University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

Enter Demetrius undisguis'd, and Amidea.
Amid.
Oh! Heaven, what's to be done! the Spies have sworn
They saw this Grimoald enter my Apartment:
My Sister's Agents too are searching narrowly
Thro' all the Lodgings.—Fie, my Lord Demetrius,
How could you entertain such slight Regard
For my true Friendship, to expose me thus?

Demet.
Call it not slight, adorable Divinity,
Nor a Presumption on those milder Graces,
That beautifie your Soul, and make ye heavenly;
But that, in my Distress, as to a Sanctuary,
I came for a Protection.—If then, gracious Lady,
My Habit be conceal'd, Grimoald is vanish'd,
And must deceive all Spies; if you are pleas'd
To think the worthless trifle of my Life
Fit subject for a Secret, and forgive me.

Amid.
I have taken Care that your Disguise be safe
From those that search; so much was due to Honour:
If I had said to Love, it might be verify'd.
[Aside.
But you, my Lord, grow dangerous in your Politicks,
And honest Friendship is scarce strong enough
To stop the Current of a Daughter's Duty,
From whence there might flow Safety to her Father.

Demet.
The Stream yet flows no farther than Suspicion:
Thus, Madam, you can break no Bond of Duty,
But in each Point are safe.

Amid.
Were the Case mine,
Heaven knows, I could forgive ye, had your Dagger
Been busy with the Inmate of my Breast,
And made the little Bustler cease its Motion;
Such small regard have I for the vain Follies
Of this round Ball we breathe on, and so trifling
Appear to me the State, the courted Pleasures
On which the World do's place its chief Contentment.
One thing, perhaps, worth living for, I value;
But that, like Mysteries of Heaven to the Vulgar,
Must be conceal'd,—unless a Blush reveal it.

[Aside.
Demet.
May that, and every other Blessing, crown
The beauteous Amidea.

Amid.
And tho' the sad Tale of Clorona's Death
Exact extremest Justice and Revenge,
Yet were it known that you are Grimoald,
So fear'd and noted; and that I am privy
To your close meeting of the Ellien Party,
Against the King's Consent, and dread Command,
What Ruin might not pour upon us both!

Demet.
I am school'd, fair Excellence, and will no more
Ingage you in my Fate.

Amid.
Perhaps 'tis Treason
You're plotting there, Treason against my Father?
Is't fit his Daughter, then, should be your Confident?
No, Prince, I charge ye, on your Life, no more:
Thus far, since I've been bred up in your Councils,
I'll keep the Secret; but if you relapse,
Honour and Duty put it past my Power.

Demet.
Your Clemency's too great, and I'm asham'd
Of this unmanner'd Trouble.

Amid.
No doubt, my Sister,
E'er this, has told the King the whole past Matter;
Believe then, 'tis a thing of Consequence
T'evade her Malice, you well know her Humour;
(Which has been late distasted with your Conduct)
So should be on your Guard.

Demet.
I am so, Madam;
And have a Turn of Wit too, ready at Hand,
To throw Grimoald's late Action from Demetrius.

Amid.
That has been worth your Study.—Hah! she's here.
Enter Gilmunda.
Stol'n in unknown too, pray Heaven she has not heard us.

Gilmun.
Alone, and in close Talk!—Nay then 'tis plain
There's Love betwixt 'em. Can then that purblind Wretch,
That Figure of a Man, that senseless Statue,
[Apart.
Prefer that awkward, dull, Religious Face,
With the pale Train of all her ghostly Features,
Stiffen'd by formal Zeal, even to Ugliness,
To my fresh Youth, and Flower of blooming Beauty;
Nourish'd with Empire's Sweets, and pleas'd with Power?
How I despise the Creature, and will turn
All Liking to Abhorrence!—What, are ye startled?
[To them.
Some Plot then must be forming.—Where's this Grimoald?
This rank Arch-traitor, that dares seek Protection,
Thus boldly, in your Highnesses Apartment?

