University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Enter Seofrid.
Seof.
What is the boasted Majesty of Kings,
Their Godlike Greatness, if their Fate depends
Upon that meanest of their Passions, Love?
The Pile their warlike Fathers toil'd to raise,
To raise a Monument of deathless Fame,
A Woman's Hand o'er-turns. The Cedar thus,
That lifted his aspiring Head to Heav'n,
Secure, and fearless of the sounding Axe,
Is made the Prey of Worms; his Root destroy'd,
He sinks at once to Earth, the mighty Ruin,
And Triumph of a wretched Insect's Pow'r.
Is there a Remedy in human Wisdom,
My Mind has left unsought, to help this Evil?
I would preserve 'em both, the Royal Brothers;
But if their Fates ordain that one must fall,
Then let my Master stand. This Christian Woman—
Ay, there the Mischief comes!—What are our Gods,
That they permit her to defie their Pow'r?
But that's not much, let their Preists look to that.
Were she but well remov'd—But then the King—
Why, Absence, Business, or another Face,
A thousand Things may cure him—would 'twere done,
And my Head safe—That! let me look to that—
But see the Husband comes!—ha!—not ill thought,
It shall be try'd at least.—

Enter Aribert.
Ari.
Still to this Place
My Heart inclines, still hither turn my Eyes,
Hither my Feet unbidden find their way.
Like a fond Mother from her dying Babe
Forc'd by officious Friends, and Servants Care,
I linger at the Door, and wish to know,
Yet dread to hear the Fate of what I Love.
Oh Seofrid! do'st thou not wonder much,
And pity my weak Temper, when thou seest me
Thus in a Moment chang'd from Hot to Cold,
My active Fancy glowing now with Hopes,
Anon thus drooping; Death in my pale Visage,
My Heart, and my chill Veins, all freezing with Despair.

Seof.
I bear an equal Portion of your Sorrows,
Your Fears too all are mine. And oh! my Prince,
I would partake your Hopes; but my cold Age,
Still apt to doubt the worst—

Ari.
What do'st thou doubt?

Seof.
Nay! nothing worse than what we both have fear'd.

Ari.
How! nothing!—speak thy Fear.

Seof.
Why—nothing new.
The King—that's all.

Ari.
The King!—Oh that's too much!
And yet—yet there is more, I read it plain
In thy dark sullen Visage—like a Storm
That gathers black upon the frowning Sky,
And grumbles in the Wind—But let it come,
Let the whole Tempest burst upon my Head,
Let the fierce Lightning blast, the Thunder rive me;
For oh 'tis sure the Fear of what may come,
Does far transcend the Pain.

Seof.
You fear too soon,
And Fancy drives you much too fiercely on.
I do not say that what may happen, will:
Chance often mocks what wisely we foresee.
Besides, the ruling Gods are over all,
And order as they please their World below.
The King, 'tis true, is Noble—but Impetuous;
And Love, or call it by the courser Name,
Lust is, of all the Frailties of our Nature,
What most we ought to fear; the headstrong Beast
Rushes along, impatient for the Course,
Nor hears the Rider's Call, nor feels the Rein.

Ari.
What wouldst thou have me think?

Seof.
Think of the worst,
Your better Fortune will arrive more welcome.
To speak then with that Openness of Heart
That should deserve your Trust, I have my Fears.
What if, at some dead Hour of Night, the King
Intend a Visit to your weeping Princess.

