The Tragedies of L. Annaeus Seneca :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Tragedies of L. Annaeus Seneca

The Philosopher. Medea, Phaedra and Hippolytus, and Troades, or the Royal Captives. Translated into English verse with Annotations. To which is Prefixed the Life and Death of Seneca the Philosopher; with a Vindication of the said Tragedies to Him, as their Proper Author. By Sir Edward Sherburne [etc.]

Sherburne, Edward (1618-1702)

[epigraph]

[section]

[dedication]

[This Peice presents Grave Seneca, of Whom]

TO Sir Edw. Sherburne, Kt,

Seneca's Three Tragedies:

II.

II.

III.

II.

III.

IV.

II.

II.

III.

Phædra and Hippolytus:

II.

II.

III.

IV.

II.

II.

III.

II.

III.

IV.

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To the Blooming Virtues Of the Hopeful Infancy of Richard Francis Sherburne, Esq; Son and Heir-Apparent of The Honourable Sir Nicolas Sherburne, of Stony-Hurst in the County-Palatine of Lancaster, Baronet.

[This Peice presents Grave Seneca, of Whom]

This Peice presents Grave Seneca, of Whom
Corduba boasts, nor lesse the Pride of Rome.
Whose Tragick Muse the Latian Scene did raise,
And Vy'd with the Greek Drama for the Bayes.
Buskind Philosophy and made the Stage
A Schoole of Virtue to the Vicious Age;
His Pen, as Counsels to Brave Ends inclind,
Romes Greatness These, Its Goodness This Defind.

TO Sir Edw. Sherburne, Kt,

ON Our Mutual Friendship, and his Ingenious and Learned Labours.

Dear Friend! I question, nor can yet decide
Whether thou more art my Delight or Pride?
O my Defence, and choicest Ornament!
Whose Flame inspires me now my own is spent.
Kind was the Storm, and the Times furious Rage
Did both to shelter in one Port ingage.
By Fortune our Acquaintance there begot,
Confirm'd by Chance, up into Friendship shot.
Our willing Spirits quickly understood
The double Tye of Sympathy and Blood.
Thy Share of publick Griefs thou didst allay
By Conversation then with Seneca.
That great Philosopher who had design'd
To Life the various Passions of the Mind,

Did wrong'd Medea's Jealousie prefer
To entertain the Roman Theater.
Both to instruct the Soul and please the Sight,
At once begetting Horror and Delight.
This Cruelty thou didst at once express,
Tho in a strange no less becoming Dress;
And her Revenge did'st rob of half its Pride,
To see it self thus by it self out-vy'd.

Nor was't enough t'afford his Scenes this Due,
But what thou gav'st to us, as kindly too
Thou would'st bestow on him, nor wer't more just
Unto the Author's Work than to his Dust.
Thou did'st make good his Title, aid his Claim,
Both vindicate his Poems and his Name;
So shar'st a double Wreath; for all that we
Unto the Poet ow, he ows to thee.
The Learn'd what we assert must needs confess,
Reading Medea, Phædra, Troades.
Tho Change of Tongues stoln Praise to some afford,
Thy Versions have not borrow'd, but restor'd.

Next I remember well thou didst distil
The Prose of Seneca through thy smooth Quill,
Into soft Numbers, such as might prefer
The Poet, high as the Philosopher.
And thy great Master was well pleas'd to see
His Sufferings chose to grace good Mens, by thee.

He dead, thou didst withdraw from Town, an Air
More innocent, chusing with me to share.

Begg'ring the Place guilty of Royal Blood,
By bringing from it a large Stock of Good.
There, thy Retirement suiting with thy strain,
Antient and modern Poets entertain;
And, lest such Strangers should converse alone,
Thou civilly mix'dst with their Songs thy own.
Till ravish'd thence by a Desire to view
The happy Regions where those Lawrels grew.
Then having gather'd all the learned Store
Which scatter'd lay in several Lands before,
Back to thy longing Country didst thou come,
And gratefully unlade thy Freight at home.

To this great End, Manilius, who had long
The Spheres oblig'd and rival'd by his Song,
Was chosen by his thankful Stars to be
The Subject of a sweeter Harmony.
But first, (as to great Seneca before)
The Author to his Work thou didst restore;
And Marcus, if not noble, free at least,
Of what the Bond-man seiz'd is re-possest.
His Poem then thou didst sing o'er again,
In such a noble yet so sweet a Strain,
As might at once his Pride and Envy raise,
To hear himself out-sung in his own Lays.

Yet, as in Rivers where they smiling creep
Gently along, the Waters are most deep;
All who till now on the smooth Surface sail'd,
To fathom the vast Depth despair'd or fail'd.
This thou hast done; whose Notes like Sea-marks stand
To guide us to the new-discover'd Land.

Upon the Author's Triumph, all the rest
Attend, who e'er Astronomy profess'd.
Of whom the most obscure are proud to be
Crown'd by thy hand with Immortality;
And they who were from Death secur'd by Fame,
Congratulate th'Accession of thy Name.

Tho. Stanley.

Seneca's Three Tragedies:

VIZ. MEDEA, Phædra and Hippolytus, AND TROADES.

MEDEA: A TRAGEDY.

Sit Medea ferox invictaque.
—Hor. de Arte Poet.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

for Me. read Medea
for Nu. read Nurse
for Cre. read Creon
for Jas. read Jason
for Nun. read Nuncius

Act I.

Scene I.

MEDEA Sola.

Ye Nuptial Powers! Thou who the Genial Bed
Guard'st O Lucina! Thou, by whose Rules led,
Tiphys the bold Subduer of the Main,
Learnt the first Ship to guide as with a Rein.

Dread Soveraign of the Seas! thou ever bright
Phœbus, who to the world divid'st thy light.
Three-formed Hecate! that dost display
On nightly Mysteries thy conscious Ray;
And all ye Gods by whom false Jason swore!
Or you, Medea, rather should implore
Dark Chaos! deeps Infernal! damned souls!
The King who Hells sad Monarchy controuls,
And Queen with better Faith was Ravish'd; hear!
Hear whilst we imprecate! and ye severe
Scourgers of Guilt, Eumenides! with Hands
All bloody, grasping your Sulphureous Brands,

With snaky Curls, and squalid Looks, appear
As horrid, at our Nuptials as you were.

Death on the new-made Bride, on Corinths King,
And our own Progeny, untimely bring.
And with some Imprecation yet more dire,
'Gainst my false Husband, my fell Mind inspire.
Live he; through unknown Cities helpless roam,
A fearful Exile, without House or Home.
Wish me his Wife again; Harbour, distrest,
From Strangers crave; already a known Guest.

And, than which, none a greater curse can be,
Children beget he like himself, and me.
See! our Revenge does on our Wish attend;
These we have born: Complaints in vain we spend,
Why rush we not upon our Foes, and there
The Bridal Tapers from the Bearers tear,
Extinguish them, and bury all in Night?

Behold'st thou this, thou Fountain of all light,
Phœbus the radiant Author of our Race;
And driv'st through Crystal Skies, thy wonted space?
Run'st thou not back unto the East, and Day
Remeasur'st? O! to me resign thy sway;
Give me the Guidance of those burning Reins
That rule the Coursers with the fiery Manes,
I'd scourge till Corinth, whose small Land divides
Two opposit Seas, and breaks their batt'ring Tides,

Consum'd in Flames, should make them way to joyn.
Nought rests to do; but that a Nuptial Pine
We bear; and when the holy Pray'rs, and all
The Rites are done, then, that our Victims fall.
Through thine own Bowels reach at thy Revenge,
Soul, if thou liv'st, all Womanish Fears estrange,
Let thy stout mind on her old strength presume,
And more than Scythian Ferity assume.
What Ills once Colchos, now shall Corinth see,
Horrid, unperpetrated Cruelty,
Terror to Men and Gods, works in my Mind;
Wounds, Death, spred Funerals of Limbs disjoyn'd;
Pish! what slight, trivial Ills do we recount?
Acts of our Virgin hands: Our Rage should mount;
Ills more sublime, more horrid Acts of Blood
Suit with our married state, and Motherhood.
Courage then: On, to act thy Tragedy
With all thy Fury; that Posterity
Thy fatal Nuptials and Divorce may find
Equally signal;—Stay; thou rash of mind!

Thy spouse by what means leav'st thou?—by the same
I once did follow him: banish fond shame;
Nor waste in dull Delays thy vengeful Plot;
Be quick! by Ills leave, what by Ills we got.

CHORUS
Of Corinthian Women, Singing an Epithalamium to the Nuptials of Jason and Creusa.

Ye Gods, whose Empire in the skies,
Or in the tumid Ocean lies!
These Princely Nuptials, bless we pray,
Whilst holy Honours for the Day
The duly-favouring People pay.

First to those Powers that Thunder fling,
And Scepters bear, for Offering
A Bull, white without spot, shall die,
A Heifer that did never try

The servile Yoke, than snow more white,
Thee, O Lucina! does delight.
To her, who Mars his bloody hands,
Do's manacle in peaceful Bands,
Who strifes of Nations do's compose,
Whose Horn with growing plenty flows,
Shall fall a gentler Sacrifice.
And thou who these Solemnities,
And Rites legitimate dost grace,
And the nights sullen darkness chase

With thy auspicious hand, come drown'd
In Wine, thy Head with Roses crown'd.
And thou bright Star, with silver Ray,
Fore-runner of the Night, and Day;
That slow to those dost still return,
Who with Loves mutual Flames do burn.
Mothers that long, Daughters new wed
Wish thee thy early Beams to spread.

'Mong the Cecropian Dames, the Pride
For Beauty, veil unto the Bride
The Virgins of the Walless Town
Who on Taygetus his Crown,
Themselves (as is their Countries guise)
In manly Pastimes exercise.

And those their limbs in Dirce lave
Or in Alpheus sacred Wave.

To the Æsonian Youth, for Grace
And Form, shall Bacchus self give place,
Who to the Yoke fierce Tygers chains,
Or he who o're the Tripods reigns,

Mild Brother to the sterner Maid.
The Swan-got Twins fair Leda laid,
Castor, with Pollux who for blow
Of weighty Cæstus all out-go,
Yield to Æsonides the day.
So, so Cælestial powers we pray,
All Wives excel the Beauteous Bride,
The Bride-groom pass all Men beside.

When with the Virgin Choir she joins
Her Look 'bove all with Lustre shines.

So when the Sun his Beams displays,
The Splendour of the Stars decays.
So fade the Pleiades, scarce seen,
When with her borrow'd Shine, Night's Queen
Inorbs her Crescent, so to th'Eye
White blushes with Phœnician Dye.

So when Day dawns, Sol's ruddy Light
Shews to the Dew-wet Shepherds Sight.

From Phasis horrid Bed releast,
Wont with unwilling hand, the Breast
To touch of such a barbarous Bride,
With Parents wills first ratifi'd,

Now happy Wed a Grecian Dame.
Now Youths with Taunts permissive, Game
And in loose Rhimes chant sportive words,
Rare is this Licence 'gainst your Lords.
Fair Issue of the God of Wine,
'Tis time to light thy carved Pine:

With Wine-wet Fingers, then put out
The solemn Flame; whilst all the Rout

With mirthful Jollity do's ring,
And the Fescennine Youths do sing
Their Festive Flouts; she want these Rites,
And Grace of Hymeneal Lights,
Who as a Fugitive shall wed
Her self unto a Forein Bed.

Act II.

Scene I.

