 | Scanderbeg |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
SCENE, The Vizier's Camp.HELI.
What is this Virtue? what this foolish Pride
Of Doing well, that the fond Christian dotes on?
Is it a Revelation but to them,
A Beam directed only to their Sect?
Or but the vain Enthusiastick Talk
Of selfish Teachers? Is it more than Name?
Is it the Prejudice of Prepossession,
That actuates our Minds to think that true,
Which has but the Authority of Time,
Imbib'd in Infancy, and grown with Years?—
—But how shou'd I account for what I know not?
Greatness is Happiness to me, and that
Flows not from Self-denial, and the Train
That waits upon their Precepts—But the Morn
Rises upon my Thoughts, her silver Hand
With her fair Pencil strikes the Darkness out,
And paints the glorious Face of Day. 'Tis Time
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And in the swelling Tempest that must blow,
Look for a Port of Safety:—If my Fate
Will have me fall, why, be it so—Yet ere
My Summons comes, I have some Time for Mischief:
Ha!—But 'tis Weakness to deliberate,
When the close Action shou'd pursue the Thought.
[Going.
SCENE II.
Vizier, Heli.Viz.
Turn, Heli.
Heli.
Ha! The Vizier here!—Confusion!
Has he then been inform'd of my Deceit,
My Practices with Scanderbeg?—If so—
But he knows it not, shou'd then my Fears
Betray me to him?—What a State is Guilt,
When ev'ry thing alarms it! Like a Centinel,
Who sleeps upon his Watch, it wakes in Dread,
Ev'n at a Breath of Wind.
[Aside.
Viz.
Wherefore, Heli,
Stand'st thou thus distant, when thy Master wants
Thy Counsel, and thy Aid? Thou art not sure,
Like common Friends, neglectful in Adversity,
The Servants of a Day: I think, my Heli,
Thou art not such.
Heli.
My Lord, you know.—
Viz.
I do;
Thy Honesty speaks clearly in thy Face,
And thro' thy Eyes I read it in thy Soul.
Heli.
Then what is all Appearance— [Aside.]
Say, my Lord,
How can a Man so great in Pow'r as You,
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Find Room for Sorrow? The lost Wretch, like me,
Fated to Woe in all its dire Extremes,
And torn from what He loves, may well repine,
Choose out this sad Receptacle to grieve;
And think himself to Madness:—But to thee.
Viz.
Alas, thou canst not guess my Wretchedness!
Heli.
To thee, whom Fortune reaches both her Hands,
Lavish of Bliss; What Ill dare look at thee!—
High plum'd Ambition mounts upon the Wing,
And bids thee soar to her sublimest Point;
While robb'd Love with easy Dalliance,
Invites thee to the yielding Couch of Beauty.
Viz.
Hold, Heli, hold: Bring not that Image in
To add to my Distraction—Thou hast struck
The Master-string that reaches to my Heart,
And sent a sanguine Flood of Madness round me,
Deamira!
Hel.
Is she, my Lord, the Cause?
Is she not yours, within your Pow'r, your Will?
Waits she not on your Wish?—
Viz.
Alas, my Friend!
'Tis there the Malice of my Fate strikes home,
This my supremest Curse, to have her here;
And yet not have her mine, while Miser-like,
I but behold my Treasure, not enjoy.
Heli.
'Tis then because you won't—the Miser true,
Starves 'midst his Plenty, from the slavish Fear
Of wasting what he heaps; in Love the Niggard,
Is still more hateful and more wretched; Seize
The glorious Prize, and taste without Control:
Trust me, my Lord, the Banquet will out-last
Your Appetite to eat.
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What dost thou mean?
Heli.
To force her to your Arms—'tis no new Doctrine.
Viz.
Ha!
Hel.
What an exalted Face of Pow'r it shews,
To bow the haughty Mind of Disobedience,
And make Compulsion answer Inclination?
What Joy to take, what is deny'd our Pray'r,
And make Resistance Pleasure?
Viz.
Say'st thou, Heli!—
No, thou mistak'st the End of Bliss—What Joy
Can flow from forc'd Affections? What proceed
From the dissever'd Strings of Union? If by Force
I make her mine, she murmurs in the Bliss,
And but endures the Touch; nay, hates her self,
Because she pleases me: But oh my Friend!
