University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

MEROPE. POLIPHONTES.
POLIPHONTES.
Ever in Tears, my Queen!—lend a long Truce
To Sighs; and cast aside your needless Sorrow.
Shake, from those injur'd Eyes, each Cloud that dims 'em:
And to the Voice of Love, vouchsafe your Ear.
—You frown—

MEROPE.
I do, indeed: and gaze, with Horror!

POLIPHONTES.
Gaze on.—I am no stranger to myself:
Nor to a Woman's Passions.—I grew grey
Beneath a Weight, of Winters spent in Arms.
—I know, Time's Furrows are no Paths to Love.
I know it, All—But, Wisdom knows it not.
—Weigh not my Offer in Disdain's light Balance.
You are the Daughter, Mother, Wife, of Kings:
But the State wants a Master.—What avails
Vain Title, till some Sword, like mine, supports it.

MEROPE.
Bold Subject, of a King who call'd me Wife!
Dar'st thou defame the Mem'ry of thy Lord,
With such audacious Hope?—Aspire to me!
Me, to supplant my Child! my Heart's whole Care:
Stain his dishonour'd Throne, with Guilt and Thee!
Me, can'st thou dream so base, to wed Thy Lowness:
And crown with Empire's Wreath a Soldier's Brow?

POLIPHONTES.
Soldier? immortal Gods!—Who more deserves
To govern, States, than He who, best, can save?
He who was, first, call'd King, e're That, was Soldier.
Great, because brave; and scepter'd by his Sword.
I am above Descent; and prize no Blood.
Scarce is my own left mine; 'tis lost, for Glory:
Spilt in my Country's Cause: in Yours, fair Scorner!
Take Safety—'tis my Gift. Fill half my Throne;
My Party calls All mine: Love shares it yours.

MEROPE.
Party? Thou fell Provoker, of Reproach!
Party should tremble, where a Monarch rules?

POLIPHONTES.
There will be Parties; and there must be Kings:
And he, who best can curb, was form'd to reign.
—I, who reveng'd your Lord, by Right succeed him.

MEROPE.
Succeed him, Traitor?—Has he not a Son?
Gods were his Great Forefathers,—thence, his Claim.

POLIPHONTES.
Far other Value, bears Mycene's Crown.
Right, to rule Men, is now no longer held
By dull Descent, like Land's low Heritage:
'Tis the pluck'd Fruit of Toil—'tis the paid Price
Of Blood, lost nobly: And 'tis, thence, my Due.

MEROPE.
What hast thou done, thou Wretch! to dare such Hope?

POLIPHONTES.
Bethink you, of that Day, when these proud Walls
Blush'd with the Blood you boast, from Traitor's Swords.
Review your helpless Husband—see your Sons,
Expiring, round you.—Wipe those gushing Eyes—
And view me, what I was: Not, then, too low
To share your ruffled Passions—Yes: 'Twas I,
From your freed Palace chas'd th' o'erwhelming Foe:
Sav'd your Herculean Sceptre, and its Queen.
—I, I, repell'd,—the Woes you could but weep.
See there, my Right, my Rank, my Claim to Love.

MEROPE.
Hear, hear him, Heaven! and give me back my Son.

POLIPHONTES.
Yes: Let him come, this Son!—He shall be taught
Lessons of Glory: Taught my Arts to reign.
—Joy to the Blood of Hercules!—I, too,
Revere: Let others dread it. My Ambition
Climbs, beyond Progeny—To spring from Gods,
Is less, than mine—who, like a God, command.

MEROPE.
If thou wouldst emulate a God, be just:
Man can be brave, too boldly.—Hercules
Sav'd many a King—But, did he steal their Diadems?
—Woud'st thou resemble Hercules?—Protect
Unfriended Innocence. Assert thy Prince.
Restore th' unhappy Wand'rer to my Arms;
Cease to afflict; and give him, to my Fondness.
—Thus, cou'd thy Influence move, so try'd, so courted,
Who knows—for, Gratitude has Power, like Love—
Who knows—how far I might forget my Glory—
And—if Peace dwells with thee—Expect it not—
I will not bid you hope—that I can stoop
So low.—Bend, I am sure, I cannot.
[Exit Merope.