Enter MEDEA, and her NURSE.
MEDEA.
Oh! I am slain; the Hymeneal's Sound
Hath pierc'd my Ears, and giv'n my Heart a Wound.
The Ill I suffer, I scarce yet believe.
And thus could Jason cause Medea grieve?
When from my Father, Countrey, Crown, and State
H' had brought me, thus, to leave me desolate
In a strange Land; could he our Merits slight?
Cruel, and thankless Wretch! whose pow'rful Might
Seas Rage, he saw, and Force of Flames out-went?
Thinks he then all our stock of Mischief spent?
Perplex'd and wav'ring, my unquiet Mind
Labours, which way she may her Vengeance find.
Would Heav'ns he had a Brother! Stay; a Wife
He has; let's then attempt against her Life,

Full Compensation for all Injuries.
If Greek, or Barbarous Towns, (in Villanies
Skilled) have known a Mischief, such as thou
Medea, yet nee'r knew'st, or practic'dst, now,
Now attempt the like. Let thy Resolves find
Counsel from thy own Ills; call to thy mind
The signal Glory of the Colchian Crown
Made prize; thy Brother's Limbs dissected, thrown
About the Seas; sad Funeral to his Sire!
Think on old Pelias boiling o'er the Fire.

How oft have we spilt guiltless Blood? yet ne'er
Did we act Ills in Rage; Love's Rage we bear.
'Las what could Jason do, at the dispose
Of a Superiour Power?—His Breast oppose
T'a Murthering Sword.—Ah! better Words afford
My passionate Griefs; rather, so Fates accord,
May he live still my Jason as before.
If not, yet may he live; mindful of poor
Medea, to whose Love his Life's a Debt.
The Fault was wholly Creons: by whose great
O'er-ruling Power, our Marriage-bands he brake;
He did the Mother from her Children take,
He cancell'd our strict-plighted Faith; He, he,
The Butt of our deserved Vengeance be.
Ill bury his proud Palace in a high
Heap of Ashes, whilst the black Clouds that flie
Of Flame-driv'n Smoak, Malea shall amaze
Which storm-beat Vessels puts to long delays.

Nu.
For love of Heav'n be silent, and restrain
Passion to recluse Sorrow; “who sustain
“Wrongs that oppress 'em, with a quiet Mind
“And unmov'd Thoughts, know best the way to find
“How to repay 'em. Anger kills, conceal'd;
“Hates miss of their Revenge, when once reveal'd.

Me.
“That Grief's but small which Counsel can oe'r-sway;
I'll meet all Opposites.

Nu.
Thy Fury stay
Dear Daughter; scarce a still Retiredness
Secure thee can, open Attemps much less,

Me.
“Fortune the Valiant fears; but tramples on
“The coward Soul.

Nu.
“Then Resolution
“Is good, when the Attempt is possible.

Me.
“What
“To Courage, and a Mind resolv'd, is not?

Nu.
“No Hope a Remedy t'a lost Affair
“Do's shew.

Me.
“Who nought can hope, should nought despair.

Nu.
The Colchians hate thee, in thy Spouse no Faith
There is; of all thy vast store, Fortune hath
Not left thee ought.

Me.
Yes, here's Medea still,
Here Seas, Earth, Fire, Gods, Thunder, what can kill
As well as Steel, behold.

Nu.
Th'incensed Ire
O'th' King yet's to be fear'd

Me.
What was our Sire?

Nu.
Fear'st thou not force of Arms?

Me.
Not tho from Earth
They sprung, and took from thence their hostile Birth.

Nu.
Thou'lt suffer Death.

Me.
'Tis that we wish.

Nu.
Be led
At my Request to flie.

Me.
That I e'er fled
I grieve; Medea flie!

Nu.
Think what thou art
A Mother.

Me.
Yes, by whom, you see.

Nu.
To part
Hence doubt'st thou?

Me.
No; we'll go, but first revenge.

Nu.
Th'Avenger will pursue

Me.
It will be strange

If we not find him obstacles.

Nu.
Suppress
These Menaces, rash Woman, and redress
Thy Pertinacious Thoughts; comply with Fate.

Me.
Fortune may ravish from me my Estate,
My mind she never can. But heark! I hear
The Palace Doors to creek; who is't draws near?
'Tis Creon, the proud Tyrant, Creon, high
Elated with Pelasgian Royalty.

Scene II.

Enter CREON.

Yet does Æeta's noxious Issue stay
Within our Confines? not yet gone away?
Something she machinates; whom all do brand
For Noted Fraud, and a Nefarious Hand;
Whom spares she? whom, suffers secure to rest?
T'extirpate by the Sword this worst of Pest
We once resolv'd; th'Intreaties of our Son-
In-law prevail'd; and our Concession
Got, that she might live; on terms she quit
Our Realms from future Fears: with Looks that threat,
And truculent Aspect. She 'gins to bend
This way her steps, as tho she did intend
Some speech with us; Our Guard there! Hence, Away
With her, nor suffer her to speak; t'obey
A King's Command, once let her learn; with speed
Dispatch, and send the Monster gone.

Me.
What Deed?
What Crime of ours mulct you by flight?

Cre.
A Cause
The Innocent Soul demands!

Me.
“If by the Laws
“You govern, 'fore you judge, first understand.
“If by your Will alone you rule, command.

Cre.
Dispute not; 'tis our Pleasure, right or wrong.
And thou shalt suffer't.

Me.
“Unjust Scepters, long
“Continue not.

Cre.
Away; to Colchos, hie
To your own home again.

Me.
Most willingly,
So he that brought me thence, return with me.

Cre.
Your Wishes come too late to our Decree.

Me.
“Who ought Decrees, one side unheard; tho he
“What's equal judg, acts without Equity.

Cre.
Old Pelias ru'd for lending thee an Ear,
But speak; and your Egregious Cause let's hear.

Me.
How ill appeased is the Wrath of Kings,
And what a Pride in Royal Fancy springs,
Their first-fix'd Resolutions to pursue,
From our own Princely Thoughts w' have learn'd too true.
For tho with sad Calamity opprest,
Scorn'd, suppliant, out-cast, ev'ry way distrest
W' are now, we once, in Royal State did shine,
And from bright Sol drew our Illustrious Line
What Phasis in his winding Arms do's close,
What e'er behind the Scythian Pontus shows,

Where the Salt Waves grow fresh with floud-mixt Streams,
All that extent of Land, whose Borders hems
The silver Thermodon; in trampled Fields,
Where widow'd Troops display their luned Shields,

My Father with Imperial Sceptre sways.
In Joys of Royalty, and happy Days.
There flourish'd we; Our Marriage-bed those sought
Whom now, we seek: But Fortune, light as Thought,

From us those Sceptred Glories having rent,
Hath now expos'd us to sad Banishment.
“In Crowns, confide! whose Wealth Chance do's transfer
“At Pleasure; But this yet, what no day e'er
“Can take from them, Kings, great, and glorious have,
“To help th'Afflicted, and the Suppliant save.
This only from our Colchian Realms, away
We brought, that by our Favour, we can say
The Flower of Greece, and Princely Ornament,
Achaia's chiefest Strength, the high Descent
Of Gods, were sav'd from Death. Orpheus whose Song
Charms stony Rocks, and draws the Woods along,
Is our free Gift; that Leda's Twins survive
Our double Bounty is; by us do live
The Sons of Boreas, Lynceus, he whose Sight
Extends cross Pontus its emitted Light,

And all the Minyæ, by our Favour, were
Preserv'd from Ruin: not to mention here
The Chief of all those Chiefs; whose Safety we
Reckon no Debt, to none imputed be.
To you the rest, to us, this one we brought
Away: Inveigh your worst then, count each Fault

Of ours, of all this only can you blame,
Argòs return: yet if our Virgin Shame,
And Love of Father, had not stoop'd to Love
Of Jason, (whom 'fore these we did approve)
The Chief of Greece had perish'd, and your Son
To ruin, on Bulls flaming Breaths had run.
Fortune our Cause m' oppress, (tho undeserv'd)
Yet shall we ne'er repent to have preserv'd
The Off-spring of so many Kings: With you,
Of all our Crime is the Reward, and Due.
Condemn us so you please; but first the Crime
Declare: W' are guilty; true: So were, what time
Creon thy Knees we touch'd, and did implore
The Faith of thy protecting Hand. No more
Ask we at present, but some place obscure,
Where we our selves and Sorrows may immure:
If from this City banish'd by your Doom,
Within your Realms, afford us yet a Room.

Cre.

That we with Rigor rule not, nor with high
Pride, trample upon humbled Misery,
Sufficient Proof we seem in this t'have shown
By such a Son-in-law electing; One
Exil'd, afflicted, terrifi'd with Fears.
For thee the young Acastus, who now wears
Thessalia's Crown, seeks with Death-threatning Ire,
T'avenge the Murder of his Aged Sire,
And his dissected Parents Limbs; when by
Thy false Suggestions led, too credulously,
The perpetration of so foul a Fact,
The pious Sisters impiously did act.

Wave thine, and Jason can his Cause maintain,
No Guilt of Blood his guiltless Hands did stain,
Nor touch of wicked Steel; far from thy dire
Counsels, he still innocuous did retire.
But thou, vile Machinatrix of all Ills,
Whom wom'anish Spleen, and manly Courage steels
For all Attempts, regardless of thy Fame,
Be gone, and purge our Realms of such a shame.
Hence your letiferous Simples take; from Fear
Free our perplexed Subjects, and elsewhere
With thy Complaints vex Heav'n.

Me.
To be gone
Compel y'us? or Ship, or a Companion
Afford; why us alone, command you hence?
Alone we came not; or if your pretence
Be Fear of War, expel us both; 'twixt two
Equally guilty, why distinguish you?

To him, not us fell Pelias; add our Flight,
Our Kingdom's Prize, our Sire deserted quite,
Our Brother piece-meal torn, or if beside
A Crime there be he teach to his new Bride
'Tis his, not ours: and tho so often prest
To ill, 'twas ne'er for our own Interest.

Cre.
'Tis fit th'wert gone; why spin'st thou out Delays
In Talk?

Me.
Vouchsafe thy parting Suppliant prays,
This last Request; Let not the Mother's Fault
Be as a Guilt upon her Children brought.

Cre.
Go, go, we'll guard these with a Father's Care.

Me.
By these more happy Nuptials; by thy fair
Future Hopes, and by this thy Regal State,
Which Chance with various Change doth agitate,
We pray; afford some small time e'er we go,
Upon our dearest Children to bestow
Our last, and perhaps dying Kisses.

Cre.
Time,
Only for Fraud thou ask'st.

Me.
What Fraud or Crime
Can in so short a space be fear'd?

Cre.
“None can
“For Mischief be too short.

Me.
Deny'st thou then
So small a Moment to a Wretches Tears?

Cre.
Tho thy Intreaties by our ominous Fears
Opposed are, one Day thou shalt obtain.

Me.
Thy Grant's too great; revoke some part again;

And hence we speed.

Cre.
If 'fore to morrows Sun
Advance the chearful Day, thou art not gone,
Thou surely dy'st. But us the Time now calls
To Pray'rs, and Rites of Hymen's Festivals.

[Exeunt.
CHORUS.

Rash Man was he, with Ships frail Beak
Did first the treach'rous Billows break,
And his own native Soil declin'd,
Durst trust his Life to trustless Wind.
The Seas with doubtful Course divide,
And in a slender Plank confide,
Drawn to too thin Dimensions far,
Twixt Life and Death too poor a Bar.

Celestial Signs were yet unknown,
And of those Lights use there was none
Whose Fires bespangle all the Skies.
Nor yet were Pilots grown so wise
To shun the stormy Hyads Threat,
Th'Olenian Goats bright Star, not yet;
Nor those which that old lazy Swain
Bootes drives, the Northern Wain.

Boreas and Zephyre, yet to none
By Names distinguished were known.
Tiphys did first on Seas display
His Sails, and taught the Winds t'obey
New Laws: Now 'fore a quartering Gale
His Course to run with all his Sail.
Now bring the Tack aboard; now fast
His lower'd Yards, bind to the Mast,
His Canvas then unfurl'd again,
Unto the Winds to hoise amain,
When the too greedy Mariner
Calls for a Gust; and th'red Drabler
Unto th'inlarged Sail made fast,
Trembles with the impulsive Blast.

The Candid Age of Innocence
Our Fathers saw; free from all Sense
Of Fraud; then in secured Rest
Each Man on his own Ground, liv'd blest
With Length of Years; with little rich,
Nor of more Wealth, than that with which
His Native Soil was stor'd, could tell.

