University of Virginia Library

Act I.

Scene I.

A Seraglio.
Artemira and Rosolin.
Art.
Oh Rosolin, thou art a subtle Charmer,
To treat thy Princess with the sacred Glories
Of her Victorious Altomar. His Praise
Is so sublime a Theme, that sure 'twas such a Subject
That once inspired the ancient Theban Lyre,
When even th'inanimate Woods and Rocks
Felt the inchanting Sounds, and borrowed Ears
T'attend the powerful Song.

Amir.
Madam, Alas!
To sing his Praise is but that humble Tribute
Which the united World should pay; and when
His mighty Triumphs speak so loud, as crack
The very Voice of Fame: can I do less
Than make a part in th'Universal Quire?

Art.
Ah Rosolin, thou paint'st but half his Conquests.
'Tis not enough that in his floating Walls
He rides triumphant Lord, o'th' Wat'ry Main;
But after all this gallant God-like Man
Returns a Conqueror, returns to these
Kind Arms, his dearest Artemira's Arms.
Where am I going? I shall talk my Sence away;
Love wraps me up so high, my soaring Soul
Grows giddy with the Airy Maze it treads.

Enter Mirvan.
Mirv.
Madam, Lord Meroin desires admittance.

Art.
What brings him here?—Go tell him I am private.
That hated Sight's enough to damp my Joys.
What is his Business?

Mirv.
Madam, the Success
Of your Illustrious Father's Conquering Arms,
Has brought him big with Wonder to repeat
The pleasing Miracle.

Art.
Admit him.
[Exit Mirvan.
I know the Villain hates my Altomar
And me; but my dear Altomar's Applause
Has Musick in the Sound, tho' set by Hell,
And sung by Envy.

Enter Meroin.
Mer.
Madam, when the Gods
Design'd such Beauty for a Kingdoms Heir,
In Justice to your infinite Deserts,
They strow your way with Trophies to a Crown:
Your Royal Father to enlarge his Throne,
Fit for so bright a Form to fill, has Heav'n
His Friend, and Fate his Vassal; builds his Glory
High as the Stars, and makes the binding Cement
Of this vast Pile his vanquisht Enemies Blood.

Art.
Indeed Sir, our late wonderful Success
Over our proud Venetian Enemies,
Shews us no little Favorites of Heaven.

Merv.
Our wonderful Success! where lies the Wonder?
Could your great Fathers Arms be less victorious,
When led by Altomar, the Valiant Altomar?
(Aside...)
Now Flattery, and and all the artful Pow'rs
Of slighted Love assist me: If she loves him,
I have an Art to track her hidden Fires.
I'll tune her Favorite's Praise so high, till I
Have rais'd such Pleasures in her wanton Eyes,
As shall betray the burning Lake within 'em. (...Aside.)


Art.
My Lord, you have begun a noble Subject,
And in the Generous Altomar's just Praise
You but express a Kingdom's Obligation.

Merv.
His Praises just; just! yes from all Mankind.
Such Courage, and such Conduct is a Theme,
As would make Malice court, and Envy flatter.
He managed Ruine with so proud a Port,
His very dying Foes in their last Groans
Could do no less than praise their fatal Conqueror.
By all the Gods a nobler braver Chief
Ne'r grac'd an Armies Head since that great day,
When th'angry Angels met, and their bright Generals
Led out th'embattell'd Seraphim to fight,
Whilst the vast Storm of War shook down the Stars.

Art.
Oh that a Villain should describe a Hero!
What Style has Love, if Hate has so much Rhetorick?

[Aside.
Mer.
Imagine here the bold Venetians,
Their gaudy Fleet, with all their glittering Flags,
Whilst th'humbler Gallies round their taller Galeasses,
Crouching like Porpusses beneath the Whale,
Cut the salt Foam to meet the enrag'd Altomar.
Suppose on th'other side, the fierce
The Fiery Altomar, our Algier Glory,
The God-like Genius of your Fathers Arms,
With his proud Navy, all his moving Castles
Meets the vast Foe.

