University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Enter Mauro and Solyman, two Saracens.
Mauro.
Thro' what a Tract of vast unmeasur'd Space,
These Christian Chiefs have led their wand'ring Host;
Their Sails have courted every Wind that blows,
And wanton'd in variety of Seas.
Calpe beheld them pass his rocky Height,
Frown'd on their burden'd Ships with length of Shade,
While they, undaunted, cut their watry Way,
And, smiling, cast back Fear upon his Brow.
In vain the Mountains rise, the Rivers swell,
They mock the Whirlpool, fighting, Ford the Stream,
And, clogg'd in cumbrous Armour, climb the steep.

Solyman.
Such Praise, unblushing, we may give our Foes,
A Soldier's Honour brightens by the Blaze
Of neighbouring Virtue, and reflects new Light.

Mauro.
But yet, methinks, 'tis wond'rous strange Success
Should wait as Servant to their moving Camp,
And hail them still victorious—See they bring
Monarchs enchained, rude Ravishments of War,
Bidding Captivity new Conquests make,
And stretch the Line of Bondage by the Hands
Of Princely Vassals, and of Royal Slaves.

Solyman.
And what the Recompence of all their Toil,
Slowly to gain what never can be kept,
For distant Conquests are like needy Friends
In Climes remote, who still dissemble Wants
'Till Wealth amass'd, Temptation glitt'ring nigh,
The Gift of Power too strong for Honour proves,
And makes the fair Possession all its own.
O! were their Arms and Policy alike!

Mauro.
Their Arms! I scorn their Arms—

Solyman.
Have you forgot
By whose high Hand fair Ptolemais sunk,
Whose single Valour forced the guarded Trench,
And let in swift Destruction at his Heels.
Who, like a Whirlwind rais'd by Magic-Art,
Shook all her Tow'rs and Battlements to Earth;
And left our frighted Deities to mourn
Their prostrate Temples, and their widow'd Shrines.
Was any City of the peopled Earth,
Tho' built in Fable, and by hireling Gods,
So proudly strong, and yet so fairly won?

Mauro.
Why wouldst thou open that sad Scene of Slaughter,
And set victorious Richard in my View?
More dreadful than their bold confed'rate Kings,
Whene'er the Austrian Eagle droops his Wings;
Or the French Lillies sicken at the War,
He plants his English Lions in the Breach;
Snatches the new-gain'd Conquest from our Hand,
And robs both Friend and Enemies of Fame.
I saw him, when, with manly Force, he sway'd,
Dire Instrument, the two-edg'd Battle-Axe,
Whose Weight requir'd a Giant's Arm to poise,
But he shook easy as a bending Reed,
Death follow'd close, and mark'd his Way with Blood.
What Thousands then had fell, had not his Eye
Cast on an Infant Train, bad Slaughter cease,
Cease—Cease—he cry'd—These may be Christians yet—

Solyman.
That Grace they owe to Berengaria's Lips,
(For so the Brother of the Scottish King,
Young David, Envoy once of happy Truce)
Has often told to our admiring Court.
He spoke the Dove-like Meekness of her Eye,
The sweet Perswasion of her soften'd Look,
Whene'er her Hero march'd, she, sighing, cry'd,
O spare the Mother for the Infant's sake!
O spare the Infant for the Mother's sake!

Mauro.
What End of Warring with so brave a Foe?

Solyman.
I know not yet, but hourly we expect,
Achmet's Return, the favourite Renegade,
Who went a Spy upon the Christian Camp.

Mauro.
I hate that saucy Convert to our Faith!
'Tis true, he's brave, but hangs his Merit high,
To catch the View of popular Regard;
To us his Equals insolently vain,
But to the Sultan fawning as a Slave,
As damn'd a Whisperer in his Prince's Ear.
As Eastern Eunuchs, or a Christian Priest.
And he, this Sycophant, this talking Warriour,
Must hate Armida too, the warlike Maid,
Whose valiant Deeds as far o'ermates his Worth,
As Richard's mine—

Solyman.
Mauro, compose thy Wrath,
It ill becomes us when the Iron Hand
Of War is waving o'er our City Gates,
Threatning to fall and crush us to the Earth,
To spend that Rage, that might prevent our Fate
In civil Broils and Factions with our Friends.

