 | The heir of Morocco, with the Death of Gayland |  |
Act IV.
Gayland with Attendants.Gayl.
Oh now the Mist is cleared, degenerate Princess!
Fantastick Beauty, can this fair Apostate
Doat on an abject despicable Slave!
What is't you call the Vassal?
1. Atten.
Altomar.
Gayl.
Now could I laugh at that fair Folly Woman:
No doubt some little Wretch her Smiles have rais'd,
And pufft the boulster'd Pigmy up with Pride;
And now he stalks and struts.
1. Att.
Great Sir,
Gayl.
Did you command his Jaylor
In our Imperial Name to come before us?
1. Att.
Great Sir, he waits without.
Enter Mirvan.
Mirv.
I come, Great Sir, to know your high Commands.
Gayl.
Art thou the Keeper of this Altomar?
Mirv.
Yes, Sir, that Princely Mourner is my Charge.
Gayl.
That Princely Mourner! Death, the Slave is Elegant.
Where is that Princely Mourner?
Mirv.
Great Sir,
That Chamber is his homely Palace, that
Course Cabinet enshrines his drooping Glory.
Gayl.
His drooping Glory! Eloquent Villain,
Conduct me to this drooping Glory.
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This animated Clod of Earth and Ashes,
And look th'audacious proud Aspirer dead.
Ser.
How Sir!
Will your Imperial Majesty descend
To make a Visit to a Slave in Chains?
Gayl.
Yes, I'll be kind, and put him out of Pain.
[Exit.
Re-enters, the Scene changed.
But stay—Retire, I'll talk with him alone:
For should I come thus followed, thus attended,
He'll say I proudly take th'Advantage
Of Crowds and Pomp to brave him. Leave me.
Exeunt Attendants, and Enter Altomar.
Gayl.
When I shall tell thee what Imperial Head,
The Terror of the World, and Lord of Kingdoms
These humble Walls inclose. It is a Name
Will make thy chilling Blood shrink to thy Heart.
Alt.
Why, what art thou, my haughty noisy Blusterer?
Gayl.
Bold Sir, men call me Gayland.
Alt.
Gayland! wondrous well.
Gayl.
Ha! is this all?
Alt.
Why Gayland, if Men call you Gayland,
What would you more?
Gayl.
Thou unfledg'd Heroe, know,
That conquering Prince to whose triumphant Chariot
Proud Nations, and their Lords in Chains fall prostrate,
Comes here to ask thee with what Insolence—
Alt.
Insolence!
Gayl.
Yes, with what Insolence thou darest look up
To that bright Saint that I vouchsafe t'adore?
Alt.
Know then,
Thou Conquering Prince to whose Triumphant Chariot
Proud Nations and their Lords in Chains fall prostrate,
To that bright Saint, that Goddess of my Soul,
I dare look up with the same Courage
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Gayl.
Arrogant Slave!
Now by my Imperial Honor,
I could grow angry with this crawling Insect,
And crush the hissing feeble stingless Worm;
But Kings are Gods, and I will calm my Thunder:
My Lightning is too proud to blast a Shrub.
Alt.
Then merciful good natur'd Thunderer,
You use me kindly.
Gayl.
Rude Slave!
Alt.
Rude King, that darest invade my Right,
My Artemira's Heart: But know she hates thee;
And had those Nations thou hast vanquisht been
But half so much invincible, thy Empire
Would not have reacht so far as does thy Shadow:
Nor had thy Sword e'er won more Ground, than just
Thy Length in Earth, to lay thy Bones in Dust.
Gayl.
Patience kind Heav'n, by all the Fires that animate
Those ever-burning Globes, I shall grow mad.
Alt.
Mad! How it would please me
To see the Fierce Numidian Lion foam,
Tear up the Ground, and lash his angry Sides,
Whilst I, like Hercules, in State stand by,
Behold thy Lunatick full Tide swell o'er,
Then smile to hear the Royal Savage roar.
Gayl.
Now by my Life, the Soul of Empire
Bold Traytor take—
[Going to stab him.