Amid.
A Traitor seek Protection here! What mean ye?

Gilm.
Good ignorant Holiness, d'ye want the Meaning?
Sure that grave Head, that has so long been poring
On mouldy Authors, for Worm-eaten Morals,
With such false Gems, dressing the Hypocrite,
To pass on Ideots for Divinity,
Must know the Definition of a Phrase
So german to her Actions.—For 'tis sworn
The Traitor enter'd here.

Amid.
And freely might do so without my Knowledge.

Gilm.
Or has this close combining
Another sort of Plot, call'd an Intrigue;
In which this doughty Prince of airy Castles,
Exerts his Love, in hopes the Times will turn,
And Fate ordain your Saintship for a Queen?
Is this the subject of your Privacy?
Come, Sir, the Truth, what think ye of the Lady?

Demet.
Tho' this odd manner of Examination
With Reason, Madam, might excuse an Answer;
Yet since you've nam'd the Princess in particular,
And make Reflection on this Interview
Of such strange Nature, I will speak the Truth;
And tell ye I am sorry to see Beauty,
Like yours, ruffled with unbecoming Anger;
Which, in one meaner, might be counted Malice,
As to my Thoughts—They're, as they ought, of both:
The Princess is a Mint of Godlike Virtues,
Where new bright Graces every Day are coin'd,
To bless all those about her: And for you, Madam,
You can be what you please, there's enough in ye
To furnish out a compleat Excellence,
You are a Royal Virgin.

Gilm.
Royal Virgin!
Is that all?—By my Soul's best Joy, Ambition,
This is a rank Abuse—a pointed Satyr:
Instead of praising Female Rights of Conquest,
Of wounding Hearts, of charming to an Ecstasy,
And gaining Trophies by victorious Beauty,
He tells me, with sly Malice, I'm a Virgin:
Virgin!—the Title of a Village Milkmaid.

Amid.
Between the stormy Gulphs, Love and Ambition,
How her proud Soul is tortur'd!

Gilm.
Well, witty Sir, your Jest is understood:
But your satyrick Vein so please your Highness,
[Flourish within.
Or Majesty, for that I know you dream on,
Will be of use to entertain my Father,
Whom I hear coming, and divert this Grimoald
Out of his Mind; so speed ye both, you're sure of my Assistance.

Enter Aristander, Damocles, Cilon, and Guards.
Arist.
Can there be Truth in what I hear, of Traitors
Sheltring their infamous abandon'd Heads
Here in this Cell of vile Hypocrisy?
If I did think 'twere so, degenerate Brat;
But why not think? What else can be the Fruit
Of all this canting Zeal, these ghostly Groanings;
With the long Bedroll of Fanatick Cheats,
But Mischief, Treason, rank rebellious Villainy?
Furies and Fire, how else is this? From whence?
Where didst thou learn this wretched Trade of Bigotry?
I'm sure, not from thy Father.

Damo.
All your Actions
Pursuing Methods of Imperial Greatness
And Glory, still have prov'd your Soul too noble
For such low Traffick.

Arist.
Now, by my Crown and Dignity,
But that I will not question my Experience,
I should believe thy Mother plaid me false;
And that some bigot Priest fluster'd with Wine,
And gorg'd with the Reversions of the Temple,
Stol'n from some high luxurious Sacrifice,
Begot thee in the Crisis of his Rhapsody.

Amid.
Good Sir, I do beseech ye not to blame me,
Because my Actions, full of Innocence,
Tend towards Piety. Piety, Royal Sir,
Is the blest Guide of Duty, and however
Malicious Vice may wrong me of your Favour,
My Prayers are still devoted.