Ari.
Ha!—

Seof.
He may go, 'tis true, with a fair Purpose.
Suppose her sunk into a downy Slumber,
Her beating Heart just tir'd, and gone to Rest:
Methinks I see her on her Couch repos'd,
The lovely, helpless, sweet, unguarded Innocence;
With gentle Heavings rise her snowy Breasts,
Soft steals the balmy Breath, the rosie Hew
Glows on her Cheek, a deep Vermilion dyes
Her dewy Lip, while Peace and smiling Joy
Sit hush'd and silent on the sleeping Fair.
Then think what Thoughts invade the gazing King;
Catch'd with the sudden Flame, at once he burns,
At once he flies resistless on his Prey.
Waking she starts distracted with the Fright,
To Aribert's lov'd Name in vain she flies;
Shreiking she calls her absent Lord in vain.
The King possest of all his furious Will—

Ari.
First sink the Tyrant Ravisher to Hell,
Seize him, ye Fiends—first perish thou and I,
Let us not live to hear of so much Horror.
The cursed Deed will turn me savage wild,
Blot ev'ry Thought of Nature from my Soul.
A Brother!—I will rush and tear his Breast,
Be drunk with gushing Blood, and glut my Vengeance
With his incestuous Heart.

Seof.
It is but just
You should be mov'd, for sure the Thought is dreadful.
But keep this swelling Indignation down,
And let your cooler Reason now prevail,
That may perhaps find out some means of Safety.

Ari.
Talk'st thou of Safety!—we may talk of Heav'n,
May gaze with Rapture on yon starry Regions;
But who shall lend us Wings to reach their height?
Impossible!—

Seof.
There is a way yet left,
And only one.

Ari.
Ha! speak—

Seof.
Her sudden Flight.

Ari.
Oh! by what friendly Means? Be swift to answer,
Nor waste the precious Minutes with Delay.

Seof.
The King, now absent from the Palace, seems
To yield a fair Occasion for your Wishes;
A private Postern opens to my Gardens,
Thro' which the beauteous Captive might remove,
'Till Night and a Disguise shall further aid her,
To fly with Safety to the Britons Camp.
'Tis true, one Danger I might well object—

Ari.
Oh! do not, do not blast the springing Hopes
Which thy kind Hand has planted in my Soul.
If there be Danger, turn it all on me.
Let my devoted Head—

Seof.
Nay!—'tis not much,
'Tis but my Life; and I would gladly give it,
To buy your Peace of Mind.

Ari.
Alas! what mean'st thou?

Seof.
Does it not follow plain? shall not the King
Turn all his Rage upon this hoary Head?
Shall not all Arts of Cruelty be try'd,
To find out Tortures equal to my Falshood?
Imagine you behold me bound and scourg'd,
My aged Muscles harrow'd up with Whips,
Or hear me groaning on the rending Rack,
Groaning and screaming with the sharpest Sense
Of peircing Pain; or see me gash'd with Knives,
And sear'd with burning Steel, 'till the scorch'd Marrow
Fries in the Bones, the shrinking Sinews start,
A smeary Foam works o'er my grinding Jaws,
And utmost Anguish shakes my lab'ring Frame:
For thus it must be.

Ari.
Oh! my Friend! my Father!
It must not be, it never can, it sha'not.
Wouldst thou be kind, and save my Ethelinda,
Leave me to answer all my Brother's Fury.
The Crime, the Falshood, shall be all my own.

Seof.
Just to my Wish.

[Aside.
Ari.
Thou shalt accuse me to him.
Thou know'st his own Admittance gave me Entrance:
Swear that I stole her, that I forc'd her from thee;
Frame, with thy utmost Skill, some artful Tale,
And I'll avow it all.

Seof.
Then have you thought
Upon the Danger, Sir?

Ari.
Oh, there is none,
Can be no Danger while my Love is safe.

Seof.
Methinks indeed it lessens to my View.
When the first Violence of Rage is over,
The Fondness of a Brother will return,
And plead your Cause with Nature in his Heart;
You will, you must be safe; and yet 'tis hard,
And grieves me much I should accuse you to him.

Ari.
'Tis that must cover the Design. But fly,
Loose not a Minute's time.
Haste to remove her from this cursed Place;
My faithful Oswald shall at Night attend thee,
And help to guard her to the British Camp;
Thou know'st that is not far.

Seof.
Too near I know it.

[Aside.
Ari.
She has a Brother there, the noble Lucius,
A gallant Youth, and dear to brave Ambrosius;
To his kind Care resign thy beauteous Charge.