Art.
Oh that a hand so loath'd should draw so sweet a Picture.

[Aside.
Mer.
Imagine now the Warlike Fleets engaged,
Ruine and Death with all their Pomp and Noise,
Alarm the Globe, and frighted Nature shakes:
Whilst Victory, that Eagle Bird of Prey,
Hovers above the floating Massacre.
The trembling Shore around, the reeking Sea
Below, and all the smoaking Air above,
Together joyn, joyn with his ratling Fires.
All the contending Elements conspire,
To grace their Lord, the Conquering Altomar.

Art.
My Lord, I know not from what Mystick Source
All this kind Language flows; but if there's Riddles
In your Applause, there shall be none in mine.
You draw this gallant Prince's shining Picture
Below the bright Original. The highest
Description you can make is but your Duty:
And know, his Vertue, Courage, Loyalty,
And all the Graces that can write man great,
Make his name worthy to be welcome here.

Mer.
By all the Sulphur in her burning Veins,
My Fears are true; she loves, and has the Pride
To own it, is her own vain boasting Trumpet.

[Aside.
Enter Mirvan.
Mirv.
Madam, Prince Altomar—

Mer.
Return'd already?

[Aside.
Art.
Hast, and conduct him in.

[Exit Mirvan.
Mer.
Curst be the Name,
And doubly curst the hour I saw that Face.

[Aside.
Art.
My Lord,
The Illustrious Prince's Praise is a large Theme;
And if you have more to say, some other time
You will oblige me with the pleasing Subject.

Mer.
Death, with what Scorn and Pride she drives me hence,
To make more room for my accursed Rival!
[Aside.
Perdition be his Guide, and Plagues his Ushers,
And burning Irons pave the way that leads him.

[Exit.
Art.
He comes, he comes, now breaks my rising day.
In the new Sun shine the kind Cupids play,
Olive and Myrtle show his fragrant way.

Enter Altomar.
Alt.
Health of my Soul, and Mirror of my Eyes,
Light of my World, and Goddess of my Prayers.
Do I once more embrace thy Sacred Knees?
My Joy's too dazling for my Soul to bear.
I would gaze on, but thou'rt too killing fair.

Art.
Oh rise my Lord, and hear your Artemira:
For she has such Words, such happy Sounds to speak,
As would give Balm to wounds as deep as Graves,
And Life even beyond Death.

Alt.
Speak then sweet Oracle.
And whilst thy Love breaths raptures in my Ears,
I will look Blessings from thy Eyes.

Art.
What a long year have our contracted Souls
Past o'er with smother'd sighs, stolen looks, and silent hopes?
Awed with a harsh, severe, imperious Father,
Whilst the big Name of Heiress to a Crown,
Has kept thy just Ambition from my Arms?
But now our sullen Fears are all blown o'er,
The Mountain's levell'd, and the Prospect's clear.

Alt.
Be quick dear Heav'n, explain this dazling Vision.

Art.
Know then last night, when astonisht Fame,
Had brought your Conquests to my Father's Ear,
Charm'd with the News, he came to visit me:
Then with such Emphasis, such feeling Pride,
Your Glories, he describ'd and play'd so well
Your kind just Herald, that my ravisht Sense
Could scarce contain my Joys: But to compleat
My Extasie, at last these words broke out:
Daughter, says he, so much this gallant Souldier
Deserves from Heaven and me, that tho' I ne'r
Intended less than a Crown'd Head for you,
Yet my Ambition now shall yield to Justice.
Daughter, I am resolv'd I will reward
My Kingdom's Champion with my Kingdoms Heir:
At his Return prepare to make him yours—

Alt.
What new-created Light surrounds my Soul?—
With such Cœlestial Harmony
Spoke that commanding Voice that form'd the World.
Bid the dark Scene of Night and Chaos vanish,
To show the shining Universal Theatre.