Enter a Captain.
Captain.
My Lords, the Princes, Counsellors, and Chiefs
Of all our Host are now in Counsel met,
Great Saladine himself is seated on the Throne,
And here's Prince Achmet from the Christian Camp.

[Exit.
Solyman.
We come.

Mauro.
He said, Prince Achmet, did he not?
Now, by our Prophet, where do Titles grow?
Or does bright Honour, like Dame Fortune reign,
And blindfold fling her Largesses on Earth,
While ev'ry Chance-Receiver wears as high
The flutt'ring Gift, as if his own by Right,
And from a Villain grows into a Prince;
A Prince, a Spy, an Office for a Dog,
That lurks and beats about the Field to spring his Game.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Saladine, Achmet, Solyman, Mauro, &c.
Saladine.
Lords, Princes, Brother-Soldiers of the Field,
Whose Valour long has held our Scepter fast,
Tho' often shaken by the Wind of War,
And rushing Tempests of confed'rate Kings.

Mauro.
For this the West and Southern Standards join,
For this the proud imperial Eagle stoops
Patient of Friendship by the Lillies Side,
The Northern Lion wont at home to range,
Now loosen'd and enlarg'd by Richard's Arm
In Jewry roars, and shakes the Eastern Skies.
Him most, him first of these confed'rate Kings
Our Armies dread, and tremble to behold.
While strong of Arm he shakes the well-pois'd Spear,
Fear flies and warns the Nations to retire,
Death wings the Shaft from his unerring Bow.
But, when provok'd to near Approach, he wields
The two-edg'd Battle-Axe with forceful Sway;
Heaps fall on Heaps, Destruction sits and smiles
O'er the mix'd Carnage, till his fatal Hand
From Hill to Hill th'unsated Vulture drives.

Saladine.
Mean Time, what Number of our Slaves remain?
'Tis fit we show the Price of Christian Blood,
By pouring it, like Water, on the Earth.

Achmet.
We count six hundred Slaves of either Sex.

Saladine.
Count them no more, but as a Number perish'd—
They shall be try'd—They boast of wond'rous Faith,
That mocks Destruction, and embraces Death
Like a fond Mistress, or far-sought Friend.
Achmet, the Charge be yours to see their Deaths,
And tell how many of these glorious Saints
Rejoice in Misery, and smile in Flames.

Achmet.
Torture shall prove ingenious in their Woes,
Some groan on Earth beneath the pointed Wood
With upward Cry to Heaven, who will not hear
The bloody Sword shall parcel piecemeal Death,
Limb follow Limb, and last of all the Eye,
When it has wept its Fellow-Organs, drop
The last sad Tear suck'd up by burning Brands.

Mauro.
How bloody are these Converts in their Rage!
I'ad rather trust a hungry Lioness,
With all my Children, than a new-made Convert.

Achmet.
Curse on that Richard.

Saladine.
Curse him not,
He is a King; and in that awful Name,
Wherever nam'd, attendant Strength and Power
Call for the ready Debt of fairest Speech,
Of favourite Wishes, and the Tongue of Blessing.
Let Guilt that fears the Shadow of a Spy,
Curse Kings at Midnight when the Moon is sick;
Let damn'd Rebellion, hid in cavern'd Rocks,
Gnawing her fretful Form to Blisters, send
To roaring Seas her idle Imprecations.
Tho' he were more my Foe than Richard is,
I would not curse the Man I must admire.

SCENE III.

Enter Armida, the Warlike Maid; with Erminia, Sister to Achmet, and Mistress to Saladine.
Erminia.
Forgive me if I plead the Sex's Cause,
As willing to recover what we lost,
And by one Question all my Scruples ease;
How does thy Eye regard the Tyrant Man,
Has no one Form more exquisitely fram'd,
Call'd thee to gaze with Wonder or Delight?

Armida.
Just as on other Objects of my Sense,
The tallest Oak or Cedar of the Grove,
The well-turn'd Statue, or the breathing Paint.
But yet if any of the Sex I prize,
'Tis he who scatters Death the widest round,
And makes most Havock of his worthless Race.

Erminia.
These cruel Words convince a wounded Heart,
That Love has enter'd at the Gate of Scorn.

[Aside.
Armida.
Yet I would know—How was it with thy Heart,
When first it leant and listen'd to thy Lord?

Erminia.
O Saladine! the Day—Remembrance keep the Day,
In the full Height of painful Extacy!
That Day, when long sollicited to hear,
The thousand times unfinish'd Tale of Love.