Seof.
This instant I obey you.

[Going.
Ari.
Half my Fears
Are over now—

Seof.
One thing I had forgot.
It will import us much, that you should seem
Inclin'd to meet the Love of haughty Rodogune:
'Twill cost you but a little Courtly Flattery,
A kind respectful Look, join'd with a Sigh,
And few soft tender Words, that mean just nothing,
Yet win most Womens Hearts. But see she comes,
Constrain your Temper, Sir, be false, and meet her
With her own Sex's Arts; pursue you Task,
And doubt not all shall prosper to your Wish.
[Exit Seofrid.

Aribert solus.
Ari.
She comes indeed! Now where shall I begin,
How shall I teach my Tongue to frame a Language
So different from my Heart? Oh Ethelinda!
My Heart was made to fit and pair with thine,
Simple and plain, and fraught with artless Tenderness
Form'd to receive one Love, and only one,
But pleas'd and proud, and dearly fond of that,
It knows not what there can be in Variety,
And would not if it could.

Enter Rodogune.
Rodo.
Why do I stay,
Why linger thus within this hated Place,
Where ev'ry Object shocks my loathing Eyes,
And calls my injur'd Glory to Remembrance?
The King!—the Wretch; but wherefore did I name him?
Find out, my Soul, in thy rich Store of Thought,
Somewhat more Great, more Worthy of thy self;
Or let the mimick Fancy shew its Art,
And paint some pleasing Image to delight me.
Let Beauty mix with Majesty and Youth,
Let manly Grace be temper'd well with Softness;
Let Love, the God himself, adorn the Work,
And I will call the charming Fantome, Aribert.
Oh Venus!—whither—whither would I wander?
Be husht, my Tongue—ye Gods!—'tis he himself.—

[Seeing Ari.
Ari.
When, fairest Princess, you avoid our Court,
And lonely thus from the full Pomp retire,
Love and the Graces follow to your Solitude;
They croud to form the shining Circle round you,
And all the Train seems yours; while Purple Majesty,
And all those outward Shews which we call Greatness,
Languish and droop, seem empty and forsaken,
And draw the wondring Gazer's Eyes no more.

Rodo.
The Courtier's Art is meanly known in Britain,
If yours present their Service, and their Vows,
At any Shrine but where their Master kneels.
You know your Brother pays not his to me,
Nor would I that he should.

Ari.
The Hearts of Kings
Are plac'd, 'tis true, beyond their Subjects search;
Yet might I judge by Love's or Reason's Rules,
Where shall my Brother find on Earth a Beauty,
Like what I now behold?

Rodo.
That you can flatter,
Is common to your Sex; you say indeed,
We Women love it—and perhaps we do.
Fools that we are we know that you deceive us,
And yet, as if the Fraud were pleasing to us,
And our Undoing Joy—still you go on,
And still we hear you—But, to change the Theme,
I'll find a fitter for you than my Beauty.—

Ari.
Then let it be the Love of Royal Hengist.

Rodo.
The King, your Brother, could not chuse an Advocate,
Whom I would sooner hear on any Subject,
Bating that only one, his Love, than you;
Tho' you perhaps (for some have wondrous Arts)
Could soften the harsh Sound. The String that jars,
When rudely touch'd ungrateful to the Sense,
With pleasure feels the Master's flying Fingers,
Swells into Harmony, and charms the Hearers.

Ari.
Then hear me speak of Love.—

Rodo.
But not of his.

Ari.
'Tis true, I should not grace the Story much,
Rude and unskilful in the moving Passion,
I should not paint its Flames with equal Warmth;
Strength, Life, and glowing Colours would be wanting,
And languid Nature speak the Work imperfect.

Rodo.
Then happ'ly yet your Breast remains untouch'd;
Tho' that seems strange: You've seen the Court of Britain;
There, as I oft have heard, imperial Beauty
Reigns in its native Throne, like Light in Heav'n;
While all the Fair Ones of our neighbring World,
With second Lustre meanly seem to shine,
The faint Reflections of the Glory there.

