by Daisy Dunn
I here yet hydden see
The sonne of wycked father. AM. Loe
his flattryng handes to thee
Applyeng to thy knees doothe crave
his lyfe with pyteous mone.
O wycked gylte, full sadde, and eke
abhorde to looke uppone,
His humble ryght hande caught he hath,
and ragyng rownde abowt
Him rolled twyse, or thryse hath cast,
his head resoundeth owt,
The sprynkled howses with the brayne
of hym throwne owt are wet.
But shee poore wretche her lyttle sonne
in bosome hydyng yet
Loe Megara, lyke one in rage
doothe from the corners flee.
HER. Thowgh runnagate in bosome of
the thundrer hydde thou bee,
This ryght hande shall from every where
Thee seeke, and bryng to syght.
AM. wher goest thow wretch? what lurkyng
seekste thou to take, or flyght?
No place of savegarde ys yf once
bee Hercles styrde with yre:
But doo thou rather hym enbrace,
and with thy meeke desyre
Assaye t’ asswage hym. MEG. Husbande spare
us I beseeche thee nowe,
And knowe thy Megara, this sonne
thy cowntenaunce doothe showe,
And bodyes pytche: beholdst thow howe
his hands up lyfteth hee?
HER. I holde my stepdame: followe on
dewe penawnce paye to mee,
And bownden Jove from fylthy bonde
delyver free awaye:
But I before the mother wyll
this lyttell monster slaye.
MEG. Thou mad man whither goest thow?
wylte thou thyne owne bloode sheade?
AM. Th’infant with fathers fyry face
astonnyde all for dreade,
Dyed even before the wownde: his feare
hath tooke away his lyfe.
And nowe lykewyse his heavy clubbe
is shaken towarde his wyfe:
He broaken hath the bones, her head
from blocklyke bodye gone
Is quight, nor any where it stayes.
darste thow this looke uppone
To long lyude age? yf mournyng doo
thee greue, thou hast then loe
The deathe preparde. Doo thou thy breast
uppon his weapons throe,
Or ells this clubbe with slaughter staynde
of monsters slayne that bee,
Nowe hyther turne. thy parent false,
unfytte for name of thee
Ryd hens away, least he shoulde be
to thy renowne a let.
THE. Which waie ye father toward thy death
dooste thow thy selfe caste yet?
Or whyther goest thou madde man? flee,
and lye thow cloasely hyd,
And yet from handes of Hercules
this onely myschiefe ryd.
HER. Tis well, the howse of shameful kyng
ys nowe quyght overthrowne.
To thee O spowse of greattest Jove
I have loe beaten downe
This offred flocke: I gladly have
fulfyllde my wyshes all
Full meete for thee, and Argos nowe
geeve other offryngs shall.
AM. Thow hast not sonne yet al performde,
fyll up the sacrifyse.
Loe th’offryng doothe at th’aultars stande,
it waytes thy hande lykewyse
With necke full prone: I gyve my selfe,
I roon, I followe loe.
Mee sacrifyce. what meaneth this?
his eyes rolle to and froe,
And heavynesse doothe dull his syght.
see I of Hercules
The tremblyng hands? down falles his lace
to sleepe and quietnes,
And weery necke with bowed head
full faste doothe downewarde shrynke,
With bended knee: nowe all at once
he downe to grownde doothe synke,
As in the woodes wylde asshe cut downe,
or bulwarke for to make
A haven in seas. Lyuste thow? or els
to deathe doothe thee betake
The selfe same rage, that hath sent all
thy famylye to deathe?
It is but sleepe, for to and froe
doothe goe and come his breathe.
Let tyme bee had of quietnesse,
that thus by sleepe and reste
Greate force of his disease subdewde,
may ease his greeved breste.
Remove his weapons servantes, least
he madde gette them agayne.
CHORUS
LEt th’ayre complain, & eke ye parent great
of haughty sky, & fertile land throughout,
And wandryng wave of ever mouing freate.
And thow before them all, which lands about
And train of sea thy beams abroad dost throe
with glyttryng face, & makst ye night to flee,
O fervent Titan: bothe thy settyngs loe
and rysyng, hath Alcides scene with thee:
& known likewise he hath thy howsen twayn.
from so great yls release ye nowe his brest,
O godds release: to better turne agayne
his ryghter mynde. and thow O tamer best
O sleepe of toyles, the quietnesse of mynde,
of all the lyfe of man the better parte,
O of thy mother astrey wynged kynde,
of hard and pinyng death that brother arte,
With truth mingling the false, of after state
The sure, but eke the worste foreteller yet:
O father of all thynges, of lyfe the gate,
Of light the rest, of nyght and felowe fytte,
that comst to kyng, and servant equallye,
And gentlye cherysshest who weerye bee,
All mankynde loe that dredfull is to dye,
thou doost constrain long deth to learn by thee,
keepe him fast bound with heavy slepe opprest,
Let slomber depe his limmes untamed bynde,
Nor sooner leave his unryght ragyng brest,
The former mid his course again may fynd.
