University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

The Scene, Xerxes's Palace.
Enter Cleontes and the Poet.
Cleo.
Your Fortune rises, Sir, Your Muse has Charm'd the King;
After the Banquet, he intends to see
The Mask perform'd: But what's a fairer Demonstration
Of his Favour, I am commanded to entrust you
With his secret Love—He much relies on you.

Poet.
Possible! O ye Gods! A Pimp!
[Aside.
Then my Prayers are heard! The Devil's in't
If I don't thrive now!
Her Name, Dear Sir?
Her Name and Quality: I'll melt her down
With a Distick: She shall be Rythm'd to Raptures.
Her Name, Sir:

Cleo.
Her Name is Virtue, Sir.

Poet.
Virtue! She does not belong to the Court, Sir, does she?

Cleo.
That must be our care to find out: You know
The King resolves to tast no common Pleasures;
His Fancy therefore leads him to enjoy
A Married Beauty, of untainted Virtue;
One that dares defend her Honour,
Against the utmost Storms of Fortune:
Whom neither Threats, or Bribes of Power can shake,
Nor all the subtle Arts of Languishing Desire.

Poet.
Look you (not that I believe we shall) But
Suppose we should find such a Lady? Pray
What would his Majesty do with her?

Cleo.
He'd first use all his Arts and Power to bend her Virtue,
And if he found it yield, despise her;
But if she stood his Love unmov'd,
Then Force should give him a Delight,
Which her consent would Ruin.

Poet.
O ho! Then it seems, his Majesty wou'd
Only have a Slash at her Virtue! Very Good!
A Married Lady you say, that won't Cuckold
Her Husband for Love or Money! Why now,
After all, that must be a very odd
Humour in a Woman!

Cleo.
Yet such a one there may be found, Sir.
You know the Fair and Fam'd Tamira,
The Wife of Noble Artabanus:
The King, before her Marriage, was in Love with her,
And often made Attempts upon her Honour:
But meeting still severe Repulses,
Offer'd her at last his Crown, and ev'n That,
She with the same Indifference rejected.
The General on this was Banish'd, she follow'd him,
And to the hazard of her Life, embrac'd his Fortune.
The King at last, with Absence cur'd his Love;
And wanting Soldiers for the War with Greece,
Call'd Artabanus home, restor'd him to his Honours,
And gave Tamira to his Arms: But he
Remembers now afresh her former Cruelty;
And resolutely Vows to satisfy
His old Revenge, and the Remains of Love.

Poet.
A satisfaction for the Gods above!
But hark you Sir! Are you sure 'tis Artabanus's Wife?

Cleo.
The same, I mention'd several,
But most the King inclines to her.

Poet.
By Jove we'll Dub his Lordship then! we'll Dub him:
Now my Revenge is perfect: He gave me
Nothing for my last Dedication.

[Aside.
Cleo.
I guess the King expects her at the Mask.
But see our General, and Artabanus with him,
I like 'em not, they'r Enemies to you and me.

Poet.
Oh! Let me alone with 'em!
You say the King has Possitively
Commanded none shall pass his Presence Arm'd?

Cleo.
He has—I'll retire, and Inform him
They are here, while you demand their Swords.

Enter Mardonius, Artabanus and Aranthes.
Mar.
What mean these double Guards?

Poet.
Safety, Sir, Safety!

Mar.
What art thou?

Poet.
I am a Wit,

Art.
I'll not take your word, Sir.

Aran.
O 'twere Charity, my Lord, since he can't keep it.

Poet.
I'll write no more Dedications, my Lord!

Art.
'Tis well resolv'd. 'Twere Insolence
To Libel Men of Honour: For what wer't else,
To tell the World they like a Muse,
Which just before the world had Damn'd.

Poet.
Your Lordships Picture was not ill drawn before it.

Art.
'Twas every where unlike me;
Thou drew'st my Honours all or'e white,
Without one touch of shade to heighten it;
It look'd to me a flat insipid nothing.

Poet.
The very Image of your Lordship Gratuity.

Art.
'Tis a vain Pride, not Gratitude Rewards
The Undeserving; to Encourage thee
Were an Affront to Real Merit.
To the Presence—on my Lord!—

Poet.
You must leave your Sword, Sir.

Mar.
Who demands it?

Poet.
Your Humble Servant, Sir.

Mar.
Here, Take it Slave!

[Presenting the Point.
Poet.
Auh! not by the wrong Handle! I beseech you, Sir.

Mar.
The meaning of this Insolence! You Gentlemen,
Is it the King's Command?

Guard.
My Lord, it is.