Art.
We who so long have kept our Loves so secret,
And with that cautious Fear supprest our Sighs,
Jealous o'th' very Air in which we breath'd 'em,
Now at one Chance have all our Wishes Crown'd:
One happy Minute ends an Ages Pain.

Alt.
One happy Minute! Yes, the happiest
That time e'er number'd since the restless Orbs
Began th'Eternal Round. Henceforward Time
Throw by thy common Sand, and let thy Glass
Run Gold, pure sparkling Oar: And ye high Powers,
When you'd record some new-made Saint, Star, Angel,
Or some blest Martyrs Coronation Day,
Date your immortal Annals from that hour.

Art.
All happiness attends my dearest Lord
Thou art Heav'ns nearest Care, and their best Angels Charge.

Alt.
Where is this more than King, this God-like Father?
My swelling Veins, like Mines of Incense burn,
And my transported Soul already kneels
Low as my Grave t'adore his sacred Feet.

Art.
We shall obtain that Blessing instantly,
Each minute I expect him here, and your
Dear Presence I am sure will give him Wings.
And if there's any thing that can detain him,
It is the Ceremony that he pays
To an Imperial Stranger. The Usurper Gayland,
That great Subverter of the Africk Empire
Is now my Father's Guest. In his return
From the reducing some revolted Towns
To their Obedience;
Taking this Kingdom in his March, has made
A visit here.

Ros.
Madam, the King approaches.

Enter Albuzeiden and Lords. Altomar kneels.
Alb.
Rise noble Youth, thou Darling of the Stars,
Whilst I have thy Heroick Arm to cut
My way to Fame, and my triumphant Fleet
Has such an Admiral, Neptune's my Slave.
An Arm like thine's
Enough to make the Tributary God,
And all his floating Globe my Vassals.

Alt.
You raise my little Services too high:
My Wreaths are but the Branches of your Laurel.

Alb.
Rise my best Friend, and grow within my Arms:
Thy Modesty commends thee and prefers thee;
But my dear Altomar, 'tis not enough
Thy Conquering Arm has made me great abroad,
But Triumphs wait me nearer home; new Trophies
Lie at my Feet, whilst pressing Glories crowd
Under my Battlements.—The mighty Gayland,
The long-fam'd Terror of our Africk World,
Is Artemira's Slave, has seen, and loves her.

Alt.
What words are these?

[Aside.
Art.
Oh my blasted Ears!

Alb.
And in his name full of a Fathers Joy,
I come to offer as his Advocate,
The Tribute of a Crown; and call her Empress.
Now my best Friend, since thy Success in Battel,
And the Alliance of his Royal Blood,
Have blest my Peace and Wars, making my Throne
As bright as my Pavilion: as I praise
Thy Victories, do thou congratulate mine.

Art.
What killing Sounds are these!

Alt.
Oh cruel Sir,
What have you done?

Alb.
How, Altomar!

Alt.
Ah Royal Sir, take heed how you resolve
What Heaven and Justice must forbid. Dread Sir,
Forgive me when thus low I fall to tell you,
Fair Artemira's mine.

Alb.
What do I hear?

Alt.
Only th'unalterable work of Fate,
The tender Story of two meeting Hearts,
Whose Loves your Royal Smiles can only Crown.

Art.
Yes, Sacred Sir, your Artemira's Love
Her chaste true Love, her Joys, her only Joys,
Her generous Fathers Smiles can only Crown;
And sure you will not, cannot frown on me.

Alb.
Fond easie Fool, is thy unprincely Soul
Fill'd with such flashy Fires? are thy high Blood,
Birth, Beauty, Sex and Pride such empty Names?

Art.
Is this your Promise dear inhumane Father?
Did you for this with so much cruel Eloquence
Repeat the Charming Story of his Conquests,
Drawing his Picture so Divine, so Lovely?
And bid me when this gallant Prince return'd
A Conqueror, prepare to make him mine?

