 | Mariamne |  |
SCENE VII.
[Pheroras enters.]Herod.
Pheroras , Oh!—Ten thousand rebels arm,
Grief, horror, shame, distraction!—they besiege
The poor soul, wav'ring in the fort of life,
And wishing to surrender! Thy kind sword
Might end this insurrection: dar'st thou strike?
[Points to his breast.
Pher.
Heav'n shield from violence that sacred breast!
Fear, guilt, despair, and moon-struck phrensy rush
On voluntary death: the wise and brave,
When the fierce storms of fortune round 'em roar,
Combat the billows with redoubled force:
67
They sink with decent pride; and from the deep
Honour retrieves them, bright as rising stars.
Call reason to your aid, and with your friends
Divide your care: doubt not but Sohemus—
Her.
Thou nam'st the very scorpion which hath stung
The centre of my heart.
Pher.
Then make his blood
Balm for the wound.
Her.
The wound admits no cure!
Nor reason, nor the healing hand of Time
Can bring relief: But heav'n inspire my heart,
Before it breaks, with new-devis'd revenge,
Equal to that perfidious villain's crime!—
Were his approaches frequent to the Queen,
When I was absent?
Pher.
No; he ever stood
The distant object of her hate.
Her.
With ease
They might elude your eye; but Salomé,
And Sameas sure were conscious of their crimes;
For which he murther'd both; and she prepar'd
The poisonous bowl for me. But from that slave,
Tortures shall wring the truth I dread to know.
Secure him for the rack: and let the Queen
Drink the same fatal draught she drug'd for me;
Instant, with her own deathful art destroy
Th'artificer of death!—O Mariamne!—
Why would'st thou wrong my honour, and my love,
And urge this direful doom?
[Exit Pheroras.
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