Arist.
D'ye hear?—Her Prayers!
A Girl of Fifteen's Prayers are much material;
Stuff, stuff, dissembling, nothing else, by Bacchus.
She that has that one Gift of strain'd Devotion,
Has twenty Mischiefs in her Head to vie with't:
By the bright Lustre of our Rosie God,
I think now 'tis affronting his Divinity,
To teaze him for more Blessings than are voluntary.
He, full of Indulgence, pressing the rich Grape
At Ease, and in good Humour, smiles upon us,
And doles his Blessings as he finds our Merit,
Without the plague of our Impertinence,
And why then must you pray?

Gilm.
'Tis Imposition
Upon his sacred Sense, and most ill Manners,
As if we would appoint his Hours of hearing,
And hop'd to flatter him into Compliance:
Besides, in Zealots 'tis all Affectation,
And, ten to one, the Fruits of rank Hypocrisy.

Arist.
Ah! my Darling,
Let me embrace thee, thou art my own, I'm sure,
[Embracing her.
And shall enjoy the Sweets of Empire with me.
But to the Point still, where's this Traytor Grimoald?
That Villain, who for fear his Coward Treason
Should be detected by our Bosom Damocles,
The Ruffian made one desperate Push and fled.

Demet.
If ever Patience wou'd be prov'd a Virtue,
Now let it shew its Force.

[Aside.
Cilon.
But what's most noted
So, please your Majesty, is that the Rebel
Shou'd be dog'd hither to her Highness's side:
There was a pretty Business.

Arist.
Nay, 'tis not much unlikely, he's some Retainer
Her Highness has in Pay.—Hah! is't so, Minion?
Give me to know, and let him be produc'd;
Or, by my Head, not all your windy Prayers,
No, nor your Priestesses, those holy Conjurers,
With all the Mysteries of their Incantation,
And subtlest Juggling, shall evade my Fury.

Amid.
I am all yours, Sir; and as my primitive Being
Proceeded from you, if you suspect my Duty
I'm ready to surrender.

[Weeps.
Arist.
Whining Hypocrite!
There's now another Sign of Female Mischief,
Those Tears, which would as plentifully fall
Were but her Lap-Dog sick.—Damn'd, damn'd dissembling,
Gods! from a weeping and a praying Woman,
You that have Power, defend me.

Gilm.
Your Majesty
Looks o'er the great Demetrius there, whose Knowledge
May give, perhaps, most Light into the Business,
Since he was there; [Apart.
Dull Fool, neglect my Favours!
I'll be reveng'd, tho' his Destruction follow.

[Aside.
Arist.
What—he! the grovelling Insect I have nourish'd
From Infancy by my indulgent Smiles; 'tis impossible
That he dares speak, or think, or look towards
The rebel Elliens, against my known Command,
Much less assist 'em; yet 'tis buzz'd, indeed,
That some of the Rabble own him for a Prince,
And talk of Lineage. Hah! young Sir, what say ye?
Is this authentick? speak, you Prince of Poppets,
What know you of this Traytor? on your Life the Truth.

Demet.
Sir, not thro' Fear, but from th'effect of Duty,
I do confess I saw a Stranger enter;
Who likewise seeing me, in a wild Hurry
Convey'd himself as quickly thro' a Window
Into the Garden, e'er I could have time
To apprehend him, or to know his Crime.

Arist.
A natural Slowness upon this occasion
Possest ye, Sir, I do not like th'Excuse;
Therefore I would advise ye use your Diligence,
Your utmost Care, to find this Grimoald,
This Bugbear of the Herd, within three Days,
Or else your Head pays Forfeit.—Your Head, great Prince,
By Bacchus, I have sworn it.

Demet.
Mighty King,
What lies within the reach of Human Power,
Or Wit t'effect, shall be employ'd to take him.
Be pleas'd, great Sir, to excuse Impossibilities.

Arist.
Impossibilities! nothing's impossible that I command,
I'll hear no more, my Word, like Fate, ne'er alters;
Your Head—or Grimoald's.

Demet.
Then the Gods assist me.
[Exit Demetrius.

Arist.
Let 'em, with all my Heart, and much good do ye.

