University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Enter Curtius and Posthumius.
Curtius.
There's something of Magnificence about us
I have not seen at Rome. But you can tell me.

[Gazes round.
Posthumius.
True: Hither sent on former Embassies,
I know this splendid Court of Macedon,
And haughty Philip, well.

Curtius.
His Pride presumes
To treat us here like Subjects, more than Romans,
More than Ambassadors, who, in our Bosoms,
Bear Peace and War, and throw him which we please,
As Jove his Storm, or Sunshine, on his Creatures.

Posthumius.
This Philip only, since Rome's Glory rose,
Preserves its Grandeur to the Name of King;
Like a bold Star, that shews its Fires by Day.
The Greek, who won the World, was sent before him,
As the grey Dawn before the Blaze of Noon;
Philip had ne'er been conquer'd, but by Rome;
And what can Fame say more of mortal Man?

Curtius.
I know his public Character.

Posthumius.
It pains me
To turn my Thought on his domestic State.
There Philip is no God; but pours his Heart,
In ceaseless Groans, o'er his contending Sons;
And pays the secret Tax of mighty Men
To their Mortality.

Curtius.
But whence the Strife,
Which thus afflicts him?

Posthumius.
From this Philip's Bed
Two Alexanders spring.

Curtius.
And but one World?
'Twill never do.

Posthumius.
They both are bright; but one
Benignly bright, as Stars to Mariners;
And one a Comet, with malignant Blaze,
Denouncing Ruin.

Curtius.
You mean Perseus.

Posthumius.
True.
The younger Son Demetrius, you well know,
Was bred at Rome, our Hostage from his Father.
Soon after, he was sent Ambassador,
When Philip fear'd the Thunder of our Arms.
Rome's Manners won him, and his Manners Rome;
Who granted Peace, declaring she forgave,
To his high Worth, the Conduct of his Father.
This gave him all the Hearts of Macedon;
Which, join'd to his high Patronage from Rome,
Inflames his jealous Brother.

Curtius.
Glows there not
A second Brand of Enmity?

Posthumius.
O yes;
The fair Erixene.

Curtius.
I've partly heard
Her smother'd Story.

Posthumius.
Smother'd by the King;
And wisely too: But thou shalt hear it all.
Not Seals of Adamant, not Mountains whelm'd
On guilty Secrets, can exclude the Day.
Long burnt a fixt hereditary Hate,
Between the Crowns of Macedon and Thrace;
The Sword by both too much indulg'd in Blood.
Philip, at length, prevail'd; he took, by Night,
The Town, and Palace, of his deadly Foe;
Rush'd thro' the Flames, which he had kindled round,
And slew him, bold in vain: Nor rested there;
But, with unkingly Cruelty, destroy'd
Two little Sons within their Mother's Arms;
Thus meaning to tread out those Sparks of War,
Which might one Day flame up to strong Revenge.
The Queen, thro' Grief, on her dead Sons expir'd.
One Child alone surviv'd: A female Infant,
Amid these Horrors, in the Cradle smil'd.

Curtius.
What of that Infant?

Posthumius.
Stung with sharp Remorse,
The Victor took, and gave her to his Queen.
The Child was bred, and honour'd, as her own;
She grew, she bloom'd; and now her Eyes repay
Her Brother's Wounds, on Philip's rival Sons.

Curtius.
Is then Erixene that Thracian Child?
How just the Gods! from out that ruin'd House
He took a Brand, to set his own on Fire.

Posthumius.
To give thee, Friend, the Whole in Miniature;
This is the Picture of great Philip's Court:
The proud, but melancholy King, on high,
Majestic sits, like Jove enthron'd in Darkness;
His Sons are as the Thunder in his Hand;
And the fair Thracian Princess is a Star,
That sparkles by, and gilds the solemn Scene.
[Shouts heard.
'Tis their great Day, supreme of all their Year,
The fam'd Lustration of their martial Powers;
Thence, for our Audience, chosen by the King.
If he provokes a War, his Empire shakes,
And all her lofty Glories nod to Ruin.

