University of Virginia Library

Enter Ursaces, Eugenia and Pisanio, Clar. Lelia.
Pisan.

Hell now has done its worst; the meagre Furies have open'd
all their Viols of black Malice, and shed the utmost drop—
Is't possible! What Commission from the King to seize and
banish my dearest Friend! Who would be good or vertuous
if this be the reward! Can it be true?—What banish'd!

Eugen.

Oh killing Sound! The greatest pang of death is easie to this Torment.

Ursa.
'Tis my Fortune.
But Oh ye immortal Powers! what is my sin,
To merit this thy worst of punishments?

Eugen.
If it be sin to love, we are past mercy,
For never hearts were swell'd with that true passion,
As was Ursaces and Eugenia's.

Pisan.
Hell swallow thee quick that causest this Separation:
Thou hast the old man's Curse; I hope 'twill speed thee:
To weep is but in vain.

Ursa.
My Queen, my Mistress,
Stop these warm bubling Springs that melt my heart;
Those Currents dearer than the Wealth of Ganges,
Now flowing down the Rosie Fields of Beauty;
And listen to my Vow: I will continue
The truest Husband that ere plighted faith:
My Residence in Gallia at Beaupre's;
My Father's Friend: Thither write my Soul,
And I will feed upon each Character,
And wear the Paper out with eager Kisses.

Eugen.
So will I yours, with keeping in my bosom,
Here near my heart—O the sad thought of parting!

Ursa.
It must be so.

Eugen.
Nay stay a little longer:
Were you but riding out to take the Air,
Such parting were too slight—See here my Love,
This Diamond was my Mothers—wear it for me,
And keep it till you wooe another Wife,
When poor Eugenia's dead.

Ursa.
Another Wife!
Why my best Life; Oh why that cruel word!
Another Wife! No, you supream Directors
Give me my own; let me enjoy but this,
And freeze up my Embraces of a next
With Death's cold Icicle.
Remain thou here while Sence can keep it on;
And Sweetest Dearest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss, so in our Trifles
I still win of you—for my sake wear this Bracelet:
It has a Charm 'gainst Levity and Jealousie;
'Twill keep me in your mind.

Eugen.
It shall grow to me, and from my Arm
Never shall be separated—Ha, my Father!
When my Ursaces shall we meet again?

Ursa.
When? Heaven can tell.

Enter Cymbeline, Queen and Train.
Cym.
Still dar'st thou with thy baseness wound my eyes:
Mechanick Wretch, lost both in birth and merit,
Can thy plum'd Insolence dare to soar so high,
As to contemn my Orders?

Ursa.
Royal Sir,
Grace but my Story with a minutes audience.

Cym.
Ha! Wouldst thou speak?
And shall I patient hear my own dishonour,
Having yet bleeding Wounds new prob'd—What listen
To my Daughters Infamy? and shall a Vassal,
The Creature of my Charity, insolently dare
To stamp his plebeian Image on my Coyn,
Yet live untortur'd?—Oh ye Powers have patience!

Queen.
Mercy, Sir, adds lustre to a Crown;
'Tis lost on stubborn minds.

Cym.
Hence from my sight:
If after the next dawn within my Kingdom,
Appears so vile a Creature as Ursaces,
That moment is thy last of Life—Away
Thou poyson to my Bloud.

Ursa.
Heaven keep your Majesty,
And may your years and joys numerous as sands,
Crowd happily upon you.
So poor Offenders trembling meet their doom,
Punish'd by death, yet fear a worse to come.

[Exit.
Eugen.
So breaks the dear strings of the panting heart,
When the lov'd life flyes from it—Oh—

Clarin.
Was ever Scythian Cruelty like this,
Or long Divorce so bitter?

Cymb.
Was ever King so wretched in his Off-spring,
Or ever careful Father curs'd as I?

Queen.
Are you not mighty? Shall the lofty Oak
Stoop to the Shrub beneath it? No, rather root it up.
O that my Spirit lodg'd within your Bosom,
I would not counsel but command Obedience!

Eugen.
Madam, I must believe you are my Step-mother,
Better known to me by that title than your Love.

Cymb.
She is your Queen, whose Son you might have married,
Had wisdom guided thy unskilful youth:
Design'd to make thee happy.

Eugen.
Happy?

Queen.
Nay let her use her pleasure:
A Jewel of true worth, exceeding lustre,
Sure need not court the wearer; nor shall my Son
By humble flattery sooth her pride and vainness:
If as her Equal she think fit to treat him,
My voice is his—but I'le have no Submissions.
But I shall court occasion to consider
This sly contempt—You shall know who I am.

