 | The Island Princess, or The Generous Portuguese |  |
The Curtain slowly rises to mournful Musick, and discovers a Prison, Quisara lying on the Floor, all in White, reading by the Light of a Lamp; her Women in Black, some, Standing, others Kneeling by her, and Weeping: The Bell Tolls sometime before she speaks.
Quisara.
How blest is Piety! It cheers my Soul,
Ev'n here, where I'm preparing for my Fate,
Of all but you forsaken!—Do not Weep;
You break my Peace of Mind,—Nay, then I beg,
I must not now Command, retire a while—
[Ex. Women.
Grief is Infectious,—Now I think on them,
On my Distress, and poor Armusia, Doom'd
For me to fall, I Weep,—
[The Bell tolls again.
Hark! The Bell tolls again! Our fatal Hour is come.
Enter Armusia in Chains.
Arm.
Oh my rack'd Soul! How shall I stand this Sight,
The strongest Tryal they cou'd put me to! Oh!
Qui.
Ha! Whence that Groan?
Arm.
Oh Princess!
Qui.
Oh Armusia!
Arm.
How shall I dare t'approach that Suff'ring Vertue!
And yet I must. Thus then, now let me crawl,
And in this Agony breathe out a Soul
Rack'd with unutterable Love and Woe.
Qui.
Oh 'tis too much, thou best, thou only Lover,
Thou Lover of my Soul. I only greive for thee.
Arm.
And shall I not Grieve for you, betray'd for me to Death?
Not Grieve to see you here! Oh! Hopes of Heav'n,
'Tis only you can buoy up sinking Vertue,
When such a Tryal comes. Let Pagan Fiends
On Racks Distend me, Burn me, Tear my Limbs,
I'll Smile, so you be safe. They cannot hurt me;
But when they Pain you, then my Heart they'll Tear.
Oh! at the Thought I shake, I bleed, I rave, and I dispair.
Qui.
I Glory in my Fate; then calm thy mind,
Dear Man; I've only Tears to pay thy Worth,
But we shall meet in Heav'n at better Nuptials,
There no bad Men shall interrupt our Joys.
Arm.
Oh now you've rais'd my Soul from one Extream to t'other.
I dare Rejoyce ev'n here.
Enter Officer.
Officer.
I'm bid to tell you, You must now attend
T'appease our Gods, or Dye. 'Tis the last Summons.
Qui.
We come.
Arm.
To Dye.
Qui.
To Triumph.
Arm.
Yes, my Bride.
But, sure I first may claim a Chaste Endearment
Due to a Bridegroom, and a Dying Friend.
Yes, blushing Saint, and thus I seize the Blessing,—
[Kisses her.
My Soul is on the Wing to mix with Thine:
Another Kiss, and they'd for ever joyn.
Oh! since below we taste such Sweets in Love,
How great, how vast must be our Joys above!
[Exeunt.
Quisara.
How blest is Piety! It cheers my Soul,
Ev'n here, where I'm preparing for my Fate,
Of all but you forsaken!—Do not Weep;
You break my Peace of Mind,—Nay, then I beg,
I must not now Command, retire a while—
[Ex. Women.
Grief is Infectious,—Now I think on them,
On my Distress, and poor Armusia, Doom'd
For me to fall, I Weep,—
[The Bell tolls again.
Hark! The Bell tolls again! Our fatal Hour is come.
Enter Armusia in Chains.
Arm.
Oh my rack'd Soul! How shall I stand this Sight,
The strongest Tryal they cou'd put me to! Oh!
Qui.
Ha! Whence that Groan?
Arm.
Oh Princess!
Qui.
Oh Armusia!
Arm.
How shall I dare t'approach that Suff'ring Vertue!
And yet I must. Thus then, now let me crawl,
And in this Agony breathe out a Soul
Rack'd with unutterable Love and Woe.
Qui.
Oh 'tis too much, thou best, thou only Lover,
Thou Lover of my Soul. I only greive for thee.
Arm.
And shall I not Grieve for you, betray'd for me to Death?
Not Grieve to see you here! Oh! Hopes of Heav'n,
'Tis only you can buoy up sinking Vertue,
When such a Tryal comes. Let Pagan Fiends
On Racks Distend me, Burn me, Tear my Limbs,
I'll Smile, so you be safe. They cannot hurt me;
But when they Pain you, then my Heart they'll Tear.
Oh! at the Thought I shake, I bleed, I rave, and I dispair.
Qui.
I Glory in my Fate; then calm thy mind,
Dear Man; I've only Tears to pay thy Worth,
33
There no bad Men shall interrupt our Joys.
Arm.
Oh now you've rais'd my Soul from one Extream to t'other.
I dare Rejoyce ev'n here.
Enter Officer.
Officer.
I'm bid to tell you, You must now attend
T'appease our Gods, or Dye. 'Tis the last Summons.
Qui.
We come.
Arm.
To Dye.
Qui.
To Triumph.
Arm.
Yes, my Bride.
But, sure I first may claim a Chaste Endearment
Due to a Bridegroom, and a Dying Friend.
Yes, blushing Saint, and thus I seize the Blessing,—
[Kisses her.
My Soul is on the Wing to mix with Thine:
Another Kiss, and they'd for ever joyn.
Oh! since below we taste such Sweets in Love,
How great, how vast must be our Joys above!
[Exeunt.
| The Island Princess, or The Generous Portuguese | |