Alb.
How's this? Thou easie, cheap, ignoble Fool.
By all that's good, she courted Him; because
Once in a humor I had an humble Thought,
And wrapt up with the News of this Success,
Let slip an idle word; She eager Fondling
Swell'd with the wanton Joy, ran int' his arms;
Told him her Father had prepared a Husband,
And came to offer him his humble Bride.
Shame of thy Blood!—

Alt.
Oh hold Sir,
She run into my Arms! what Blasphemy is this?
Easie and cheap: Now by my Life you wrong her:
I won her nobly, by yon' bright Eternals,
I took her Heart by Storm: Her guarded Breast
Stood my long Siege, with all her Sexes Pride.
By all the Stars, and her own brighter Eyes,
To conquer that inestimable Prize,
I breath'd such Sighs as might have melted Rocks,
Offer'd such Prayers as might have woo'd a Deity.
From my drown'd Eyes made a long Deluge rowl,
And bath'd her Feet before I mov'd her Soul:
And if at last her generous vanquisht Pity,
Can entertain a tender wish for me;
It is not with the least ignoble Thought
Below her self the Daughter of a King,
And the most Sovereign Beauty of the World.

Alb.
Hold—Be that blasted Tongue for ever dumb.
What do I live to hear? By all that's Sacred,
This is an old Intrigue. The wanton Traytors
Have given and seiz'd, bargain'd and barter'd Hearts,
Chang'd their fond Eyes, and mixt th'engendering Basilisks
Without my Knowledge. That rebellious Syren
Has pawn'd her Honor, sold my Kingdoms Heir,
Whilst th'insignificant deluded Father
Was not thought worthy of the dark Cabal;
But I'm too patient

Art.
Is this my King and Father?
Why was I born with Eyes, if this must be their Object?

Alb.
No Disobedient, thou wert born
With those false Lights to find thy way to Ruine;
But I'll put out th'infatuating Meteor.
Prepare, fond Girl, to obey thy Father's Will,
T'extinguish all thy vaprous wandring Fires,
And gild thy Brows with an Imperial Diadem.
Psepare by th'Setting of to morrow's Sun,
To sleep in Gayland's arms, or sleep for ever.

Alt.
Oh hold, let not the Breath of Majesty
Pronounce those barbarous words as will Un-king you.
Think, think what Cruelty—

Alb.
Take him away,
[Attendants seize him.
Confine him a close Prisoner to his Chamber.
The Charge be yours.

[To Morat.
Alt.
Confusion, to a Jayl!

Alb.
And to remove all Bars to my Ambition
He that amongst you (mark me) dares but breath
One Syllable of this bold Traytor's Love,
By Alla, the Villain dies. And you Morat,
Perform your Charge: If you but let him stir,
Or in revenge of his defeated Arrogance,
By Letters, or by Messages attempt
Ought that may block her way to Gayland's Arms,
(Observe me well) thou'rt Food for Dogs and Vultures.

Art.
Is this a Father's Voice, ye Gods, I die.

[Fainting.
Alt.
Oh raise thy drooping head, look up fair injured Sweetness,
And hear those Sounds shall strike Dishonor dead.
Ungrateful King, is this the black Reward,
Which you return your Conquering Soldiers Toyls?
Have I for this, from all the Ports of Fame,
Past all the Storms of Fate to make you glorious?
All dyed your Ocean with the Christian Purple?
And (since you make me vain) sent down such Crouds
Of your slain Foes to the Infernal Shades—

Alb.
Vain-glorious Fool!
What if you conquer'd, was it not by me?
Was't not my Fleet, my Arms, my Thunder kill'd,
And I the mighty Genius that inspir'd 'em.
Take the vain Boaster hence.

Alt.
Yet stay.
Inspired by thee thy barbarous Genius! No.
If I subdued 'twas Artemira conquer'd:
For her I fought, for her I vanquisht; fill'd
With her great Love, and her immortal Charms,
I strook my Javelin in the Gates of Death,
And all the crowding Fates prest out in Arms,
To aid thy Cause. At her dread Name,
Strength of my arm, and Goddess of my Wars,
Destruction, Conquest, Ruine hung round my Shield.
My Cause, Life, Courage, Glory,
And Guardian Angells all were Artemira's.