Ari.
If e'er my Heart encline to Thoughts of Love,
Methinks I should not (tho' perhaps I err)
Expect to meet the gentle Passion join'd
With Pomp and Greatness: Courts may boast of Beauty,
But Love is seldom found to dwell amongst 'em.

Rodo.
Then Courts are wretched.

Ari.
So they seem to Love.
From Pride, from Wealth, from Business, and from Pow'r,
Loathing he flies, and seeks the peaceful Village;
He seeks the Cottage in the tufted Grove,
The russet Fallows, and the verdant Lawns,
The clear cool Brook, and the deep woody Glade,
Bright Winter Fires, and Summer Ev'nings Suns:
These he prefers to gilded Roofs and Crowns;
Here he delights to pair the constant Swain,
With the sweet, unaffected, yielding Maid;
Here is his Empire, here his Choice to Reign,
Here, where he dwells with Innocence and Truth.

Rodo.
To Minds, which know no better, these are Joys;
But Princes, sure, are born with nobler Thoughts.
Love, is in them a Flame that mounts to Heav'n,
And seeks its Source Divine, and Kindred Stars;
That urges on the Mortal Man to dare,
Kindles the vast Desires of Glory in him,
And makes Ambition's sacred Fires burn bright.
Nor you, howe'er your Tongue disguise your Heart,
Have meaner Hopes than these.

Ari.
Mine have been still
Match'd with my Birth; a younger Brother's Hopes.

Rodo.
Nay more: Methinks I read your future Greatness;
And, like some Bard inspir'd, I could foretel
What wondrous things our Gods reserve for you.
Perhaps, ev'n now, your better Stars are join'd;
Auspicious Love and Fortune now conspire,
At once to crown you, and bestow that Greatness,
Which partial Nature at your Birrh deny'd.

Enter the King, Guards and other Attendants.
King.
She must, she shall be sound, tho' she be sunk
Deep to the Center, tho' Eternal Night
Spread wide her sable Wing, to shade her Beauties,
And shut me from her Sight. But say, thou Traitor;
Thou that hast made the Name of Friendship vile,
And broke the Bonds of Duty and of Nature,
Where hast thou bid thy Theft?—So young, so false—
Have I not been a Father to thy Youth,
And lov'd thee with a more than Brother's Love?
And am I thus repay'd?—But bring her forth,
Or by our Gods thou dy'st.

Rodo.
What means this Rage.

[Aside.
Ari.
Then briefly thus: You are my King and Brother,
The Names which most I reverence on Earth,
And fear offending most. Yet to defend
My Honour and my Love from Violation,
O'er ev'ry Bar resistless will I rush,
And, in despight of proud Tyrannick Pow'r,
Seize and assert my Right.

King.
What, thine! thy Right!
Riddles and Tales.

Ari.
Mine by the dearest Tie,
By holy Marriage mine, she is my Wife.

Rodo.
Racks, Tortures, Madness, seize me! Oh Confusion!

[Aside.
Ari.
I see thy Heart swells, and thy flaming Visage
Reddens with Rage at this unwelcome Truth;
But since I know my Ethelinda safe,
I have but little Care for what may happen.
To Morrow may be Heav'n's—or yours to take,
If this Day be my last, why farewel Life;
I hold it well bestow'd for her I love.

Rodo.
May Sorrow, Shame and Sickness overtake her,
And all her Beauties, like my Hopes, be blasted.

[Aside.
King.
So Brave! But I shall find the Means to tame you,
To make thee curse thy Folly, curse thy Love,
And to the dreadful Gods, who reign beneath,
Devote thy fatal Bride. She is a Christian;
Remember that, fond Boy, and then remember
That sacred Vow, which, perjur'd as thou art,
Prostrate at Woden's Altar, and invoking
With solemn Runick Rites, our Country's Gods,
Thou mad'st in Presence of our Royal Father.