Art.
'Tis likely, dispute it not my Lord! There Gentlemen!

Mar.
Gods! That a Man so great in Arms,
They give their Swords.
Should ever know the guilt of Fear! See where he comes,
Amidst his Court of Women now! O shameful Change.

Enter Xerxes, follow'd by a Train of Ladies, Cleontes in Discourse with him. Tamira amongst them.
Xer.
Did you see her say you?

Cleo.
She follows in the Train, my Lord.

Xer.
Let her be near us at the Mask; I wou'd
Appear a gentle Lover first, and try
The force of Passion, and Heart wounding Eloquence;
I know tho' Real, they would plead in vain;
But, that 'tis heightens my delight: For when
She thinks the Lamblike Lover, dying
In the vain pursuit: The bounding Lyon then
Shall start, and drag th'unwilling Prey.

Aran.
Health to your Majesty.

Xer.
Aranthes welcome! welcome Artabanus,
Valiant Mardonius welcome!

Mar.
I never durst be a Coward, Sir—But now
Methinks you should not know me for Mardonius.
I us'd to wear a Sword!

Xer.
O! 'Twere needless, unless you had Enemies.

Mar.
There still are Græcians Living, Sir.

Xer.
And they were born to live.

Mar.
Yes, and Conquer too! Your Pardon, Sir,
I love 'em not, tho' they deserve my Love.

Xer.
Ha!

Art.
Take heed, my Lord, your words have mov'd the King.

Mar.
Then does yours soften him? For I want Temper.

Xer.
[Aside.]
I'll find a fitter time to silence him.
Such Men are hateful, and will oppose my Pleasures.

Art.
We came to Intreat a private Hour with your Majesty.

Xer.
The Court at present is dispos'd to Mirth
And Pleasure: After the Mask I'm yours.

Aran.
We'll Attend your Majesty.

Xer.
Your Entertainment shall be soft
And pleasing, what the Musick wants, may be
Supply'd in Love: But that's a Feast, my Lord.
[To Art.
You never seek abroad, that are so sure
A welcome Guest at home.

Art.
I owe that Blessing, Sir, to your Indulgence;
And see she's here! Your Majesty will pardon me?

Xer.
'Tis your Duty, Sir: By Heav'n
[Art. goes to Tam.
He loves her, after four Years Enjoyment!
Had she been mine, er'e this I'd loath'd
The Sight of her—Not but she's Fairer, than the Beams of Day!
Softer than a Lovers hope,—and Virtuous,—to an Insolence.

Tam.
[To Art.]
I hope you'er not displeas'd, my Lord.

Art.
No! But what was it brought you hither?

Tam.
Indeed the hopes of seeing you.

Art.
D'ye not fear the King should Gaze upon you?

Tam.
If you fear it, I'll retire.

Art.
No, 'twou'd be observ'd: But yet beware of him.
He often dwells upon your Praise of late.

Tam.
Indeed I'm sorry if it troubles you,
Else could hear it with Indifference.

Xer.
Come Sirs, our Entertainment waits us.
Artabanus! You'll trust me near your Lady.

Art.
That Trust will be her Protection, Sir.

Xer.
Begin the Mask.

While a Symphony is Playing, Luxury arises sleeping on a Bed of Roses, and Mercury Enters to him.
Mercury.
Awake soft Luxury, awake
The smiling Gods befriend thee,
And with Pleasures here attend thee;
Now Feast thy Senses, and Receive
The sweetest Joy, the Gods can give.
Awake, &c.

The Scene Drawing, discovers several Deities, Attended by their several Pleasures: Cupid Advances.
Cupid.
With me, these Rival Gods contend,
And Each asserts his Power to bless;
Thy Voice alone the strife must end,
Who knowest all Pleasures in Excess:
And wanton Cupid comes to prove,
Life has no Joy like Lawless Love.

Luxury.
What kind Reward shall I receive
From them, to whom my Voice I give.

Cupid.
That thou Unbrib'd mayst give thy Voice,
Eternal Freedom to possess thy Choice.

Mars advances to a Warlike Symphony.
Mars.
Sound! sound! the Trumpet sound,
The Warriours Soul Allarm!
He Fights!—They Fly!—and now with Conquest Crown'
What God can give a Nobler Charm?

Lux.
No more! no more! Ah throw thy Arms away:
For with 'em Love shall Sport and Play;
The Trumpet now shall softer sound,
And swell, and weep, and gently wound.

Hymen Descends.
Hymen.
If softer Love can make thee Blest,
That Bliss in Marriage is possest.

