University of Virginia Library

Cal.
I shall, Sir.

Ex. King and C. Ma. Haly. Enter Mirvan.
Ha.
Mirvan, The King relents, and now there's left
No refuge but the last; he must be poysoned:
And suddenly, lest he survive his Father.

Mir.
But handsomly, lest it appear.

Ha.
Appear!
To whom? you know there's none about him
But such as I have plac't; and they shall say
'Twas discontent, or abstinence.

Mir.
But at the best
'Twill be suspected.

Ha.
Why though't be known,
We'll say he poysoned himself.

Mir.
But the curious will pry further
Than bare report, and the old King's suspitions
Have piercing eyes.

Ha.
But those nature
Will shortly close: you see his old disease
Grows strong upon him.

Mir.
But if he should recover?

Ha.
But I have cast his Nativity; he cannot, he must not.
I'th' mean time I have so besieg'd him,
So blockt up all the passages, and plac'd
So many Centinels and Guards upon him,
That no intelligence can be convey'd
But by my instruments. But this business will require
More heads and hands than ours: Go you to the prison,
And bring the Keeper privately to me,
To give him his instructions.

Ex. several ways. Enter Prince and Caliph.
Cal.
Sir, I am
Commanded by the King to visit you.

Prince.
What, to give a period to my life,
And to his fears? You're welcome; here's a throat,
A heart, or any other part, ready to let
In death, and receive his commands.

Ca.
My Lord,
I am no messenger, nor minister
Of death, 'tis not my function.

Prince.
I should know that voice.

Ca.
I am the Caliph, and am come to tell you, your Father
Is now return'd to himself: Nature has got
The victory o're passion, all his rigour
Is turn'd to grief and pity.

Prince.
Alas good man!
I pity him, and his infirmities;
His doubts, and fears, and accidents of age,
Which first provok'd his cruelty.

Ca.
He bid me tell you,
His love to yours should amply recompence
His cruelty to you: And I dare say 'tis real;
For all his thoughts, his pleasures, and delights,
Are fixt on Fatyma: when he is sad,
She comforts him; when sick, she's his Physitian,
And were it not for the delight he takes
In her, I think hee'd die with sorrow.

Prince.
But how, are his affections fixt so strangely
On her alone? sure 'tis not in his nature;
For then he had lov'd me, or hated her,
Because she came from me.

Ca.
'Tis her desert,
She's fair beyond comparison, and witty
Above her age; and bears a manly spirit
Above her sex.

Prince.
But may not I admire her?
Is that too great a happiness? pray let
Her make it her next suit to be permitted
To visit me her self.

Ca.
She shall, Sir: I joy to see your mind
So well compos'd; I fear'd I should have found
A tempest in your soul, and came to lay it.
I'le to the King; I know to him that news
Will be most acceptable.

Prince.
Pray do, and tell him
I have cast off all my passions, and am now
A man again; fit for society
And conversation.

Ca.
I will Sir.

Exit.
Prince.
I never knew my self till now; how on the sudden
I'me grown an excellent dissembler, to out-do
One at the first, that has practiz'd it all his life:
So now I am my self again, what is 't
I feel within? Me thinks some vast design
Now takes possession of my heart, and swells
My labouring thoughts above the common bounds
Of humane actions, something full of horror
My soul hath now decreed, my heart does beat,
As if 'twere forging thunder-bolts for Jove,
To strike the Tyrant dead: So now, I have it,
I have it, 'tis a gallant mischief,
Worthy my Father, or my Fathers Son.
All his delight's in Fatyma, poor innocent!
But not more innocent than I, and yet
My Father loves thee, and that's crime enough.
By this act, old Tyrant,
I shall be quit with thee: while I was virtuous,
I was a stranger to thy bloud, but now
Sure thou wilt love me for this horrid crime,
It is so like thy own. In this I'm sure,
Although in nothing else, I am thy Son:
But when 'tis done, I leave him yet that remedy
I take my self, Revenge; but I as well
Will rob him of his anger, as his joy,
And having sent her to the shades, I'le follow her.
But to return again, and dwell
In his dire thoughts, for there's the blacker hell.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Sir, your wife the Princess is come to visit you.

Prince.
Conduct her in; now to my disguise again.

Enter Princess.
Princess.
Is this my Lord the Prince?

Prince.
That's Erythæa, or some Angel voyc't
Like her. 'Tis she, my strugling soul would fain
Go out to meet and welcome her. Erythæa!
No answer but in sighs (dear Erythæa?)
Thou cam'st to comfort, to support my sufferings,
Not to oppress me with a greater weight,
To see that my Unhappiness
Involves thee too.

