The Spanish Tragedy

«Not far from hence, amidst ten thousand souls,

Sat Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanth;

To whom no sooner ‘gan I make approach,

To crave a passport for my wand’ring ghost,

But Minos, in graven leaves of lottery,

Drew froth the manner of my life and death.

“This knight”, quoth he, “both liv’d and died in love;

And for his love tried fortune of the wars;

And by war’s fortune lost both love and live.”

“Why then”, said Aeacus, “convey him hence,

To walk with lovers in our fields of love,

And spend the course of everlasting time

Under green myrtle-tree and cypress shades.”

“No, no”, said Rhadamanth, “it were not well,

With loving souls to place a martialist:

He died in war, and must to martial fields,

Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain,

And Achilles’ Myrmidons do scour the plain.

Then Minos, mildest censor of the three,

Made this device to end the difference:

“Send him”, quoth he, “to our infernal king,

To doom him as best seems his majesty.”

To his effect my passport straight was drawn.

In keeping on my way to Pluto’s court,

Through dreadful shades of ever-glooming night,

I saw more sights than thousand tongues can tell,

Or pens can write, or mortal hearts can think.»

Thomas Kyd

The Spanish Tragedy