University of Virginia Library

Act II.

Scene II.

The Scene, a Room of State.
Meroin, and Ishmael, Disney.
Mer.
The Cause of all her Pride and Scorn is plain,
By all the Witchcrafts of the Sex 'tis plain.
'Tis Altomar's the Man. No wonder she has
Been Deaf to all my Prayers: all her warm Gales
Were th'happy Altomars; whilst nothing but
Her Winter Stormy Northern Blasts were mine.

Ish.
Wer't my Cause my Lord,
I would not curse, nor fret my Spleen in vain;
Return her Scorn with Scorn.
Beautie's a Flower, that whilst 'tis kind, is fragrant;
But when Disdain has canker'd all its Sweets,
'Tis a rank weed.

Mer.
A rank one 'tis indeed;
And if that poysonous weed, the Bane of all
My Peace must root in my curst Rival's Arms,
Lend him my Hand, ye Gods, to plant it there.
Oh Ishmael, I could make the rarest Bawd:
I'd stuff her Pillows with the Stings of Scorpions:
Oh how 'twould make her mount into his Arms.
Act the soft Dalliance with that Heat, that Fire—
Then to compleat the wanton Game, I'd mix
Her amorous Potions with the Blood of Aspicks:
Whilst he, like Jove, came on in Thunder, she
Should meet him like the burning Semele.

Ish.
VVhy all this Storm against the poor lost Altomar?
Sir, you forget that all his hopes are vanisht,
And 'tis the mighty Gayland must enjoy her.

Mer.
You talk like a raw Lover: He enjoy her?—
And must I tamely live to see the Cause,
The cursed Source of all my endless pains,
Shine the Bright Empress of our Southern World,
And rise in Glory whilst I set in Ruine?
No, Ishmael, there's a Spark in all great Souls
Men call Revenge, supplies the dying Fire
Of injured Love. To gratifie that last
Dear pleasure, know this Sorceress must die.

Ish.
My Lord, your high Resentments are but just;
But should you perish in th'Attempt.—

Mer.
No matter:
For I've at once out-lived my Peace and Glory.
For twelve long years I was the Algerine
Victorious Admiral,
Till all my Services, my Toyls and Wounds
Forgotten, my ungrateful barb'rous King
Could cloud me in the Noon of all my Glories,
And give my Lawrels to the cursed Altomar.
My Love destroy'd,
And Honor lost, think Ishmael, with what small
Delight I wear this Load of Flesh and Blood.

Ish.
You have but too much reason to complain.

Mer.
Give me kind Stars that favorable Minute,
When I may stab this pair of Royal Monsters,
Punish her Scorn, and his Ingratitude,
Though the next hour you made the Vultures Gorge
My Sepulchre.

Ish.
But Sir—You've served the Father, and adored the Daughter,
And can your Wrongs engender so much Rage?

Mer.
Yes Ishmael, yes, does not the thirsty Traveller
Loath the dear Spring when once the Fountain's poyson'd?
Ishmael, I know thee faithful, and dare trust thee;
Know then, I have here that working Vengeance, like
Wit's Goddess teeming in the Thund'rers Brain;
But something ominous foretells, my Life
Is short, though it will make my Fame immortal:
Yet e'er I die, I have a hoarded Mass
Of Infinite Wealth, which dead, I'll make thee Lord of:
But if I 'scape with Life, I have a Vessel
Ready i'th Port to fly to Alexandria,
Where thou my Friend, shalt share my Fortunes with me.

Ish.
Sir, to reward you for this Princely Bounty,
I have that Story for your Ears, shall wing
Your inspired Vengeance.

Mer.
Speak my better Genius.

Ish.
Know then, this Altomar, your hated Rival,
Is the true Heir to th'Empire of Morocco.

Mer.
Ha!

Ish.
You know the Story of that Bloody Empress,
Whose murther'd Son, and poyson'd Husband, cleared
Her Favorit's Passage to th'Imperial Seat.

Mer.
Go on.

