 | Busiris, King of Egypt |  |
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ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enter Myron in the utmost Disorder, bare-headed, without Light, &c. Walks disturbedly before he speaks.Myr.
Henceforth let no Man trust the first false Step
Of Guilt, it hangs upon a Precipice,
Whose steep Descent in last Perdition ends!
How far am I plung'd down beyond all Thought
Which I this Evening fram'd!—But be it so,
Consummate Horror! Guilt beyond a Name!
Dare not, my Soul, repent; in thee Repentance
Were second Guilt, and thou blasphem'st just Heav'n,
By hoping Mercy. Ah! my Pain will cease
When Gods want Pow'r to punish.—Ha! the Dawn—
Rise never more, O Sun! let Night prevail,
Eternal Darkness close the World's wide Scene,
And hide me from Nicanor, and my self.
Enter Auletes.
Who's there?
Aul.
My Lord?
Myr.
Auletes?
Aul.
Guard your Life;
The House is rouz'd, the Servants all alarm'd,
The gliding Tapers dart from Room to Room;
Solemn Confusion, and a trembling Haste
Mixt with pare Horror, glares on ev'ry Face:
The stregthned Foe has rush'd upon your Guard,
And cut their Passage thro' them to the Gate,
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Breathing Revenge, and panting for your Blood.
Myr.
Why, let them come, let in the raging Torrent,
I wish the World wou'd rise in Arms against me,
For I must dye, and I would dye in State.
The Doors are burst open, Servants pass the Stage in Tumult. Rameses, &c. pursues Myron's Guards over the Stage, then Rameses and Syphoces enter meeting.
Ram.
Where's the Prince?
Syph.
The Monster stands at Bay,
We can no more than shut him from Escape
Till further Force arrive.
Ram.
Oh my Syphoces!
Syph.
This is a Grief, but not for Words.
Does she still live?
Ram.
She lives—but oh how blest
Are they which are no more! by Stealth I saw her,
Cast on the Ground in Mourning Weeds she lies,
Her torn and loosen'd Tresses shade her round,
Thro' which her Face, all pale as she were dead,
Gleams like a sickly Moon; too great her Grief
For Words or Tears! but ever and anon
After a dreadful, still, insidious Calm,
Collecting all her Breath, long, long suppress'd,
She Sobs her Soul out in a lengthned Groan,
So sad, it breaks the Heart of all that hear,
And sends her Maids in Agonies away.
Syph.
Oh Tale, too mournful to be thought on!
Ram.
Hold—
No, let her Virgins weep, forbear Syphoces,
Tear out an Eye, but damp not our Revenge,
Dispatch your Letters; I'll go comfort her.
[A Servant speaks aside to Rameses. Exit Syphoces.
And has she then commanded none approach her?
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Such is the dreadful Ill, that it converts
All offer'd Cure into a new Disease,
It shuns our Love, and Comfort gives her Pain.
Re-enter Syphoces.
Syph.
Your Father is return'd; redundant Nile,
Broke from its Channel, overswells the Pass,
And sends him back to wait the Water's Fall.
Ram.
And is he then return'd?—I tremble for him.—
I see his white Head rolling in the Dust:
But haste, it is our Duty to receive him.
[Exit.
Enter Myron.
Myr.
I feel a Pain of which I am not worthy,
A Pain, an Anguish, which the honest Man
Alone deserves.—Is it not wond'rous strange,
That I who stabb'd the very Heart of Nature,
Should have surviving ought of Man about me?
And yet, I know not how, of Gratitude
And Friendship still the stubborn Sparks survive,
And poor Nicanor's Torments pierce my Soul.
Confusion! he's return'd.
[Starting.
Enter Nicanor.
Nic.
My Prince—
[Advancing to embrace.
Myr.
My Friend—
[Turning aside, and hiding his Face.
Nic.
I interrupt you.
Myr.
I had thee there.
[Smiting his Breast.
Before thou cam'st, my Thoughts were bent upon thee.
Nic.
Oh Sir, you are too kind!
Myr.
Death! Tortures! Hell!
[Aside.
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What says my Prince?
Myr.
A sudden Pain,
To which I'm subject, struck a-cross my Heart:
'Tis past, I'm well again.
Nic.
Heav'n guard your Health.
Myr.
Do'st Thou then wish it?
Nic.
Am I then distrusted?
Then when I sav'd your Life, I did the least
I e'er wou'd do to serve you.
Myr.
Barbarous Man!—
Nic.
What have I done, my Prince, which way offended?
Has not my Life, my Soul, been yours?
Myr.
Oh!—Oh!—
Nic.
