University of Virginia Library

SCENE, the House of Fabius.
Enter Candace.
Can.
How poor a thing is Empire! and how vain,
To pride ourselves upon its short-liv'd Glories!
The mightiest Monarchs of the peopled Earth
Are still the Subjects to Capricious Fortune;
And, when she frowns, the Height on which they sit
Makes but their Fall more dreadful and conspicuous.
A fatal Instance to the World am I,
My self a Queen, and great Hiarbas' Daughter;
Yet what avail'd his far-extended Sway?
What boots it, to have been the Son of Ammon?
On yonder Hostile Plain in Death he lies,
His Daughter Captive to a petty State:
Yet is not This the Sum of my Afflictions;
For to my Pride's Confusion,—but He's here—

Enter Fabius.
Fab.
Pardon th'Intrusion that proceeds from Joy,
The Joy I have to bring you pleasing News.
The Governour proposes to your Chief
On honourable Terms to set you free;
And such, as were I Hannibal, should ask
No second Thought, impatient as he is
Of Opposition, and the War prolong'd.

Can.
If thou wert He, thou would'st be wondrous kind
No Doubt! Candace then should have great Power!
Talk'st thou of Suppositions! what thou would'st do!
Curst, curst Evasion of my proffer'd Love,
That meets for Gratitude collusive Words!
Well the Saguntines may reproach thy Country,
If they, like thee, know no Return of Merit.

Fab.
Much am I injur'd in that Thought, fair Princess;
My Soul's true Sentiments but little known.
With grateful Heart I meet your valued Friendship,
And deem it Honour done me by the Gods,
That to my Lot it fell, in the rude Conflict,
To save you from th'unequal Chance of War.

Can.
Would I had perish'd there!—obdurate Man!
Still wilt thou wrest the Purport of my Words?
[Turns.
I spoke of Love; what dost thou mean by Friendship?
Well may'st thou turn aside, thy conscious Eyes
Dare not behold the Beauties they have slighted;
Charms, that have made rough Hannibal a Lover,
Whilst Africk's purpled Monarchs swell the Train;
Yet now their Influence is lost; to thee
A Queen, an Amazon, is forc'd to sue.
But wherefore rave I? Can the Trumpet's Sound
Give noble Ardour, where the Ear is deaf?
The glorious Sun, that sets off Nature's Face,
Shines unperceiv'd by thick and filmy Eyes:
Is this Politeness? These your Roman Arts?
For this, the Nations round stil'd barbarous?
Insensible, poor Wretch! I'll learn to scorn thee.

Fab.
What shall I say, Illustrious Maid, to calm
This Gust of Passion, Tumult of thy Soul?
'Tis sure to you I must appear ungrateful,
At least a stupid, despicable Slave,
Devoid of Sense, and dead to Beauty's Call:
Yet Heav'n can tell how much I prize your Worth,
The joint Perfections both of Soul and Form;
Think not, a Roman can be Foe to Love;
We own his Pow'r, nor does your warmer Sun
Shine yet but faintly on our Neighbour Coast.
With Admiration I behold your Beauty,
Your graceful Figure, and consummate Charms:
Unarm'd, great Juno's Majesty you wear:
When in the Field, you look another Pallas;
And, could the Goddess boast thy various Graces,
To her the Trojan Youth had giv'n the Prize.

Can.
Were I that Pallas, thou the Shepherd Paris,
(And sure the Shepherd's Part would suit thee well,)
Soft Cytherea would engage thy Choice,
As now Timandra bears it from Candace.
[Starts.
Ha! start'st thou, Roman? Have I told thee false?

Fab.
Well then, the Secret's out; which, for thy Peace,
Industrious did my Tongue strive to conceal;
Yet since thou hast it, I'll avow my Passion;
The lambent, unextinguishable Flame,
Which her soft Eyes, and yet more gentle Virtues,
Have kindled in the faithful Breast of Fabius.

Can.
Am I rejected for a puling Girl?
A fondling, soft, domestick Animal;
Whose wondrous Talent, whose Perfection is
To weave some pretty Story in the Loom;
Or with her Lute soften yet more her Soul;
A cooing Turtle that bemoans its Mate,
Insipid Creature, form'd without a Gall.

Fab.
Her Talents are not masculine, indeed;
To wield the Sword, to strain the twanging Yew,
To lash the foaming Steeds, and drive the Car
With rapid Wheels o'er mangled Carcasses,
She knows not: These are Amazonian Virtues.
Yet is she not the less replete with Honour,
And noblest Sentiments confirm her Soul.
With Female Softness she bewails her Country,
With manly Patience she partakes its Hardships;
Whilst the poor Pittance, dol'd about with Caution,
To fence against, that meager Fiend, the Famine,
In Pity she divides with some starv'd Soldier.

Can.
'Tis vain, I see, to struggle with my Fate;
Yet will my Passion make one last Effort.
Now hear me, Fabius, and well weigh my Words.
The Terms thou talk'st of from the Governour,
Shall they with me give Freedom to thy self?

Fab.
Amazing Kindness! Can you think that he
Would offer thus? Or Hannibal accept?

Can.
Then 'tis thy Artifice, and poor Invention,
To rid thy self of my detested Love;
But since that cannot move thy Soul to Softness,
Consider well the Dangers that surround thee;
These nodding Walls, and their impending Ruin;
Short is their Date, and sure Destruction waits them;
If Dangers move not, let Ambition fire thee.
Of martial Realms, Gætulian Chiefs, that ride
Swift without Bridle, of Marmarick Lands,
Thy Captive is the Queen; of these she makes,
And of her Virgin Heart, vow'd heretofore
To the chaste Huntress Queen, at once the Offer.—
Fly with me then from this ill-fated City;
Disguis'd, thro' the Sidonian Troops I'll lead thee;
And when thy Foot is set on Africk's Shore,
It's next Ascent shall be to mount a Throne.

Fab.
Now hear a Roman speak: That offer'd Throne,
And what is yet more worth, thy glorious Self,
Were my Heart free, Timandra never known,
Should not win Fabius to forsake his Honour:
Too much already is my Country censur'd;
Shall I by Flight thus add to its Disgrace?
Ignoble Thought! no, here my Fate shall find me;
In Faith's fair Cause I will resign my Breath,
And dying shew, at least, what Romans were:—
Yet thus in Gratitude I bow before thee,
Imploring the Good Gods on thy Behalf,
In Safety may'st thou reach thy native Land,
In Glory may'st thou reign its mighty Queen;
While some deserving Monarch shares thy Bed,
Enjoying Beauties Fate deny'd to me.

Can.
Are these thy Pray'rs? To me they are but Curses;
And in Return what should I beg for thee?
But my big Heart disdains a further Converse;
Thy own Stupidity be on thy Head,
For sure, if not my Love could warm thy Breast,
In this at least thy groveling Soul is shewn,
To spurn at Empire, and refuse a Crown.

[Exit.
Fab.
'Tis true, Ambition never was my View,
Tho' Glory still has been my great Pursuit;
I would, by noble Actions in her Service,
Deserve the utmost Honours of my Country,
Nor higher do my Thoughts affect to rise.
And to a gen'rous Soul the virtuous Rule
O'er a free People, chearfully obeying,
Must bring more real, and sublimer Joy,
Than can be in the most Despotick Sway.
But my own Passion now requires Attendance;
And more than time I paid it at the Palace.
The watchful Governour will soon come forth
To chear the People with his wonted Goodness;
And with his Presence animate the Soldier.

[Exit.