Ish.
That Empress, to secure his Title,
And leave no Branch of the Imperial Stock
That might in time grow up t'o'ershade his Lustre,
Design'd to sacrifice the only Reliques
O'th' Royal Blood, the murder'd Muly Labasses
Two Infant Sons. My self and Lord Abdalla
(Now Gayland's General) were then
Two Favorites in the Morocco Court,
And th'Empress Confidents: And to our Care
She trusted the dispatch of the dire deed.
But we in pity to the Royal Infants,
And partly for the Hopes of a Reward,
Convey'd 'em to their Uncle Amurath,
Cayliff of Egypt.

Mer.
Very well, proceed.

Ish.
But to avoid all Dangers of the Storm,
That the revengfull Empress would have rais'd,
If e'er she knew we had repealed their Doom,
E'er we disclosed what our rich Present was,
We swore him first by Alla, ne'er to breath
Their Story, Quality, or their true Names
To ought in this lower World. That done, we left 'em;
Where, as his own adopted Sons he bred 'em,
In that dark Mist, even to themselves disguis'd;
And in pursuit of his Religious Vow,
Some twelve years since th'old pious Dotard died,
And left 'em in that Cloud in which he nurs'd 'em.

Mer.
Oh Ishmael, thou hast fired my very Soul;
But art thou sure this mighty Secret's safe?

Ish.
Fear not, 'tis only lodged in our two Breasts;
And for my part, I hate him worse than you:
For he has done me Wrongs unpardonable.
For know, my Lord, at the great Siege of Candy,
Under the Sultan's Banners, I had the Honor
To head a Troop of Horse, and by ill Fate
I had this very Altomar my Colonel:
Where, for I knew not what, only a certain
Antipathy he bore me, by his Influence
With the Grand Visier, unprovoked, uninjured,
He both cashier'd and banisht me; for which
I owe him Ruine, and would pawn my Soul to pay't him.

Mer.
Now thou art brave.

Ish.
And for Abdalla's talking,
His Tongue is Sealed with stronger Bonds than mine:
For should the furious Gayland ever know
There lives an Heir of the Imperial Line,
And by Abdalla saved, his Head would pay for't.

Mer.
Oh Ishmael, guard thy Tongue, lock up this Secret
Close as thy Heart, and dearer than thy Life.

Ish.
Your Favors would secure a greater Trust.

Mer.
For should it reach the Ears of Abuzeiden,
No doubt 'twould soften him to that degree,
That I should see the cruel Artemira
Lodged in my hated prosperous Rival's Arms:
A Sight would blast me.
I must make haste, my Vengeance is too tardy;
The Saturnine dull Planet moves too slow,
But into Deeds I'll put my faint Desire,
Drive and spur on my sluggish Orb of Fire.

Enter King and Artemira.
Art.
Ah Royal Sir, as you would reign immortal,
Have Angels ever guard you, Heaven love you,
Men fear you, and Virgins pray for you,
Pity my Pains, and this dire Doom recal.

King.
Kind Meroin, my Friend and Councellor,
Instruct me how to chide this stubborn Girl;
Now by my Life I offer her a Diadem,
An Emperor's Heart, with all that dazling Splendor,
That would both Crown her Youth, and bless my Days;
And would you think it, the mean Spirited Wretch,
Deaf to th'Acceptance of a Courting God-head,
Starts from a Throne, and shrinks into a Shade.

Art.
Consider Sir, what 'tis you would command;
You give what 'tis impossible to take.
Ah Sir, I love the Noble Altomar,
And with a Faith so true.

King.
By Hell she braves me,
Triumphant in th'incorrigible Shame.

Mer.
Ah Madam, were I worthy to advise,
Your Royal Father pleads with so much Reason—

Art.
Peace sawcy Monster, am I fall'n so low?
Because my angry Father is my Torturer?
Darest thou presume to talk, thou black Incendiary?
But to confute all thou darest say or think,
Know the least Thought of Altomar I value
'Bove Gayland's Crown, and all his Africk World.
Nay his least Look is worth whole Millions
Of such base Lives as this bold Slave's that hates him.