By Heav'n I'm wrong'd, speak, and I'll clear my self.
[Takes him by the Hand.
Myr.
I'm Poyson and Destruction, curse thy Gods,
I'll kill thee in Compassion.—Oh my Brain!
Away, away, away.
[Shoves him from him, going.
Nic.
Do, kill me, Prince,—
You shall not go, I do demand the Cause,
Which has put forth thy Hand against thy Father!
For thus provok'd, I'll do my self the Justice,
To tell thee, Youth, that I deserve that Name,
Nor have thy Parents lov'd thee more than I.
Myr.
I hear them, they are on me.—Loose thy Hold,
Or I will plant my Dagger in thy Breast.
Nic.
Your Dagger's needless!—Oh ungrateful Boy!
Myr.
Forgive me, Father, Oh my Soul bleeds for thee.
[Embrace.
As he is going out, Auletes meets him, and speaks to him aside.
What, no Escape? on every Side inclos'd!
Then I resolve to perish by his Hand,
'Tis just I should, and meaner Death I scorn.
But how to work him to my Fate, to sting
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To me severe, as difficult and strange.
Support me, cruel Heart, it must be done.
[Aside.
Nic.
Now from my very Soul, I cannot tell
But 'tis Enchantment all, for Things so strange
Have happen'd, I might well distrust my Sense;
But if mine Eyes are true, I plainly read
A Heart in Anguish, and I must confess
Your Grief is just.—It was inhumane in you,—
But tell the Cause, unravel from the Bottom
The Mystery that has embroyl'd our Loves,
(For still, my Prince, I love, since you repent.)
What Accident depriv'd me of my Friend,
And lost you to your self?
Myr.
A Traytor's Sight.
Nic.
Beneath my Roof?
Myr.
Beneath thy very Helmet,
Thou art a Traytor. Guard thy self.
[Draws.
Nic.
Distraction!
Traytor!—For standing by your Father's Throne;
And stemming the wild Stream that roars against it
Of Rebel Subjects, and of Foreign Foes?
For training thee to Glory and to War?
For taking thee from out thy Mother's Arms
A mortal Child, and kindling in thy Soul
The noble Ardors of a future God?
Farewell, I dare not trust my Temper more.
Myr.
Grey-headed, venerable Traytor!
Enter Rameses.
Ram.
Ha!
Turn, turn, Blasphemer, and repress thy Taunts;
All Provocation's needless, but thy Sight.
[He assaults the Prince, Nicanor hinders him.
Nic.
Forbear, my Son.
Ram.
Forbear?
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If I am calm
Your Rage should cease.
Ram.
No, 'tis my own Revenge,
Unless, Sir, you disown me for your Son.
Nic.
Thy Sword against thy Prince?
Ram.
A Villain.
Nic.
Hold.
Ram.
The worst of Villains.
Nic.
'Tis too much.
Ram.
Oh Father!—
Nic.
What woud'st thou?
Ram.
Sir, your Daughter—
Nic.
Rightly thought;
She best can comfort me in all my Sorrows:
Call, call Mandane; to behold my Child
Wou'd chear me in the Agonies of Death;
Call her, Rameses.—Am I disobey'd?
Ram.
Oh, Sir!—
Nic.
What mean those Transports of Concern?
Ram.
Though I'm an Outcast from your Love, I weep,
To open your black Scene of Misery.
Nic.
Where will this end?—Oh my foreboding Heart!
Ram.
Should he, to whom, as to a God, at parting,
You gave, with streaming Eyes, your Soul's Delight,
While yet your last Embrace was warm about him,
Gloomy and dreadful as this stormy Night,
Rush on your Child, your Comfort, your Mandane,
All sweet, and lovely as the blushing Morn,
Seize her by Force, now trembling, breathless, pale,
Prostrate in Anguish, tearing up the Earth,
Imploring, shrieking to the Gods and you.—
Oh hold my Brain!—Look there, and think the rest.
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Nic.
Is't possible!—My Child!—My only Daughter!—
The Growth of my own Life! That sweeten'd Age
And Pain!—Oh Nature bleeds within me!
Mand.
Weep not, my Virgins, cease your useless Tears,
Kindness is thrown away upon Despair,
And but provokes the Sorrow it wou'd ease.
Nic.
Assist me forwards.
Mand.
Most unwelcome News!
Is he return'd? The Gods support my Father.
I now begin to wish he lov'd me less.
Nic.
There, there she pierc'd the very tender'st Nerve:
She pities me, dear Babe, she pities me:
Through all the raging Tortures of her Soul
She feels my Pain! But hold, my Heart, to thank her,
Then burst at once, and let the Pangs of Death
Put Myron from my Thought.