The Pine of Thessaly, the well-

Divided World's Partitions broke,
And caus'd Seas feel th'Oars lashing Stroke;
And the secluded Ocean made
Part of our Fears: yet sadly paid
For this so bold a Wickedness;
Through tedious Dangers and Distress,
Long driv'n: when those Rocks that bound
The Entrance to the Pontick Sound,
Tilting with impetuous Shocks,
Did eccho like loud Thunder Knocks.
'Twixt whom the Sea crusht, mounts, and laves
The Stars and Clouds with foaming Waves.
Bold Tiphys then grew pale with Fear,
His fault'ring Hands forgot to steer;
Silent was Orpheus and his Lute;
And Argo's self was then struck mute.

What? when the Maid whose Waste surrounds
A Cincture of fierce rav'ning Hounds,

Did all their Jaws at once extend!
What Man with Horror did not bend
At such a Sight? Who without Fear
Could that loud barking Monster hear?
What? when with Magick of their strain,
Those dire Plagues, charm'd th'Ausonian Main!
Till on his Lyre Pierian play'd
Orpheus, and ev'n the Syren made
(Wont Ships to captive while she sings)
Follow the Musick of his Strings.

What was the Purchase of so bold
A Voyage, but a Fleece of Gold;
And greater Mischief than the Sea,
Medea: fit the Fraight to be

Of the first Ship. The passive Main
Now yields, and does all Laws sustain.
Nor the fam'd Argo, by the hand
Of Pallas built, by Heroes mann'd,
Does now alone complain she's forc'd
To Sea; each petty Boat's now cours'd
About the Deep; no Boundure stands,
New Walls by Towns in foreign Lands
Are rais'd; the pervious World in'ts old
Place, leaves nothing. Indians the cold
Araxis drink, Albis, and Rhine
The Persians. Th'Age shall come, in fine
Of many years, wherein the Main
M' unloose the universal Chain;

And mighty Tracts of Land be shown,
To Search of Elder Days unknown.
New Worlds by some new Tiphys found,
Nor Thule be Earth's farthest Bound.

Act III.

Scene I.

Enter Nurse, following Medea running frantick over the Stage.
NURSE.

Ah! whither rapt with eager speed away
Dear Charge? hold, curb thy Rage, thy Fury stay!
As when some frantick Fro, whom Bacchus mads,
Trots her wild Entheous Dance, and raving gads
On Pindus snowy Top, or Nysa's Crown:
So here, now there, she hurries up and down,
As if with a Lymphatick Rage possest.
Her Looks attracting Fervour from her Breast.

Cries, O you Gods! then weeps, now smiles again;
And all the Symptoms of a troubled Brain
Discovers; doubts, threatens, with Anger boils,
Laments and sighs; Oh! to what Centre toils
This Weight of Cares? these Threats where will she wreak?
Or where will this high Sea of Fury break?
Which like an Inundation swells: No low
Nor vulgar Mischief she intends; t'out-go
Her self she seeks: we know full well, her old
Distempers Signs; some eminently bold,
Horridly impious Act, she plots: 't appears
In her fell Looks: The Gods deceive our Fears.

Scene II.

Enter MEDEA.

If, Wretch, a Rule thou wouldst prescribe thy Hates,
Thy rash Love imitate; Tamely (ye Fates!)
And unreveng'd shall we these Nuptials bear?
Shall this Day idly pass? sought with such Care
And Toil! with so much Difficulty gain'd!
Whilst self-poiz'd Earth in midst of Heav'n's sustain'd,

And the bright Orbs their stated Changes run,
Whilst Sands no Number know; whilst Day the Sun,
And Night the Stars attend; whilst 'bout the Pole
The undrench'd Arctos turns, and Rivers roll
Into the Main; our deadly vengeful Spite
Shall ne'er grow less, but rise t'a greater height.
What wild Beasts Salvageness? What chased Waves
Ingulf'd in Scylla's and Charybdis Caves?

What Ætna, (under which Typhæus Iies,
Expiring Flames) our Rage shall equalize?
Nor rapid Streams, nor Torrents heady course,
Nor wrathful Euxine Seas, by Corus Force
Vext into Storms, nor Flames blown up by Wind
Can stop th'incensed Fury of my Mind.
I'll down with all.—Creon his Fears did move
(Forsooth) and King Acastus Arms;—“True Love
“Can never stoop to fear of any?—But,
O'erpower'd he was inforc'd to yield:—Could not
He yet to his poor Wife have bid adieu!
My Life! stout tho he be, he fear'd this too.
Yet sure, being Creon's Son, he might a while
Have respited the Time of our Exile.
But one short Day, to take my last farewel
Of both my Children!—Yet, tho short, 'tis well.

Much, much shall these few Hours produce; that Fact
Which all Days else shall ring of, this shall act.
We will invade the Gods, and shake the Frame
Of the whole Universe.

Nu.
Thy Mind reclaim,
Thy Heart, with Griefs disturbed, pacify.

Me.
“No thought of Rest, till, with our own, we see
“A general Ruine; perish if we shall,
“Perish all else; We will not singly fall.

Nu.
See how great Dangers thy Attempts oppose!
“'Gainst potent Opposites none safely goes.

Scene III.

Enter JASON.

Still cruel Fates! Fortune severe alike!
Equally bad, or if she spare or strike!
So often Heav'n, hath for our desp'rate Woes,
Found Remedies more desperate than those.
Would we the Faith, to our Wife's Merits due,
Have kept; We must have dy'd. Death to eschew

We must be faithless; not to this inclin'd
By abject Fear, but a paternal Mind.
For in their Parents Ruine, our poor Race
Would be involv'd. O Justice! if a place
In Heav'n thou hast, by thy white Throne I swear
The Children overcame their Sire. Nor e'er
Shall I think other, but that she (tho fierce
Of Heart, and beyond all Reclaim perverse,)
Her Childrens Lives would 'fore my Bed desire.
Wirh Pray'rs we were resolv'd t'accost her Ire,
But see! sh' hath spy'd us; ill the Sight she brooks,
Disdain and Passion printed in her Looks.

Me.

We flie! Jason, we flie! for us to change
Seats, is not new; the Cause is new and strange.
For thee we us'd, but now from thee we flie.
Whom thus from your Abodes inforce you hie?
To whom dost send us? shall we Phasis Flood,
Colchos and our Sire's Realms, or Fields with Blood
Of slaughter'd Brother stain'd, go seek? what Lands,
What Seas must we find out at thy Commands?
The Pontick Straits? through which that Princely Train
We safe brought home; when through th'incensed Main
And dangerous Symplegades, we fled
With thee, now turn'd Adulterer to our Bed?
Shall we for small Iolcos make? or steer
Unto Thessalian Tempe? what ways e'er

To thee we open'd, 'gainst our selves we clos'd.
Then whither send y' us? to what Lands expos'd?
To Exile, an exiled Wretch is sent
And yet no place assign'd for Banishment.
Yet go we must, so to command seems fit
To Creon's Son-in-law, and we submit.
Inflict on us the worst of Cruelties,
We have deserv'd. Let Creon exercise
The bloodiest Tortures Tyranny e'er bred,
To plague a Strumpet to his Daughter's Bed.
Load us with Irons; and shut us from all Light
In a dark Dungeon of eternal Night:
Yet shall we suffer less than we deserve.
Ingrateful Wretch! think (if thy Heart will serve
To let thee) of the Flame-breath'd Bulls; the Field
Which Armies of Arm-bearing Foes did yield.
When, at our sole Command, those Earth-born Bands
Mutually fell by their self-slaught'ring Hands.
To these, add the Phryxean Rams rich Prize,
And sleepless Dragon charm'd; whose wakeful Eyes
Obey'd Sleep's unknown Pow'r: our Brother slain,
Mischief with Mischiefs re inforc'd again.

Fraud-blinded Daughters urged to divide
Their Parents Limbs, unto new Life deny'd.
And our own Kingdoms for a Stranger's Crown
Deserted; by what Hopes soe'er you own
Of your dear Children; by the Certainty
Of thy new-fix'd Abodes; and Victory
O'er vanquisht Monsters; by these Hands of ours
Ne'er spar'd for thee t'imploy their utmost Pow'rs.
By fore-past Fears; Heav'ns, Seas (the Witnesses
Of our wrong'd Nuptials) pity our Distress.
And in thy happy state, to us that crave
Render the Comfort thou would'st wish to have.
Of all the Wealth by Scythians rapt away
From Sun-scorch'd Dwellers of rich India,

Too narrow an Exchequer for whose Store,
Our whole Court seems; with whose superfluous Ore
W'adorn the Woods and Groves; no part brought we
But our slain Brother's Limbs, and those on thee
Impended; Country, Father, Brother, Shame.
With this Dowre wed; parting, restore the same.

Jas.
When wrathful Creon sought thy Life to have,
Mov'd by our Tears, for Death he Exile gave.

Me.
We Exile thought a Punishment; but now
We find, that, for a Favour you allow.

Jas.
Whilst yet thou may'st, get thee from hence convey'd;
“The Wrath of Kings is Heavy.

Me.
You persuade
This to endear you in Creusa's Love;
You seek a hated Strumpet to remove.

Jas.
Objects Medea Love?

Me.
And Treachery,
And Murder too.

Jas.
What Crime is there, 'gainst me
Thou can'st object, deserves so foul a Blame?

Me.
All that we ever did.

Jas.
Then 'tis your Aim
T'involve us in the Guilt of your Misdeeds.

Me.
Those, those are thine. “He to whose Gain succeeds
“The Ill, is the Ill's Author. Tho our Fame
All should oppose, thou ought'st defend the same,
And say we're blameless: “He should guiltless be
“In thy Repute, is guilty made for thee.

Jas.
“That Life's a burthen, which enjoy'd brings Shame.

Me.
That Life discharge, enjoy'd with Loss of Fame.

Jas.
Rather appease thy Wrath-incensed Breast,
For thy poor Childrens sakes;

Me.
No, we detest,
Abjure the thought; What? shall Creusa live,
And Brothers to Medea's Children give?

Jas.
'Twill be an Honour when our exil'd Race,
A Queen, shall with her kindred Issue grace.

Me.
Come never so unfortunate a Day
To the already wretched, with Allay
Of baser Blood, to mix our noble Line.
Phœbus with Sisyphus his Nephews join.

Jas.
Why seek'st thou Ruine on us both to bring?
Let me intreat thee to depart.

Me.
The King
Could yet vouchsafe to hear us speak.

Jas.
Declare
What's in my Pow'r to do for thee.

Me.
Me! dare
Any Mischief.

Jas.
On either Hand, see here
Two potent Kings.

Me.
Than those a greater fear,
Behold Medea! let us exercise
Our Pow'rs, and Jason be the Victor's Prize.

Jas.
Weary'd with Miseries, I yield; forbear;
So often try'd, the turn of Fortune fear.

Me.
Mistress of Fortune we have ever been.

Jas.
Acastus there; here Creon's nearer Spleen
Threatens Destruction.

Me.
Void thou either's Harms:
Not 'gainst thy Father-i'-law to rise in Arms,
Of stain with Kindreds Blood thy Innocence,
Medea wills. Guiltless with her fly hence.

Jas.
Who shall oppose, if they their Pow'rs combine,
And 'gainst us with united Forces join?

Me.
Add Colchians too; Æeta General;
Scythians with Grecians join; we'll foil them all.

Jas.
I potent Sceptres dread.

Me.
Rather take heed
Y'affect them not.

Jas.
Lest this our Conference breed
Suspect, let's here cut short our long Discourse.

Me.
Now Jove, o'er all the Heav'ns thy Thunder force,
Stretch forth thy Hand, thy vengeful Flames prepare,
And from crackt Clouds the World with Horror scare.
Nor with delib'rate Aim level thy Throw,
Take him or me: which of us each the Blow
Shall sink, will guilty fall; if at us cast,
Thy Thunder cannot miss.