Princess.
My Lord, in all your triumphs and your glories,
You call'd me into all your joys, and gave me
An equal share, and in this depth of misery
Can I be unconcern'd? you needs must know,
You needs must hope I cannot; or which is worse,
You must suspect my love: for what is love
But sympathy? And this I make my happiness,
Since both cannot be happy,
That we can both be miserable.

Prince.
I prithee do not say thou lovest me;
For love, or finds out equals, or makes 'em so:
But I am so cast down, and fal'n so low,
I cannot rise to thee, and dare not wish
Thou should'st descend to me; but call it pity,
And I will own it then, that Kings may give
To beggars, and not lessen their own greatness.

Princess.
Till now I thought virtue had stood above
The reach of fortune; but if virtue be not,
Yet love's a greater Deity: whatever fortune
Can give or take, love wants not, or despises;
Or by his own omnipotence supplies:
Then like a God with joy beholds
The beauty of his own Creations.
Thus what we form and image to our fancies,
We really possess.

Prince.
But can thy imagination
Delude it self, to fix upon an object
So lost in miseries, so old in sorrows;
Paleness and death hang on my cheek, and darkness
Dwells in my eyes; more chang'd from what I was
In person than in fortune.

Princess.
Yet still the same to me: alas my Lord,
These outward beauties are but the props and scaffolds
On which we built our love, which now made perfect,
Stands without those supports: nor is my flame
So earthy as to need the dull material fuel
Of eyes, or lips, or cheeks, still to be kindled,
And blown by appetite, or else t'expire:
My fires are purer, and like those of Heaven,
Fed only, and contented with themselves,
Need nothing from without.

Prince.
But the disgrace that waites upon misfortune,
The meer reproach, the shame of being miserable,
Exposes men to scorn and base contempt,
Even from their nearest friends.

Princess.
Love is so far from scorning misery,
That he delights in 't, and is so kindly cruel,
Sometimes to wish it, that he may be alone;
Instead of all, of fortunes, honours, friends, which are
But meer diversions from loves proper object,
Which only is it self.

Prince.
Thou hast almost
Taught me to love my miseries, and forgive
All my misfortunes. I'le at least forget 'em;
We will revive those times, and in our memories
Preserve, and still keep fresh (like flowers in water)
Those happier days: when at our eyes our souls
Kindled their mutual fires, their equal beams
Shot and returned, till linkt, and twin'd in one,
They chain'd our hearts together.

Princess.
And was it just, that fortune should begin
Her tyranny, where we began our loves?
No, if it had, why was not I blind too?
I'm sure if weeping could have don't, I had been.

Prince.
Think not that I am blind, but think it night,
A season for our loves, and which to lovers
Ne're seems too long; and think of all our miseries,
But as some melancholy dream which has
Awak't us, to the renewing of our joys.

Princess.
My Lord, this is a temper
Worthy the old Philosophers.

Prince.
I but repeat that lesson
Which I have learnt from thee. All this morality
Thy love hath taught me.

Princess.
My Lord, you wrong your virtue,
T'ascribe the effect of that to any cause
Less noble than it self.

Prince.
And you your love,
To think it is less noble, or less powerful,
Than any the best virtue: and I fear thy love
Will wrong it self; so long a stay will make
The jealous King suspect we have been plotting:
How do the pledges of our former love;
Our Children?

Princess.
Both happy in their Grandsires love, especially
The pretty Fatyma; yet she
According to her apprehension feels
A sence of your misfortunes.

Prince.
But let her not too much express it,
Lest she provoke his fury.

Princess.
She only can allay it
When 'tis provok't; she
Plays with his rage, and gets above his anger;
As you have seen a little boat
To mount and dance upon the wave, that threatens
To overwhelm it.

Prince.
To threaten is to save, but his anger
Strikes us like thunder, where the blow out-flies
The loud report, and even prevents mens fears.

Princess.
But then like thunder
It rends a Cedar, or an Oak, or finds
Some strong resisting matter; women and children
Are not Subjects worthy a Princes anger.

Prince.
Whatsoever
Is worthy of their love is worth their anger.

Princess.
Love's a more natural motion; they are angry
As Princes, but love as men.

Prince.
Once more I beg,
Make not thy love thy danger.

Princess.
My Lord, I see with what unwillingness
You lay upon me this command, and through your fears
Discern your love, and therefore must obey you.

Exit.
Prince.
Farewell my dearest Erythæa.
There's a strange musick in her voice, the story
Of Orpheus, which appears so bold a fiction,
Was prophecy'd of thee; thy voyce has tam'd
The Tygers and the Lions of my soul.