Eugen.
I do too well.

Cymb.
Thou too well know'st thy shame, but from this moment
I charge thee on thy life not shed a Tear,
Nor breath a Sigh—But entertain the Prince
As he deserves, with the best face of Smiles:
Bury in black oblivion that low Fellow,
That exil'd Wretch Ursaces, forget for ever,
Or by the Gods of Britain, by my Crown,
And my Queens Love,
I'le cast thee out a stranger to my Bloud,
And ne're remember that thou wert my Daughter.

[Exeunt K. Q. G.
Clarin.
There yet is comfort, could you calm this Passion:
Your Father may relent, your Lord return,
And you again be blest, a happy Princess.

Eugen.
A Princess? O vain Title, and thou ingrate
To mock my bitter Woes with Quality,
The curs'd cause of my Grief—Ah wou'd I were
Some Shepherd's Daughter, and my dear Ursaces
The Darling of some neighb'ring Villager!
That through the flowery Meadows sent him daily,
His Scrip well fill'd with store of Rustick Viands,
To treat me under some old shady Oak,
The Monarch of the Grove: Then then should I be happy;
There wou'd we look and smile, and talk and sing,
And tell a hundred, hundred pretty Tales,
Vow lasting passions all the live-long day,
And sigh, and kiss the happy hours away.

Enter Pisanio.
Clarin.
Here comes my Father.

Eugen.
May all thy years, thou Parent of my Life,
Be long and happy, as thou bring'st me comfort.
How did my Lord support this Separation?

Pisan.
Like your Lord,
I kiss'd his hand aboard, saw the hois'd Sails,
Stood on the shore, and view'd the rowling waves,
Then smooth as Youth, and mild as modest Vertue,
Courting his presence—all the gentle winds
Were lodg'd in remote corners, softly breezing,
To waft that Treasure safely to the Port,
On which your Life depends.

Eugen.
My Life indeed—But good old Sir,
Tell me (for there's a Theam of Truth lodg'd in that Face)
What was the last kind word he spoke of me?

Pisan.
His Queen, his Wife, and then remov'd from shore.
Just as I left him,
I saw him clasp his hands, and kiss your Ring.

Eugen.
Sensless Jewel, happier far than I!
But could'st thou leave him so?—had I been there,
I would ha'broke my Eye-strings, crack'd 'um,
And look'd after him till the diminution of space
Had pointed him, sharp as my Needle;
And when the envious distance barr'd my sight
Of that bless'd Object, turn'd my eyes and wept.

Pisan.
I could not stop that Tribute more than you,
What War could never force, mild Pity drew.

Eugen.
I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say, ere I cou'd tell him
How I would think of him at certain hours
Such thoughts, and such—ere I could make him swear,
The Gallian Beauties never should betray
My Interest, or his Honour, or have charg'd him
At the sixth hour of Morn, or Noon, or Midnight,
To bless me with his Greeting: Or ere I could
Give him a parting Kiss, which I had set
Between two charming words, comes in my Father,
And like the stubborn blast o'th' stormy North,
Nipp'd all my Buds from blowing.

Enter Lelia.
Lelia.
Madam, Prince Cloten's coming.

Eugen.
I'le fly him as the Plague: My Lord, your Servant;
Alas, how poor a thing's a Fool of Quality!

[Exit.
Pisan.
Had Nature stamp'd all Women in this mould,
Our Sex had all been damn'd, attractive Love and Beauty
Had lull'd us to the Devil; we shou'd have doted so,
Self-murder must have followed,
And shown th'effect of too much Love and Jealousie.
But they are not all like this—This is a Creature
So good, I almost wonder that she lives:
Her Lord's a brave young man too, and when I prove
False to his merit, may I then be wretched.

Enter Cloten, Jachimo, Attendants.
Cloten.
But to have six to four for 200 Guinies,
And lose, is damn'd luck, tho' by your favour, for a man
Of my quality, ha Jachimo! honest drunken Lord, is't not?

Jach.
'Twas indifferently hellish—the Devil had a paw in't,
That's certain.
But stay, how now, who's that?

Cloten.

'Ud so, 'tis my Lord Pisanio, and I'le lay a Wager sent Messenger to
me from the Princess Eugenia.

Well, my Mother's a plaguy cunning Woman:

I, see she will make her marry me in spite of her. How now my Lord Pisanio,
what News with you, umph?

My Lord Jachimo, prithee be wise now, and look soberly a little.

Jach.

Never fear me man, I am sober as a Judge.

Cloten.