Gilm.
So, there's a Virgin Favour for ye, Sir.

[Scornfully to Demetrius.
Arist.
You too;—get to your Closet, [To Amidea.
try if Canting
Can cure the Green Sickness.—Hence with that Face,
Pale as a Statue in an Abbey Chapel,
I'll have another Hour for you.

Amid.
Let me have Life
No longer than Obedience to my Father;
I'll to the sacred Priestesses of Bacchus,
And after solemn Sacrifice, invoke
The Deity to pardon all Offences,
And ever guard the King.
[Exit Amidea.

Arist.
Thou, my Gilmunda,
Joy of my Heart, and Pleasure of my Eyes,
That with the Rosie Graces of thy Look
Excell'st Aurora in her Morning Glory,
Go to thy lov'd Diversion, Masques and Musick;
Let thy pleas'd Fancy study for Delights,
And take my Purse and Power to procure 'em.
Cilon, go you and see if th'Order's executed,
The new Tax on the Elliens about Grain;
Strictly examine if it has been paid,
To Morrow I've another Game to play.

Cilon.
Your Majesty shall find my Diligence swifter than
Thought, and I assure ye very proud of the Honour.

Damo.
What other Game, if I may presume, Sir?

Arist.
Come hither, give me thy Ear.

[They whisper.
Gilm.
So much for injur'd Beauty: I think his Head's at Stake,
And nothing less can make me Satisfaction.
My pious Sister, too, is gone to exercise
Amongst the frantick Priestesses; poor Enthusiast,
I'm resolv'd I'll follow in Contempt,
And laugh at their mad Ceremonies.—What are the great
More than the vulgar, but in the variety
Of their Delights? Feast then, my Soul, in Luxury,
And taste the Pleasure of unbounded Will;
Since that vile Canker, Time, must spoil our Bloom,
And Joys insipid in the Days to come,
I'll take the present Moment whilst I may,
And make best use of ev'ry happy Day.

[Exit.
Damo.
Sir, I confess I cannot guess your Drift,
Have you then order'd this strange Proclamation?

Arist.
'Tis is done, and worded too as they desire.

Damo.
And great Pollidamus, you say, is sent.

Arist.
Sent from Ætolia with a Suit to me
This Morning, in the Name of all the banish'd.

Damo.
To grant safe Conduct for their Wives and Children.

Arist.
Their Effects too, this I have granted all,
And publish'd it at ev'ry Market Place.
Hah!—dost thou wonder?
No matter, e'er the Night's pale Goddess yonder,
Has 'twice adorn'd herself with borrow'd Brightness,
Got from her Brother's Magazine of Lustre,
There will some Changes happen—things be done,
Will make thee own thy Master's fruitful Brain
Was wise in doing this; nay, tho' consenting
To give this Liberty to their Wives and Families,
May add to a rebellious Conspiracy,
I hear are gathering yonder,—Yet I have don't.

Dam.
Prosper ye, Sir, you'll give me leave to scratch,
Bite my Nails, pore, or so, I cannot solve the Riddle.

Re-enter Cilon.
Cilon.

Sir, your Majesty's Commands are executed, and I
think usher'd by a new Comet; a Comet, and please ye, for
here's something without, appears as rare at Court.

Arist.

What Comet mean'st thou?

Cilon.

Oh, a very wonderful one, Sir! to be plain then,
Lord Pollidamus, Friend to the old Governour Timoleon,
begs an Audience of your Majesty—He, he, he, he.

[Laughs ridiculously.
Arist.

Admit him—He is welcome.

Cilon.

The Devil he is! [Aside]
My Ear sure is defective;
What, I beseech ye, Sir?

Arist.

I tell thee he is welcome, bring him to me.

Cilon.

The world turns round, but I am no Astrologer.

[Exit. Cilon.

Dam.

Nor I, 'tis not a Courtier's Business; but go, prithee
let's see this Meteor.

