University of Virginia Library

The Scene the Prison.
Amiran alone.
Amir.
Hither I come to bring a Soveraign head,
A Soveraign Cure, a sober sleeping Pill;
I, that's the word.
Poor Saxony! thy Royal Father murder'd,
Thy dearest Princess ravisht, and to make up
The most unnatural monstrous mass of Cruelty,
Thy Fathers Poysoner, and thy Fathers Whore,
Lodged in thy Bed. Oh thou'rt a true Original
Of unexampled Misery: No Tragedy
Ere equall'd thine. Yet after all, this most
Wrong'd Prince must bleed, and I must be his murderer.
Oh my faint Arm! Oh my Barbarian Mistriss!
Well, I remember I have served thy Lust,
My breast the Cabinet to all thy Whoredoms;
Nay, like an Usurer to the Trust thou hast lent me,
I've play'd the Bawd t'increase 'em. All these Ills
I never trembled at; but oh, there's something
In Murder so beyond a Female Villain,
As my Soul startles at the thought. But why,
Why do I play the foolish Crocodile,
And mourn where I must kill?
Enter Saxony and Carlo.
—Yonder he comes!
Let me retire a while, and borrow strength
For this dire Execution.

Absconds.
Sax.
Oh my wrong'd Angeline,
What have I done? by what Infatuation,
What damn'd Illusion led, have I a Monster
Claspt to my breast? or has some Rival-God,
In malice to thy happier envyed Lord,
Caught thee t'his Heaven t'outshine yon dazling Stars,
And left that changeling Demon in my Arms!
I shall run mad.

Amir.
Alas, poor injur'd Prince!

Sax.
Tell me, ye Powers Infernal, I conjure you
By all the Pleasures of Revenge;
And thou curst Pope, thou greater blacker Devil,
Tell me by what Inchantments, Spells, Drugs, Minerals,
That savage Whore you lodged within my Arms;
And to make up that Monster more than execrable,
Lent her thy own infernal face to blast me.

Amir.
Oh I can hold no longer! Ye Gods,
That so much Excellence should be created
For so much Ruine! Pity, Conscience, Love,
I know not which thou art: But on the suddain
My dire resolves are stagger'd.

Sax.
Art thou here!
Oh my young Pandar! ye kinde Powers, I thank you.
Thou unfletcht Imp, thou early-lighted brand
Of everlasting fire, tell me what Fury
Thy impious hand lodged in my Bed last night;
Tell me, for I will know.

Amir.
Oh, Sir, no more.
I cannot, must not, will not, dare not tell you.

Sax.
Not tell me! Now by thy own Mother-Hag
That bore thee in a Ditch, fed thee with Scorpions,
Swath'd thee with Adders, suckled thee with Bloud,
And dipt thee young in Hell,
Speak quickly, or I'll tear the cursed Secret
From thy impostum'd heart; speak, or I'll kill thee.

Amir.
Yes, do, Sir, and I'll thank you for the kindness;
For if I speak, I must kill you: and trust me,
I have that sense of your unhappy sufferings,
That I had rather die my self than be
Your Murderer.

Sax.
And art thou then in earnest?
Come, prithee speak; I was to blame to chide thee:
Be not afraid; speak but the fatal truth,
And by my hopes of Heav'n I will forgive thee.
Out with it, come; now wouldst thou tell me all,
But art ashamed to own thy self a Bawd:
'Las, that might be thy Fathers fault, not thine.
Perhaps some honest humble Cottage bred thee,
And thy ambitious Parents poorly proud,
For a gay Coat made thee a Page at Court,
And for a plume of Feathers sold thy Soul;
But 'tis not yet, not yet too late to save it.

Amir.
Oh my sad heart!

Sax.
Come, prithee speak; let but
A true confession plead thy penitence,
And Heav'n will then forgive thee as I do.

Amir.
But, Sir, can you resolve to lend an ear
To sounds so terrible, so full of fate,
As will not onely act a single Tragedy,
But even dis-joynt all Natures Harmony,
And quite untune the world? for such, such are
The Notes that I must breathe.

Sax.
Oh my dear Murderer,
Breath 'em as cheerfully as the soaring Lark
Wakes the gay Morn. Those dear sweet Airs that kill me,
Are my new nuptial Songs. My Angeline
Has been my first, and Death's my second Bride.

Amir.
Know then, th'Enchantress that these two last nights
Slept in your bosome, was your Fathers Poysoner.

Sax.
Riddles and Death! what mystick sounds are these?

Amir.
That Sorceress that in a borrow'd shape
Usurps Rome's sacred Throne, was the dire Fiend.

Sax.
Ha!

Amir.
Oh Sir, I read that lightning in your eyes
That tells me, I have set your Soul on fire.
Break, break, great heart, thou'rt too much lost to live,
And for the last, the greatest fatal stab;
For I must tell you all. That lust-burnt Hag
Began her game with your unhappy Father.
You may remember in the Saxon Court,
A fatal Beauty call'd Joanna Anglica,
That Syren first defiled your Fathers Bed,
And then by Jealousie transform'd t'his Priest,
And by Revenge t'his Murderer—his bloud,
His Royal bloud she doubly, doubly poyson'd.

