University of Virginia Library

[Scene IV.]

The Scene opens and shows ye 2 Princes chain'd to 2 Rocks, King Zoroastres talking to them.
Zor.
What News from Persia? will they yet submitt?
Own mee their Conquerour? or think they fitt
Still in their Arms to live?

Oro.
Thank mee, ungratefull man! for all you have.
I've made you king, and you make mee a slave.
How dare you come, and look mee in ye face,
After thou hast loaded mee with disgrace?
Goe—fetter slaves!— [Shakes his chain.


Zor.
Set down, thou caged thing!
Something above a man, below a King! [Kicks him.

Soe Tamerlane, when hee in Triumph rode
Mounted on Necks of Kings, hee look'd a God.

Phy.
Gods! Can you suffer this? look tamely down?
Or are you too affraid, when hee does frown?
Lend mee your Thunder if you are. I'le spend
It all, by Jove, and dart it at that feind.
Nor all ye lawrells which from mee you took
Shall save you then from my Almighty stroke.

Zor.
Rage on, Poor Prince! Your Gods don't yet appear.
Shake, shake your chain that they at length may hear,
But 'tis not fit that they to you should come.
To them you then shall goe.—Expect your doom.

Oro.
O that I could poison thee with my breath! [Turning away.

Or kill with Basilisks! I'de give thee death!
Int' ev'ry joint thou hast I'de shoot thy fate;
All men should pity, but none change thy state.

Zor.
By Asmenoth! you both shall dye. Appear,
My guardian spirits, but first I'le show
Such sights shall make you stiff with horror grow.
[Spirits arise.
Goe, take Cyane's head. Rent her black grave
And bring her hither. Bee gone!
[Spirits goe out muttering.
For know she's dead, and by this hand she fell.
(To Phy.)
I glory too that I sent her to hell.
Hark! how ye doors crack! [A clap of thunder.

Here, here she comes. O what a perfect white
Is there! Show him—nearer.

[The spirits hold Cyane's head against Phylanders face.
Phy.
Enough! Enough! gods take my life away!
Why don't you, Tyrant, seize uppon your prey?
O! don't that dearest object from mee turn
Till I have gaz'd myself into an urn.

Zor.
Take 'em away. Scourge them with burning whips,
Till their souls shrink, and bee noe more!

Phylander and Oroandes set down and ye Scaen shuts uppon them.