Mer.
Now all the Poyson of a bloated Toad
Blister that Face, and purple Plagues new paint it.

[Aside.
Art.
Ah Sir, what is't you'd have me do? If I
Love Altomar, can I love Gayland too?
Love is the very Soul of the Creation,
And Constancy the Soul of Love: And then
Can I love twice? She whose divided Heart
Admits more Loves than one, does but like her
That breaks a precious Diamond into Sparks,
And makes that worthless, was before inestimable.

King.
Alas, I do not court thee to be false:
'Tis then thou'rt false when thou lovest Altomar;
False to thy Blood, thy Honor, and to me,
To love below the Daughter of a King;
But fix thy Eyes on an Imperial Head,
And then thou'rt truly Just. Thou canst not guess
The Charms of Love within a Monarch's Arms:
Thy Beauty on a Throne shall not shine only
For thy long Youth, but be even in thy Age triumphant,
Whilst to pursue the Trophies thou hast won,
Thy young Heroick Sons shall conquer Kingdoms,
And their fair Sisters Kings.

Art.
Oh misery!

King.
Nor is this all; t'embrace the Crown I offer,
Consider, thou wilt make thy Father great:
All my Ambition bounds in this Alliance.
In this blest Marriage from my Blood will spring
That Race shall fill the Africk Throne for ever.

Art.
Oh Ruine!

Mer.
Your Gracious Father—

Art.
Dares that Villain speak?
Remove that hated Monster from my Sight.

Mer.
And that proud Devil from the World.

[Aside.
Art.
Alas, what is that gay vain thing call'd Empire,
You'd have me lose my Peace and Heav'n to purchase?
When from this Heart, my Altomar's dear Throne,
Its Lord I banish, 'tis a pain so great,
Horror and Hell will fill the empty Seat.

King.
A Daughter! Death! why was she born to plague me?
Ye Gods, what ways ye find to make Man wretched!
Our very Heirs, the Branches of our selves
Are not our own: The Gallant and the Great
Mix active Fires to mould their Likenesses,
Whilst some malignant Planet sheds his Venom,
Clubs in his Dross, to bastardize their Souls,
And grafts a Fool upon a Royal Stock.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
My Lord, the Emperor—

King.
Now Rebel Daughter,
I must be short: prepare to entertain
This mighty man with all yout kindest Looks;
Breath one harsh Note, to shew your Soul's untuned;
Ruffle that Face but with one angry Blast,
And the next hour your Darling breathes his last.
Obey me, or expect the Traytor's Head.

Enter Gayland attended.
Art.
Nurs'd in a Palace, and a King my Parent,
And yet thus wretched! would I had met my Altomar
In some more hospitable Desart born:
What tho' we lived with Brutes and Savages,
They would be kinder than inhumane Fathers.

King.
Great Sir, I leave you to your Fate, Success
And Victory, your long-known Slaves attend you.

[Exit.
Gayl.
Majestick Excellence, I come to lay
A Monarch at thy Feet.
So Lov's soft Goddess War's fierce God disarms,
Melts down his Native Fury in her Arms;
Softens the Influence of his angry Fires,
And blunts the Edge of Fate.

Art.
Excellent Vanity!

Gayl.
Madam, I ne'er was truly great till now.
What are the Courts of Kings if Love's not there?
What's the unpolisht slaughtering Warrier, but
A nobler Savage, till by Love refined?
War, Victory and Crowns,
But the rude Oar, and the rough Minerals bring,
Whilst 'tis Love melts, and Beauty stamps the King.

Art.
In what big Tone this gilded Organ speaks!
[Aside.
But now to answer him, Oh Love assist me!
Great Sir—

Gayl.
Speak, fair Divinity—

Art.
Methinks
You magnifie Love's little God too much,
And add too glittering Plumes to the blind Boy.
Alas, his unfledg'd Wings soar not so high.
Does not th'exploding World at best call Beauty,
A short-liv'd Bloom, Love Man's Effeminacy,
And Woman only Natures fair Defect?