Indifference Interrupts him.
Indiff.
Away! away! no Life can be
Like that, Mankind enjoys in me:
Indifference is the happiest State,
On which no Care or Sorrows wait,
Nothing hating, nought admiring,
Never Wanting, ne're Requiring;
Never Pining for Possession,
Nor yet slighting kind Occasion;
Joy is welcome still to chear me,
Sorrow never shall come near me.

Mar. and Indiff.
together.
If Peaceful Jows can make thee blest,
In him, or me they are possest.

Lux.
Begon! Dull Pair, I cannot take,
Or grant a Joy in either:
Be chain'd for ever Back to Back,
And wander through the World together.
Chorus.
Begon Dull Pair, he cannot take, &c.

The Pleasures Bind Marriage and Indifference together, and drive them off the Stage: Then Venus advances,
Venus.
Would you know the sweetest Joys,
Which Virtue wisely keeps from Fools;
Then steal a Mistriss, Break all Tyes,
That would confine your Love to Rules.
From Vulcan forct to hide my Charms,
I Modest still, and Cold must prove:
But Ah! when in my Warriours Arms
I live! and give a loose to Love.

Lux. and Venus.
All other Loves but faintly tast,
Or still repeated fly too fast.
But the Lover
Will Discover,
Changing
Ranging
Makes the Bliss for ever last:

Lux.
True Joy is now reveal'd,
Come Pleasures Dance and Play.
All! All! To Venus yield,
Fair Venus Winns the Day.

While the Pleasures Dance, the Four last Lines are Repeated in a Grand Chorus. After which the Company rises.
Xer.
Now, my Lords, what think you of these softer Pleasures?
Is not a peaceful Court adorn'd with Beauties?
Far beyond the Prospect of a dusty Camp?
Shew me an Army now, that dares resist 'em!
That cou'd Unconquer'd view their Charms!

Mar.
I cou'd ha' shewn you one, Sir, your Pardon, Ladies!

Xer.
What!—They were valiant old Soldiers!

Mar.
No! Young and Lusty, in their Prime of Years and Health;
I dare allow the Ladies each to Conquer seven Men,
But Seven Hundred Thousand wou'd have held 'em to't.

Xer.
You are allow'd, this Liberty, my Lord,
Your Years Excuse you.

Mar.
I ha' lost no Tast of Manly pleasures.

Xer.
How did the Musick take you?

Mar.
Tho' it were loose, I cou'd ha' lik'd it
In a proper Season, to me 'twas harsh
And out of Time, when I have nothing else
To do,—I'll have a Mistress, and a Lute.

Xer.
Why, what have Men to do on Earth
But to Indulge their Appetites? How shou'd
We stop the swift Career of Time, unless
We load him well with Pleasures er'e he flies away?
Old Men I find can be content to Dream
Of Happiness: Away! Some Fruit and sprightly Wines!
Conduct the Ladies to the Grove of Jessamines,
And strow the best Perfumes of Nature as they Pass,
Your Eare Aranthes.

(The Courtiers Conduct the Ladies.)
Tam.
Pray, my Love, Excuse me! I dare not follow 'em,
(to Art.)
During the Mask, the King let fall
Some wanton Words, that Trouble, and Offend me,
Forgive this Fault, I'll ne're beseen at Court agen.

Art.
This Prudence has Oblig'd me: Farewell.

Exit. Tamira.
Xer.
(to Aran.)
Nor e're in Common talk speak slightly of my Triumph?

Aran.
My Royal Lord his Private Thoughts I know not,
If they were ill, he ne're wou'd utter 'em,
I have indeed observ'd him Thoughtful when
We speak of You, and he has sought
This Opportunity to tell
Your Majesty the Cause.

Xer.
I can Ill spare it now, my Pleasures Wait,
And they Brook no Delay.

Aran.
Beseech Your Majesty but a Moment.

Xer.
(Aside)
A Moment! 'tis an Age! Let him be short.
Too Plain I read his sullen Thoughts,
He takes an Ill time to Thwart me!
Let him be ware my sleeping Will,
For if it wakes Disturb'd, it may be Fatal,
(To Mar.)
Now Sir! Your Greivances!

Mar.
Are they not Written in my Face?

Xer.
I read nothing there but Age,
And that indeed's a Greivance!

Mar.
Sir, You love me not!

Xer.
Go on! have you any more?

Mar.
Gods!

Xer.
Speak lower.

Art.
Forbear, my Lord, you'll Ruin All!

Mar.
Speak you then, that can be Master of your Passion.

Art.
My Royal Lord, may I intreat Permission,
I unload that Grief, which Heavily
Has brought us to the Court?

Xer.
You have our leave, the rest be silent,
'Till I commission 'em to Answer.