Jas.
Resume at last
More sober Thoughts, Language more mild; if ought
In Creon's Court, in Exile may be thought
Easeful to thee, ask and the ask'd;d-for have.

Me.
Thou know'st we can, and use with Scorn to wave
The Wealth of Kings; we only wish we might
Our Children have Companions in our flight;
That in their Bosoms we our Tears may shed.
More Sons thou may'st expect from thy new Bed.

Jas.
I must confess me willing to comply
With thy Desires; forbid by Piety.
Nor could I suffer this, tho Creon's Pow'r
Should force me to't. For this alone implore

I Life; of all my Cares the only Ease,
Sooner I could want Breath, Limbs, Light, than these.

Me.
Loves he his Children so! 'tis well, we ha't;
Now we know where to wound him—We hope yet
We may our last Words in their mindful Breasts
Implant; embrace; seems this a just Request?
This too, we with our latest Speech intreat,
What our rash Grief hath utter'd, you'd forget,
And a more favourable Memory
Of us retain; all Passions buried be.

Jas.
All, all's forgot by us; and here we pray
Thou may'st the Fervour of thy Mind allay,
And gentle Curb unto thy Passions give.
“Patience is Misery's best Lenitive,

Exit.
Me.
Gone! is't e'en so? hast thou forgotten me?
And all my Merits, slipt from thy Memory?
No; we will ne'er slip thence. Now mind thy Part;
Summon together all thy Strength and Art.
'Tis thy best use of Ills to think there's none.
Scarce will there Opportunity be shown
T'effect our Treachery. Our Plots they fear.
Run then a Course from all Suspicion clear.
Begin, Medea! for thy Task prepare;
And what thou can'st, and what thou canst not, dare.
O faithful Nurse! whom Chance with us hath made
Partner in Woes; our wretched Counsel aid.

A Robe we have, our Kingdom's Ornament;
As Pledge of his Etherial Descent,
By Sol t'Æeta giv'n: a Carquanet
With Gold enchac'd, and a rich Coronet
Set with bright Gems; these to the new-wed Bride
My Sons shall bear; first with dire Tinctures dy'd.
Invoke we Hecate; our sad Rites frame,
The Altars strow; now crack this Roof in flame.

Exit.
CHORUS.

Nor Force of Flames, nor Strength of Wind,
Nor Thunder we such Terror find
As a divorc'd Wife, set on fire
With Hate and Ardor of Desire.
Not Cloudy Auster where he pow'rs
Forth Deluges of Winter Show'rs,
When Ister like a Torrent roul'd,
Breaks Bridges down, runs uncontroul'd.

Not Rhodanus with rapid Course
Where he resisting Seas does force.
Nor Hæmus, when the Sun's hot Beams
In mid Spring thaw his Snows to Streams.
Love spur'd with Passions blind, disdains
All Rule, nor brooks imposed Reins.
Fearless of Death, covets upon
Drawn Swords with obvious Steps to run.
Mercy ye Gods! we Pardon sue,
Safe may he live, did Seas subdue.
Yet the Deep's Monarch storms, his Pow'r,
Next Jove's should stoop t'a Conquerour.
Bold Phaeton, that durst aspire
To rule the Chariot of his Sire,
Whilst from prescribed Bounds he stray'd,
Felt the mad Flames his Rashness made.
None suffer'd in a known way; tread
In that safe Path where others lead.
Nor violate the sacred Bands
Impos'd by Nature's sacred Hands.

Whoe'er those noble Planks which made
Bold Argo, touch'd; spoil'd of his Shade

The sacred Grove which Pelion crown'd;
Past floating Rocks in the Profound;
Did through so many Perils wade
Of the vast Deep; and Anchor weigh'd
From off a barb'rous Coast, possest
Of forein Gold; for home addrest,
With sad event the Breach he ru'd
Of the Seas Rites; with Plagues pursu'd
And Justice of the angry Main.

Tiphys, who first the Ocean
Tam'd, to an unskilful Pilot, left
His Charge, on forein Shores bereft
Of Life, far from his native Land,
'Mongst unknown Ghosts lies tomb'd in Sand.
He from the vocal Muse that springs,
At Sound of whose Harmonious Strings,

The rapid Streams their Motions ceas'd,
Their Murmurs the rude Winds suppress'd,
While Birds their own Notes left, this Song
Fled listning, and Woods danc'd along;
His Limbs o'er Thracian Acres spread
Dragg'd unto Hæbrus streaming Head,
To Styx descended, known before;
And Tartarus, to return no more.
Alcides Boreas Issue slew;
He who could various Shapes indue,

From Neptune who derives his Breath,
From Hercules receiv'd his Death.
He too, when Seas and Earth h' had crown'd
With Peace, and forc'd the Stygian Sound,
Alive on Æta's Pyre repos'd,
His Limbs to Cruel Flames expos'd.

While mingled Gore's Infection, sent
By's Wife, his Flesh with Tortures rent:
A Boar Ancæus Life o'er-threw,
His Uncles Meleager slew,
And by the vengeful Hand doth fall
Of his enraged Mother; All
Deserv'd; What Crime, did expiate
That tender Lad's untimely Fate?
The Boy by Hercules unfound
In Waves of secure Waters drown'd.

Go now bold Spirits; plow again,
When Springs are to be fear'd, the Main.

Act IV.

Scene I.

Enter NURSE sola.

Horror my trembling Soul invades, some great
Pernicious Mischief present Ill does threat.
How vast a Rage her swelling Grief dilates!
Its own Incendiary! Integrates
Her lapsed Powers! with Fury oft possest
I've seen her charge the Gods, attempt to wrest
Heav'n with her Charms: some more prodigious Act
Than these yet works she; for as hence she packt
With frighted Steps, and her dire Conclave enter'd,
Forth all her Spells she pours, and what t've ventur'd
On, her self long fear'd, there broaches, a whole Hell
Of Ills let loose, close kept in that dark Cell.
And whilst she with sinister Hand, prepares
Th'infaustous Work, sh' invokes with Magick Pray'rs
Whatever Poisons Libya's scalding Sands
Create; what Taurus (where cold Winter stands

Cloath'd with perpetual Snow,) in's frozen Veins
Congeals; and every Monster. At whose strains
Crawl scaly Multitudes from under-ground,
And as officious Agents wait her round.
Thither an aged Serpent trails along
His o'ergrown Bulk, and darts his forked Tongue;
Seeking on whom t'inflict a Death; at sound
Of her dire Charms, his pois'nous Length in round
And complicated Orbs he folds; she cries
Poor are the Ills, and base the Weapons rise
From this low Earth; I'll from the Heav'ns fetch down
Poisons to serve my turn; this instant crown
With Ills worthy thy self; Now, now's the time
Something to act above a vulgar Crime.
Hither descend the Snake that seems to lie
Like a huge Torrent rolling cross the Skie,
In whose immense Folds either Bear is ty'd,
The great th'Achaians, th'less Sidonians guide.

His griping Hands let Ophiuchus loose,
And the squeez'd Venom of his Snake infuse.
Hither repair, drawn by these Charms of ours,
Python that durst assail two Heav'nly Pow'rs.
Hydra, with all the Serpents were subdu'd
By Hercules, in their own Death renew'd.

And thou the Colchians wakeful Spy, whose Eyes
In drowzy Sleep our Spells did first surprize.

Then (having call'd of Serpents all the kinds,)
Sh' in one mass all pernicious Simples binds.
Whatever on impervious Eryx grows,
What Caucasus, (where sit continual Snows)
Stain'd with Promethean Blood, brings forth; whate'er
The Warlike Medes in charged Quivers bear.
What flying Parthians use; with what the Points
Of his keen Shafts the wealthy Arab 'noints.

Those Juices which the noble Sweves inclin'd
Near the cold North, in Groves Hercynian find.
Whate'er the Earth i'th' procreating Spring
Begets, or in the Winter forth doth bring,
When rigid Cold in Ice hath all things bound,
And Forests of their Summer's Pride uncrown'd.
Those Herbs that bloom with a pestiferous Flow'r
She culls, the Juice indu'd with baneful pow'r

From Roots distorted wrings. From Pindus some,
Some Drugs from high Æmonian Athos come.
These tender Sprigs as on Pangæus top
They grew, did her blood-canker'd Sickle crop.
These Tygris nourish'd, whose swift Streams oppress
His gulphy Channel; these Danubius; these
The sam'd Hydaspes, whose warm Current laves
Dry India's Sands with Gem-inriched Waves.
And Bætis, whence its Land a name did get,
Whose languid Streams 'gainst Seas Hesperian beat.

These felt the Edge of Knife at birth of Day,
In dead of drowzy Night; this slender Spray
Was from his Stalk cut down. This ripen'd Blade
She did with her charm-tainted Nail invade.
The deadly Weeds she takes, and forth doth squeeze
Her Serpents putrid Venom, and with these
She mixes Birds of inauspicious flight,
The Heart o'th' solitary Owl; th'hoarse Night-
Ravens Entrails whilst alive exsected.
These the pernicious Artist, thus selected,
In parcels puts; Flames rav'nous Force these hold,
Those th'Icy Chilness of benumming Cold.
Words to her Poisons adds, of no less dread
Than Poisons are. See! she begins to tread

Her frantick Dance, her Rites infernal makes;
Now charms; the World at her first Accents quakes.

Scene II.

Enter MEDEA.

You silent People of the Shades below!
Ye Gods infernal! and dark Chaos; loe!

To you we bow; thou gloomy Mansion
Where sooty Dis resides! seated upon
The lowest Hell, the Den of squallid Death!
We you invoke: quit your Abodes beneath,
Leave your old Task of tort'ring Souls, and pack
To the new Nuptials. From his wheeling Rack
Releas'd, a while Rest let Ixion have,
And Tantalus sup free the fleeting Wave.
Whilst Creon feels more horrid Pains than these,
Let Sysiphus his Torments find no Ease.

You who in perforated Urns still vain
Successless Toil deludes, cease from your Pain,
And thither hie; this Day your Hands requires.
And thou, the Empress of Nocturnal Fires!
To these our Rites invoked, come; put on
Thy worst of looks, and with more Fronts than one
Menacing, appear! with loose Hairs thus display'd
(As thine becomes) we've searcht each secret shade,
With naked Feet; call'd from dry Clouds the Rain,
And to its Bottom forc'd the suff'ring Main.
Whilst old Oceanus affrighted, hides
Within his Waves Recess his vanquish'd Tides.
Heav'n's Laws inverted, shewn the World the Light
Of Sun and Stars at once, the Day and Night.
Drench'd both the Bears in the forbidden Deep.
And chang'd the Course the constant Seasons keep.

Cloath'd Earth in Summer with a Spring new-born,
Made Ceres see a Winter Crop of Corn.
Swift Phasis turn his Streams back to their Source.
And Ister, in seven Mouths divided, force
His Waters to a stand, his Spring confin'd.
And made Floods roar, Seas swell, without a Wind.
An antient Wood, whose Leaves its Covert made,
At our commanding Voice hath lost his Shade.
Phœbus his Course, Day left at Noon, forbears;
And when we sing the Stars drop from their Spheres.

'Tis time, dread Phœbe, at these Rites of thine
Thou present wert; to thee this Wreath of nine
Embraided Serpents, wrought with bloody hand,
We offer. Loe! his biform'd Limbs durst band
'Gainst Jove's high Empire, bold Typhæus! this
The pois'nous Blood of treach'rous Nessus is,

Giv'n by himself as he did Life expire.
These Ashes rak'd we from the Oetean Pyre,
Dryp'd with Herculean Foam. See, in this hand
The pious Sisters, impious Mothers Brand,
Vengeful Althæa! these Plumes found we cast
By rapeful Harpies, as by Zetes chas'd.
These are the Wings the wounded Stymphal'de bore
Slain by the Shafts dipt in Lernæan Gore.