Where am I going? Gods,
I thank you, I'm once more my Passions Lord;
And Slave, I'll find a nobler way to punish thee:
Attend and listen to thy Doom.
To morrow I will marry Artemira.
Alt.
Marry her! thou darest not.
Gayl.
Sawcy Mortal, dare not!
Yes, and to augment thy Plagues, thou shalt in Chains
Stand by to aid the Ceremony.
Alt.
So Sir.
Gayl.
In thy right Hand the Bridal Taper hold;
Then to the Temple shalt my Triumphs light,
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Most excellent!
Gayl.
And when she takes her highest step
To Glory, know thy bended Neck's her Foot-stool,
Into my Throne she mounts upon thy Head.
Alt.
My Head!
Gayl.
Thy Head, proud Traytor; and to summ all,
When in her Arms our Worlds great Lord shall lie,
Live to despair, then stab thy self and die.
Alt.
Thou marry her! by the All-seing Gods
That know this Heart, there's something in this Breast
So dear, so great, so far beyond thy Dross,
Thy baser Mould, that I'm as far above thee
In Artemira's Eyes, as Jove from Pluto.
There's something sacred that informs my Soul
I'm so much more a King than thou, that were not
My shorten'd Talons cut, and my Wings pinion'd,
My Eagle Rage should soar above thy Head,
And strike thee like a croaking Raven dead.
Gayl.
Down to thy Grave, profane rude Monster down.
[Going to stab him.
Disarm'd, Oh shame, and by a naked Slave!
[Altomar wrests the Dagger out of his Hand.
But thus I'll send the Dog to Cerberus.
[Drawing his Sword.
Alt.
Coward, come on.
Gayl.
Death and Perdition greet thee.
[They fight, Altomar defending himself with the Dagger: Whilst they are fighting, the King and Guards enter; and as they go to part them, Altomar having receiv'd a great many Wounds, he strikes in with the Emperor, and Gayland falls. Guards seize Altomar.
Gayl.
My brittle Glass burst by a Vassal's Hand!
My Life and Glories ravisht by a Slave!
Burn burn your Looms, curst Hags, ye Hell-born Sisters,
If you can twist the Threads of Kings no stronger.
[Dies.
King.
Oh my headlong
Ruine! From what a Precipice am I fall'n!
Is this a Daughter's Coronation Day?
My very Crown, my tottering Kingdom
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Of fifty thousand Men lie at my Gates,
A Force too strong for my weak Power to grapple with?
Who in revenge of their dear murder'd Emperor,
Will raze my City, lay my Kingdom waste,
All buried in one heap of Desolation.
Alt.
Revenge their Tyrant Emperor!
Yes Sir, I kill'd him, and so kill'd him, that
Th'applauding World must justifie the Blow.
An Emperor! like a mean-spirited Slave
He came, and poorly braved me in my Chains.
Then in the basest most unmanly fury,
He struck his Dagger at my naked Breast;
But from his hand unarm'd I snatch'd the Ponyard,
And in a brave Defence thus stain'd, thus goar'd,
Tript up the Heels of the Gigantick Coward,
And with his weight I made his Grave shake under him.
King.
Hold Brutish Impudence, canst thou plead excuse
For this infernal Deed?
Better a thousand low-born Souls like thine
Should float in Shoals through Tides and Seas of Blood,
Than the least Vein of Majesty should bleed,
Or a Crown'd Head but ake.
Alt.
A Crown'd Head! so at that rate a Villain
May be an Emperor at his Coronation.
Murder and Hell held up the Canopy,
Whilst Blood and Treason dyed his Royal Purple.
No Voice of Majesty, no Sound of Glory;
But Massacre, Rebellion, Desolation.
King.
Silence, this Blasphemy, What profane Breath
Has Treason in Despair? What if his Dagger
Aim'd at thy naked Breast: So angry Gods
Strike impious Men. Does Thunder aim at Thunder?
Or should an injured Monarch play the Dueller?
Thy Pride I'm sure provok'd his sacred Rage,
And 'twas but just thy forfeit Life should pay for't.
38
King.
But bold Assassinate, thy impious Fury
Could lift thy Hand against the Life of Majesty.