Aran.
I submit.

Mar.
I'll do my best.

Art.
Then thus, my Lord.
We Grieve to think your late Expensive Triumph,
Was not worth the Summs it Cost You: That all
Your Trophies, Spoils and Treasure ta'en from Greece,
Are now thrown by for Lumber:
That ev'n Your Royal Captives led in Golden Chains,
Were Abject Slaves before they wore 'em:
That a Benumming Lethargy has seiz'd Your Soul,
And sunk your Glory in Unmanly Pleasures:
That Women, Flatterers, and servile Poets are
Your only Favourites now: That we
Whose Loyal Swords have ev'er been Your Guard,
E're we can gain Admittance to your Sight,
Are Forc'd to give 'em up to base born Slaves,
Least we should sheath 'em in Your Jealous Heart.
We Greive, that your surviving Soldiers are
So little known, the many Thousands
In Your Service Dead, so soon Forgotten.

Xer.
Proceed.

Art.
You may remember, Sir,
In Your Prosperity of Arms, when once
You drew Your Hardy Millions up, and saw
Th'Amazing space of World was taken,
To contain their Numbers,
You then bedew'd Your Cheeks with Tears to see
So many Gallant Souls in perfect Health,
Which You was sure in One short Age of Man
Th'Inevitable Throat of Death must swallow.
If then so late, because a certain end
Cou'd move Your Soul so far, what Floods of Grief,
What Raving Madness shou'd Possess you,
When You reflect, that they were all Devour'd
At a Meal:
One Fatal Battle slew 'em for the Tyrants Feast,
And for his Table spread the Earth with Slaughter.
By Heav'n our Foes Report, they are asham'd,
T'have Conquer'd Men, that can so tamely bear their Losses;
Others less insulting say, (and that indeed does wound us)
That we stand ready all, and raving for Revenge,
But want an Animating King to lead us.

Mar.
Nay, Sir! they talk yet worse than this—

Xer.
'Tis not yet your time to speak.

Mar.
Would it were!—I ha' done.

Xex.
Have you any more?

Art.
No more my Lord, but that
You wou'd believe my Words, the Dictates of
A Loyal Heart, that bleeds to serve you.

Xer.
Aranthes, You!

Aran.
My Lord, my Griefs are told by Artabanus.

Xer.
Now Sir, you have leave.

Mar.
I am unarted, Sir, in any grace of Speech
To stir the Soul! my words are plain and honest,
Too short to hide a Crime with Eloquence;
I'm down-right angry I, where er'e I see
The Face of Shame: Ye Gods! had I but ta'en
The Cue t'have spoke, the half what he has utter'd,
Ye had appear'd a—I want a Name to call a King by:
But come, Sir, I'll return the Musick you have giv'n:
I've yet a Tongue will better speak
My Thoughts; a Voice, that once cou'd warm you faster
Than a Silken Mistriss, and was, perhaps,
As loath to let you sleep a' Nights.

Xer.
Where is this Powerful Orator? Let's hear him!

Mar.
Bid the Trumpets Enter.

Aran.
Now you strike him home, my Lord.

Enter Trumpets.
Mar.
Here! here's th'harmonious Tongue shall plead my Cause,
And rouze your startling Soul to Glory! Sound a Charge.

Art.
Yet hold! By Heav'n, I plaud my Fellow Soldiers heat!
[Embracing Mar.
And see, my Lord! what hardy Squadrons join to back him.
[Looks out.
Look! how they move! what, what a Martial Grace and Order!
Gods! Victorious Terror's in their Eyes, and now
Suppose within a well pitch'd Field,
The swelling Foe, advancing to our Formost Ranks;
We fix our chosen ground, and stand impatient
To receive 'em! The Neighing Steeds too foam and champ!
And tear the Earth, and shew a noble lust of War!
And see they come! the glowing Soldiers shout;
The Signal's giv'n, and Death in ghastly wounds
Deals various Fate around him!
While Clashing Armour, Spears, and Rattling Shields,
Drums, Fifes, and Trumpets, (Glorious Horror!)
With their stupendious Clangor crack the Skies!
Now stretch the Allarming Voice of War! Sound, till
From your swoll'n Veins, the Springing Blood gush forth!
Imagine now, the eager Arms of Victory
Extending to embrace us! sound! as if
The Glorious Scene were here in real Action!
Sound! and wake the Ghost of this departed Hero.

Art.
O Glorious Harmony!

Aran.
O Powerful Charm!