Lo layd on ground with lull fierce hart yet styll
His cruell sleepes he turnes: and not yet is
The plague subdewde of so great raging yll:
And on great clubbe the weery head of his
He woont to lay, dothe seeke ye staffe to fynde
With empty hand, his armes owt castig yet
withmoving vayn: nor yet all rage of mynde
he hath laid down: but, as with southwind gret
The wane once vext, yet after kepeth styll
his ragyng long, & though the wind now be
Asswaged, swells. shake of these madde & yll
tossyngs of mynde, returne let pietee,
And vertue to the man, ells let be so
his mynd with moving mad tost every way:
Let errour blynde, where it begoon hath, go.
for nowght els now but only madnes may
Thee gyltlesse make: in next estate it stands
to hurtles hands, thy mischief not to knowe.
Now strooken let with Hercules his hands
thy bosoms sound: thyne armes y world alow
wer wont to bear, let grevous strips now smite
with conquryng hand: & loude complaining cries
Let th’aire now here: let of dark pole & night
the quene them heare, & who ful fiersely lyes
That bears his necks in mighty chains fast
low lurking Cerberus in depest cave. (bound,
Let Chaos all with clamour sad resound,
and of broade sea wide open wafting wave.
And th’ayre that felt thy weapons better yet,
But felt t
hem thowgh.
The brestes with so greate yls as these beset,
with litle stroake they must not beaten be.
Let kyngdoms three sound with one plait & cry,
and thow neckes honowr, & defence to se,
His arrowe strong long hanged up on hye,
& quivers light, ye cruel strypes now smyght
on his firce back, his shoulders strong & stowt
let oken clubbe now stryke, & poaste of might
with knots full harde his brests loade al about,
let even his weapons so greate woes complain.
Not you poore babes mates of your fathers
with cruel woud revenging kings agai: (praise,
not you your lims in argos barriars plaies,
Are taught to turn with wepon strong to smight,
& strong of hand: yet even now daring loe
the weapon of the Scythian quiver light
With steady hand to paise sent out from bowe,
and stags td perse y save them selves by flyght,
and backes not yet full maend of cruel beast.
To Stygian havens goe ye of shade & night,
goe hurtles souls, whom mischief hath opprest
Even in first porche of lyfe but lately hadde,
And fathers furye. goe unhappy kynde
O little chyldren, by the way full sadde
Of journeye knowne.
Goe, see the angrye kyngs.
THE FYFTHE ACTE
HERCULES, AMPHITRYON,
THESEUS.
What place is this? what region?
or of the worlde what coaste?
Where am I? under ryse of sonne,
or bonde els uttermoste
Of th’ycy beare? or els doothe here
of sea of Hesperye
The fardest grownde appoynte a bonde
for th’ocean sea to lye?
What ayre drawe we? to weery wyght
what grownde is undersette?
Of truthe we are returnde from hell.
whence in my howse downe bette
See I these bloudy bodyes? hath
not yet my mynde of cast
Thinfernall shapes? but after yet
returne from hell at last
Yet wander dooth that helly heape
before myne eyes to see?
I am ashamde to grawnte, I quake,
I knowe not what to mee,
I can not tell what grevous yll
my mynde before dooth knowe.
Where is my parent? where is shee
with goodly chyldrens showe
My noble hartye stomakt spowse?
why dothe my lefte syde lacke
The lyons spoyle? whiche waye is gone
the couer of my backe?
And selfe same bed full softe for sleepe
of Hercules also?
Where are my shaftes? where ys my bow
Them from me lyuing who
Cowlde plucke awaye? who taken hathe
the spoyles so greate as thes?
And who was he that fearyd not
even sleepe of Hercules?
To see my conquerour me lykes,
yt lykes me hym to knowe:
Ryse victor up. what newe sonne hath
my father gotten nowe
Heaven beeynge left? at byrthe of whome
myght ever stayed bee
A longer nyght, then was in myne?
what myschiefe do I see?
My chyldren loe do lye on grownde
with bloodie slawghter slayne:
My wyfe is kyllde: what Lycus clothe
the kyngedome yet obtayne?
Who durst so heynous gyltes as these
At Thebes take in hande
When Hercles is returnde? who so
Ismenus waters lande,
Who so Acteons fieldes, or who
with dowble seas beset
The shaken Pelops kyngdomes doste
of Dardan dwell on yet,
Healpe me: of cruell slawghter showe
who may the author bee.
Let rage my yre on all: my foe
he ys, who so to mee
Showes not my foe. doste thou yet hydd
Alcides victour lye?
Come foorthe, even whether thow revenge
the cruell chariots hye
Of bloudy Thracian kyng, or yf
thow Geryons catell quyght,
Or lordes of Libya, no delaye
there ys with thee to fyght.
Beholde I naked stande, althowgh
even with wy weapons loe
Thow me unarmed sette uppon.
wherfore fleeth Theseus soe
And eke my father from my syght?
theyr faces why hyde they?
Deferre your weepyngs, and who dyd
my wyfe and chyldren sley
Thus all at ones, me tell. Wherfore
O father doest thow whushte?