The Altars sound! and our own Tripods, mov'd
B'our fav'ring Goddess, shew these Rites approv'd.
See Trivia's whirling Carr! not as when bright,
With a full Orb illuminating Night,
She drives; but such, when with a lured Face,
Vext with Thessalian Charms, a nearer Race,

To Earth she runs: so shine thy tristful Light
With pallid Ray, and with strange Horror fright
The World: whilst thy Extreams to ease, O Great
Dictynna! rich Corinthian Brass is beat.

Upon this blood-stain'd Turf our Sacrifice
To thee we make, this Funeral Torch supplies

Nocturnal Fires, snatch'd from the flaming Pile.
To thee our Head we toss, with Neck bow'd, while
Our Charms we utter; our Hairs loosely spread
A Fillet binds, as when we mourn the Dead.
To thee this wither'd Bough thus wave we round,
Brought from the dark Shades near the Stygian Sound.
To thee with bared Breast true Mænad like,
This rusty Knife thus in our Arms we strike.
Our streaming Blood down to the Altar flows;
Inure your selves, my Hands, such Wounds t'impose,
And learn the dearest Blood of thine to shed.
The hallowed Flood our pierced Veins have bled.
If thou complain'st thou art too often prest
B'our Orisons, pardon a forc'd Request.

That thus, O Persis! we thy Pow'rs implore,
The Cause is still the same as heretofore,
Still Jason: now infect the Bride's Attire,
That when put on, the close Serpentine Fire,
Her inmost Marrow may consume, within
The yellow Gold, couch'd lies the Flame unseen.

Which he who rues his heav'nly Theft, with still
Renewed Liver, gave; and taught the Skill
How to conceal its Force; Mulciber did
Give us these Fires, in subtle Sulphur hid.
This living flash of fatal Lightning, we
From Phaeton our Cousin took; here be
The Gifts the triple-shap'd Chimæra gave.
The Flames breath'd from the Bulls scorch'd Throats we have,

Which mixed with Medusa's Gall do serve,
So charg'd, the secret Mischief to conserve.
With Pow'r these Poisons, Hecate, inspire,
And guard the hidden Seeds of the close Fire
Lurks in these Gifts, let them deceive the Test
Of Sight and Touch; whilst in her Veins and Breast
The subtle Fervour spreads, and doth calcine
Her melting Limbs; in Smoak let her Bones pine,
And her inflamed Tresses, beam-like blaze,
And dim the Light her Nuptial Tapers raise.
—Our Pray'rs are heard; thrice Hecat' bark'd aloud,
Thrice with sad Flames her sacred Fires she show'd.

All's finish'd. Nurse, my Children call, that they
Unto Creusa may these Gifts convey.
Go Children; Issue of a hapless Mother;
Go, by your Pray'rs and Presents seek another,
Less kind t'appease. Back hither quickly hie,
That we your last Embraces may enjoy.

CHORUS.

Whither runs bloody Mænas, drove
By the fierce Fury of her Love?

What Mischief with wild Rage intends!
In Frowns her wrinkled Forehead bends.
Shaking her Head, she proudly jets,
And menaces the King with Threats.
Who her an Exile would suppose?
The flushing Red in her Cheeks glows.
Now Paleness thence the Red does chace,
No Colour long her changing Face
Retains; now here she runs, now there,
Distracted as her Passions bear.
As Tygress of her young bereft,
With wild Speed prosecutes the Theft
Through Ganges Forest; so, nor Rage
Medea knows, nor Love t'asswage,

Now Wrath and Love their Pow'rs conjoin;
What will she do? to which incline?
When from Pelasgian Lands away
Will she her cursed self convey?
And by her wished Absence clear
The Kings and Kingdom of their Fear?

Now, Phœbus, drive with winged pace,
No curbing Reins retard thy Race.
In her dark shades let friendly Night,
Now hide the Lustre of the Light
And Hesperus, Night's Usher, steep
The fear'd Day in the Western Deep.

Act V.

Scene I.

Enter NUNCIUS and CHORUS.
NUNCIUS.
All's lost! our Kingdom's Glory sunk in Fire;
The Princely Daughter and her Royal Sire
In blended Ashes lie.

Cho.
Say how betray'd?

Nun.
Ev'n by those usual Trains for Kings are laid.
By Gifts.

Cho.
In those what Treachery could be?

Nun.
Nay, that's my wonder: Nor, tho th'Fact I see,
Can my Belief receive't for possible.

Cho.
The manner of so strange a Ruine tell.

Nun.
As 'twas commanded, the devouring Flame
Assaults each part o'th' Palace: the whole Frame
In pieces falls; and now we fear the Town.

Cho.
The raging Flames with thrown-on Water drown.

Nu.
Ev'n that Astonishment and Wonder breeds
In this Disaster, Fire on Water feeds;
The more supprest, the more it burns; and grows
By that which to extinguish we impose.

Scene II.

Enter MEDEA, and her NURSE.
NURSE.
Fly! fly, Medea! quickly hence be gone,
And seek with speed some other Region.

Me.
How should we fly!—No; were we fled, to see
This Day, we would return again; to be
Spectatress of these Gallant Nuptials.—Heart!
Dost stop? pursue thy happy Rage; this part
Of thy enjoy'd Revenge, what is't?—Distraught!
Dost thou yet love? is widowed Jason thought
Sufficient? work, Medea, work! invent
Some strange unusual kind of Punishment.
Hence with all Right, expulsed Shame be gone.
“That's poor Revenge, which Hands yet pure have done.

Be all intent on Wrath; bravely excite
Thy drooping Thoughts, and with more eager Might
Rouze up th'old sparks of Rage hid in thy Breast.
What we have done already, to the rest
W'intend, may be call'd Piety: now ply't;
Let the World know how vulgar and how slight
Our former Ills were, but as Preludes to
Ensuing Rage. What could such rude Hands do,
Might be term'd great? or by a Girl be shown?
We're now Medea; our Invention grown,
As our Ills multiply'd. Now, now we're joy'd,
We lopt our Brother's Head, and did divide
His bleeding Limbs; that we our Father spoil'd
Of his Crowns sacred Treasure; and beguil'd
Daughters to take up parricidal Arms.
Seek matter for thy Fury, for all Harms
That brings a Hand prepar'd.—Wrath whither, oh!
Transported art thou? 'Gainst what treach'rous Foe

Intend'st these Weapons?—Something my fierce Mind,
But what I know not, hath within design'd,
Nor dares t'her self disclos't—Fool, I have been
Too fondly rash. Oh that I could have seen
Some Children of the Strumpet got!—What's thine
By Jason think Creusa bore. This kind
Of Vengeance likes; and likes deservedly.
The height of Ills, with a Resolve as high
Attempt: You, we did once our Children call,
For your Sire's Crimes a Satisfaction fall,
—Horror invades my Heart; an icy Cold
Stiffens my Limbs; my Breast pants; Wrath his hold
Hath left, and there (a Wive's stern Passions quit)
A Mother's soft restor'd Affections sit.
We in our Childrens Blood our hands imbrue?
Ah! better Thoughts distracted Griefs pursue!
Far be it from Medea yet, to act
So foul a Sin, or so abhor'd a Fact.
What Crime, poor Wretches! shall they suffer for?
—Their Father's Crime enough, and greater far
Their Mother. Let 'em die, they're none of mine.
Hold! they're thine own: then perish because thine.
Alas! they're innocent: without a touch
Of Guilt: 'tis true; my Brother too was such.
Why stagger'st thou my Soul? or why do Tears
Water my Cheeks? whilst Passion this way bears

My wav'ring Mind, now that way Love divides;
Toss'd in an Eddy of uncertain Tides.
As when the Winds wage war, the passive Waves
Are counter-rockt, the Sea a Neuter raves.
So floats my wreckt Heart; now Wrath wins the Field,
Now Piety; to Piety Wrath yield.
Oh! you, the only Joy and Comfort left
Of our sad State! now of all else bereft;
Come hither, my dear Children! and with mine
Your little Arms in close Embraces join.
May in your Lives your Father yet delight,
Whilst I your Mother may—Exile and Flight
Inforce me on: strait from my Arms with Cries
Will they be torn; then perish from all Joys
Of Father as of Mother. Grief again
Renews; my Hate boils high, my heated Brain
Its old Rage fires, and stirs m'abhorred Hand
Up to new Mischief. On then, thy Command
We follow. Would an Issue from my Womb
As numerous as Niobe's had come.
And twice seven Children had from us deriv'd
Their Births: our Barrenness hath ev'n depriv'd

Our Vengeance; yet w'have two: enough t'expire
As Victims to our Brother and our Sire.
—Whither does this dire Troop of Furies bend?
Whom seek they? where their fiery Strokes intend?
'Gainst whom shake they their bloody Brands, Snakes wound
In lashing Whips with horrid Hisses sound.
Whom does Megæra with infestive post
Pursue? what yet unknown dismember'd Ghost,
Is this appears? 'tis my Brother's, come to crave
Vengeance of us; and Vengeance shalt thou have.
But first, fix all these Fire-brands in my Eyes;
Tear, burn; my Breast to Furies open lies.
Hence these dread Ministers of Vengeance send,
And bid these Spirits satisfi'd descend.
Leave me to my self, Brother; to imploy
This Arm in thy revenge, that did destroy
Thy Life; thus with this Victim we appease
Thy injur'd Ghost.—What suddain Sounds are these?

What means this Noise?—Arms 'gainst my Life are bent.
Up to the Houses top force thy Ascent:
Finish thy Murder there. Come you with me
My small Companion: whilst this Body we
Convey along. Now, Soul, thy task intend,
Nor thy brave Mischief unregarded end
In secret; shew't the People, let them stand,
Th'amaz'd Spectators of thy Tragick hand.

Scene III.

Enter JASON, cum Armatis.
JASON.
You whom the Murder of your Prince doth move
With sad Resentments of a loyal Love,
The Author of that execrable Deed
Help to surprize; hither with Weapons speed
You armed Cohorts, here this House surround,
And lay the Fabrick level with the Ground.

Me.
Ay, now our Sceptre, Brother, Sire, again
W'enjoy, and Colchans their rich Spoil retain.
Our Kingdom and our lost Virginity
Are now restor'd: O long cross Destiny
At length grown kind! O festive Nuptials! On,
Give thy Revenge, as Crime, Perfection.

Dispatch while thy hand's in.—Why thus delays
My Soul? what Doubts?—Our potent Wrath decays;
Now of the Fact a shameful Penitent.
What have I done? Wretch! such tho I repent,
I've don't; an ample Joy m'unwilling Heart
Seizes: it grows upon me. Yet this part
Of Vengeance wanted, he not being here,
Nor a Spectator; without whom whate'er
W've done, is lost.

Jas.
See where she sits, upon
Yon Houses shelving top! hither some one
Bring burning Brands, and Fire impose on Fire;
That scorch'd in her own Flames she may expire.

Me.
Do, raise your Sons a Fun'ral Pile; your Bride
And Father-in-law, our Kindness did provide
With Rites of Sepulture. His Doom this Son
Hath felt; the like shall this, whilst thou look'st on.

Jas.
By all the Gods! by our Community
Of Flight and Bed, which uninforced I
Ne'er violated: spare this Child; O spare
Me this: the Crime is mine, then let me share
The Punishment; and let deserved Death,
Seize on my guilty Head, and loathed Breath.

Me.
No; where thou would'st not ha't, where thou dost feel
Most Sense of Sorrow, will we force our Steel.
Go now, thou proud Insulter, go and wed
Young Virgins now, and leave a Mother's Bed.

Jas.
Let one suffice t'have suffer'd.

Me.
If our Rage
One Death, or single Slaughter could asswage

We none had sought; and tho both die, yet that
T'our Wrongs is not Revenge commensurate;
If in our Womb a Pledge there be, ev'n there
This Steel shall search't, and thence the Embrion tear.

Fa.
Dispatch thy Villany; no more we crave:
An End at least now let our Suff'rings have.

Me.
Haste not my Grief; but leisurely imploy
Thy slow Revenge. This Day's our own; w'enjoy
Th'accepted time.

Jas.
Death, cruel! we implore,
Kill me.