[Goes to her.
Mand.
Severest Fate
Has done its worst.—I've drawn my Father's Tears.—
Nic.
Forbear to call me by that tender Name;
Since I can't help thee, I wou'd fain forget
Thou art a Part of me—it only sharpens
Those Pangs, which, if a Stranger, I should feel.—
Oh spare me, my Mandane; to behold thee
In such Excess of Sorrow, quite destroys me,
And I shall dye, and leave thee Unreveng'd.
Mand.
Oh, Sir, There are Misfortunes most severe,
Which yet can bear the Light, and well sustain'd
Adorn the Sufferer.—But this Affliction
Has made Despair a Virtue, and demands
Utter Extinction, and eternal Night,
As Height of Happiness.
[Scene shuts on them.
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Ram.
Oh my Syphoces!
Syph.
And does this move you, does this melt you down
And pour you out in Sorrow? then fly far,
E'er Memnon comes; he comes with flushing Cheek,
And beating Heart, to bear a Bride away,
And bless his Fate; how dreadfully deceiv'd!
Ram.
The melancholy Scene at length begins.
Enter Memnon.
Mem.
Oh, give me Leave,
To yield to Nature, and indulge my Joy,
My Friend! My Brother! Oh the Extasie
That fires my Veins, and dances at my Heart!
You love me not, if you refuse to join
In all the just Extravagance, and Flight
Of boundless Transport on this happy Hour.
Where is my Soul, my Bliss, my lovely Bride!
Call, call her forth; Oh haste, the Priest expects us
And every Moment is a Crime to Love.
Ram.
Speak to him.—Prithee speak.
[To Syph.
Syph.
By Heav'n I cannot.
Mem.
What can this mean?
Ram.
Syphoces.
Syph.
Nay, Rameses.
Mem.
By all the Gods, they struggle with their Sorrows,
And swallow down their Tears to hide them from me.
By Friendship's sacred Name, I charge you, speak.
[They look on him with the utmost Concern, and go out on different Sides of the Stage
Was ever Man thus left to dreadful Thought,
And all the Horrors of a black Surmise!
What Woe is this too big to be express'd?
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Mandane's Life's in Danger! There indeed;
Fortune, I fear thee still; her Beauties arm thee,
Her Virtues make thee dreadful to my Thought:
But for my Love how I cou'd laugh at Fate?
Enter a Servant, and gives him a Paper. He reads.
Enter Rameses, Memnon swoons and falls on Ram.
Ram.
'Twere happy if his Soul wou'd ne'er return;
The Gods may still be merciful in this.—
His Lids begin to rise.—How fares my Friend?
Mem.
Did Myron feel my Pangs, you'd pity him.
Enter Sophoces.
Syph.
Fainting beneath th'Oppression of her Grief,
This Way Mandane seeks the fresher Air:
Let us withdraw; 'twill pain her to be seen,
And most of all by you.
Mem.
By my own Heart,
I judge, and am convinc'd.—I dare not see her,
The Sight wou'd strike me dead.
[As Memnon is going, Mandane meets him; both start back, she shrieks. Memnon recovers himself and falls at her Knees, embracing them; she tries to disengage, he not permitting, she raises him, he takes her passionately in his Arms. They continue speechless and motionless some Time.
Ram.
Was ever mournful Interview like This?
See how they writhe with Anguish! hear them groan!
See the large silent Dew run trickling down,
As from the weeping Marble; Passion choaks
Their Words, and they're the Statues of Despair!
Mem.
Oh my Mandane!
[At this she violently breaks from him, and Exit.
But one Moment more.
[As Memnon is following, Rameses holds him.
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Brother—
Mem.
Forgive me.—
Ram.
You're to blame.—
Mem.
Look there.
[Pointing after her.
My Heart is bursting.
Ram.
With Revenge.
Mem.
And Love.
Ram.
Revenge.
Mem.
One dear Embrace, 'twill edge my Sword.
Syph.
No, Memnon, if our Swords now want an Edge,
They'll want for ever; to this Spot I charm thee;
By the Dread Words, Revenge and Liberty!
This is the Crisis of our Fates, this Moment
The Guardian Gods of Egypt hover o'er us,
They watch to see us act like prudent Men,
And out of Ills extract our Happiness.
My Friends, these dire Calamities, like Poyson,
May have their wholesome Use! this sad Occasion,
If manag'd artfully, revives our Hopes;
It gives Nicanor to our sinking Faction,
And still the Tyrant shakes.
Ram.
My Father comes;
Or snatch this Moment, or despair for ever.