Arist.
Two of the greatest Gifts that Fate bestow'd,
When first the human Soul was bless'd with Reason,
Were Truth and Subtlety, who tho' of different kinds,
Are jointly seated in the Heart of Man;
Where each by turns mov'd by the Wheels of Knowledge,
Perform their natural Offices—One of these
Must now be manag'd,—Put a clowdy Look on,
[To Damocles.
And seem as if ye were sad—Furrow your Brow,
As if soft Conscience, curbing stubborn Nature,
Made ye uneasie; I've a reason for't.

[Damocles stands apart as Melancholly.
Enter Pollidamus with Cilon.
Pollid.
Health to your Majesty.

Arist.
Welcome Pollidamus—I have given Orders
About the late Request of those are banish'd,
To have a Passport for their Wives and Children;
'Tis granted Lord, and that they may not find
I am the Bugbear, counted by the Rabble,
I've ratified the Grant by Proclamation,
For them, and their Effects—A free, safe Passage
On the King's Word.

Pollid.
Upon my Knees, I thank ye, Sir.

Arist.
Oh, good Pollidamus, no Ceremony!
Wise, honest Lord, why thou hast been a Stranger
Of late, at Court, unlucky Misconstructions
Have quite unhing'd us all, some Faults have been too,
I must confess; well, Friend, they must be mended,
We are all faulty.

Pollid.
'Tis common to human Nature, Sir,
And with a Joy—unwonted to my Heart;
I must declare, I feel strange Satisfaction,
To see your Majesty so well dispos'd:
The Crowd would not believe this, as you say, Sir.

Arist.
Oh, no, with them, I know I am a Monster!
With far more Horns and Heads, than e'er the Hydra;
But let your Wisdom judge.

[Embracing him.
Pollid.
Sir, for your Presence,
You may be term'd Divine; I hope all answers,
In Mind, as well as Body.

Dam.
This is no Court,
This is no School of Complements; 'dsdeath, I'm gravel'd still,
I thought the King had hated this old Fellow.

[Aside.
Arist.
Methinks, I wish too, th'Father of the War,
The great Timoleon better grafted to me,
But some odd Matters—

Pollid.
Oh, his Daughters Wrong's, great Sir!
Can never be so soon forgotten,
To make that easy.

Arist.
I have thought upon't, Pollidamus,
Who has already had strict Reprehension
For the rash Deed, tho' 'twas his Loyalty;
But Loyalty, my Lord, should still own Reason,
Else Loyalty were Madness:—Pray look on him,
By deadly Melancholly still possest;
He ever since has droop'd his lowring Brow,
Drawn into Wrinkles by his lashing Conscience,
Shew the true Lines of Sorrow.

Dam.
I shall run mad,—I cannot bear this.

[Aside.
Arist.
He had never regain'd my Favour,
Had he not shewn the Signs of true Repentance.

Dam.
Confusion!—The King's dissecting me!
Must I stand mute too?—And please your Majesty!

[Offers to speak.
Arist.
My Lord, my Lord, there needs no more Confession,
Be sorry, and be silent, I won't hear ye speak.

Dam.
Cunning, by Heaven I find it now,—Oh, Fool!
To hit the Mark no sooner.

[Aside.
Arist.
Without doubt, Pollidamus,
Th'old Governour has been stirring up his Friends;
Hah, is't not so?—Come, prithee speak, good Lord,
Be so plain with me, to relate the Truth;
Why thou may'st be a means to cause a Parly,
To explain Grievances, and make us Friends;
Say then, what Force?

Dam.
Rare, rare, most artificial!

[Aside.
Pollid.
Some Troops, 'tis said, indeed there are in Embrio,
But none so dangerous.

Arist.
Yes, I shall be besieg'd,—I've had a Dream on't.