Curtius.
Who comes?

Posthumius.
O, that's the jealous elder Brother;
Irregular in Manners, as in Form.
Observe the Fire, high Birth, and Empire, kindle!

Curtius.
He holds his Conference with much Emotion.

Posthumius.
The Brothers both can talk, and, in their Turns,
Have borne away the Prize of Eloquence
At Athens. Shun his Walk: Our own Debate
Is now at hand. We'll seek his Lion Sire,
Who dares to frown on us, his Conquerors;
And carries so much Monarch on his Brow,
As if he'd fright us with the Wounds we gave him.

[Exeunt.
Enter Perseus and Pericles.
Perseus.
'Tis Empire! Empire! Empire! Let that Word
Make sacred all I do, or can attempt!
Had I been born a Slave, I should affect it:
My Nature's fiery, and, of course, aspires.
Who gives an Empire, by the Gift defeats
All End of Giving; and procures Contempt
Instead of Gratitude. An Empire lost,
Destroy'd, would less confound me, than resign'd.

Pericles.
But are you sure Demetrius will attempt?

Perseus.
Why does Rome court him? For his Virtues? No:
To fire him to Dominion: To blow up
A civil War; then to support him in it:
He gains the Name of King, and Rome the Power.

Pericles.
This is indeed the common Art of Rome.

Perseus.
That Source of Justice thro' the wond'ring World!
His Youth and Valour second Rome's Designs:
The first impels him to presumptuous Hope;
The last supports him in it. Then his Person!
Thy Hand, O Nature, has made bold with mine,
Yet more; what Words distil from his red Lip,
To gull the Multitude! and They make Kings.
Ten thousand Fools, Knaves, Cowards, lump'd together,
Become all-wise, all-righteous, and almighty.
Nor is this all: The foolish Thracian Maid
Prefers the Boy to me.

Pericles.
And does that pain you?

Perseus.
O Pericles, to Death. It is most true,
Thro' Hate to him, and not thro' Love for her,
I paid my first Addresses; but became
The Fool I feign'd: My Sighs are now sincere.
It smarts; it burns: O that 'twere Fiction still!
By Heaven, she seems more beauteous than Dominion!

Pericles.
Dominion, and the Princess, both are lost,
Unless you gain the King.

Perseus.
But how to gain him?
Old Men love Novelties; the last arriv'd
Still pleases best; the youngest steals their Smiles.

Pericles.
Dymas alone can work him to his Pleasure;
First in Esteem, and Keeper of his Heart.

Perseus.
To Dymas thou; and win him to thy Will.
In the mean time, I'll seek my double Rival;
Curb his Presumption, and erect myself,
In all the Dignity of Birth, before him.
Whate'er can stir the Blood, or sway the Mind,
Is now at stake; and double is the Loss,
When an Inferior bears away the Prize.

Pericles.
Your Brother, dress'd for the Solemnity.

Perseus.
To Dymas fly! gain him, and think on this:
A Prince indebted, is a Fortune made.

[Exit Pericles.
Enter Demetrius.
Demetrius.
How, Brother! unattir'd! Have you forgot
What Pomps are due to this illustrious Day?

Perseus.
I am no Gewgaw, for the Throng to gaze at:
Some are design'd by Nature but for Shew;
The Tinsel and the Feather of Mankind.

Demetrius.
Brother, of that no more; For Shame, gird on
Your glitt'ring Arms, and look like any Roman.

Perseus.
No, Brother; let the Romans look like me,
If they're ambitious.—But, I pr'ythee, stand;
Let me gaze on thee:—No inglorious Figure!
More Romano, as it ought to be.
But what is this that dazles my weak Sight?
There's Sunshine in thy Beaver.

Demetrius.
'Tis that Helmet
Which Alexander wore at Granicus.

Perseus.
When he subdu'd the World? Ha! is't not so?
What World hast thou subdu'd? O, yes; the Fair.
Think'st thou there could in Macedon be found
No Brow might suit that golden Blaze, but thine?