Me.
Thou Pity crav'st. All's done; nor more
Had we (O Sorrow!) as a Sacrifice
To offer thee. Erect thy humid Eyes,
Ingrateful Jason, here look up; dost know
Thy Wife? thus use we to escape: Heav'ns show
Our slight clear way; see both our Dragons here,
Who freely stoop their scaly Necks to bear
Their willing Yoke. Now take your Sons, whilst I
On winged Wheels through Airy Regions fly.

Jas.
Go, thro' the high Ætherial Stages post,
And shew there are no Gods where'er thou go'st.

Phædra and Hippolytus:

A TRAGEDY.

------ Pudicum
Perdidit Hippolytum non fœlix cura Pudoris.

Ausonius Edyll. 15.

Dramatis Personæ.

Hippolytus , Son to Theseus by Antiope or Hippolyta Queen of the Amazons.
Theseus, King of Athens, Father of Hippolytus.
Phædra, Queen of Athens, Wife to Theseus, Mother-in-law to Hippolytus.
Nurse to Phædra.
Nuncius.
Chorus.

MUTES.

Huntsmen.
Maids to Phædra.
Servants.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

for Nu. read Nurse
for Phæ. read Phædra
for Hipp. read Hippolytus
for Hip. read Hippolytus
for Thes. read Theseus
for Nunc. read Nuncius
for Chor. read Chorus

SCENE Athens, and the Country adjoining.

100

THE ARGUMENT.

Hippolytus, averse to Venus Joys,
In Sylvan Pleasures his chast Life employs.
Phædra his Bed incestuously desires,
Plots to enjoy it, is rejected. Fires
Of Love then turn'd to Hate. A Rape she feigns,
Lays to his charge. This Faith with Theseus gains.
Young Hippolyte flies, rash Curses after sent,
The flying Youth with a sad Death prevent.
Which known to Phædra, struck with deep Remorse,
She with his Sword Life from her Breast doth force.

101

Act I.

Scene I.

Enter HIPPOLYTUS with Huntsmen, preparing for the Chace.
HIPPOLYTUS.

Go, you the shady Woods beset,
You tall Cecropius Summit beat

102

With nimble Feet; those Plains some try
Which under stony Parnes lie.
And those the River with swift Waves
Roll'd through Thriasian Vallies laves.

103

Climb you those lofty Hills still white
With cold Riphæan Snows, their Flight
Some others take, where stands the Grove
With spreading Alders interwove,
Where ly the Fields which the Spring's Sire,
The soft'ring Zephyre, doth inspire
With balmy Breath, when to appear
He calls the Vernal Flowers, and where

104

Meander-like, 'bove Agra's Plains,
Through Pebbles calm Ilissus strains

105

His Course, whose hungry Waters eat
Away his barren Banks. You beat
On the Left-hand, where Marathon
The way does open to the Down.

106

Where nightly the wild Herds along
Unto their Forage lead their young.
You tow'rd the rough Acharnans run,
Seated against the Southern Sun,
Whose warm Beams Winter's Rigour slack.
For sweet Hymetius Quarries make

107

Some others. You pursue the path
To small Aphidnæ, that part hath
Been long untrac'd, where to a Reach
Sunion th'Embayed Shore doth stretch.
Whom Sylvan Glories do excite,
Lo, Phibalis doth him invite:

108

There by many a Wound well known,
The Terror of the labouring Clown,
Lodges a Boar: slack you the Line
To those still Hounds there, but confine
Those fierce Molossians to their Chain.
Those Cretan Bitches, let them strain
Their tougher Leash, with Necks whose Hair
Is worn, by frequent struggling, bare.

109

Those fiery Spartans ('tis a bold
Race, and greedy of their Prey) hold
Shorter up; the hollow Rocks shall round
E'er long with their full Cries resound:
Now with sagacious Nose inclin'd
Snuff they the Air, and seek to find
Their Game, whilst yet the Scent lies hot,
And the dew'd Earth retains the Slought
Of Feet, ere Day-light 'gins t'appear.
Some one on charged Shoulders bear

110

The corded Toils some help to set
With nimble Speed the close-maesh'd Net.
Some, with vain Terror to confine
The rowz'd Game, pitch the red-plum'd Line.

111

Take you a light Dart; you a large
Boar-Spear, and that with both hands charge.
You close conceal'd in Ambush lie,
And fright with Noise the Beasts that fly
Into the Toils. You of the Prey,
When we have kill'd, shall take the 'Say.

To thy Companion, O Divine
Virago! now Success assign.
Thou, who Earth's solitary parts
Thy Empire mak'st: whose sure aim'd Darts
Those Beasts feel cold Araxis drink,
Those sport on frozen Ister's Brink.

112

Getulian Lions who subdues,
Whose Hand Cretæan Harts pursues;
And now does slighter Wounds impose
Upon the swiftly flying Roes.
Tygers to thee present their Breasts;
Swift-footed Elgs, with shaggy Crests,

113

To thee their Backs: and fiercer Bulls
Arm'd with large Horns on their rough Sculls.
What Beast soever there remains,
Whether in the deserted Plains,
Which the poor Garamantian knows.
Those the rich Arabs Woods inclose,

114

Or Pyrenæan Hills conceal,
Whome'er Hyrcanian Lawns reveal,
Or those the wand'ring Sarmats see,
Great Goddess! dread thy Shafts and Thee.

115

If with due Rites thy Sylvan Pow'r
The grateful Votary implore,
The Toils retain th'intangled Prey,
Nor strugling Feet through Nets break way;
But home he comes, whilst his Wain's Back
Does with the loaded Quarry crack,
And every Hound up to the Eyes
In Blood his greedy Snout bedies.
Whilst to their Homes the Rural Train
Return in Triumph back again.

Lo! the kind Goddess proves our Friend!
The Hounds, I hear, their loud Mouths spend;
The Huntsmen call. This way I'll take,
That I the shorter Cut may make.

Scene II.

Enter Phædra and her Nurse.
PHÆDRA.

O Crete! thou mighty Empress of the Main,
Whose num'rous Fleets the charged Seas sustain.

116

Along each Coast; far as with pervious Tides
Unto Assyrian Lands blue Nereus glides.

117

Why in a hated home? Wise to my Foe,
A wretched Life, drawn out in Tears and Wo,
Compell'st thou me to lead? my wand'ring Spouse
Hath left me; still his old Faith Theseus shows.
Who to irremeable Styx is gone
With bold Pirithous a Companion,

118

And an Assistant to his mad Design,
From Pluto's Throne to ravish Proserpine.
Nor Fear nor Shame could hold him, but he must
In Hell go seek new matter for his Lust.

A greater Grief does yet my Soul oppress,
Nor silent Night nor Slumber can release
My Heart from Cares; the nourisht Ill still grows,
And burns within; as that Fire's Tide that flows
In Ætna's Caves. My curious Web no more
Affects me now: my Spindle, which before
Ius'd, now 'twixt my careless Hands falls down:
Nor do my votive Gifts the Altars crown:
Nor with Athenian Dames in mixed Quires,
Toss I in silent Rites the conscious Fires:

120

Nor Sacrifice, nor my chast Pray'rs present
Unto the Land's adjudged President.
All my Joys now to course the rowzed Deer,
And with my soft Hand dart a rugged Spear.
O whither tend'st thou, my besotted Mind?
Why madly lov'st the Woods? Ah! now I find
My wretched Mother's fatal Curse: now we
Have learn'd to sin in Woods as well as she.

I pity thee, poor Mother! that did'st prove
The uncouth Fury of so strange a Love

121

As that of a Wild Bull: he fierce disdain'd
The Yoke, and o'er th'untam'd Herd proudly reign'd;
Yet he lov'd something: but these Flame of ours
What Dædalus, or what Celestial Pow'rs
Can e'er befriend? Not if again that fam'd
Mopsopian Artist, who the Labyrinth fram'd

122

T'inclose the Minotaur should hither fly,
Could he t'our Woes a Remedy apply.
Venus, incens'd against Sol's hated Race,
Seeks to revenge on us that known Disgrace
Of Mars and her insnar'd; with Infamy
Still loading the whole Stock, none e'er scap'd free
Of Minos Race: their Loves have ever been,
Notorious by the Adjunct of some Sin.

123

Nu.
O Theseus Royal Consort! Jove's bright Seed!
This Ill from thy chast Breast expel with speed,
These Flames extinguish; nor to Hopes accurst
Give up thy yielding Soul: who at the first
Resists Love's Charge, comes off a Victor still;
But he who sooths and nurses the sweet Ill
Too late, alas! the Yoke denies to bear
Himself assum'd: and how averse to hear
Truth told are Princes, we well know, and find
With what Reluctancy to right inclin'd.
Fall yet what may, I'll bear't, nor Truth disguise:
Freedom at hand my weak Age fortifies.
“'Tis the first step from Sin, to have the Will,
“T'oppose, next Shame, to know a mean in Ill.
Wretch whither tendst thou? why dost aggavate
Thy House's Shame? and and foil thy Mother's Fate,

124

By Crimes 'bove Monsters? for to our Manners we
“Our Ills impute; Monsters to Destiny.
If 'cause thy Husband breaths not this World's Air,
Thou think'st thy Faults from Fears secured are,
Thou art deceiv'd: say Pluto Theseus keeps
Perpetual Prisoner in Lethæan Deeps;
Think'st thou that he who o'er the wide-stretch'd Main
Extends his Empire, and beneath whose Reign
An hundred Cities stoop, thy Father, will
Let undetected pass so great an Ill?
Believe it not; “Parents are quicker Ey'd,
“More wisely careful: say yet we could hide
By subtil Craft thy Crime; yet what shall he
By whose bright Beams all thing enlight'ned be,
Thy radiant Grandsire? or what he who shakes
The Heav'ns, and with Ætnæan Thunder rakes,
The Gods great Father? canst thou draw a Skreen
'Twixt these all-seeing Judges and thy Sin?
Suppose yet they should with thy Crime dispense,
And Faith assur'd (deny'd each great Offence)

125

Wait on thy' incestuous Pleasures; yet what Pain
Is't, of a guilty Conscience to sustain
The waking Horror! and a Soul o'er-laid
With its own Crimes, and of it self afraid!
“Some safely may, none e'er secure did sin.
Repress this impious Love: a Crime ne'er seen,
In the most barbarous Lands: a Sin unknown
To wand'ring Getes, to those who Taurus crown
Inhabit, or wild Scythians that dwell
In scatter'd Tents. This horrid Guilt expel
From thy chast Breast; and of thy Mothers Fires
Mindful, abhor such new and strange Desires.
Would'st by the Son's the Father's Bed pollute?
Swell thy curst Womb with some mishapen Fruit?
With thy foul Lust, go, invert Nature then.
Why want there Monsters? or thy Brother's Den
Why unsupply'd? so oft the World shall hear
Of Prodigies, so often Nature bear

126

The breach of her own Laws, as Cretan Dames
Shall feel their Hearts incens'd with amorous Flames.

Phæ.
I must confess 'tis true thou tell'st me, Nurse,
But forc'd by Passion, I pursue the worse.
Headlong to Ruine runs my knowing Mind,
Which oft turns back, but vainly, Help to find.
So when against the Tide the Sailor toils
To force his loaded Bark, the Current foils
His Pains, down Stream the master'd Vessel's drove.
My Reason's conquer'd by more powerful Love,
Who rules as Tyrant in my captiv'd Breast.
This winged God does Heav'n and Earth infest.
With all-o'er-mast'ring Flames Jove's self he scorches,
Mars more than Fire-Pikes dreads his little Torches.
The God who three-fork'd Thunder frames, who toils,
Unswelter'd in Ætnæan Forges, broils
In his small Fires. Phœbus who bears the Fame
For Archery, this Boy with surer Aim
Tranfixes: through the Earth and ample Skies
A winged Plague to Men and Gods, he flies.