Sax.
Thunder and Earthquakes!

Amir.
And not t'end there neither,
The bestial lust of her incestuous Fires
Traced your dead fathers Beauties in your Eyes;
And the same sulphurous Mine that blew his soul up,
Was light to sacrifice the Martyr'd son.

Sax.
A Whore, a Poysoner! nay, a Fathers Whore,
And Fathers Poysoner! Oh my bloated Soul!
O most unnatural doubly damn'd Hyena,
Mixt in my Fathers shame! Oh horrour, horrour!
Oh my vast wrongs, destruction, ruine, death!
Strike thick, ye darts of fate. My poor dear Angeline.
Ha! spight of all my pains, that Name has life in't.
Say, Boy, how fares my Angeline? Tho millions
Of torturing Furies gore this bleeding heart,
I know thou'lt say she's well, and lives unhurt,
Sleeps innocent, and in her golden slumbers
She little dreams what numberless distractions
Surround her wretched Lord.

Amir.
Alas, Sir,—

Sax.
Ha!

Amir.
The saddest part of all my killing story
Is yet to come. By the same Stratagem
That has deceiv'd her Lord, was your poor Princess,
By false Lorenzo's lust, enjoy'd and ravisht.

Sax.
Now all the Plagues of him that sold his God,
Reward the execrable Dog. My Angeline,
My dearest, sweetest, and once brightest Angeline!
Ye Tyrant Powers, ye everlasting Torturers,
That made mankind for ruine; end me quickly,
Oh bury me like the rebellious Gyants,
Loaded with Mountain-piles, for I shall rave,
Rave to that height, till all my gasping Pangs,
My rowling Tears, and my loud bellowing Groans,
Burst out like Cataracts, enough to deafen
The very Thunder of my angry Gods.
Yet hold, I have some business to dispatch,
Before my Eye-balls burst. Say, Boy, canst thou
Oblige a very wretched thing, and bear
My dying sighs to that dear martyr'd Innocence?

Amir.
My Lord, I can.

Sax.
And wilt thou be so kind?
Nay, thou'lt be kinder yet: for thou'rt a Convert,
A gentle honest Boy. But oh too late!
Speak, is it in thy power to bless my Eyes
With one last view of those dear beauteous Ruines,
Before we part and die?

Amir.
My Lord, it is;
Your Princess is my Charge:
And your own servant here, by my instructions,
Shall haste and bring her to your arms this minute.

Sax.
Heav'ns brightest Diadem crown thee for this goodness.
There Amiran whispers with Carlo, and gives him a Key.
Flie, Carlo, flie, and as thou bringst her hither,
Repeat the dismal Tale of all our Woes.
But oh, 'tis terrible, 'tis wondrous terrible
For such chast ears, yet she must hear it all.
Leave not one tittle that may wing her Soul
For its last flight; for, Carlo, she must die.
The softest heart that yon celestial fire
Could ever animate, must break and die.
We are both too wretched to outlive this day;
And I but send thee as her executioner.

Carlo.
I flie to obey you, Sir.

Sax.
Stay, Carlo, stay.
Why all this haste to murder so much Innocence?
Yet thou must go. And since thy tongue must kill
The brightest form th'inamour'd Stars can ere
Receive, or the impoverisht World can lose,
Go, Carlo, go; but prithee wound her Soul
As gently as thou canst: and when thou seest
A flowing shower from her twin-Orbs of light
All drown the faded Roses of her Cheeks;
When thou beholdst 'midst her distracted groans
Her furious hand, that feeble fair Revenger,
Rend all the mangled Beauties of her Face,
Tear her bright Locks, and their dishevell'd pride
On her pale neck that ravisht whiteness fall;
Guard, guard thy eyes, for, Carlo, 'tis a sight
Will strike Spectators dead.

Exit Carlo.
Amir.
I fear there needs
No study now to be that Beauties Murderer.

Sax.
How, boy!

Amir.
The bloudy Pope, frighted last night
At her discovered face, has doom'd you both
T'eternal silence by a Bowl of poyson.

Sax.
Damnation!

Amir.
These three thousand Crowns were given me
To bribe your Priest to mix your fatal drugs,
And I am afraid her draught's already past.

Sax.
Now for a Bait so strong might catch the Devil!
I'd angle with this black rank Whore she-Pope;
I'd float the Witch upon the burning Lake,
And when the hungry Fiend bob'd up to gorge her,
I'd with her Crosier stick him through the throat,
And tug him up from Hell. Sport for a God!
Oh the wilde forms of my unruly Soul!
Enter Angeline with her hair dishevelled, attended by Carlo.
Thou beauteous pile of everlasting Woe,
Approach thy wretched Lord.

Ang.
Where art thou, Carlo?
Lend me thy hand, and guide me to my Love;
For these benighted eyes are so or'edrown'd in tears,
That I am all dark, and cannot finde my way.

