Pour down your tears, you watery regions, For mighty Locrine is bereft of life!

O fickle fortune! O unstable world!

What else are all things that this globe contains, But a confused chaos of mishaps, Wherein, as in a glass, we plainly see, That all our life is but a Tragedy?

Since mighty kings are subject to mishap--

Aye, mighty kings are subject to mishap!--

Since martial Locrine is bereft of life, Shall Estrild live, then, after Locrine's death?

Shall love of life bar her from Locrine's sword?

O no, this sword, that hath bereft his life, Shall now deprive me of my fleeting soul;Strengthen these hands, O mighty Jupiter, That I may end my woeful misery.

Locrine, I come; Locrine, I follow thee.

[Kill her self.]

[Sound the alarm. Enter Sabren.]

SABREN.

What doleful sight, what ruthful spectacle Hath fortune offered to my hapless heart?

My father slain with such a fatal sword, My mother murthered by a mortal wound?

What Thracian dog, what barbarous Mirmidon, Would not relent at such a rueful case?

What fierce Achilles, what had stony flint, Would not bemoan this mournful Tragedy?