 | The Unhappy Kindness : or a Fruitless Revenge |  |
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
Enter Sorano and Evanthe.Sorano.
Thus to adore, and thus to be rewarded,
Still to desire, and still desire in vain;
Is there no end of all my Miseries,
And of your cruel and severe Disdain?
Evanthe.
Alass! My Lord.
Sor.
Can you have eyes to wound;
Yet want those eyes to see the wounds you make?
Why has Heav'n giv'n you Beauty to destroy,
And not a Heart to pity those you kill?
A long and tedious Service have I paid you;
Ev'n from your Childhood I have been your Slave,
Courted the earliest glories of your Youth
With the sincerest Love, before you was
To others known, by me you was ador'd.
Madam, I am—
Evan.
You are indeed my Lord
More than the nicest gratitude can speak you,
Here on my Knees to the great Gods I witness,
How much I love, how much I honour you,
My Father and my Friend, even then a Friend,
When Heav'n it self had left me, sever'd me
From the lov'd care of an indulgent Parent,
Torn from my Arms all that was precious to me,
All the dear blessings for which still I bow'd
In daily thanks before their sacred Altars.
Ev'n then, my Lord, your charitable hand
Stood betwixt me and their severest anger;
All this I own, and to the Gods dare speak it.
But yet, my honoured Lord—
Sor.
But yet Evanthe.
(Ungrateful I must call her) does reject
All the Endearments of an humble Love,
Contemns that hand that rais'd her thus to Life:
Rais'd her above the reach of Fortune, made her
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Evan.
Alas! my Lord, if a sincere Respect,
Equal to that with which a pious Child
Meets the kind blessings of a tender Parent,
Are Marks of a Contempt, then let Heav'n witness,
Let Heav'n and Earth witness against Evanthe:
A more unworthy Wretch did never taste
A good Man's bounty; this is all I have,
How am I able then to pay you more.
Sor.
Not more? Yes more than all the world can give,
More than the Gods themselves, should they vouchsafe
To crown Sorano with their choicest blessings.
How cunningly you would decline my Suit,
And knowing all, affect an Ignorance?
Are then these sighs and tears, these eyes, that speak
A passion far too great to be conceal'd;
No better known, no better understood?
Let me then on my Knees—
Evan.
Let me on mine
Entreat my Lord to pardon his Evanthe,
If she confesses she can never love:
Some secret power, too great to be withstood,
Has thrown a fatal Bar between our Hearts,
Parted our Souls never to meet in love.
Sor.
Be it so then, and by that power I swear
Never to court your scornful beauties more.
But know proud Maid there is a Man adores you,
Not all your artful Looks, your Womans Pride,
Nor the rough hand of fate itself, should that
Stand betwixt him and his desires, can soften.
The King, the haughty King, loves thee Evanthe,
Dotes on thee ev'n to Madness, and by Force
Will gather all those Virgin Sweets, which I,
With my best Services, could never merit.
Go and prepare you for the royal Sport,
Get to your Patches and your Paint, and try
By Art to please this mighty man of power.
Learn to look big, and strut it in the Court;
Y' have Pride enough, and there it will become you.
But when y' have done the business you was rais'd for,
When joys repeated dull the edge of Love,
And amorous heat, then to the Stews convey you,
There you may thrive, and there I hope to find you.
[Exit.
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The King! the King's the Rock that must destroy me;
Whose stubborn Will, blown by unbounded power,
Runs o're all Bars that check him in his Course.
O my Valerio hasten to my succor,
Let some kind power, the Witness of our Vows,
Inform thy Soul how much Evanthe wants thee.
The King! he shall be serv'd; but how? not this way.
Death is a ready Friend on all occasions,
If I can't live a Saint, I'll dye a Martyr.
[Exit.
Enter Q. Mother, Alphonso, Pisano, and Petruchio.
Alph.