Demetrius.
I wore it but to grace this sacred Day:
Jar not for Trifles.

Perseus.
Nothing is a Trifle
That argues the Presumption of the Soul.

Demetrius.
'Tis they presume, who know not to deserve.

Perseus.
Or who, deserving, scorn superior Merit.

Demetrius.
Who combats with a Brother, wounds himself:
Wave private Wrath, and rush upon the Foes
Of Macedonia.

Perseus.
No; I would not wound
Demetrius' Friends.

Demetrius.
Demetrius' Friends!

Perseus.
The Romans.
You copy Hannibal, our great Ally:
Say, at what Altar was you sworn their Foe?
Peace-making Brother! Wherefore bring you Peace,
But to prevent my Glory from the Field?
The Peace you bring, was meant as War to me.

Demetrius.
Perseus, be bold when Danger's all your own:
War now, were War with Philip more than Rome.

Perseus.
Come, you love Peace; that fair Cheek hates a Scar.
You that admire the Romans, break the Bridge
With Cocles, or with Curtius leap the Gulph;
And league not with the Vices of our Foes.

Demetrius.
What Vices?

Perseus.
With their Women, and their Wits.
Your Idol Lælius, Lælius the polite.
I hear, Sir, you take Wing, and mount in Metre.
Terence has own'd your Aid, your Comrade Terence,
God-like Ambition! Terence there, the Slave!

Demetrius.
At Athens bred, and to the Arts a Foe?

Perseus.
At Athens bred, and borrow Arts from Rome?

Demetrius.
Brother, I've done: Let our Contention cease:
Our Mother shudders at it in her Grave.
And how has Philip mourn'd? a dreadful Foe,
And awful King; but, O, the tend'rest Parent
That ever wept in Fondness o'er a Child!

Perseus.
Why, ay; go tell your Father; fondly throw
Your Arms around him; stroke him to your Purpose,
As you are wont: I boast not so much Worth;
I am no Picture, by the doating Eye
To be survey'd, and hung about his Neck.
I fight his Battles; that's all I can do.
But if you boast a Piety sincere;
One way you may secure your Father's Peace;
And one alone—Resign Erixine.

Demetrius.
You flatter me, to think her in my Power.
We run our Fates together, you deserve,
And she can judge, proceed we then like Friends,
And he who gains her Heart, and gains it fairly;
Let him enjoy his gen'rous Rival's too.

Perseus.
Smooth-speaking, unsincere, insulting Boy!
Is then my Crown usurpt but half thy Crime?
Desist; or by the Gods that smile on Blood!
Not thy fine Form, nor yet thy boasted Peace,
Nor patronizing Rome, nor Philip's Tears,
Nor Alexander's Helmet; no, nor, more,
His radiant Form, should it alight in Thunder,
And spread its new Divinity between us,
Should save a Brother from a Brother's Fury.
[Exit Perseus.

Demetrius.
How's this? the Waves ne'er ran thus high before.
Resign thee! yes, Erixene, with Life!
Thou in whose Eye, so modest, and so bright,
Love ever wakes, and keeps a Vestal Fire,
Ne'er shall I wean my fond, fond Heart from thee.
But Perseus warns me to rouse all my Powers.
As yet I float in dark Uncertainty;
For tho' she smiles, I sound not her Designs:
I'll fly, fall, tremble, weep upon her Feet;
And learn (O all ye Gods!) my final Doom!
My Father! Ha! and on his Brow deep Thought,
And pale Concern! Kind Heav'n asswage his Sorrows,
Which strike a Damp thro' all my Flames of Love.

[Exit.
Enter King and Antigonus.
King.
Kings of their Envy cheat a foolish World:
Fate gives us all in Spite, that we alone
Might have the Pain of knowing all is nothing.
The seeming Means of Bliss but heighten Woe,
When impotent to make their Promise good:
Hence, Kings, at least, bid fairest to be wretched.