They Sound a Charge.
Mar.
By Arms, it sets my glowing Veins on fire!
I burn! my Spirits rave with fury for the War!
Away to Horse! to Arms! why stand you, Sir, unmov'd,
As if a low born Fear, had fix'd you here Inanimate?
Can you be deaf, when great Revenge and Honour call?
Are there such Charms in a detested Sloth and Ease?
God's where have you Tameness left, to stand thus long
Suspected, not to dare? Sound a fresh Allarm!
And let the Martial Din ungrave the Dead
To rouze him!

Xer.
On Forfeit of your Lives, forbear your Insolence!
Audacious Traitor! thus to Brand
My Hallow'd Pleasures, with the Name
Of Slothful, Ease and Fear! I'll have thee think,
Unknowing Slave! That nothing in it self
Is Good or Ill, but as it pleases me.

Mar.
I say no! There will be shame in Cowardice,
Tho' Xerxes were a Soldier!

Xer.
Ha!

Aran.
Forbear, my Lord, consider 'tis your King that hears you!

Mar.
I ha' no King, 'tis Merit, not a Crown
That makes a King, when Pride and Sloth debase
The Soul of Majesty: The Crown's a Toy,
No more in Worth, than what it weighs in Gold:
I scorn a King, whose Robes can only speak him Royal.

Xer.
Witness ye Gods! How loth I am to wake,
And crush this Slave, who like a Crawling Insect dares
Disturb the sleeping Lyon—

Mar.
A Lyon!
By Heav'n I've seen a Hare, a Womans Courage
Dare beyond thee; the Martial Artemisiu,
Whose Aiding Arm in Fight, supported and disgrac'd thee!
The Warlike Woman shew'd a Manly Rage,
The Courtly King a Womans Trembling Fear:
Ever wer't thou last in Battle, formost
In the Flight, humble in Danger, and when
Thy Danger's past, Insulting!

Xer.
Seize the Traitor! hence! and bear him to a Dungeon!
There let the surly Lyon Growle and Champ,
His Galling Chains in vain! I'll try him in the Den;
Hard Fare, perhaps, Darkness and Gives may tame him.

Mar.
A Dungeon! Now by the Power of Arms, thou'st found
The only place, an honest Man can bear in Persia!
Thou poor Inverted King, whose Favour is Disgrace,
Whose Frowns are Honour now; Thou canst not raise
My Glory more, than thus proclaiming to the World
Thou hatest me: But when
This Lyon grumbles or'e his Chains alone; Beware
Thou send no Persian Fools to gaze at me;
Lest in my round of thought, I should believe 'em Greeks
That keep me there; and bounding from my Couch,
Grasping with Fury the mistaken Prey,
With Flaming Eyes, should stare their Souls away.

[Exit.
Xer.
To the Dungeon hence, and load him down with Massy Fetters.
By Heav'n I'll find a way to take
An undisturb'd Repose: I'll have my Streams
Of Christial Pleasure, clear'd of all these Martial Weeds,
I'll tear 'em by the Roots, and throw 'em useless by.

Art.
My Lord, Hower'e your Soldiers heat—

Xer.
I'll have no more to do with saucy War!
Were now Ten Thousand times the Millions
I ha' lost in Arms, Intreating, Begging as for life,
One animating Word to bid 'em move,
I'd not unsheath my Sword, to be Enthron'd with Jove.

[Exit,
Art.
Why! why ye Pow'rs! has such a tainted Soul
The Care of th'Empire? Or if the Gods have stampt
Divinity on Kings, fixing them far above
The Reach of Common Men; why then have we
The Eyes of Reason to Inspect their Faults?
Why are we Born with Souls to loath Dishonour,
And yet by Honour bound to bear it?

Aran.
How! To bear it! No! That Loyalty's Dishonorable,
That bids me bear Dishonour: When Subjects
Are no more the Care of Kings, we then
Have only left the Laws of Nature to Protect us,
And Nature tyes us all to Self Defence.
We must in time resent the Blows we've taken:
Mardonius's Freedom must be sought, and suddenly:
The Current of our Treasure ebbs too fast;
It must be stopt by Right and Priviledge:
The late Expences of our Gaudy Shame,
Exceeds th'Account of Necessary War:
And shall we sleep, when from our Hands by Force,
The Gripe of Tyranny has wrung our Fortunes,
More I cou'd say,
If I believ'd that Words cou'd win you to
An Honourable Action.

Art.
Aranthes, I was never slow to such a Call,
Nor needs the Cause a Tongue,
But yet the Undertaking's difficult,
And will require our Friends best Counsel
To Night at my own House I'll Summon 'em,
There speak our Griefs at large.
And may the Blest Event to Ages prove;
No Crown sits safe without the Peoples Love.

[Exeunt.