Merope A Tragedy |
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| 1. | SCENE I. |
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 | Merope |  |
SCENE I.
The Palace.MEROPE. EURICLES. ISMENE.
MEROPE.
Is the World dumb, on my Eumene's Fate?
ISMENE.
Calamity, too soon, had found a Tongue.
MEROPE.
Has nothing, from the Borders, yet been heard?
EURICLES.
Nothing, that claims your notice.
MEROPE.
Who is He,
This Prisoner, I am told, but now, brought guarded?
EURICLES.
A rash young Stranger, caught with guilty Hand,
Red, from the recent Marks of some new Murder.
MEROPE.
A Murder! an unknown!—Whom, has he kill'd?
How? and where, was it?—I am fill'd with Horror.
ISMENE.
Oh! Sense too lively, of maternal Love!
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Chance speak: and take her Voice, for That of Nature.
MEROPE.
What is his Name? whence came he?—Why unknown?
EURICLES.
He seems, and is, if Truth may trust Appearance,
A Youth of that soft Stamp, which Fortune leaves
To Nature's gentlest Care; some Nymph's Adonis
Whose Eye, might sooner be suppos'd to kill
Th' unpity'd Maid, than his gay Sword the Man.
MEROPE.
Whom (tell me) has he kill'd?—answer.—I'll see him.
EURICLES.
What strange Emotion, This.—
MEROPE.
No Matter.—bring him.
If I discover Guilt, 'tis mine to punish:
If wrong'd, I owe him Mercy.
EURICLES.
—Should he have Merit,
'Tis plac'd so low, by Fortune.—
MEROPE.
Fortune's Faults,
Where Merit suffers, call on Kings, to mend 'em.
EURICLES.
What can a Wretch like This deserve, from Power?
MEROPE.
O, Euricles! look inward: ask thy Heart.
Be, for a Moment, but, This Wretch, Thyself—
And, then, acquit the Power, that scorn'd to note thee.
—Besides, who knows? he may—be still, prompt Fear.
Perhaps, my troubled Mind starts Hints too lightly.
Hearts that have Everything to fear, slight Nothing.
—Let him be brought.—I will, myself, examine him.
EURICLES.
Your Will must be obey'd.
MEROPE.
Go, my Ismene!
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Exit Ismene.
[Euricles, offering to go.]
MEROPE.
Stay, Euricles.
Stay: and partake more Terrors—Cou'd you think it?
Press'd by new Sorrows, I forget my past,
And have not yet inform'd you—Poliphontes
Has dar'd demand my Hand: dar'd—talk of Marriage.
EURICLES.
Oh! Queen!
I know his Offer Insult: know, It stains
Your Name. Yet, blushing, add,—Your forc'd Consent,
Grown infamously necessary,—stands,
The sole, safe Bar, 'twixt All your Race, and Ruin.
MEROPE.
'Tis Horror, but to think, so vile a Dream!
EURICLES.
So thinks the Army.—So, the Senate thinks.
So, think th' exacting Gods:—and, so—
MEROPE.
The Gods!—
Why were They nam'd?—Cou'd they forgive such Fall?
From their own Offspring, to a Son of Clay!
EURICLES.
The King, your Son—
MEROPE.
Ah! Name not Him.—How, Euricles!
How wou'd He thank, my Choice of such a Father?
EURICLES.
Princes grow wise by Sorrows. He will see
That hated Choice the Root of all his Safety.
MEROPE.
What, what, have you been telling me?
EURICLES.
Hard Truths:
Due, from firm Loyalty, to weak Distress.
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Can Euricles then plead, for Poliphontes!
EURICLES.
I know him guilty:—but, I know him rash:
Know him resistless: know him childless, too;
And know, you love Eumenes.
MEROPE.
Loving Him,
How can I chuse but hate, the Hand that wrongs him?
Princes shou'd be above these Self-securings:
And born, to live for Truth—or die for Glory.
Sits and weeps regardless of Eumene's Entrance.
| Merope | |