The best of men thou hast traiterously kill'd,
And like a Traytor thou shalt die.
Alt.
A Traytor!
Art.
Die! Oh my startled Soul.
Alt.
No cruel Lord,
I kill'd him nobly, bravely kill'd him, King.
No grapling Roman in Romes Amphitheater
Took an encountring Lion by the Throat,
And tore his Heart out with a Rage more manly.
King.
Oh Giant Insolence!
But I lose Breath: he dies, and instantly.
His Execution, Achmat, be thy Charge.
First publish him a Traytor to the State;
Then build a Scaffold in the open Forum;
A Wrack and Torturers prepared be ready.
T'appease the Blood of this great murder'd Monarch;
By all my Hopes th'Assassinate shall die,
With the same solemn Form of Death, our Law
And Custom dooms a Traytor to our Crown.
Alt.
Ah Sir, you ne'er was barbarous till this Hour.
Die for an honorable piece of Justice
Done in my own Defence; and like a Traytor!
Proclaim'd a Traytor! branded and exposed
T'a trayterous publick Shame! My Death I scorn to fear;
But to die infamous is more than dying.
Shame is the only Wound great Souls can feel.
Art.
Oh hear me Sir, whilst I have Life to speak:
Look on that Gallant Youth, that Mine of Honor,
Faith, Truth and Love, the very Soul of Angels,
And Model of a God.
Alt.
Oh matchless Sweetness!
Art.
And must that Throne, that bright Celestial Temple
Be rased by sacrilegious impious Hands.
Inhumane King—but Oh I can no more
[Faints.
39
No Traytress, thou hast done too much;
Thy Eyes, young Witch, light this dire Conflagration,
And only blaze t'a King and Kingdoms Ruine.
Art.
Ah my dear Lord—I'm going—unkind heart
To break so soon, and not to stay for Altomar.
[Swoons.
Alt.
She faints, she faints, that injur'd Beauty dies:
Look up my Star, shine out dear clouded Brightness.
Now King thou'rt more than exquisitely cruel:
For if your Tyranny must break that Heart,
My Wrongs are Pageants to this last dire Blow.
King.
Why Villain, let her faint and die, what then?
Sleep on, thou Scandal of my Blood, sleep on
For ever, whilst I never sleep again.
Exit King.
Alt.
Divine sweet Excellence, look up and live:
'Tis thy kind Altomar that bids thee live.
Art.
From Deaths cold Sleep what voice of Pity wakes me?
Ah my dear Lord, is't you? What a blest Change
Is here? Did not my cruel Father
Fright my poor Soul away with the Ghastly Vision
Of my dear murder'd Lord?
And do I wake in Altomar's kind Arms!
Alt.
Yes, Royal Sweetness, thy Tyrannick Father,
Though he has decreed thy Altomar must die—
Art.
Nay then, why were my closing Eyes
Torn open to behold this hated Light,
More terrible than Death's eternal Night?
Alt.
Let not the Torrent of thy Sorrow swell
Too high: Thy Altomar is not so lost.
He has Glories, Pleasures, Joys; and thy kind Father
Has through his burning Rage some Sparks of Pity:
He has left this Treasure in my dying Arms,
And kindly crowns the Victim e'er it bleeds.
Art.
And must you die? I cannot, will not bear it.
Ye angry Gods, if this be the Reward
Of Truth and Love, and unkind Providence
Ordains two faithful Hearts a Fate so dismal,
Poor Love, I fear, has but few Friends in Heav'n.
Alt.
Indeed, my sweetest Saint, 'tis very hard,
That I must gaze on those bright Eyes no more.
40
Till we shall meet agen above the Stars.
A very sad long Journey for a Lover;
But we shall meet agen, and what, tho' 'tis
Beyond the Grave? To win this glorious Prize
The Race can never be too long,
The way too craggy, nor the Goal too far:
No, my best Life, the Stars are not so distant;
Nor are the Battlements of Heav'n too high
To scale for so much Beauty.
Art.
Oh my Altomar.
How sad a Story shall we leave behind us?
