But felt them 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