When Minds are join'd; when ones consenting Touch
Thrills Musick to the other:—This is Transport;
This the sublimest Rapture—Here the Souls
Spring with concordant Love, and the strain'd Eyes,
Endeavour to describe the Extasy,
When Words are at a Loss.
Hel.
Then quickly lead her
To the expecting Bed of Scanderbeg;
He without Doubt will thank You for the Gift,
And laugh at your tame Virtue.
Viz.
Hell and Furies!
Shall he enjoy her? Shall my Rival taste,
Nay, taste alone, the Joys I languish for?
And shall I help him too? Stand this Shock, Reason,
And thou art Proof against the worst of Ills.
Shall I shut out eternal Day from me,
To give him Light? Shall I tear Comfort hence,
With all its Train, to place 'em in his Breast?
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Heli.
This can never be endur'd.
Viz.
And yet can I shake off Humanity,
And deaf my Ears to Innocence? and Pray'r?
Can I behold Distress, in all its Shapes,
Imploring Beauty eloquent in Tears,
Yet keep the Avenues to Pity shut?
Hel.
Yet think, my Lord, for whom his Sorrow flows—
For Scanderbeg—Your Rival, and your Foe.—
She weeps indeed—but 'tis because she's here—
She pleads for Mercy—to preserve her Virtue,
That she may bring it to his happy Arms:
She wou'd leave you most wretched, to bring Joy,
Eternal Joy to him.
Viz.
I'll hear no more!—
'Tis plain, her Beauty plots against my Peace,
And every Sigh, and Tear is a Conspirator:—
She shall be mine—Revenge shall have its Fill
Of luscious Beauty; my Desires shall stray
To the Extent of Bliss: The Wings of Time
Shall be so burden'd with our Extasies,
That he shall stop to taste the swelling Joy.
Heli.
This speaks the Hero, Sir, the Prince and Man.
Viz.
Yes, Heli, now I feel my self a Man;
Ev'ry tame Wish and little Fear subsides,
My Pulse beats high, my bounding Heart exults,
And my quick Spirits aid the glowing Thought
Of Madness, and of Love: Do thou, my Heli,
Prepare her for my Will; acquaint her too,
With my Resolves: They say Resistance,
Tho' but affected, makes the Transport more,
And adds to the great Joy—If it be so,
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Reluctant, is compell'd, and Sighs and Tears
Beat Time, responsive to my Extasy!
SCENE III.
Heli.Hel.
Now for a Master-stroke of Villany:
It shall be so—for I have felt her Charms,
They countenance, nay justify Deceit;—
I must prepare her for the am'rous Fight.—
The Vizier shall by me be made to think,
His Tent a Place improper for the Deed;
Her Cries may reach the Army, whose Conjectures
May shape some Danger to his Enterprize:
She therefore must be led to some wide Place,
Where Echo only can o'er-hear her; And
That she may be brought with Ease, will I pretend,
That I'll renounce the Vizier's Interest,
And fly with her to Scanderbeg: Then I
Appoint the Vizier a wrong Place, and riot
In the warm Folds of Beauty—'Tis resolv'd.
SCENE IV.
Deamira.What art thou, Happiness, so sought by All,
So greatly envy'd, yet so seldom found?
Of what strange Nature is thy Composition,
When Gold and Grandeur sue to thee in vain?
The Prince who leads embattled Thousands forth,
And with a Nod commands the Universe,
Knows not the Language to make thee obey;
Tho' he with Armies strews the hostile Plain,
And hews out Avenues of Death, he still
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Appears not on the Road, to light him to thee:—
Content and Happiness are then the same;—
And they are seldom found but in the Bed,
Where unmolested Innocence resides.
Shou'd I then hope to find her in my Breast,
Where Anguish and Disquiet only reign!
No, let her elsewhere stray, I wou'd not wish her,
So dark, so desolate, so sad a Mansion.
SCENE V.
Deamira, Heli.Hel.
Think me not rude, because I boldly press
Upon your private Thoughts; Affairs of Moment
Will plead in my Excuse.
Deam.
There needs not any;
My Sorrows, Sir, are open at all Seasons,
To ev'ry Comer in.