Pollid.
Oh, no, I hope not, Sir!
If you are pleas'd to hold this gracious Temper,
Reflecting on past Errors—with my old Faith;
I beg leave to be free, Sir, this your kind Passport,
Will so oblige the Ladies, that their Interest
Will be like Balsam to the fest'ring Wounds
Of the griev'd Elliens.—Then, Sir, your late Taxation,
A little mitigated.

Arist.
Oh, the Tax on Grain!
Of half in half; well, well, it shall be moderated;
They shall be full of Bread, and full of Mirth,
And we'll be Friends again; by this time the Edict
Is out to their Desire, and tell old Lyon-heart,
Timoleon, that the Grant's the Speedier,
In Complement to the fam'd Grecian Heroine,
His wise and virtuous Lady; so, Pollidamus,
Good honest Lord, farewel.

Pollid.
Heavens bless your Majesty!
[Exit. Pollidamus.

Arist.
In good time; so much for the Politician:
Now to my self again.—Well, hast thou fathom'd?
Thy Eye seem'd to dart through me, as if wond'ring
At what I spoke; hast thou yet found the Meaning?

Dam.
I must confess, Sir, not of every Circumstance;
Tho' I knew Fallacy was the main End.

Arist.
Hast thou found that,—when first I favour'd thee,
'Twas for thy Heart, my Damocles, not thy Head-piece;
Thou art a forward, bold, quick, willing Fellow,
To execute thy Master's Will, that's something;
And then performing it without examining
The Right, the Wrong, the Virtue, the Vice on't,
Is admirable Service; a rare Quality!
Fit for a Prince's Favourite,—Give me thy Hand.
Know then, that whilst my Tongue carress'd this Rebel,
With politick King-craft guilding o'er my Medicine,
The Poison was most fatal underneath.

Dam.
But, Sir, this Passport to conduct the Ladies;
Must it not greatly add to raise new Forces,
And bring 'em to a Head?

Arist.
When they're there:
But when is that to be?—Oh, dull, dull Damocles!
Can'st thou believe I meant 'em what I promis'd?
No, Fool, as soon as e'er themselves and Carriages,
For they have leave for all,—Jewels and Treasure,
Plate, and what would have been stow'd up in Holes,
Cellers and Ovens, had I try'd to find it,
Shall be upon the March; then shall my Guards—

Dam.
Seize on 'em all, and make a glorious Plunder;
Oh, most divinely plotted!

Arist.
Ay, now thou hast it;
Gold never fails to prune a Courtier's Wit,
And form him for the Mischiefs of its Nature.

Dam.
Let me adore ye, Sir, as you are greater
Than all in Power, so are ye too in Politicks.

Arist.
They'll have a glittering Shew, I make no doubt;
And I'll command that no Degree nor Age
Shall be distinguished, but all seiz'd and rifled;
Which done, the Women shall be sent to Prison,
To ponder there at Leisure.

Dam.
Ha, ha, ha, ha.
The Matron too, St haughty Belizaria,
Will now have time to curse her Insolence,
In late refusing of your offer'd Grace;
There, let her chew upon her boasted Honour,
Or try if stubborn Virtue will prevail:
Virtue that wretched thing, fit for a Goal;
This sure will low'r her Pride.—Oh, I'm transported
At the mere though on't!

Arist.
I'll give Orders instantly;
I'll make her sue to be receiv'd, and wait too,
Till I'm at Leisure.

Dam.
'Twill be double Joy,
To make the proud imperious Beauty know,
'Tis Obligation,—when you condescend.

Arist.
Why are we here confirm'd Gods of the Earth,
Unless our Wills have a commanding Right,
To rule the subject Creature? Let dull Monarchs,
Of frozen Climes, dispense with the Prerogative
Kings should enjoy. I'll shew no such Example,
But live Supreme—He that do's otherwise,
And the bright Circle, on base Terms receive,
Is King at Will, and governs but by Leave;
And, as the modern Satyrist denotes him,
A marbled Cæsar pinnion'd to a Throne,
The People regnant, and the Monarch Stone.

[Exeunt.