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Sir, your daughter Fatyma.

Prince.
Conduct her in; how strangely am I tempted
With opportunity, which like a sudden gust
Hath swell'd my calmer thoughts into a tempest?
Accursed opportunity!
The Midwife and the Bawd to all our vices,
That work'st our thoughts into desires, desires
To resolutions; those being ripe, and quickned,
Thou giv'st 'em birth, and bring'st 'em forth to action.

Enter Fat. and Messenger.
Prince.
Leave us, O opportunity!
That when my dire and bloudy resolutions,
Like sick and froward children
Were rockt asleep by reason or religion,
Thou like a violent noise cam'st rushing in,
And mak'st 'em wake and start to new unquietness.
Come hither, pretty Fatyma,
Thy Grandsires darling, sit upon my knee:
He loves thee dearly.

Fat.
I, Father, for your sake.

Prince.
And for his sake
I shall requite it. O virtue, virtue,
Where art thou fled? thou wert my Reasons friend;
But that like a deposed Prince has yielded
His Scepter to his base usurping vassals;
And like a traytor to himself, takes pleasure
In serving them.

Fat.
But Father, I desir'd
Him that you might have liberty, and that
He would give you your eyes again.

Prince.
Pretty Innocence!
'Tis not i'th' art, nor power of man to do it.

Fat.
Must you never see again then, Father?

Prince.
No, not without a miracle.

Fat.
Why Father, I
Can see with one eye, pray take one of mine.

Prince.
I would her innocent prate could overcome me:
O what a conflict do I feel! how am I
Tost like a ship 'twixt two encountring tides!
Love that was banisht hence, would fain return
And force an entrance, but revenge
(That's now the Porter of my soul) is deaf,
Deaf as the Adder, and as full of poyson.
Mighty revenge! that single canst o'rethrow
All those joynt powers, which nature, vertue, honour,
Can raise against thee.

Fat.
What do you seek for, your handkerchief? pray use mine;
To drink the bloudy moisture from your eyes;
I'le shew 't my Grandfather, I know
'Twill make him weep. Why do you shake Father?
Just so my Grandsire trembled at the instant
Your sight was ta'ne away.

Prince.
And upon the like occasion.

Fat.
O Father, what means the naked knife?

Prince.
'Tis to requite thy Grandsires love. Prepare
To meet thy death.

Fat.
O, 'tis I, 'tis I,
Your daughter Fatyma!

Prince.
I therefore do it.

Fat.
Alas, was this the blessing my mother sent me to receive?

Prince.
Thy Mother! Erythæa! There's something
In that that shakes my resolution.
Poor Erythæa, how wretched shall I make thee,
To rob thee of a Husband and a Child?
But which is worse, that first I fool'd and won thee
To a belief that all was well; and yet
Shall I forbear a crime for love of thee,
And not for love of virtue? But what's virtue?
A meer imaginary sound, a thing
Of speculation; which to my dark soul,
Depriv'd of reason, is as indiscernable
As colours to my body, wanting sight.
Then being left to sense, I must be guided
By something that my sense grasps and takes hold of;
On then my love, and fear not to encounter
That Gyant, my revenge (alas poor Fatyma)
My Father loves thee, so do's Erythæa:
Whether shall I by justly plaguing
Him whom I hate, be more unjustly cruel
To her I love? Or being kind to her,
Be cruel to my self, and leave unsatisfied
My anger and revenge? but Love, thou art
The nobler passion, and to thee I sacrifice
All my ungentle thoughts. Fatyma forgive me,
And seal it with a kiss: What is 't I feel?
The spirit of revenge re-inforcing
New Arguments. Fly Fatyma,
Fly while thou may'st, nor tempt me to new mischief,
By giving means to act it; to this ill
My will leads not my power, but power my will.
Ex. Fat.
O what a tempest have I scap't, thanks to Heaven,
And Erythæa's love!
No: 'twas a poor, a low revenge, unworthy
My virtues, or my injuries, and
As now my fame, so then my infamy,
Would blot out his; And I in stead of his Empire,
Shall only be the heir of all his curses.
No: I'le be still my self, and carry with me
My innocence to th'other world, and leave
My fame to this: 'twill be a brave revenge
To raise my mind to a constancy, so high,
That may look down upon his threats, my patience
Shall mock his fury; nor shall he be so happy
To make me miserable: and my sufferings shall
Erect a prouder Trophy to my name,
Than all my prosperous actions: Every Pilot
Can steer the ship in calms, but he performs
The skilful part, can manage it in storms.