Nur.
Depraved Appetite, that Bawd to Vice,
Made Love a God: and for his freer Rise,
Did to this Fury a false Pow'r assign
Fancying, o'er all the World how Erycine
Her wand'ring Boy sends, how to Heav'n he flies,
There shoots his Shafts; among the Deities

127

Greatest tho least; “Wild Heads these Follies feign'd,
“So Love his Bow, her Pow'r so Venus gain'd.
“Whoe'er too great Prosperity enjoys,
“Floating in Luxury, vain Novelties
“Affecting, him dire Lust (that never fails
“T'attend on ample Fortunes) soon assails.
“No common Dainties, nor no House, tho neat,
“If meanly built, can please, nor courser Treat.
“O why from homely Cottages abstains
“This Plague, and in our princely Mansions reigns?
“Or why alone in poor and humble Cells,
“And not in Courts, religious Venus dwells?
“Why do the common sort of People prove
“Honest Affections and restrained Love?
“When those with Riches and with Empire crown'd
“Unto their vast Desires prescribe no bound;
“Above their Pow'rs the Great in Pow'r aspire,
“Would by their Wills Impossibles acquire.
Thou seest what for thy Royal State is best;
Fear thy returning Husband's Pow'r at least.

Phæ.
In me Love's greater Tyranny does reign.
I fear no Man's Return: none e'er again
Trod the Earth's Convex, or return'd to Light
From those still Deeps where dwells eternal Night.

Nur.
Believe not this: tho Dis shut up his Court,
And Stygian Cerberus watch at the Port,

128

Theseus can Ways deny'd to others find.

Phæ.
Perhaps he'll pardon this our Love.

Nur.
Unkind
To a chast Wise he was; Antiope
His cruel Hand felt; but suppose that he

129

Should be appeas'd; yet who can e'er reclaim
The other's Mind? that hates the very Name
Of Woman; leads a single Life; does shun
The Marriage-Bed; born of an Amazon
You may perceive he was.

Phæ.
Yet him o'er Hills
Topt with the Snow, and with his nimble Heels
Beating rough Crags, thro' Woods, o'er Mountains, I
With Joy could follow.

Nur.
Think'st he'll e'er apply
Himself to thee, or Love's Caresses know,
For unchast Venus his chast Rites forego;
Hop'st thou he'll e'er love thee, who for thy sake
Perhaps hates all thy Sex?

Phæ.
Will not Pray'rs make
His Mind relent?

Nur.
He's fierce.

Phæ.
Fierce things have been
Yet tam'd by Love.

Nur.
He'll fly.

Phæ.
We'll follow him.
Tho through the Seas.

Nur.
To mind thy Father call.

Phæ.
And Mother too.

Nur.
He hates your Sex.

Phæ.
We shall
Then fear no Rival.

Nur.
Thy returning Spouse.

Phæ.
Who? the Companion of Pirithous.

130

Nur.
Thy Father too.

Phæ.
Kind Ariadne's Sire.

Nur.
By these Hairs Age hath silver'd, I desire,
This Bosom worn with Cares, these Breasts once dear
To thee, give check unto thy wild Career,
And thy own Succour prove: “'tis to the Mind
“Some part of Cure, to be for Cure inclin'd.

Phæ.
No more, good Nurse, I yeild: nor hath my Breast
All Shame abandon'd. Love! I'll do my best
If thou'lt not bow, to break thee. No Defame
Shall ever blemish my unspotted Name.
There's but one Remedy; on that we're bent:
Follow thy Spouse; thy Sin by Death prevent.

Nur.
Suppress these Thoughts: th'art worthy to enjoy
Life, 'cause thou think'st thy self worthy to die.

Phæ.
No, Nurse; my Death's unalterably set:
Only the kind is undetermin'd yet.
Whether Sword, Halter, Precipice, shall be
My End, is unresolv'd: but, Chastity,
We'll fall thy Sacrifice.

Nur.
And shall I see
And suffer thee to perish willfully?
O check this wilder Fury.

Phæ.
“To restrain
Death, that's decreed and due, all Reason's vain.

Nur.
If then (thou only Comfort of my Age!)
Thy Soul be master'd with so strong a Rage,
Regard not Fame: “Fame's but a Liar still,
“Bad to the Good, and good unto the Ill.

131

Let's try this froward Youth: the Task be mine
To work his stubborn Will to yield to thine.

CHORUS.

Goddess! whose Birth from rough Seas came,
Whom Mother the Twin Cupids name:

133

His powerful Flames subduing Hearts,
How sure that childish Wanton darts,
And with an Aim unerring deals!
Into the melting Marrow steals
The theivish Fire, and of their Food
Robs th'Azure Conduits of the Blood;
No sign the secret Wound betrays,
But on the wasted Spirits prays.
No Truce there is 'twixt him and Hearts,
O'er the whole World he flings his Darts.
Who the Sun's Rise, who his Set sees,
Whom the South scorcheth, North does freeze,
All feel the Fervour of his Fires.
He Youth with wilder Flames inspires,
And in decrepid Age repeats
The Ardor of their languish'd Heats.
He Virgins immaturer Breasts
With strange unknown Desires infests:
And Gods constrains, leaving the Skies,
To trace the Earth in a Disguise;
Sol Herdsman turn'd, in Thessaly
Fed Cattel, and, his Harp laid by,

134

With Pipe of Reeds uneven made
His Bullocks to their Pasture plaid.

135

How oft yet under meaner Shrouds
Mask'd hath he been, who Heav'ns and Clouds
Guides with his Hand? with Silver Wings
Now like a Swan he seems, and sings

136

More sweetly than they dying use.
Now he a Bull's fierce shape indues,

137

And his smooth Back, whilst one ascends,
Unto the sportive Virgins bends.
Then through his Brother's Waves, untry'd
Before, (whilst Oars his Feet supply'd)
He Victor swims; with fearful Eyes
Regarding still his beauteous Prize.
Dark Night's bright Goddess fir'd, her Sphere
Forsaking, to her Brother's Care

138

Her Silver Chariot leaves to guide:
He in a less Round learns to ride,
And drive the Two hors'd Coach of Night,
Which now no due Course keeps; the Light
Slowlier returning, 'cause that feels
A Weight too heavy for its Wheels.
Alcmena's Great Son threw aside
His Shafts, and threatning Lion's Hide.

139

With Em'rauld Rings his Fingers grac'd,
His rough Hairs in due order plac'd.
On's Legs did Gold-wrought Buskins try,
On's Feet did yellow Sandals tie,
And with that Hand, which us'd to ply
His conqu'ring Mace, that Monsters slew,
He Threads with quick-turn'd Spindle drew.

140

The Persian, and the fertile Land
Of Lydia, pow'rful in Command.

141

(Disrob'd of his fierce Lion's Skin)
Hath on his mighty Shoulders seen
(On which Heaven's Fabrick once was born)
A slight-weav'd Tyrian Mantle worn.

These Fires, if wounded Hearts say true,
Are sacred, and do all subdue.
The Earth which the salt Seas imbrace,
The Heavens which glittering Stars inchace,
Under the cruel Tyranny
Of this blind Boy subjected lie.
Whose Shafts, inevitable, seize
Upon the blue Nereides;
Nor can the Waters of the Main
The Fervour of his Fires restrain.

142

The winged People of the Sky
No less his powerful Flames do try.
When Venus does their Bloods excite,
How Bulls do for their Heifers fight!
Faint Harts, when their Hinds Love they doubt,
To Combat call their Rivals out,
And signs, by braying, to their Foe
Of their conceived Fury show.
The swarthy Indian then no more
Dares spotted Tygers chase; the Boar
Whetting his angry Tusks, does roam,
And froths his Jaws with a white Foam.
The Libyan Lions shake their Manes,
When in their Breast his Fury reigns.
And with their fiercer Roarings make
The Forests groan, the Ground to quake.
The Horror of the Sea, the Whale;
And Elephant his Fires assail.
All bow to Natures Laws, there's none
Exempt. All Enmity's o'erthrown
At Love's Command, in whose kind Fires
Hate, tho inveterate, expires.
What need we instance more, when Love
Can Hearts of cruel Stepdames move.

143

Act II.

Scene I.

Enter CHORUS and NURSE.
CHORUS.
O speak, dear Nurse, what News? where is the Queen?
Is no Abatement of her Passion seen?

Nur.

No Hope as yet appears, or to asswage,
Or put an end to her Distempers Rage.
She fries in secret Fires, and tho she'd hide
Her smother'd Grief, 'tis by her Looks descry'd.
Her Eyes shoot Flames; she loaths the Light should see
Her meagre Cheeks, with nothing pleas'd can be,
Perplex'd with Passions strange Variety.
In fainting Fits she often falls as dead,
Scarce can her feeble Neck support her Head.
To Rest she goes, yet Sleep she cannot taste,
But in Complaints the tedious Night does waste.
Commands to be set up, then in her Bed
Laid down again: now bids them dress her Head,
Anon undress the same; unapt to bear
With Patience ought; likes nothing long to wear.
No Care or of her Food or Health retains;
Feebly she creeps about; nor now remains
Her former Vigour, nor that blushing Grace
Which gave a beauteous Tincture to her Face.

144

Care macerates her Limbs; trembling she goes;
Her comely Mein and Port quite lost: nor does
Her Eye, which late with Lustre, as a Sign
Of her bright Race, now ought Phœbeian shine.
Tears trickle down her pallid Cheeks, still wet
With a continual Show'r; as when the Heat
Assails high Taurus Crown, the Mountain flows
With tepid Currents of dissolved Snows.

But see the Royal Palace is displaid,
Where on her golden Couch behold her laid,
Leaning upon her Arm: whilst her own Cloaths
And Princely Habits her sick Fancy loaths.

PHÆDRA
lying on a Couch.
Maids, take those Richer Garments from my Eye;
Hence with those Robes that shine with Tyrian Dye;

145

And Vests of Silk by Eastern Seres wrought
On Boughs of Trees, from Lands far distant brought.

147

A shorter Zone my tuckt up Garments bind,
No Carcanet my Neck, nor Pearls of Inde

148

Adorn my charged Ears; No Odors spread
Or rich Assyrian Perfumes on my Head.

149

So 'bout my Neck let my loose Hairs hang down
In careless order, and my Shoulders crown;
That as I run they with the Wind may play:
My Left-hand shall my shogging Quiver stay,
My Right shall brandish a Thessalian Spear,
Such my stern Love's fair Mother did appear,
When she, forsaking the cold Pontick Strands,
With Tanaitick and Mæotick Bands,
Made Cavalcado's o'er the Attick Lands.

150

A crescent Shield flanking her tender side,
Her Hair now loose, in knotted Curls now ty'd.
Drest in this manner to the Woods I'll fly.

Nur.
Cease these sad Plaints; “Grief cures not Misery.

Phæ.
Can ought my cruel Griefs or ease, or end!

Nur.
Let's pray the Virgin Huntress would befriend.

[Exit Phædra.

151

Manet Nurse, who, on the behalf of Phædra, offers Supplications and Sacrifice to Diana or Hecate.
NURSE.
Hail the Woods Queen! the only Deitie
Honour'st the Hills, which only honour thee;
These sad and threatning Omens of her Heart,
Great Goddess of the Groves! to good convert.
Bright Lamp of Heav'n! thou Ornament of Night!
That chear'st the World with thy alternate Light.

152

Three-formed Hecate! O be inclin'd
T'our Pray'rs! and bow Hippolytus stern Mind.
To love now let him learn, and be inflam'd
With mutual Fires; be his fierce Heart reclaim'd,
And stoop to Venus Laws; to this wish'd End,
Adored Goddess! all thy Pow'rs intend.
So shine thy Looks with Lustre ever bright,
And break through the obscuring Clouds by Night
With Silver Horns. So Charms thee never force
To leave thy Sphere, nor interupt thy Course.
So never Shepherd boast thee for his Prize.
Come, O invok'd! and this our Sacrifice
Accept. Behold the Goddess does assent. [Enter Hippolytus.