Alb.
Proud insolent Boy, to make her Vanity
As great as thine. Her Cause, Life, Glory,
Is Gayland's Heart.
Beneath her Feet a King and Empire lie,
And 'tis a Prize she must accept or die.

Alt.
Oh I am lost.

Art.
Hear me but one word:
If you're resolv'd I shall be false, false to
This gallant man, the Lord of all my Vows;
My Loss will break his Heart, and I shall be his Murderer.
You'll make me crueller than your Venetian Enemies;
When in a base Return to all his Conquests
Your Daughters Scorn must kill your Kingdoms Champion,
And stab that Heart your Foes could never reach.

Alt.
Great Gods, he sees that kneeling Deity
Unmoved with all her Prayers. Inverted Nature,
Can man be deaf when Heaven is a Petitioner?

Art.
Ah Sir, if e'er my gentle Mother pleas'd you,
If th'only Reliques of her Royal Blood
Can move you to Compassion, show it now.
'Tis true, dread Sir, I know you'd make me great;
But what's Ambition where there's Love above it?
You'd fix me high on an Imperial Seat:
But if you do, you kill me. No my Lord,
My Paradise in him, him only lies,
And Love's a Flower which once transplanted dies.

Alb.
And this is all the Excuse thy Disobedience
Can frame for all thy humble abject Folly?

Alt.
Ah Sir, though you have no Remorse for Me,
Look on that Face, that Angel-Beauty weeps:
The pretious Dew falls from those Suns above.
O see; a Chain of Pearl hangs on those Lids,
Enough to bribe an angry God to Mercy.
And have her Tears no Power?

Alb.
Yes Ravisher,
To the disgrace of her degenerate Soul,
I see that base born Issue of her Eyes;
But know, fond Girl, I'll drein the muddy Stream.

Art.
Yes when you've broke that Heart from whence it flows.
Oh my loved Lord

[To Altomar.
Alb.
Their very Looks are hatching Treasons:
Take them away, and part the brooding Monsters.

Alt.
Oh hold. Gods, have those dying drowning Eyes
No Power? One Look from those fair Lights
Is worth ten thousand Gaylands Souls.

Alb.
Dull Slaves!

Art.
Lord of my Life.

[Exit forced out.
Alt.
My Saint, my Heaven Farewel.
[Exeunt all but Altomar, and Morat, and two more Attendants.
What's Conquest, Fame, and all the flattering Hopes
Of towring Love in their Meridian Light?
Poor airy Bubbles which the Breath of Power,
Bursts with a Blast, and they are seen no more.
Ye bright Dispensers of our Humane Fate,
Bring me but back to those clear Streams of Bliss,
Which I enjoy'd but one half hour ago;
And I'd not change my State of Happiness
For all that Vanity your Sun looks round,
And all those worlds your great first Mover rowls.

Mor.
My Lord, I hope you'll pardon that harsh Office
Which I with horror bear. Believe me Sir,
My very Soul deplores your rigid Fate.

Alt.

Mor.
Your Fate draws Tears even from a Souldiers Eyes.

Alt.
And can Man pity me when Heaven forsakes me?
For me, no matter if my impurer Blood
Were set afloat, my drossy worthless Ashes,
Trod by the Tyrants meanest Slaves to Dirt:
But oh that Tyrant strikes at Artemira,
His Savage Fury breaks her tender Heart.
Take heed, ye cruel Powers, her Fate, ye Gods, prevent,
Or all your Heaven, too late, will the dire deed repent.
At her black Doom I shall not sigh alone;
Your shaking World at her last Pangs will groan.
The waning Lamps of your pale trembling Skies,
At her closed Lights will shut their aking Eyes.
By Heav'ns, not your own God-heads shall go free,
You too shall all my Fellow-mourners be,
And hang your sad and drooping Heads like me.

[Exeunt.