Sax.
So have I seen a Cloud all gilt with light;
But oh ye Pow'rs that could those Heav'ns benight!
What was her day, if she can set so bright?

Ang.
Oh my lov'd Lord,
This ruin'd thing comes to thy feet to die.

Sax.
If thou must die, draw neer, my lovely Martyr;
Come to this Breast, and make these arms thy Monument.

Ang.
In those lov'd arms! Oh stay, where am I going?
Stand off, my Lord, stand off.
Those dear embraces are too blest a circle
For such a sullied bloated thing as I am.

Sax.
And can I be more miserable still!
Ah can those setting beams of light withdraw
Their last kind warmth from thy expiring Lord!

Ang.
No, my dear Life, we must embrace no more.
Should I approach those charming Fires too nigh,
There's so much vital heat in thy lov'd bosom,
That I shall live, live a polluted Monster,
And make the blushing world asham'd to own me.
Live with my load of shame! No, cruel Pow'rs,
Hear my last Prayer, and give my murder'd Honour
And me one Grave.

Sax.
Oh thou bright falling Star,
Never was Love nor Injuries like thine!
Poor ravisht sweetness!

Ang.
Ravisht! Oh ruine, fate, destruction, Death!
These Eyes, these Lips, oh Heav'ns, this sacred Bosom,
Once the blest Throne of thy transported Joys,
Made a loath'd Monsters Prey! But oh ye Powers,
This is not half my Scene of Woe! Alas,
The bleeding Lucrece and the mourning Philomel
Could plead as much as this: But I am a wretch
A thousand times more monstrously deform'd.
Oh my vast Wounds! there's that wide breach of ruine
In this one breast, will let in death enough
To break both hearts.

Sax.
Together let 'em break.

Ang.
Oh my wrong'd Lord,
When to my fatal Bed th'Adulterer came,
But oh that hour be blotted from eternity!
I harmless, languishing, expecting Innocence,
Met the foul Traytour, kist, embraced him, loved him,
Around his neck my longing arms I threw;
For I was kinde, and thought, my Lord, 'twas you.
Oh horrour, horrour, unexampled horrour!

Sax.
Name it no more. Why did the eternal Being
Create a form so perfectly divine,
The miracle of Story, Ages, Worlds,
So far above her Sex upon a Pyramid
Of Trophies fixt like a transparent Glory,
And now all at one sudden blast of Lightning
To strike the Master-piece of their Creation,
Thrown headlong from her Pinacle of Honour,
And dash the shining Christal Globe to pieces?
Blush, blush, ye Gods, blush till your glowing Skies
Anticipate the worlds last Funeral-pile,
And scorching Nature burn and rave as I do.

Ang.
Methinks I see thro' your distracted eyes
A load of Fate weigh down your drooping Soul;
And is it all for your poor Angeline!
Be comforted; what tho I come to die,
'Tis but a short farewel to this base world,
Till we shall meet in purer Joys above.

Sax.
Ah no, my Angeline; when thou art dead,
I am afraid my Wrongs so high will rise,
Make such Complaints against my angry Stars,
Till in despair
I curse the Author of my wretched Being;
Then in my wilde Apostate fury die,
And never meet thee more.

Ang.
O fie, my Lord,
Take heed, take heed of this unjust despair;
Oh pray to Heav'n, and think that I am there.
Oh do not tax the great Omnipotence
Of ought unjust; when they deposed us here,
No doubt 'twas but to crown us brighter there.

Sax.
Yes, ye great Powers, make us amends in Heav'n;
For we have had but little Justice here.

Ang.
Oh my dear Love, I die.
Now take me, take me to thy dearest arms:
You need not be afraid t'embrace me now,
For I shall die, and be all white agin,
And you may love me then without a sin.
In this warm Bed a spotless Martyr lay,
For Death's kind hand wipes all my stains away.

Dies.
Sax.
What dismal Planets reign'd when I was born?
Planets, Fiends, Furies!
These were th'ascendant Lords at my creation
That abhorr'd Night: when my unlucky Parents
Mixt their unhappy Loves to form this Being,
No smiling Star peep'd forth.
But where's this Ravisher, this Pope, young Fairy?
Revenge, ye Gods, revenge! Is there that word
In all the dear Records of Fate for me?
Oh could I but escape from this dire place,
And meet once more that Monster face to face!

Amir.
My Lord, you shall.

Sax.
How, Boy! say that again.

Amir.
Sir, this Gold
Design'd to buy your Bloud, shall pay your Ransome:
With this I'll purchase your deliverance.
Thus secretly releast, be it your art
To strike your Dagger to the Traytors heart.

Sax.
Now art thou kinder than a giving God,
And even preventst my Prayers. From thy bright Heav'n,
Blest Saint, look down, and let thy well-pleas'd Ghost
Smile at the Victim I intend to make thee.
And the slow pangs of his sad heart forgive,
Who for thy Vengeance must thy Fate outlive.

Exeunt.