Gayl.
Hold beauteous Brightness, Artemira's Eyes
Shall make a Convert of that senceless World:
Ascend my dazling Throne, and then see what
The Tributary World shall pay to Beauty?
Thus Crown'd, thou shalt not only be adored
By prostrate Nations, but those Nations Lord.
Thus the Imperial Monarch of the Skies,
Melts his Eternal Day in Juno's Eyes.
So shalt thou reign like her, but blest above
Her humbler Joys in a more faithful Jove.

Art.
Insufferable Vanity; Oh Love, how vast
A difference is betwixt the God-like Altomar,
Aside.
And this poor Image of a King?

Gayl.
By Heavens,
So glorious shall my Artemira shine,
That Humane Eyes shan't dare look up so high;
But blinded stand with thy o'erflowing Light.

Art.
Great Sir, your Bounty promises such Wonders,
That to experience your prodigious Favors,
I have a Boon to beg.

Gayl.
Speak and command it.

Art.
It will offend you.

Gayl.
By my Crown it shall not.

Art.
Have I your Promise?

Gayl.
Upon the word of Majesty—

Art.
I'm satisfied, and now dare freely speak.
Great Sir, no common Pride ought to embrace
Those Glories you intend for me; but Sir,
Suppose I lov'd before, and love an Object
Below your Royal Greatness: For alas,
All Beauties are not born to conquer Kings;
Yet may be happy far below a Crown;
And tho' the mighty Gayland only ought
To storm and conquer; yet I hope you'l promise me
You'll win me bravely, and not seek to force
My Heart till you have nobly conquer'd it.

Enter Altomar disguised, and Morat.
Gayl.
By these white Charms I swear
[Kissing her Hand.
By Alla, and my own Imperial Honor,
I'll never wear this Jewel till I've won it.

Mor.
Keep your Disguise, or we are lost for ever.

[To Altomar.
(Aside.)Alt.
Her yielding Hand snatcht to his greedy Lips,
Seiz'd and devour'd by that invading Tyrant.

Art.
Then I've my Wish, now my loved Altomar,
I've cut off all his Hopes t'invade thy Right;
He'll never wear thy Jewel till he has won it;
And that is never: For this Heart's invincible;
And if there's Strength in Vows, or Oaths, or Honor,
I'll make him know he's perjur'd but t'attempt it.

[Aside.
Alt.
What riotous pleasures revel in her Eyes?
By Hell he has talk'd her to an Extasie.

[Aside.
Gayl.
A favor'd Rival! the only thing I wanted.
By Heav'ns she's now a Conquest fit for me.
Who e'er thou art, poor Wretch love on, court on,
Guard all the Forts of her encompast Heart,
That when I storm I may have the Charm to try
How at my Sun such poor thin Shadows fly.

Art.
Now Royal Sir, your Gallantry—

Alt.
Oh horror!

[Aside.
Art.
Your matchless Gallantry has so much Honor,
And so much Charm, that it has given me all
My utmost wish could ask.

Alt.
She's gon! She's gon!

[Aside.
Gayl.
Oh my fair Saint, what infinite Mass of Glory
Do my vast Hopes embrace!
Come bright illustrious fair, let Fools and Cowards
Invoke the help of the kind Powers above,
Call on each Star to aid their dastard Love.
On my own Strength my Tug of Fate shall lie,
And let the gazing Gods stand Neuter by.

[Exeunt.
Manent Altomar and Morat.
Alt.
Oh I am lost! not the dark Womb of Earth,
That teems with tortur'd Ghosts in the black Realms
Of Vengeance, has a Soul so lost as mine.

Mor.
Suppress your Rage, perhaps you are mistaken;
What tho' she gazed upon that painted Plume,
And her kind Tongue caress'd the vain proud Fool,
How do you know but this fond Apparition
May be Design and Artifice, not Love?