Heli.
Obdurate he,
Who unregarding sees this Flow of Grief;
Who hears unmov'd the Tempest in that Breast,
Nor once endeavours to allay the Storm.
Deam.
Pity, Alas, grows up in other Soils,
I do not hope it here.
Heli.
And yet I come,
To prove that Pity which you wou'd disclaim!—
How shall I utter what my Duty makes
Important to be known? I wou'd conceal—
And yet wou'd tell it, but am lost in Doubt,
Which wou'd be least Afflicting: for to know,
Arms for Prevention, tho' 'twixt Hope and Fear;
Pardon, unhappy fair One, and believe,
That my officious Warmth, to give you ease,
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Half of the Meaning of the dreadful Tale,
To any Sense—but what I fear it means.
Deam.
I thank you, Sir, this Preparation's kind,
Tho' 'tis unnecessary; for Misfortune
Has been so us'd to visit this sad Place,
That she may enter now without a Ceremony.
Heli.
A noble Disregard of what may happen,
Speaks an Heroick Mind: Calamity
Loses its Sting 'gainst such a Resolution,
And blushing at its Impotence, retires;
Know then—
Deam.
Why do you pause, Sir? I wou'd know the worst,
Nor soften what thou bring'st with gentle Words;
The worst is less than what I apprehend.
Heli.
The Vizier loves you.
Deam.
Ha!
Heli.
And where a Love
Wrought to Extremes is found, it never stops
'Till sated with its Wish.
Deam.
Alas, my Fears!
Heli.
Think what a Torrent rushes thro' the Sou
When Love lights up Desire; how swift its Course!
How wide the Ruin! and how fierce the Blaze!
Ev'n Age, as by Divinity inspir'd,
Feels a new Warmth, and temporary Youth.
Deam.
Where does this tend? What means this Preparation?
Heli.
O gentle Lady, can a helpless Maid,
Potent alone in Pray'r and speaking Beauty,
Make Head against the violent Attacks
Of raging, lawless Force? What then avail
The Sigh of Sorrow, and the Tear of Woe,
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What's Elocution to the Ear that's deaf?
Or a fine Prospect to the blinded Eye?
Deam.
O gracious Heav'n! He will not, cannot mean it.
Heli.
When Reason is dethron'd, and Passion reigns,
When Appetite prevails, what Ravage follows?
Think if he shou'd (as he has sworn to do)
Make all Resistance vain; in spite of Cries,
And Tears, as fruitless, force you to his Bed.
Deam.
O 'tis too much! I cannot bear the Thought!
But sink beneath the apprehensive Weight.
[Swoons.
Heli.
She faints; her easy Nature cou'd not bear
The Shock of such a Trial: Charming Sorrow!
Oh how thou fir'st me! Her soft tender Form
Will bear but little struggling: She revives—
Now for my other Face, and Words of Comfort,
That speak in fair Appearance, such as fall
With Down, and sooth the panting Breast of Beauty.
How is it, Lady?
Deam.
Why, how shou'd it be?—
When the Brain turns and feels the Lash of Madness,
Can we do ought but well, when the hot Spirits
Ferment and boil?—O Excellent!—I feel
The quick Rotation—Stop, Oh stop, old Time,
Thy Hour-wing'd Chariot, let my Head relieve
Thy hoary Age, and run the boundless Race—
Heli.
Alas, poor Lady! Sorrow has disturb'd
The Seat of Reason: But it cannot last;
Passion in Woman is of short Duration.
Deam.
Ha! now I mount—I whirl in Thought's Career—
Vizier, thou can'st not over-take me now—
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I soar in purest Element, to Regions
White as my Virgin-Wishes—To the Plains
Where Scanderbeg resides—I see him now—
Triumphal Arches circle him around;
The Victor's Wreath, and the warm Lover's Wish
Sit lovely on his Brow—Where has thou been?—
O take me to thy Arms! O quickly take me,
And save me from Pollution—
Heli.
How her Thoughts,
Tho' struck with Madness, image out her Fears.
Deam.