But tell thow Theseu, but Theseu
with thy accustomde truste.
Eche of them sylent hydes awaye
their bashefull cowntnawnces,
And pryuelye they shedde their teares.
In so greate yls as thes,
Of what owghte we ashamde to bee?
dothe ruler yet of myght
Of Argos towne, or hatefull bande
Of sowldyars apte to fyght
Of Lycus dyinge, us oppresse
with such calamytee?
By prayse of all my noble actes
I do desyre of thee
O father, and of thy great name
approvde to me alwaye
The prosperous powre, declare to me,
who dyd my housholde slaye?
Whose praye laye I? A. Let thus thyne yls
in sylence overpas.
HE. That I shoulde unrevenged bee?
AM. Revenge ofte hurtfull was.
HE. Dyd ever man so grevows ylles
without revenge sustayne?
A. Whos’ever greater feard. H. Then these,
O father yet agayne
May any greater thing, or els
More grevows feared bee?
AM. How greate a parte is it thow wotst,
Of thy calamitee?
HER. Take mercy father, lo I lyfte
to thee my humble handes.
What meaneth this? my hand Heeth backe,
some privye gylte here standes.
Whēce coms this blood? or what doth mean
flowyng with deathe of chyllde
The shafte, enbrewde with slawghter once
of Lerney monster kyllde?
I see my weapons nowe, the hande
I seeke no more to wyt.
Whose hand could bend this bow but myne?
or what ryght arme but yt
Coulde stryng the bowe, that unto me
Even scantely doothe obaye?
To you I tourne: O father deere,
is thys my gylte I praye?
They healde theyr peace: it is myne owne.
AM. Thy greevous woe is there,
The cryme thy stepdames: this myschawnce
no fawte of thyne hath here.
THE SIEGE OF JOTAPATA
Jewish War, Book III
Josephus
Translated by H. St. J. Thackeray, 1926
In AD 66, sixty years after the Romans transformed Judaea into a Roman province, the Jews revolted. The Jewish War with Rome lasted until AD 73/4 and resulted in the destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple. Nero put his general Vespasian at the head of the campaign. The Roman-Jewish historian Josephus (AD 37–c. 100) – who had commanded the Jewish forces against the Romans at the Siege of Jotapata (Yodfat) before being captured and enslaved – later told the story of the siege in the third book of his Jewish War. His description of how he avoided having to die is justly famous.
But Josephus, when the city was on the point of being taken, aided by some divine providence, had succeeded in stealing away from the mi
dst of the enemy and plunged into a deep pit, giving access on one side to a broad cavern, invisible to those above. There he found forty persons of distinction in hiding, with a supply of provisions sufficient to last for a considerable time. During the day he lay hid, as the enemy were in occupation of every quarter of the town, but at night he would come up and look for some loophole for escape and reconnoitre the sentries; but, finding every spot guarded on his account and no means of eluding detection, he descended again into the cave. So for two days he continued in hiding. On the third, his secret was betrayed by a woman of the party, who was captured; whereupon Vespasian at once eagerly sent two tribunes, Paulinus and Gallicanus, with orders to offer Josephus security and to urge him to come up.
On reaching the spot they pressed him to do so and pledged themselves for his safety, but failed to persuade him. His suspicions were based not on the humane character of the envoys, but on the consciousness of all he had done and the feeling that he must suffer proportionately. The presentiment that he was being summoned to punishment persisted, until Vespasian sent a third messenger, the tribune Nicanor, an old acquaintance and friend of Josephus. He, on his arrival, dwelt on the innate generosity of the Romans to those whom they had once subdued, assuring him that his valour made him an object rather of admiration, than of hatred, to the commanding officers, and that the general was anxious to bring him up from his retreat, not for punishment—that he could inflict though he refused to come forth—but from a desire to save a brave man. He added that Vespasian, had he intended to entrap him, would never have sent him one of his friends, thus using the fairest of virtues, friendship, as a cloak for the foulest of crimes, perfidy; nor would he himself have consented to come in order to deceive a friend.
While Josephus was still hesitating, even after Nicanor’s assurances, the soldiers in their rage attempted to set fire to the cave, but were restrained by their commander, who was anxious to take the Jewish general alive. But as Nicanor was urgently pressing his proposals and Josephus overheard the threats of the hostile crowd, suddenly there came back into his mind those nightly dreams, in which God had foretold to him the impending fate of the Jews and the destinies of the Roman sovereigns. He was an interpreter of dreams and skilled in divining the meaning of ambiguous utterances of the Deity; a priest himself and of priestly descent, he was not ignorant of the prophecies in the sacred books. At that hour he was inspired to read their meaning, and, recalling the dreadful images of his recent dreams, he offered up a silent prayer to God. “Since it pleases thee,” so it ran, “who didst create the Jewish nation, to break thy work, since fortune has wholly passed to the Romans, and since thou hast made choice of my spirit to announce the things that are to come, I willingly surrender to the Romans and consent to live; but I take thee to witness that I go, not as a traitor, but as thy minister.”