Ha, ha, ha! Indeed, Madam, you must pardon me. I grant you
I can see every day a musty Churchman railing at Covetousness in one
Room, and his Wife gaming in the next; a merry Poet laughing at a dapper
Courtier, and a surly Officer grinning at him again; nay, a rich old
Alderman inviting the young fellow home to dinner this morning, that lay
with his Wife last night, and never be mov'd: but to see a great Man, nay
a Prince dancing to every Fidler—
Q. M.
Why, who ever did?
Alph.
Did you never? bless your good fortune then, for it would make
your Heart ake to see as much as I have.
Q. M.
Nay, gentle Son.
Alph.
Nay, gentle Mother, I know what you would say; you would
ask me what I want, and alas I want many things; 'twould puzzle a
Lawyers Arithmetick to reckon how many things I want. But in the first
place I want a Wife, for between you and me, Madam, what should such
tall overgrown fellows, like myself, live any longer without Wives? I know
you'll say they make Fools of us, why be it so, I have been my own Fool
long enough, 'tis time now I should be some ones else; for would one think
it, nay freinds you must bear me witness too, would one think it.
Q. M.
Think what, Son?
Alph.
Nay nothing, never think on't, my brains are almost turn'd with
thinking.
Q. M.
For which of all my sins have I deserv'd this Curse?
Alph.
What you weep now, and perhaps 'tis for my Father; and yet I
have seen some women, and they wise ones too, do as much for the loss of a
Lap-dog; but, Madam, tell me, did you ever see a Lawyer with a Fee in
both hands?
Q. M.
Belike I have.
Alph.
Why then you saw the Picture of Justice, you'll find his Breviate
pinn'd to his back.
Q. M.
Alas, my Son, these are disjointed Speeches,
The issue of a rackt distemper'd brain.
Alph.
That's as much as to say I am a Fool or a Madman: but go tell my
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not for Fools, what business would Knaves have in this world.
Q. M.
To see him thus, his Soul thus lost in darkness,
Is worse than death: ye Gods why did his youth
Disclose such early hopes of future greatness,
That blasted e're age cou'd secure 'em to us.
Why in the Man do we with sorrow miss,
What in the Child we did with joy admire?
Alph.
If the King would make me a Privy Councellor, as I may grow
great before I dye, I'de advise him to think more, and talk less, 'twill be
come his greatness, for now adays there is but this difference betwixt your
Wise man and your Fool, the Wise man laughs at other mens Jests, and the
Fool always at his own, like a Cat playing with her own Tail, and so tickles
himself with his own fingers.
Q. M.
Observe him Gentlemen, and whatsoever
A poor unhappy woman's Love can pay
You may rest well assur'd of.
Pis.
We thank your Grace, our best care shall attend him.
[Exit Q. M.
Alph.
So now I'm free, was ever Love and Pity
Unwelcome to a Wretch like me before?
Then when she follows, and pursues me most,
Then when she courts me with her tenderest love,
I shun her most.
A Mother's blessing is become my curse.
Pis.
My Lord your causeless fears create this trouble,
Whilst ev'n to her you dare not own your self,
Whom above all the world you ought to trust.
Disclose your self in time, and make the Queen
A happy Partner of the mighty secret.
Alph.
No, tho a Queen she is a woman still,
A tender Mother, and who knows, my Friend,
How far her womans weakness may betray her
Whilst my Head wants that Crown, to which she bore me,
And I live thus neglected and despis'd,
To her I must be mad Alphonso still.
But when my honourable friends we have finisht
The glorious task the Gods have laid out for us,
Then like her first born Son she shall behold me,
Confest a Monarch, and the Lord of power,
In whate're you command we shall obey.
Methinks I see this proud imperious Traitor,
This beast of Prey that ruines all about him,
Thrown by the hand of Fate from all his glories,
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Villain that in the midst of feign'd pretence,
And smooth expressions of fair Filial duty,
Whilst on his Knees he begg'd a Fathers blessing,
Dar'd do a deed wou'd damn one but to think on.