Antigonus.
True, Sir; 'tis empty, or tormenting, all.
The Days of Life are Sisters; all alike,
None just the same; which serves to fool us on
Thro' blasted Hopes, with Change of Fallacy:
While Joy is like To-morrow, still to come;
Nor ends the fruitless Chace but in the Grave.

King.
Ay, there, Antigonus, this Pain will cease,
Which meets me at the Banquet; haunts my Pillow;
Nor, by the Din of Arms, is frighted from me.
Conscience, what art thou? thou tremendous Power!
Who dost inhabit us without our Leave;
And art, within ourselves, another Self,
A Master Self, that loves to domineer,
And treat the Monarch frankly as the Slave.
How dost thou light a Torch to distant Deeds?
Make the Past, Present; and the Future, frown?
How, ever and anon, awake the Soul,
As with a Peal of Thunder, to strange Horrors,
In this long restless Dream, which Idiots hug,
Nay, wise Men flatter with the Name of Life?

Antigonus.
You think too much.

King.
I do not think at all:
The Gods impose, the Gods inflict, my Thoughts;
And paint my Dreams with Images of Dread.
Last Night, in Sleep, I saw the Thracian Queen,
And her two murder'd Sons. She frown'd upon me,
And pointed at their Wounds. How throbb'd my Heart?
How shook my Couch? and, when the Morning came,
The formidable Picture still subsisted,
And slowly vanish'd from my waking Eye.
I fear some heavy Vengeance hangs in Air,
And conscious Deities infuse these Thoughts,
To warn my Soul of her approaching Doom.
The Gods are rigid when they weigh such Deeds
As speak a ruthless Heart; they measure Blood
By Drops, and bate not one in the Repay.
Could Infants hurt me? 'Twas not like a King.

Antigonus.
My Lord, I do confess the Gods are with us;
Stand at our Side in ev'ry Act of Life;
And on our Pillow watch each secret Thought;
Nay, see it in its Embryo, yet unborn.
But their Wrath ceases on Remorse for Guilt;
And well I know your Sorrows touch your Sons;
Nor is it possible but Time must quench
Their flaming Spirits, in a Father's Tears.

King.
Vain Comfort! I this Moment overheard
My jarring Sons with Fury shake my Walls.
Ah! why my Curse from those, that ought to bless me?
The Queen of Thrace can answer that sad Question.
She had two Sons; but two: And so have I.
Misfortune stands with her Bow ever bent
Over the World; and he who wounds another,
Directs the Goddess by that Part he wounds,
Where to strike deep her Arrows in himself.

Antigonus.
I own, I think it time your Sons receive
A Father's awful Counsel; or, while here,
Now weary Nature calls for kind Repose,
Your Curtains will be shaken with their Broils;
And, when you die, Sons Blood may stain your Tomb.
But other Cares demand you now: The Romans.

King.
O Change of Pain! the Romans? Perish Rome!
Thrice happy they, who sleep in humble Life,
Beneath the Storm Ambition blows. 'Tis meet
The Great should have the Fame of Happiness,
The Consolation of a little Envy;
'Tis all their Pay, for those superior Cares,
Those Pangs of Heart, their Vassals ne'er can feel.
Where are these Strangers? First I'll hear their Tale;
Then talk in private with my Sons.

Antigonus.
But how
Intends my Lord to make his Peace with Rome?

King.
Rome calls me fiery: Let her find me so!

Antigonus.
O Sir, forbear! Too late you felt Rome's Power.

King.
Yes, and that Reason stings me more than ever;
To curse, and hate, and hazard all against her.

Antigonus.
Hate her too much to give her Battle now;
Nor to your Godlike Valour owe your Ruin.
Greece, Thessaly, Illyrium, Rome has seiz'd;
Your Treasures wasted, and your Phalanx thinn'd:
Should she proceed, and strike at Macedon,
What would be left of Empire?

King.
Philip: All.
I'll take my Throne. Send in these Foreigners.