Let me steal back a Look from this safe Place—
O save me—hide me!—See there where he stands,
Dreadful as Tarquin—Drive him down again—
Hot impious Wishes glow upon his Cheek,
And sparkle in his Eye—Strike, strike the Monster
Down to the Centre—Ha! 'tis done! he falls,
And I find Rest again!—O Scanderbeg!—
Heli.
So now she melts into a Flood of Tears,
Her Rage quite spent—She'll tire herself with Grief,
And soon be well again: Madam, retire,
Lay Ease and gentle Comfort to your Heart,
And hope much better than your Fears inform:
When Rest has giv'n the Rule again to Reason;
I will instruct you how to 'scape these Ills,
And fix your Happiness—'Till then, farewell;
And think me the sincerest of your Friends.
[Leads her to the Door.
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SCENE VI.
Heli.Poor Soul! I warrant she believes it all,
And thinks me what I seem: By Heav'n, her Charms
Have quite effac'd the Mem'ry of the Love
I bore to Zaida; she has left my Breast,
And the whole God pours in, on her Behalf.—
To Day the Battles join—Th'Event uncertain—
When in the Storm, and Fury of the Fight,
Will I compleat my Wish, while Drums and Trumpets,
And the whole Voice of War shall drown her Cries;
New spirit up Desire, and lead the Soul
To the full Stretch of Bliss and rapt'rous Joy.
SCENE VII.
The Sultan's Camp.Abdalla, Orcan.
Orc.
Abdalla say, now the fair Face of Morn,
Drest in her maiden Blushes, looks abroad;
Why stand our Troops unactive, under Arms?
Why this long Pause, nor yet the Signal giv'n
To rush to the big War? Has dear Revenge
Fled from the Sultan's Breast? Are all his Wrongs
Forgot, and sleeps he in a peaceful Mind?
Abd.
He sleeps indeed, but who can call it Rest,
When all the busy Faculties employ'd,
Tear the distracted Mansion—Passions meet,
And combate with each other—Rage, Despair,
Stern Indignation, fiery Revenge
Rise up at once, and bring Distraction with 'em;
Oft he reproaches our high Prophet's Sloth,
Or Impotence, to strike for his Revenge;—
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And begs for his Assistance—Then, in Rage,
Loudly he curses Selim, all the World,
And wishes it extinct with him—Nature now
Sinks with the vast Expence of Spirits down,
Affording a short Interval of Ease,
To wake him to more Torture—O my Friend!
Who cou'd imagine that the silken Boy,
The soft'ning Pow'r, whom fondly we call Love,
Cou'd be the Parent of so fierce a Tumult,
So wild a War of Rage, and boundless Passions?
Orc.
'Tis wond'rous!—And if such be the Effect,
Such the dire Consequence in ev'ry Breast
Of the unequal Joy: Preserve me still,
O Prophet, from the Pleasure and the Pain.
Abd.
But hark the Trumpet speaks the Sultan's Rise,
And warns the Soldier of approaching Fight—
Action, and Arms demand our Presence now,
And summon us away to War, and Glory.
SCENE VIII.
Amurat.The Morn returns, the Face of rising Day
Shines Beauty on the World—The gentle Flow'rs
Shake the damp Load of nightly Dews away,
And open to the Sun—All Nature smiles—
The whole Creation feels the Influence
Of the diffusive Joy—While I alone
Abandon'd and accurst, can find no Gleam
To light me thro' this Depth of dark Despair—
But why do I complain?—Can that redress?—
All Means of Comfort are cut off but One,
No Avenue left open but Revenge:
My Wrongs and Insults call for warmer Work,
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And the weak patient Impotence of Reason.
SCENE IX.
Amurat, Abdalla.Amur.
Abdalla, hasten, bid our Armies march,
Let all the Implements of War strike up,
And trumpet out Revenge; let the Clouds rise
And darken upon Horror: I'll appear
Full in the Front of Fate, and deal it round.
Abd.
My Lord, our Enemies on either Side
Seem in a full Security of Ease;
If in this Unconcern we steal upon 'em,
A Blow may give us Conquest.
Amur.
Be it so:
Do thou, Abdalla, take the Charge on thee,
For Oh thy Master's is unequal now,
To any Task where Judgment is concern'd;
Here lies my Pain, my Torture—Something here
Tugs at my Reason with Herculean Force,
And must o'erthrow it: Be it Rage or Love,
'Tis Fire, I am sure, and must destroy the Mansion—
I cannot hold my self—I wou'd o'er-leap
The Bounds of Life, to find some little Ease—
I rather wou'd be Nothing, than be thus.