Pis.
Thus mischief ever wears the clearest brow,
And like deep waters appears calm and gentle.
Petr.
'Twas difficult to hide his practices;
Blood cries aloud, and had it once alarm'd
The Peoples Hearts, sure Frederick had wanted
That Crown which through such villanies he catch'd at.
Al.
The People? a dull senseless lump of Clay,
Rude and unform'd, fitted for any impression
The cunning Artist will impose upon it.
You know the Story (To Pisano)
how by subtil poison
He took my Brother's life, attempted mine,
But the infusion met with a resistance
Too strong to be o'repower'd: howe're he thought
I lost, what more than Life Men ought to value,
My Reason;
For by your Father's Counsel I put on
This outward form of madness, to secure me
From any second blow, the event answer'd
Our expectations, for being thus despis'd
I live below his fears.
Petr.
But sure my Lord,
The Sword of Justice, and Brandino's power,
Had been a safer, and far nobler refuge.
Why did you not inform your Royal Father,
Of that dire Plague, that Instrument of Hell,
Which at last fell on his devoted head?
Alp.
Alas we did, but we did all in vain.
For the curst Traitor, skill'd i'th'arts of Court,
Had so prevail'd, so won on his belief,
That 'twas as easie to perswade my Brother
To be what he was not, as make Brandino
Believe him what he was; besides my Father
Had nothing but the empty name of King,
The shadow left him; for my Brother knew
The Power lay lodg'd in bold Sorano's hands,
The curst complotter of his dark designs.
But no more, fate that by them thought fit to punish me,
By me at length, I hope, will punish them.
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My honour'd Lord, where e're You lead we'll follow
With an assurance that becomes our cause.
Alp.
Nay 'tis a glorious one, and may be worthy
The admiration of succeeding ages.
'Tis such a one those brave Old Roman Hero's,
Did they now live, wou'd gladly be embark't in.
Who is there living, that e're heard of honour,
Or own'd the motions of a generous Spirit,
Wou'd tamely lye under th'imperious hand
The proud disdain of an Usurping Tyrant.
Whip him ye Gods! aim all your Thunders at him!
Let furies haunt his Dreams, distrust and care
Hang on his thoughts, and poison all his pleasures.
Petr.
My Lord, old Pedro, who has plac't his Men
In the most secret corners of the City
Will'd me t'inform you that the time calls on us,
That all things now are ripe for Execution;
This morning he commands the Guard, by which means
The Gates will all be open to receive 'em.
Alph.
Then e're to Morrow's dawn my Brother sets,
For ever sets in a dread Cloud of Blood.
Naples once more shall raise her drooping head,
Whose rugged Vertues, hard'ned by Afflictions,
Shall be the wonder of this lower World,
And like old Rome give Laws to th'Universe.
Pis.
My honour'd Lord pardon your Loyal Slave,
Who with the foremost wishes to behold
That happy day, and never will know quiet
Till we are Masters of our great design;
Yet in my humblest duty I affirm
This day 'twill be impossible to effect 'em.
Alp.
Impossible! were he like Jove himself
Clos'd round with Thunder, and a guard of Gods,
Whose every look might awe the Universe,
Yet then it wou'd not be impossible:
What can be so to minds resolv'd like ours?
But do's he not lye open to destruction,
Do not his Friends, that live upon his smiles,
Rais'd by his favours from the lowest Earth,
Do not ev'n they both fear, and hate the Tyrant?
Nay like base Slaves wou'd help his ruine forward.
Is there a Sword in Naples will be Idle,
Will not strike home when the great Gods shall call,
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Pis.
My Lord, all this I grant, and more, but yet—
Alp.
But what?
Grant me but this, and what more can we ask for
The Gods are kind, we wanting to our selves;
Unstable unresolv'd; like heartless fools,
That still in expectation loose fruition.
