University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Pallace.
Enter King Solus.
King.
What's Nature, and the Pow'r that Governs it?
Man is the Puppet of the Gods, and moves—
Backwards and forwards as they please to dance him,
Now cou'd I laugh to find my self a fool,
And yet be mad to think I can't be otherwise:
Where's all my blust'ring Roaring Storm against
Semanthe? hush'd, and Calm'd, and all because
Her tears had Pow'r to charm me into fondness?
My great Foundation's laid in sand, one minute
Fierce as Incount'ring Lyons, and the next,
I'm tamer then the meekest Beast they Prey on.

Enter Menaphon.
Men.
Good morning to the King, my Royal Master:
May health, and happiness for ever wait you;
O may you never know one hour of sorrow,
May sweet content dwell ever in your breast,
And all your days and Nights be fill'd with Joys
Equall to those the bless'd above possess.

King.
I thank thee Menaphon for thy kind wishes,
But oh they're what I never must expect:
Alass! I am a thing the World does laugh at,
And all those Clouds, those dark and dismall Clouds,
Which bar the Sun from shining on my misery,
Will never be chased off 'till I am dead.

Men.
The Gods forbid; O do not name your death,
My Loyall heart weeps tears of bloud to hear it:
Alas my Lord, I thought e're this t'have seen,
A Riotous Pleasure Rev'ling in your eyes,
To think how bravely you'd reveng'd your wrongs;
I thought t'have heard you say, come Menaphon,
Now thou sha't see I am a King again:
The Snake I long had foster'd in my breast,
Is Crush'd, th'Adulterate Queen is now no more.

King.
O why my friend? why shou'd that fair one dye?
The Modell of the Heav'ns, the Earth, the Waters;
The Harmony and sweet consent of time,
Are not so beautifull in their Creation,
As is Semanthe: shall I throw away
A Jewell, Empires are to poor to purchase;
What tho' she's faulty, look but on her face,
Oh there's that Expiating brightness there,
As Guilds o're all the Sables of her Soul,
And all her faults and spots are seen no more.

Men.
Why lives she still then?

King.
Yes my friend, she does:
'Tis true I went with fix'd resolves to kill her;
But when I came (Oh who can paint the Scene!)
I saw the beauteous Creature all in tears,
A winking Lamp was burning by her side;
Her Pallace was become a loathsome Jayl,
Nought but infectuous damps were her Companions:
I saw her on her knees a while unmov'd,
But Oh at last I cou'd no longer hold,
By a long siege of tears she calm'd my fury,
And I had not the power to give the Blow:
O Menaphon the keen edg'd Sword of Justice,
I held advanc'd in air, but O her eyes,
There shot that Lightning from those beauteous Heav'ns,
That th'Angry Steel was melted down before 'em.

Men.
I'm glad to find such mercy dwells within you,
I must confess the Chiefest of my wishes,
Is, she may live, but give me leave to think,
I blot my Loyalty in wishing it.
For O what Floud can ever wash away,
The stain that hangs upon your honour Sir?
Consider but the talk of other Nations,
When they shall hear (as this can be no secret,)
How your own eyes beheld your Queens dishonour,
Saw her in the Embraces of a Traytor,
And after that you could sit tamely down,
Without a dire Revenge for the black deed,
'Twill make your little name blown round the World,
The Forregn shame, and your own Subjects scorn.

King.
Oh! thou hast stung me to the very Soul,
It must, it will be so; methinks I see
How the proud haughty King of Sicilly,
Devours the welcome news of my dishonour,
Oh she must dye, she must, by Heav'n she shall,
Nay, dye a publick Spectacle to the World,
And her vile Minion too, curss'd Ithocles
Shall bear her company, this very day
I'll sign an order for their Execution,
And let it be your care to see it perform'd.

Men.
Nay, now you bend too much the other way,
This is short warning for departing Souls,
For pitties sake Sir, let 'em live till Morn.

King.
'Round me you furies that delight in mischief,
And ever keep me waking till the Cliffs,
That over-hangs my light, fall off and leave
These hollow spaces to be cramm'd with dust,
If I do either eat or drink, or sleep,
Till I have finish'd my great just revenge.

Men.
Well Sir, I will no more strive to diswade you,
But what death wou'd you have Semanthe die,

King.
Ha! By the Gods, a Question worth disputing,
And it would puzzle an ingenious Artist
T'invent a way to kill her, for by fire
Or water 'tis impossible to do't,
Betwixt her falshood and her flowing Lust,
She is too rank to burn, too light to drown,
Nay, shou'd I bury the incarnate Monster
Like the slain Gyants under Piles of Mountains,
Her dust like Ætna's flames, wou'd burst through all.
Take thy own method, let me see her dead,
I care not how.

Men.
Well Sir, I'll do my best,
I must confess I wou'd not have her live,
For the respect I bear to my Royal Master,
Therefore I hope you will not change your mind,

King.
O never, never shalt thou see me chang'd,
Thou'lt rouz'd a sleeping Lyon, whom no art,
Nor any thing can e're reclaim but blood.
Where was before my blinded folly driven,
Mercy, what art thou? get thee back to Heaven.
What has the race of man to do with thee?
Leave humane minds to nobler passions free.
Hence forward Death and Ruin Reign alone,
Make Hell your Vassal, and the world your Throne.
[Ex. King.]

Manet Menaphon.
Men.
'Tis done, the fatal Train has taken fire,
I'll follow him, least he should change again,
By Heav'n I am all extasie to think
Of the long prosp'rous chain of our success.
Once by thy doom proud Queen, the very breath
That durst repeat the sound of love, was death,
But oh the pleasure of revenge to dart
Thy own Retorted threats, on thy own heart,
Yes, thou hast scorn'd me Queen, but know the wrongs
Of slighted love shall knit their Scorpion thongs,
Whilst each disdainful step thou dost retire,
Thou tread'st on Graves, and walk'st o're Piles of Fire.
[Ex. Men.]