Abd.
Then think upon the Means to find that Ease,
And not upon the Cause that gives the Pain.
Amur.
Oh thou cool Talker! Ha! not think upon it—
Is it a voluntary Act to think?
Will Recollection cease at my Command?
Can I hew off this Limb with Unconcern?
By thinking on the Ointment that will heal—
Impossible! I know I ought not think of it:
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I know that I should steer a diff'rent Course;
But who can stand against the Blast of Fate?
Then farewell, Reason! This shall be my Remedy,
To bury Thought, I'll think my self to Madness.
SCENE X.
Abdalla.Abd.
What art thou, Nature, with so great a Flaw?
How much more worthy Pity than the Brute,
Does he appear? whose Reason is laid waste,
And all the Faculties of Judgment void,
Who wears the Image, and the Name of Man,
Yet loses what shou'd truly make him so.
SCENE XI.
Scanderbeg, Lysander.Scand.
Lysander, no; the Merit is not much
Where virtuous Thoughts inhabit, 'tis a Pain,
A Labour to be vicious: We must strive
Against almost insuperable Odds,
To bend a Mind, if well dispos'd, to Ill.
Lys.
But to bear Trials of the deepest Kind;
Severest Miseries—is more than Use,
Or what the best Philosophy can teach;
'Tis more than Nature, 'tis a Help Divine,
That strengthens, that informs, and moulds the Soul
To this heroick State of Unconcern.
Scand.
No more, Lysander; this revives some Thoughts
That will betray the Man in all his Weakness;
I find a Tenderness dissolve within,
To wash away my firmest Resolutions;
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And bear it as I ought—For, Oh my Friend,
Thou can'st not think but I must feel my Woes;
I were not Man,
Were I not sensible of Pain and Sorrow:
'Tis generous ev'n to feel foreign Woe,
In a responsive Sympathy to others.
I am but to the World, in some Degree,
A better Hypocrite—A gay Dissembler.—
Of this enough—Do thou, my dear Lysander,
Study to make thy Happiness appear
Less than it is, as I to make my Woes
Seem lighter—'Tis a virtuous Task!—
Lys.
O Words!
That flow in sweet Persuasion, and can turn
Misfortune into Merit, and Increase
Of worldly Good; that shew us Happiness
Gliding thro' Ill, to him that is resolv'd
To find, and fix her State—
SCENE XII.
Scanderbeg, Lysander, Captain.Capt.
My Lord, prepare:
As on my Post I Westward took my View,
To watch the Motion of the Sultan's Pow'r,
I saw the well-compacted Troops, in Arms
Compleat, march slowly from their Camp;
The length'ning Train appears upon yon Hill
In fair Array: Quick Flames retortive, dart
From their bright Arms, and to the Sun return
The Lustre that they borrow—But my Eye,
In the wide Prospect, cou'd not shape their Course;
Or hitherward, or to the Vizier's Camp,
Uncertain if they bend.
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The furious Sultan,
Losing his Mistress, spirits on the War
With mad Precipitance, and to the Vizier
Directs this threaten'd Fury.
Scand.
'Tis most like;
But let us hold ourselves in ready Plight
For fiercest Action: 'Tis the wise Man's Care,
To hold Prevention at his judging Will,
And meet the meditated Danger arm'd.
Bear thou my Orders for a speedy Fight;
Let each Man, with his Arms, put on his Diligence,
And wait my Signal.
SCENE XIII.
Scanderbeg, Lysander.Scand.
—O immortal Justice!
Thou undivided Particle from Heav'n,
That lengthens to its Substitute below,
And arms his subject Hand with Majesty
Terrifick: For thy Cause, a willing Agent,
My Sword I draw: Do thou inspire the Stroke
With Prevalence divine—As thine the Wrong,
Vengeance and Punishment to thee belong;
The injur'd State of Innocence restore,
Crush the bold Insults of aspiring Pow'r,
Shine like thy radiant Source, and make the World adore.
The End of the Fourth Act.
| Scanderbeg | |