And how does the Princess old Lord—ha—does she come about,
does she relent, does she yet know the difference between Lord Cloten, and
that mechanick banish'd Worm Ursaces?

Pisan.

A Worm, my Lord?

Cloten.

A Worm, my Lord, ay a Maggot, if compar'd to me; hang him,
indigent Rascal, were there no other Reason, I hate him for his Poverty, for
he's not worth a Groat, as poor as Jehu.

Jach.

Jehu? Job, Job, my Lord, 'twas Job was the poor Rat.

Cloten.

I say 'twas Jehu: Prithee Jachimo be silent, a Pox I wonder you
will pretend to talk when you see you are drunk.

Jach.

Mum, mum—I've done: But, my Lord, prithee ask him if he knows
where we may find a sound Wench; he's a flauging old Whipster, I warrant
him.

Pisan.

The disease of Folly may be infectious, I'le be gone.

Cloten.

Hark you my Lord, why in such hast—have you no message from
the Princess?—umph—

Pisan.

The Princess? Not I, my Lord.

Cloten.

Not you, my Lord? and why so—may never look sow'r for the matter,
Gad if you do, I'le be reveng'd, I'le tell you that the Queen shall know
it; I'le not be affronted, not I, by ne're a State-Caterpillar in Britain; Gad
any one that frowns at me is the Son of a Whore, and my Mother shall get
him poyson'd.

Pisan.

My Lord, I know nothing of your Affair; I beseech you make not
my Age the Subject of your Anger; I am not fit to be privy in Love-matters;
the Princess may be fond, dote, languish, nay die for you, but for my part I am
ignorant.

Cloten.

O may she so, Sir—dost hear that, Jachimo?

Jach.

Oons, Pull off his Beard, confound his Whiskers; what does he
prate?

Cloten.

I thought she could not hold out long: Come Jachimo, thou and I
will go and prepare a Serenade for her.

Jach.
Let's put old Drybones there upon a wooden Dromedary,
Carry him before her Window, and make him sing her a Song.

Cloten.

Ha, ha, he! 'twould be rare sport faith; but hang him, we won't
do him that honour: Come, come away.

[Exeunt singing.
Pisan.
That such a subtle Devil as his Mother
Should bring the World this Ass—this Ape of Mankind;
A Woman too that puts down all with Brain,
And over-reaching Plots, yet this great Fool her Son
Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,
And leave eighteen—Alas poor Eugenia, how I pity thee!
Now I'le to the King;
If I can, I'le serve thee; if not, wish thee well.

[Exit.
Enter Queen Aurelia, and Ladies.
Queen.
There goes Ursaces Parasite, that old Fellow
Does me, my Son, and great Design, more mischief,
Than any now at Court. Well, what's to be done then?
When a Tree stands to hinder a good Prospect,
The only way's to fell it—he shall down,
His Fate is cast—Aurelia.

Aurel.
Your Majesty.

Queen.
Is the Doctor come yet?

Aurel.
Not yet Madam, but expected every moment.

Queen.
That Instrument of Fate I've brib'd to serve me;
He has strange poys'nous Drugs, whose mortal Quality
Hold deadly enmity with humane Life.
This being mine, I'le try the first effects
Upon this Lord, this Bar of my Ambition,
This foe to my Son's Greatness—where's Eugenia?

Aurel.
The Princess, Madam?

Queen.
Could you not answer me without that Title?
The Princess? you'l call her Queen ere long.

Aurel.
Your Majesties Pardon; I know more of duty.

Queen.
Has she been seen to day?

Aurel.
Nor yesterday, Madam.
The twilight Bat that hates the meridian Sun,
Keeps not so close, her Window's are dam'd up,
And not a Creature suffer'd to come near her,
But her new Favourite Clarinna.

Queen.
Pisanio's Daughter?

Aurel.
Yes, Madam.

Queen.
Send one to tell him I wou'd speak with him.
Exit Aur.
They're plotting hourly, therefore 'tis fit Vengeance
Should be swift; for by Pisanio's death,
My Son mounts one step higher towards the Throne.
The King is old, too old to share my heart,
And if he dies, Eugenia then is Queen:
But Queen of Shades she shall be ere that happen,
If she refuse the Marriage with my Son—
Vertue avant, thou Dream, thou airy Phantasm;
Had I been lowly born, I might have been
Thy Votary—but 'tis below a Queen.
Ambition's Vertue now, therefore be gone:
Cloten, For thee I'le cut through all Opposers,
King, Husband, Daughter, Friend, I'le stop at none,
But on their bloudy Ruines build thy Throne.—

[Exeunt.