Ari.
Yes, I remember well the impious Oath,
Hardly extorted from my trembling Youth;
When burning with misguided Zeal, the King
Compell'd my Knee to bend before his Gods,
And forc'd us both to swear to what we knew not.

King.
Now by the Honours of the Saxon Race,
A long and venerable Line of Heroes,
I swear thou art abandon'd, lost to Honour,
And fall'n from ev'ry great and godlike Thought.
Some whining Coward Priest has wrought upon thee,
And drawn thee from our brave Fore-fathers Faith,
False to our Gods, as to thy King and Brother.

Ari.
'Tis much beneath my Courage and my Truth,
To borrow any mean Disguise from Falshood.
No!—'tis my Glory that the Christian Light
Has dawn'd, like Day, upon my darker Mind,
And taught my Soul the noblest use of Reason;
Taught her to soar aloft, to search, to know
The vast eternal Fountain of her Being;
Then, warm with Indignation, to despise
The Things you call our Country's Gods, to scorn
And trample on their ignominious Altars.

King.
'Tis well, Sir—impious Boy!—Ye Saxon Gods;
And thou, oh Royal Hengist, whose dread Will
And injur'd Majesty I now assert,
Hear, and be present to my Justice, hear me,
While thus I vow to your offended Deities
This Traitor's Life; he dies, nor ought on Earth
Saves his devoted Head. One to the Priests;
[To the Attendants.
Bid 'em be swift, and dress their bloody Altars
With ev'ry Circumstance of Tragick Pomp;
To Day a Royal Victim bleeds upon 'em.
Rich shall the Smoak and steaming Gore ascend,
To glut the Vengeance of our angry Gods.

Rodo.
At once ten thousand racking Passions tear me,
And my Heart heaves, as it would burst my Bosom.
Oh can I, can I hear him doom'd to Death,
Nor stir, nor breathe one single Sound to save him?
It w'onot be—and my fierce haughty Soul,
Whate'er she suffers, still disdains to bend,
To sue to the curst, hated, Tyrant King.
Oh Love! Oh Glory!—Wouldst thou die thus tamely?
[To Aribert.
Is Life so small a thing, so mean a Boon,
As is not worth the asking?—Thou art silent;
Wilt thou not plead for Life?—Intreat the Tyrant,
And waken Nature in his Iron Heart.

Ari.
Life has so little in it good or pleasing,
That since it seems not worth a Brother's Care,
'Tis hardly worth my asking.

King.
Sieze him, Guards,
And bear him to his Fate.

[Guards seize Aribert.
Rodo.
Yet, Hengist, know,
If thou shalt dare to touch his precious Life,
Know that the Gods and Rodogune prepare
The sharpest Scourges of vindictive War.
Fly where thou wilt, the Sword shall still pursue
With Vengeance, to a Brother's Murder due.
Driven out from Man, and mark'd for publick Scorn,
Thy ravish'd Scepter vainly shalt thou mourn.
And when at length thy wretched Life shall cease,
When in the silent Grave thou hop'st for Peace:
Think not the Grave shall hide thy hated Head;
Still, still I will pursue thy fleeting Shade;
I curs'd thee living, and will plague thee dead.
[Exit Rodogune.

King.
On to the Temple with him: Let her rave,
And prophesie ten thousand thousand Horrors;
I could join with her now, and bid 'em come;
They fit the present Fury of my Soul.
The Stings of Love and Rage are fix'd within,
And drive me on to Madness. Earthquakes, Whirlwinds,
A general Wreck of Nature now would please me.
For oh! not all the driving wintry War,
When the Storm groans and bellows from afar,
When thro' the Gloom the glancing Lightnings fly,
Heavy the ratling Thunders roll on high,
And Seas and Earth mix with the dusky Sky;
Not all those warring Elements we fear,
Are equal to the inborn Tempest here;
Fierce as the Thoughts which mortal Man controul,
When Love and Rage contend, and tear the lab'ring Soul.

[Exeunt.