While Passions glow, the Heart, like heated Steel,
Takes each Impression, and is work'd at Pleasure.
Enter Nicanor.
Nic.
Why have the Gods chose out my weakest Hours,
To set their Terrors in array against me?
This wou'd beat down the Vigour of my Youth,
Much more grey Hairs, and Life worn down so low.
Vain Man! to be so fond of breathing long,
And spinning out a Thread of Misery.
The longer Life the greater Choice of Evil;
The happiest Man is but a wretched Thing,
That steals poor Comfort from Comparison;
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Brood o'er my Cares, and think my self to Death.
Draw near, Rameses; I was rash e'er while,
And chid thee without Cause.—How many Years
Have I been cas'd in Steel?
Ram.
Full Threescore Years
Have changed the Seasons o'er your crested Brow,
And seen your Fauchion dy'd in Hostile Blood.
Nic.
How many Triumphs since this King has reign'd!
Ram.
They number just your Battels, one for one.
Nic.
True, I have follow'd the rough Trade of War
With some Success, and can without a Blush
Review the shaken Fort, and sanguine Plain.
I have thought Pain a Pleasure, Thirst and Toil
Blest Objects of Ambition; I remember,
(Nor do my Foes forget that bloody Day:)
When the barb'd Arrow from my gaping Thigh
Was wrench'd with Labour, I disdain'd to groan,
Because I suffer'd for Busiris' Sake.
Ram.
The King is not to blame.
Nic.
Is not the Prince his Son?
Ram.
But in himself—
Nic.
And has he lost his Guilt,
[Rising in Passion.
'Cause he has injur'd me? Erewhile thy Blood
Was kindled at his Name.—Did'st Thou not tell me
A shameful black Design on poor Amelia?
Oh Memnon! what a glorious Race is this,
To make the Gods a Party in our Cause,
And draw down Blessings on us!
Mem.
He that supports them
In such black Crimes, is Sharer of their Guilt.
Nic.
Point out the Man, and with these wither'd Hands
I'd fly upon his Throat, tho' he were lodg'd
Within the Circle of Busiris' Arms.
Ram.
He that prevents it not when in his Power,
Supports them in their Course of flaming Guilt,
And You are He.
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Thou rav'st.
Syph.
The Army's yours.
I've sounded every Chief; but wave your Finger,
Thousands fall off the Tyrant's Side, and leave him
Naked of Help, and open to Destruction.
But sweep his Minions, cut a Pander's Throat,
Or lop a Sycophant, the Work is done.
Nic.
What wou'd you have me do?
[Starting.
Mem.
Let not your Heart
Fly off from your own Thought, be truly Great,
Resent your Country's Suff'rings as your own.
A generous Soul is not confin'd at home,
But spreads its self abroad o'er all the Publick,
And feels for every Member of the Land.
What have we seen for Twenty rolling Years,
But one long Tract of Blood! or, what is worse,
Throng'd Dungeons pouring forth perpetual Groans,
And free-born Men oppress'd! Shall half Mankind
Be doom'd to curse the Moment of their Birth?
Shall all the Mother's Fondness be employ'd
To rear them up to Bondage, give them Strength
To bear Afflictions, and support their Chains?
Syph.
To you the valiant Youth most humbly bend,
[Kneeling.
And beg that Nature's Gifts, the vigorous Nerve,
And graceful Port design'd to bless the World,
And take your great Example in the Field,
May not be forc'd by Lewdness in high Place,
To other Toils, to labour for Disease,
To wither in a loath'd Embrace, and dye
At an inglorious Distance from the Foe.
Ram.
To you Amelia lifts her Hands for Safety.
[Kneeling.
Mem.
To you—To you—
[Bursting into Tears.
Nic.
By Heav'n he cannot speak.—I understand thee.
Rise.—Rise, my Son.—Rise all; your Work is done;
They perish all, these Creatures of my Sword.
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With flying Javelins, which shut out the Day,
And fell in rattling Storms at my Command,
To slay, and bury proud Busiris' Foe?
He lives and reigns, for I have been his Friend;
But I'll Unmake him, and plough up the Ground,
Where his proud Palace stands.
[Exit.
Mem.
Oh, my Mandane!
The Gods by dreadful Means bestow Success,
And in their Vengeance most severely bless:
From thy bright streaming Eyes our Triumphs flow,
The Tyrant falls, Mandane strikes the Blow.
So the fair Moon, when Seas swell high, and pour
A wasteful Deluge on the trembling Shore,
Inspires the Tumult from her clouded Throne,
Where silent, pensive, pale, she sits alone,
And all the distant Ruin is her own.
| Busiris, King of Egypt | |