Henceforward when some melancholy Virgin
Looks out a lonely Cell to mourn and die,
She'll read no more the tender mournful Tales
Of ravisht Philomel, or bleeding Lucrece;
But turning o'er our more unhappy Loves,
Read, till she has sight her dying Taper out,
And drown'd her Eyes in Artemira's Woe.
Oh let me sigh my Soul into thy Arms,
And powre a flowing Deluge on thy Bosom.
Alt.
Best of thy Sex, thou softest Virgin Sweetness,
Who would not die thus mourn'd, thus loved, thus pitied,
With thy kind tender Sighs, and melting Eyes,
Such gentle Showers, and fragrant Gales around him?
When the luxurious Anthony
In dissolved Pearl drank Kingdoms at a Draught,
He lived not with that Pleasure that I die:
I in this Nectar taste Eternity.
Enter Achmat and Guards.
Ach.
My Lord, I come to make a harsh Divorce.
Art.
Oh bloody Tyrant Father!
Alt.
Hold, yet stay.
Ach.
My Lord, our Haste—
Alt.
Black Instrument of Hell,
May I not stay to take my last Farewell?
My only Life, a long and last Adieu.
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His leave upon his Knees.
So have I seen
The Beauteous Image of the Queen of Love
Adorn'd with all her Graces, her fair Hand,
Her blushing Cheeks, and murmuring Lips all Sweetness:
And at the Feet of the Celestial Form,
Her humble Cupid hanging round her Knees.
Oh Love let me make up that pious Figure.
Low at the Feet of my dear Goddess bow,
And mourn and weep till I'm as blind as thou.
Ach.
Sir, our Commission brooks no more delay.
Alt.
Merciless Slaves—
Art.
My dearest Altomar
Farewell; and in thy dying Groans remember
Thy Artemira hovers round thy Head.
Like thy best Genius, waits thee to thy Heav'n.
My mounting Soul with thy last breath shall fly,
If I can hold so long before I die.
[Exit forced out by Achmat.
Alt.
She's gone.
The Lees and Out-cast of the whole Creation
Are Princes to the wretched Altomar.
Gallies and Dungeons hold not such a Slave:
A Slave so lost as Altomar.
Now Gentlemen, you whose Commission 'tis
T'attend a dying Martyr to a Stake;
There was a time, my valiant Fellow-Souldiers,
We marcht together in a Cause more glorious.
Morat.
Yes, injured Prince there was: when our great General
The Conquering Altomar led us to Victory.
Alt.
Name it no more: that day is quite forgotten,
My Honor's laid in Dust as I must be:
But now with my last Breath I must conjure you;
Let not my ghastly Fortune fright you from
Your dearest Loyalty. Fight on my Souldiers;
Fight for your Royal Lord; go on till you
Have won him Trophies numberless as Stars,
And Glory dazling as the Sun: And then expect
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For he's a King so just, a King so generous,
A King so merciful—he can be cruel
To nothing but to Altomar; unkind
To nought but Altomar.
Mirv.
How bright a Mind
Is lodg'd within this clouded Pile of Honor!
Alt.
Lead on; yet stay—When you shall see me bleed,
Tho' thro' a hundred Gates my Life shall sally out,
Let not my Blood force an unmanly Tear;
For 'tis a Souldier dies, and Death's our Game:
And where we have no Stake but Life to lose,
The Pain's not worth a Sigh: But when you think
With what an ignominious Doom I fall,
All blasted with the leprous Name of Traytor,
That only Torture, Shame, dire killing Shame,
Then powre your pity through your bursting Eyes.
To think how my poor gasping Honor dies.
Morat.
Never was Fate so sad.
Alt.
But Oh my Princess!
What Plagues, what Hells my black despair would find,
Were not the charming Artemira kind?
But now, ye Gods, in spite of Tyranny,
Ingratitude, Death, Tortures, Infamy;
Tho' all th'Artillery of Fate,
And all your Thunder level at my Head.
Fate only can my Earthy Out-works win;
But she makes Safety, Strength and Peace within.
Amidst the threatning Storms that round me rowl;
Love's kind white Flag hangs out to calm my Soul.
[Exeunt.
| The heir of Morocco, with the Death of Gayland | |