Armida.
Why this Suspence! this Prologue to thy Fault?

Erminia.
Since 'tis ungrateful—

Armida.
No!—Heaven that it were!

[Aside.
Erminia.
Then, some God had dress'd him out for wonder then,
My King approach'd, but with such soft'ned Looks,
A Mind so full, so fearful of Offence,
That Cruelty now chid it self, and Pride,
Which keeps the outward Fences of the Heart
Like an o'er-watch'd Centinel, retiring, slept.
He touch'd my Hand, and Fire was in the Touch;
He look'd, and spoke, and Joy was in his Speech.
My Blushes rose and fell like doubtful Winds,
That toss the Bosom of a wanton Sea.
He saw Confusion, and pursu'd his Charge,
Till Fears, like routed Armies in their Flight,
Soon beat, resign'd to his victorious Love.

Armida.
The Conquest made, how felt the new-found Yoke?

Erminia.
Easy as silken Chains on captive Birds,
Who love to feed-from the beloved Hand,
And, hov'ring round the fair Bestower, sing
Their new Captivity in sweeter Tunes.

Armida.
Alas! it may be! yes! it must be so!
Happy Arminia!—

Erminia.
Not Armida too!

Armida.
'Tis not in Fate to call the Minutes back
That might have made me—What I must not be.
Severe Necessity! Mysterious Love!
At once a Prodigal and Bankrupt too.

Erminia.
How, how, Armida, I conjure thee tell—
For, ah! I see thy Blood return and go,
Like a sad Messenger, to ev'ry Part,
Threat'ning to speak, but starting at the Tale
Of its own Woe—Tell—by our Friendship tell—

Armida.
Think not this Garb of War is Nature's Choice,
Fate and Revenge have forc'd it on my Arms,
For, O! four Suns have run their annual Course
Since passing thro' the Woods of Palestine,
Attended slightly by a Maiden Guard,
A Troop of Robbers—They were Christians too,
I can no more—

Erminia.
They could not force thee sure!

Armida.
Their Captain—

Erminia.
Where slept the Thunder then,
Who hid the Light'ning in its secret Cave?
How were the Hands of Providence employ'd,
Painting new Goats and Rams arm'd in the Sky,
To shed the guilty, Influence here below,
And justify the Monsters of the Earth?

Armida.
Since then—I swore an Enmity to Man—

Erminia.
And here I swear it too, till Vengeance comes,
O Traytor!—Hide him not concealing Earth,
Ye Rocks and Caverns shut your stony Mouths
When he would enter, let no guilty Shade
Afford him Place of Rest, but Darkness fly
As frighted when he comes—Heavens! is it right
That other Beings shall, by Instinct, trace
The secret Robber, and revenge the Guilt;
While favourite Man,
With Wit and puzzling Reason for his Guide,
Sits down and weeps his Injuries unredress'd—
Not half so privileg'd as the Dogs he feeds.

Armida.
Yet more remains, the Vow I made is broke,
Man triumphs still, the Theft of Violence
Is follow'd by the willing Gift of Love.

Erminia.
Achmet, or Mauro, say—

Armida.
Both Objects of my Hate—
A stranger Prince has stole my Heart away,
Daily in Arms I seek the Life I love—
Have I not said too much?

Erminia.
Thy Queen secures—
The secret her's—Hast thou entrusted me
With Images of Darkness and Despair,
The tempting Themes of our loquacious Sex—
And wilt thou hide the friendly Beam of Light,
That helps me to conduct thee to thy Safety.

Armida.
The Scottish Prince—You saw him in her Court,
And who beheld him—But yet wish'd them there?

Erminia.
He seem'd indeed the Wonder of his Sex.

Armida.
O He is all Perfection! every Limb
Calls upon Nature to avow her Work;
Had Fortune cloath'd him in her dirty Weeds,
And drest him in the Habit of Disgrace,
His Air, his Action would have spoke the Prince,
But as he was—Methinks I see him now,
In mock of us to lead the sprightly Ball,
While Motion chides the ling'ring Instrument,
While Harmony pursues him as he bounds,
Steps, as he steps, and measures out the Dance.

Erminia.
Tho' I hold David as our mortal Foe,
Foe to our Country's Altars, and our Faith.
[OMITTED]