Alt.
Design! Ah no, Her Heart, her Soul's a going.
I saw her, heard her false, beheld those Eyes,
Those once unerring Lights, inchanted with
That shining Comet Power: Saw those bright Suns
Leave their long Tracks of Truth, Faith, Honor, Love,
Whilst a new Phaeton usurp'd the Throne,
To set that World of Excellence on Fire.

Mor.
How has your Curiosity undone you?
Why did you wooe me from your milder Gaol,
And beg this short Enlargement on your Knees,
To meet this Sight, and be your own Tormenter?

Alt.
What tho' I'd known I should have found her false?
Not see her! Ah, who could forbear to see her?
Those dear fair Eyes have Charms even when they kill.
So in a Plague, when th'angry Gods send out
Some bright Commission'd Angel to destroy;
Could we but see the Divine Arm that strikes,
We should behold unutterable Glory.
'Tis not the Vengeance that it pours, can lessen
The Majesty of a destroying Deity.

Mor.
I have not gone thus far, ventur'd my Head
T'unloose your Chains, brought you thus far to ruine,
And leave you thus. No, I'll go on, thro' Fate
And Death; but I will give your Torments Ease.

Alt.
Dear generous, kind Morat.

Mor.
By Heav'ns I'll carry
This Faithless Woman all your Sighs, your Wrongs,
Your just Resentments of her Infidelity:
If she has Honor, Sence or Shame—

Alt.
Alas,
Though thou could'st lay my dying Groans before her,
What would that move, if she's resolv'd to kill?

Mor.
My Lord, I pity you.

Alt.
Indeed I want it.

Mor.
Now upon second thoughts, you your own self
Shall tell her your Resentments.

Alt.
How?

Mor.
Prepare
This Night to visit her.

Alt.
My Tutelar Angel!

Morat.
Thus then—By th'help of Night,
I will convey you safe to the Seraglio.

Alt.
Go on.

Morat.
Kind Rosolin your faithful Confident,
I'm certain will admit you:
And to secure you from all dangerous Eyes,
Remove the Princess's watchful Slaves: And tho'
The cruel Artemira would deny you,
It would be then too late: Her very dread o'th' Outrage,
To which her harsh Denials may transport you,
Will make your way: For since she's sensible,
That to discover you would give you Death,
For your past Loves
She will not be your Murderer. Now try
Your Fortune, and unriddle all your Fears.

Alt.
Now art thou kinder than my Prayers could ask.

Mor.
Alas, my Lord,
I cannot see your Soul thus Tempest-shaken,
But I must either calm the Storm, or drown in't.

Alt.
Thou best of Friends!

Mor.
But, Sir, I must conjure you,
Whatever Aspect or Disdain you meet,
Let not your Wrongs rise high, nor yet talk loud,
Lest your wild Rage should be your own destroyer.

Alt.
No, dear Morat, Suppose the worst: Imagine
She meets me with a Look all cold, and bleak
As Winter Stars: Nay, to compleat my misery,
Suppose her fallen to that Apostacy,
That she dares boldly tell me, that she loves him:
Suppose all this, and words ten times more cruel,
Which 'tis even Blasphemy to think; yet still
I have loved so well, I shall not with the least
Outragious word upbraid her with my Fate;
But falling prostrate at her Feet, and kneeling
To th'adored Heav'n, from whence that Thunder came,
My breaking Heart shall just keep Life enough,
To bear me back into my Gaol, and die.

Mor.
Look up, and hope a better Fate.

Alt.
Good Heaven,
If possible, dissolve this dreadful Vision;
But if I'm doom'd to see her broken Vows,
Not Comets with their bearded Majesty,
Those blazing Deputies of th'angry Gods,
Hang o're the World with half that mortal Influence,
As threats this miserable Head. Comets!
Why do I name those Infant Rods of Fate?
If Artemira's Cruelty ordeins,
Her wretched Slave in black despair shall die,
Within the Sphere of that destroying Eye
Hang all the bloody Banners of the Sky.

[Exeunt.