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68
SCENE VIII.
[Flaminius enters to Herod.]Herod.
My Roman friend!
Your unexpected visit finds my court
In wild disorder.
Flam.
Sir, the Queen's desire
To see the Prince, occasion'd my return
At this uncourtly hour.
Her.
Few hours have pass'd,
Since you beheld me in triumphal state:
Now, like a meteor from a summer sky,
Ingloriously I'm fall'n!
Flam.
Banish despair,
And all her gloomy train: doubt not but fate
In her large volume still for you reserves
A page, as full of glory as the past.
Her.
Glory, Flaminius!—Will an empty name,
A shining bubble, which the vulgar breath
Of thoughtless crowds can swell for whom they please;
E'er recompense the loss I must sustain?
My Queen! my wife! the jewel of my soul!
Flam.
Mercy's the brightest ornament of pow'r;
And now most needful to preserve your peace.
Her.
Justice must be my mercy: She must dye!—
She must!—
Flam.
But, Sir, 'tis safer much to sheath
The sword of justice, since the destin'd blow
Will chiefly wound your self. Without your Queen,
Your palace, though with gay retinue throng'd,
Will seem a savage desart. You must view
The mother blooming in your beauteous child,
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Will rouze the sad remembrance of the bliss
You once possess'd with her! How will you wish
For that sweet converse, when the smiling hours
Danc'd to the musick of her heav'nly voice,
And the short years were lost in dear delight!
But when her charms are silent, dismal change!
Slow sullen time on raven-wings will fly
Heavy and black! around you then you'll see
Your son, your nobles, and domesticks chang'd:
For each, as their peculiar grief shall urge,
With pensive silence will upbraid the loss
Of mother, Queen, or friend. But what's the loss
Of mother, Queen, or friend, compar'd to yours?
A wife! the best, the loveliest of her sex.
And late the best-belov'd! in the full pride
Of summer beauty, like a poisonous weed
Torn from the earth, and by her husband's hand
Unkindly cast to wither in the grave!
Her.
My fate wou'd force from Rigor's flinty eye
Ev'n tears of blood!
[He weeps.
Fla.
O Sir! reflect, if thus
The bare recital wounds your fancy now,
A yet more dreadful pain may pierce your heart!
Love may once more revive, vain hopeless love!
When the dear object of your longing soul
Lies mould'ring in the dust. If so, the wretch
Who buried in a trance returns to life,
And walks distracted o'er the ratling bones
Of his dead fathers, in the dreary vault
Less horror feels, than sad remorse will raise
Within your breast!
Her.
O Mariamne lost!
To love for ever lost! to love and me!—
I've liv'd Love's slave too long; but Jealousy,
That yellow fiend! hath dip'd the torch in gall,
And now 'twill light no more!—
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If the Queen's false,
My Wife hath been officious to her crimes,
And shares in the pollution: let her plea
Be heard; and if she fails in her defence,
I'll slay her at your feet.
[Flaminius goes out, and returns immediately with Arsinoe.
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