University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

Periander, Ariston.
Periander.
Thus far have I repress'd the storm within me;
Held down its furious heavings: but they now
Shall have full flow. I am once more a king.
My foe is in my hand, and breathes this air
But till I doom him dead: yet is not he
So curst, so ruin'd as his conqueror!

Ariston.
What do I hear, my Lord?

Periander.
Ah! good Ariston,
The horrors of thy tale were true. She has,
She has betray'd me.

Ariston.
Since the Queen is fallen,
There is no trust in woman—

Periander.
Nor no hope
For wretched Periander. Not the grave
Can hide me now from scorn: not length of days
Will wear out this. O never-dying shame!
Worlds yet unfound will hear it: and where'er
The guilty tale is told, my fate will raise
Base mirth, or baser pity.

Ariston.
Could the Queen
Stoop to a thought of Procles? False fond sex!
Unfix'd by reason, ever wandering wild,
As Fancy whirls, from folly on to folly,
From vanity to vice. My gracious Lord,
She is beneath your anger. Cast her out
From all your soul, and be yourself again.
Resume that reason, Sir—

Periander.
Away: can reason
Arrest the whirlwind's wing? or quench the forest,
Struck by the hand of Jove, when all its woods
In one broad conflagration blaze to heaven?
'Tis reason makes me wretched; for it tells me
How shameful this mad conflict of my passions:
But does that still their uproar? Here, Ariston,
Works the wild storm that reason cannot calm.
I must, I will have ease.

Ariston.
You may; but oh!
The remedy is dreadful, and will give you
Swoonings and mortal agonies. I tremble
To mention it; but such your soul's deep malady,
No gentler cure can bring the health you want.
Her death, my Lord—

Periander.
Ha! death—my soul shrinks back
From the dread image. How! for ever lose her!
My queen! my wife! behold those eyes no more
That were the light of mine! no longer hear
That voice whose every sound was harmony!
Of power to sooth tumultuous Rage, and heal
The wounded heart of Anguish—Can it be?
O misery! why, why is this?

Ariston.
Alas!
You love her still, my Lord, and know it not.

Periander.
Ye Gods, why am I thus? driven to and fro
By every blast that blows?—It is too true.
A traiterous softness steals o'er my just rage,
And melts me to the dotage of low pity.
O thou mean heart! Is she not false? And I,
Shall I sit down with tame dishonour? take
Pollution to my arms? grow vilely old,
A tale for drunkards in their wine? the mirth
Of midnight libertines, when they recount
Their triumphs o'er base women? No: she dies.
I tear her from my breast, tho' the life-stream
Should issue with her. Hear me then, Ariston,
Do thou prepare a secret draught of death,
Of power most swift and baneful; and be ready
Upon my fatal summons.

Ariston.
Spare me, Sir;
I like not this employ.

Periander.
It must be thine.
I have no friend in whom to trust but thee:
And she shall die—But think'st thou, good Ariston,
I should not hear her first?

Ariston.
Hear her, my Lord?
Would you then have her live?

Periander.
No; were my fate
Involv'd in hers, she should not live. But still
Something within me crys that I should hear her.
It is not, can't be love. 'Tis my revenge,
All direful now, that would enjoy her tears,
Her lying oaths of innocence, her new
And added perjuries: then sink her down
To the dark world, with all her crimes upon her.

Ariston.
You see not, Sir, the danger of that meeting.
Is your heart proof against the powerful charm
Of beauty soften'd into sighs, and melting
With the mild languor of imploring eyes,
More winning now, and shedding gentler beams
Thro' showers of sorrow. Think you here behold her,
The kneeling charmer lovely in her tears,
Pleading for pity, sinking at your feet,
And dying by your frown.

Periander.
Art thou my friend?
O merciless! why dost thou raise before me
This dangerous image? 'Tis not to be borne.
My brain turns round with madness. O ye Powers!
Why am I not at quiet? Why is life
Forc'd on the wretch who strongly begs to die,
In bitterness of soul? who asks no more
But the grave's shade and silence, there at last
To sleep for ever, nameless and forgotten?

Ariston.
Alas for pity! I will talk no more
On this distressful theme.

Periander.
Ariston, stay.
Spite of these tears, spite of this fond distraction,
It shall be done. A king may live unhappy
But not with loss of honour unreveng'd.
'Twas mad to think of this. I will not trust
My eyes against the witchcraft of her charms.
Then summon all thy firmness, O my Soul!
And dare to be accurst; since thy sad choice
Is shame, or misery. I am resolv'd.
Ye Gods who watch o'er the chaste marriage-bed!
Thou Stygian Jove! and all ye Powers infernal!
Behold, I kneel as in your awful presence.
By that invisible, that dreaded Lake,
Th'irrevocable oath that binds even you,
Here I pronounce, and seal her doom of death.