I will not trust my fate to another hazard,
To be as great as fortune e're can make me.
At length we have got th'unruly beast at bay,
On ev'ry side hem'd in with sure destruction,
And shall we now forego our certain hopes,
Trust to the bounty of another hour,
When this has giv'n us more than we dar'd hope for?
Pis.
My Lord, You us'd to be more moderate.
Alp.
I'm moderate still, but Vengeance cries aloud.
Blood! Treason! Parricide! Who is there living
Can think of these, and keep his usual Temper?
Yet after all the labours of my Soul,
Th'Indignities I have with patience born,
To make revenge my own, which now seems ripe;
Waits on our Swords, and sues for Execution,
Thou goest about to blunt the edge of Justice,
And calmly criest it is impossible.
Pis.
My Lord, I hate this Tyrant more than you,
My Fathers Murder, Brothers Banishment,
My own disgrace, have sworn me to his ruine.
Yet when you have heard the reasons I shall urge,
Not to rebate or slacken your just Anger,
But to draw back your arm, that with a force
Greater and surer it may execute,
What Heav'n, and your resentments have determin'd.
You'l think your Servant has not judg'd amiss.
'Tis on this day th'Young Soldier brave Valerio,
Whose active Sword deserves a worthier Cause,
In warlike form makes his triumphant entry:
Alp.
Still, still the better; Can we chuse a day
Fitter for our design? but that I've known thee
Of an experienc'd faith, I shou'd mistrust thee.
Then when his Slaves in their repeated Io's,
Their loud applauses, raise him to the Skies,
And place another's Laurels on his brows,
Then, then to clip the Wings of this proud Falcon,
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Will be added to mount us up to Heav'n.
Pis.
But Heav'n is sooner scal'd than this perform'd,
I mean this way, for sure my honour'd Lord
Has not forgot the custom of his Naples;
On the return of her Victorious Sons,
Who have with foreign Nations fought her battles,
None are t'appear in Arms, the day of Triumph,
Throughout the City or the Court, but those
The General shall appoint; to show,
That he who fought so well abroad, deserves
To rule at home: Shall we then to trust our fortunes
To the success of such a rash attempt?
Suppose us arm'd, yet how can we prevail
'Gainst such a multitude that will oppose us?
Alp.
No matter, we are now by much too forward
To talk of going back, it will not be,
Surely fate interposes, and unravels
What our best care has been so long designing.
Must then my Soul be still lock'd up in Prison?
Furl'd up in darkness and the Womb of Night,
Ne're to walk forth again in her own Majesty?
Why have I reason and yet dare not use it?
A Soul for Empire born, yet live a Slave?
I'le do't my self: methinks I do behold
My Royal Father, and my murder'd Brother,
From yon' blue orb inciting me to action.
Now their pale Ghosts, all trembling full of horror,
Just as they fell, bloated with rankest poison,
In pitious action urge me to revenge:
Rest, rest in the cold beds of silent death,
'Till loud revenge shall raise you, to behold,
And wonder at my Justice, then in a peal of Thunder
Let conscious Heav'n applaud my ministring hand.
Pis.
My Lord, the day succeeding this o'th'Triumph,
It being that on which he first was Crown'd,
The Tyrant dedicates to ease, and pleasure,
What hinders but we then compleat his ruine?
The Gates lye open to receive all Strangers,
That come to grace his Pride, and praise his Fortunes.
Alp.
O my best Friend, had I the World to give,
It should be thine for such another thought:
To do it then, will look as if high Heaven
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And th'hand of fate had led us to his ruine.
Hast my Petruchio, tell old honest Pedro,
The Gods are met in Council to determine,
And bless our high resolves: the Circle of his Reign
Begins to be compleat; the Sun, that gave
His Empire birth, must light him to his Grave.
[Exeunt.
| The Unhappy Kindness : or a Fruitless Revenge | |