the elder Prince.

Eubulus readeth the Letter.

MY Soueraigne Lord, what I am loth to write But lothest am to see, that I am forced By Letters nowe to make you vnderstande My Lord Ferrex your eldest sonne mislead By Traitours framde of yong vntempred wittes Assembleth force against your yonger sonne, Ne can my Counsell yet withdrawe the heate And furyous panges of his enflamed head: Disoaine (saieth he) of his inheritaunce Armes him to wreke the great pretended wronge With ciuyll sword vpon his Brothers life, If present helpe do not restraine this rage This flame will wast your sōnes, your land & you.

Your Maiesties faithfull and most humble Subiecte Dordan.

Arestus.

O King, appease your griefe & staie your plaint Great is the matter and a wofull case But timely knowledge maye bringe timely help Sende for thē both vnto your presence here The reuerence of your honour age and state Your graue aduise, the awe of fathers name Shall quickelie knit againe this broken peece: And if in either of my Lordes your sonnes Be suche vntamed and vnyelding pride As will not bende vnto your noble Hestes. If Ferrex the elder sonne can beare no peere. Or Porrex not content, aspires to more Then you him gaue, aboue his Natiue right: Ioyne with the iuster side, so shall you force Them to agree: and bolde the Lande in state.

Eubulus.

What meaneth this? Loe yonder cōmes in hast Philander from my Lord your younger sonne.

Gorboduc.

The Goddes sende ioyfull newes.

Philander.

The mightie Ioue Preserue your Maiestie, O noble kinge.

Gorboduc.

Philander, welcome: But how doth my sonne?

Philander.

Your sonne, sir, lyues and healthie I him left: But yet (O kinge) this want of lustfull health Could not be half so griefefull to your Grace, As these most wretched tidynges that I brynge.

Gorboduc.

O heauens yet more? no ende of woes to 〈◊〉〈◊〉?

Philander.

Tyndar, O kyng, came lately from the Courte Of Ferrex, to my Lorde your yonger sonne, And made reporte of great prepared store Of warre, and saith that it is whollic ment Against Porrex for highe disdaine that he Lyues nowe a kynge and egall in degree With him, that claimeth to succede the whole. As by due title of discedinge right Porrex is nowe so set on flamynge fire, Partely with kindled rage of cruell wrathe, Partely with hope to gaine a Realme therby, That he in haste prepareth to inuade His Brothers Lande, and with vnkindely warre Threatens the murder of your elder sonne, Ne coulde I him perswade that first he should Sende to his Brother to demaunde the cause, Nor yet to you to staie his hatefull strife. Wherfore sithe there no more I can be harde. I come my selfe nowe to enforme your Grace: And to beseche you, as you loue the liefe And safetie of your Children and your Realme. Nowe to emploie your wisdome and your force To staie this mischiefe ere it be to late.

Gorboduc.

Are thei in Armes? would he not sende for me▪ Is this the honour of a Fathers name? In vaine we trauaile to asswage their mindes As if their hartes whome neither Brothers loue

Nor Fathers awe, nor kingdomes care can moue Our Coūsels could withdrawe from ragyng heat Ioue slaye them both, and ende the cursed Lyne For though perhappes feare of such mightie force As I my Lords, ioyned with your noble Aides Maye yet raise, shall represse their present heate, The secrete grudge and malyce will remayne The fire not quentched, but kept in close restraint Fead stil within, breakes forth with double flame Their death and mine must peaze the angrie gods

Philander.

Yelde not, O king, so muche to weake dispaier Your sonnes yet lyue, and long I trust, they shall: Yf fates had taken you from earthly life Before begynning of this ciuyll strife: Perhaps your sonnes in their vnmaistered youth, Lose from regarde of any lyuyng wight, Wolde ronne on headlonge, with vnbridled Race To their owne death and ruine of this Realme. But sith the God that haue the care for kinges, Of thinges and times dispose the order so That in your life this kindled flame breakes forth While yet your lyfe, your wisdome & your power, Maye staie the growing mischiefe, and represse The fierie blaze of their inkindled heate It seemes, and so ye ought to deeme therof, That louyng Ioue hath tempred so the time Of this debate to happen in your daies That you yet lyuynge maye the same appeaze. And adde it to the glorie of your latter age And they your sonnes maye learne to liue in peace

Beware (O kynge) the greatest harme of all, Lest by your wayleful plaints your hastened death Yelde larger roume vnto their growyng rage: Preserue your lyfe, the onely hope of staie: And if your highnes herein list to vse Wisdome or force, Counsell or knightly aide: Loe we our persons, powers and lyues are yours. Vse vs tyll Death, O king, we are your owne.

Eubulus.

Loe here the perill that was erst forsene When you, (O king) did first deuide your Lande And yelde your present raigne vnto your sonnes. But nowe (O noble Prince) nowe is no time To wayle and plaine, and wast your wofull lyfe, Nowe is the time for present good aduise, Sorowe doth darke the Iudgement of the wytte The Hart vnbroken and the courage free From feble faintnes of booteles dispaier Doth either ryse to safetie or renowme By noble valure of vnuanquisshed minde Or yet doth perishe in more happie sorte Your Grace maye sende to either of your sonnes Some one both wise and noble personage, Which with good counsel & with weightie name Of father shall present before their eyes Your hest, your liefe, your safetie and their owne The present mischiefe of their deadlie strife And in the while, assemble you the force Whiche your Cōmaundement and the spedie hast Of all my Lordes here present can prepare: The terrour of your mightie power shall steye

The rage of bothe, or yet one at lest.

Nuntius.

O King the greatest griefe that euer Prince dyd here The euer wofull Messenger did tell, That euer wretched Lande hath sene before I brynge to you. Porrex your yonger sonne With soden force, inuaded hath the lande That you to Ferrex did allotte to rule: And with his owne most bloudie hande he hath His Brother slaine, and doth possesse his Realme.

Gorboduc.

O Heauēs send down the flames of your reuenge, Destroie I saie w^t flasshe of wrekefull fier The Traitour sonne, and than the wretched sire: But let vs go, that yet perhappes I maye Die with reuenge, and peaze the hatefull gods.

Chorus.

The lust of kingdomes knowes no sacred faithe No rule of Reason, no regarde of right No kindlie loue, no feare of heauens wrathe: But with contempt of Goddes, and mans despite, Through blodie slaughter doth prepare the waies To fatall Scepter and accursed reigne. The sonne so lothes the fathers lingerynge daies. Ne dreades his hand in Brothers blode to staine O wretched Prince, ne doest thou yet recorde The yet fresshe Murthers done within the Lande Of thie forefathers, when the cruell sworde Bereft Morgan his liefe with Cosyns hande? Thus fatall plagues pursue the giltie race Whose murderous hand imbrued w^t giltles blood

Askes venge aunce before the heauens face, With endles mischiefes on the cursed broode. The wicked childe this bringes to wofull Sier The mournefull plaintes to wast his wery life: Thus do the cruell flames of Ciuyll fier Destroye the parted reigne with hatefull strife And hence doth spring the well frō which doth slo: The dead black streames of mournings, plaints & woe.