I see him, with religious Intent,
His sacred Rites performing all alone.
What doubt'st? see Fortune Time and Place hath shown.
Now to our Arts.—What? do we trembling stand?
“'Tis hard to execute an ill Command.
“Who Royal Mandates serve yet, must lay by
“All Sense of Just and Honest: Modesty
“Is an ill Agent for a Prince's Ends.

Hip.
Kind Nurse, why com'st thou with a Look portends
Sadness and Care? I hope no News o'th'King,
Queen, or my Brothers, that is bad, you bring.

Nur.
Remit these Fears: thy Father's Court and State
Flourish at present with a Prosp'rous Fate.

153

Would'st thou for happier Fortune be inclin'd;
The Care of thee afflicts my aged Mind,
Who to thy self art rigorously unkind.
Whom Fates have made so, may live wretched; those
Who uncompell'd themselves to Ills expose,
And their own Tort'rers prove, deserve to lose
Those Joys, like Fools, they know not how to use.
Thy Years remembring, give thy Mind the rein,
And in the solemn Feasts, with sportive vein,
Brandish thy Torch: drown all thy Cares in Wine,
And, while thou may'st, enjoy this Life of thine,

154

Which quickly flies away. An am'rous Breast,
And gentle Venus suit a Young-man best.
Cheer up! why ly'st thou all alone a Nights?
This Sadness quit, and revel in Delights.
Let not thy Youth thus Perish in its Prime;
God hath a Duty set for every Time,
And does our Life through its Degrees extend,
And to our Age proportions a fit End.
Mirth is the Ornament of youthful Years,
Sad Looks and Gravity become Grey Hairs.
Why dost thy pregnant Genius thus restrain?
That Corn does yield the Plowman ample Gain,
Which in unvexed Furrows freely grows;
And 'bove the Wood that Tree extends its Boughs

155

Which no malignant Hand does lop: Wits be
“Apt to rise high, cherish'd by Liberty.
Thou like a churlish Huntsman lead'st thy Life,
Nor, young, wilt know the Pleasures of a Wife.
Think'st thou that Nature Men for this did frame,
To suffer Hardship, and wild Beasts to tame?
Or manage bloody Wars? Ah no: that great
And wise Disposer of this All, hath set
This Law, that since Fates so rapacious are,
We with successive Issue should repair
Nature's Decays. Venus this World exclude,
(Venus, by whom our human Stock's renew'd)
And all the Beauty of this World decay,
No Ships will Sails on empty Seas display;
Skies will want Birds; Woods will want Game to kill,
And nought but Wind will Air's vast Region fill.
Alas! how many kinds of Death there be
Attending Man! Seas, Sword and Treachery.
Say we were subject to no Laws of Fate,
Yet of our selves we haste to our Lives Date,
To Styx dark shades; should barren Youth then lead
A single Life, nor know the Marriage Bed,
All that thou seest, in one short Age of Man,
Would come to Ruine; follow Nature then,
The Guide of Life: thy Time in Towns be spent,
And Jovial Society frequent.

Hip.
No Life so happy, none from Ill so free,
So near the elder Times Integrity.
As that which, leaving Towns in Fields is led:
No avaricious Fury fills his Head,

156

Who lives the harmless Guest of Hills and Wood.
No Breath of People, faithless to the Good,
Nor rancorous Spleen, nor Favour's fickle Grace,
Nor fleeting Riches, nor vain Honour's Chace,
Affect his Soul.—
He's no Court Vassal: gapes not for a Crown,
Nor toils to compass it: fears no man's Frown,
Ne'er couzen'd is with flatt'ring Hopes; nor yet
By the base Tooth of black-mouth'd Envy bit.
Nor of those Ills which reign in Cities knows.
Nor conscious fears how the loud Rumour goes.
Studies no Lies: nor seeks his House to build
Upon a thousand Collumns; or begil'd
His carved Roofs: nor sacrificing, drowns
In Blood the Altar: nor slays Hecatombs
Of Snow-white Oxen with Meal-sprinkled Crowns.

157

But harmless wand'ring in the open Air,
The Solitary Country's Sweets dos share.
No cunning Subtleties or Craft he knows,
But to intrap wild Beasts; and when he grows
Weary with Toil, his tired Limbs he laves
In cool Ilissus pure refreshing Waves.
Now by the Banks of swift Alphæus strays,
And the thick Coverts of the Woods surveys.
Where Lerna's Streams with chilling Waters pass,
Clear and pellucid as transparent Glass.
His Seat oft changes: from their warbling Throats
The querelous Birds here strain a thousand Notes.
Whilst through the Leaves the whisp'ring Zephyre blows,
And wags the aged Beaches spreading Boughs.
There, by the Current of some silver Spring,
Upon a Turf behold him slumbering;
Whilst the licentious Stream through new-sprung Flow'rs
With pleasing Murmurs its sweet Water pours,
Red-sided Apples, falling from the Trees,
And Straw-berries, new-gather'd, do appease
His Hunger with soon purchas'd Food, who flies
Th'abhor'd Excess of Princely Luxuries.

158

In Gold let fearful Tyrants quaff: his Cup's
His Hand, whence he with greater Gusto sups
Some fresh cool Spring: he sleeps more sound and sure
On a hard Bed, than they who do secure
Their Thefts in dark Receptacles; afraid,
Tho under multiplicious shelter laid.
He seeks the Light, and makes the Heav'n and Skies
To witness how he lives. Sure on this wise
The first Age liv'd, when Gods convers'd with Men.
No blind Desire of Gold possess'd them then.
Nor did there any Sacred Land-mark bound
Unto the People the unmeasur'd Ground.

159

No credulous Ships as yet did plough the Flood,
Each knew his own Seas; as yet Cities stood
Ungirt with a deep Trench and flanked Line;
The Soldier did not yet to Arms incline
His fiercer Hands; as yet no bar'd up Ports
By the Balista's weighty Shot were Forc'd.

160

Beneath no Lords Commands the Earth did bow,
Nor did yoak'd Oxen draw the furrowing Plough.
But then the free and self-impregned Field
Did Food to the contented People yield:
The Woods on them their native Wealth bestow'd,
Their Native Houses to dark Caves they ow'd.
Rash Anger, and the wicked Love of Gain,
Unbounded Lust, and bloody Thirst of Reign,
This sacred League first broke: the Strong then o'er
The Weak began to prey, Right then was Pow'r.
At first the Combat by bare Fists was try'd,
Then Stones, and ruder Staves their Arms supply'd.
The lighter Cornet was not tipt with Steel;
No Sword adorn'd the Thigh; no Head did feel
The weight of plumed Casque. Rage first made Arms,
And furious Mars invented unknown Harms,
And thousand Forms of Death: hence Blood did stain
The Face of Earth, and the Seas wat'ry Plain.

161

Then Ills through each House ran without restraint,
Nor was there Crime without a Precedent.
Brothers by Brothers, Fathers were of Life
By Sons depriv'd, the Husband by the Wife;
And wicked Mothers their own Children slew.
(Not to name Step-Mothers; that cursed Crew,
Than Beasts more merciless;) But Woman kind,
First mover of all horrid Crimes, inclin'd
Mens Thoughts to ill; whose wicked Lusts and Dire
Incests have set so many Towns on fire.
So many Nations rais'd to Arms, o'erthrown
So many Empires; wave all else, alone
Ægeus Wife, Medea can declare
How great a Curse and Mischief Women are.

Nur.
Why should the Faults of some on all be prest?

Hipp.
Out! I abhor the Sex, abjure, detest;
Whether by Reason, Nature, Rage inclin'd,
I hate 'em all. Floods shall with Flames be joyn'd,
And Ships secure in swallowing Quick-Sands ride,
Phœbus from Tethys Western Lap be spy'd
To take his rise; Wolves to young Kids be kind,
Ere Woman Place in my Affections find.

Nur.
The most perverse have yet been tam'd by Love,
Whose Power, from Hearts, all Hatred can remove;
The truth of this thy Mothers Kingdoms prove.

162

Those fierce Virago's Venus Yoke sustain,
Thou sole-born of thy Mother mak'st this plain.

Hipp.
My Mothers death does me this help allow,
That I can freely hate all Women now.

Nur.
As the firm Rock does the Waves Charge sustain,
And beats th'assailing Surges back again;
So he my words repels—But Phædra, see
Hurrying with Speed, and wild Impatiencie!
What wills she? Whether tends her furious Race?
Alas! She's fall'n into a Swoon, her Face
Is pale as Death.—Look up! Speak Phædra! See
Thy dear Hippolytus embraces thee.

Phæ.
O who recalls my Sorrows with my Breath!
And my fierce Flames renews? How sweetly Death
Had took me from my self and them! Yet why
Should'st thou the sweeter Joys Life offers, fly?
Take courage; freely act thy own Command.
Speak boldly. “They who timorously stand
“T'intreat, teach to deny. The greatest part
Of my Crime's past. Shame comes too late; my Heart
By Love nefandous foil'd. Yet, it may be,
(If e'er their wished Ends my Wishes see)
The name of Marriage may my Shame suppress.
“Some Crimes have been made honest by success.
On then, begin.—Let me intreat your Ear
A while in private; if there be any near,

163

Withdraw—

Hipp.
The place is free from Ear or Eye.

Phæd.
My Tongue doth utterance to my Words deny.
A great Force strives my bashful Speech t'eject,
Which by a greater Force again is checkt.
Be witness, O ye Gods! The thing I would—
—Is 'gainst my Will.

Hipp.
What does thy Tongue withold?

Phæd.
“Small Griefs can speak, the great are stupifi'd.

Hipp.
Fear not, dear Mother, in my Breast to hide
Thy Cares.

Phæd.
That Name of Mother is too proud
A stile, an humbler Title would b'allow'd
Our Loves; Or Sister me, or Servant call,
But Servant rather: For whose sake I shall
Refuse no kind of Service; bid me go,
And Ill climb Pindus, crown'd with Ice and Snow;
Through Fire I'll pass, or (if thou say't) upon
Arm'd Troops, and the drawn Swords of Foes I'll run.

164

To thee, m' intrusted Scepter, I resign,
With that, my self; accept of me as thine.
It thee becomes to rule, me to obey,
Thy Fathers Realms suit not a Womans Sway.
Do thou, adorn'd with vigorous Youth, this Land
And People govern under thy command;
And me, thy Suppliant and thy Servant, take
Into thy Bosom; and for Pity's sake,
Pity a Widow.

Hipp.
Heav'ns make the Omen vain!
My Father safe will soon return again.

Phæd.
The King who Hell's tenacious Empire sways,
And silent Styx, made no retreating ways
To Light again. Think'st thou he'll e'er let scape
Him, who intended to his Bed a Rape?
Unless his sterner Mind do gentle prove,
And pardon his Offence, since caus'd by Love.

Hipp.
The righteous Gods will his Return befriend.
But whilst our Wishes those high Powers suspend,
I shall my Brothers with that Love affect,
As fits a Brother, and shall thee protect.
Think not thy self a Widow; I'll to thee
A Husband in my Father's absence be.

Phæd.
How credulous are Lovers Hopes! O vain
Delusive Love! Is this enough, and plain
H' hath spoke? I'll try him further yet with Pray'rs.
O pity me, and bow thy gentle Ears

165

To my Complaints; fain would I speak, yet loth
I am—

Hipp.
What is thy Grief?

Phæd.
Such as, in troth,
Thou'l't scarce believe, should e'er a Step-Dame vex.

Hipp.
Thy words are still ambiguous, and perplex.
Speak plainer.

Phæd.
Know then, Loves fierce Flames my Breast
Do scorch, and on my inmost Marrow feast;
The Flame within my Bowels hid, doth fly
Through all my Veins, and every Artery.
As when a Fire some House hath seiz'd upon,
The nimble Flame from Beam to Beam does run.

Hipp.
The Love of Theseus these chast Flames does move;

Phæd.
'Tis true, my dear Hippolytus, I love
Those former Looks of Theseus, that young Face,
When first the budding Down his Cheeks did grace.
When from the Gnossian Monster's Den, b' a Thred
He through the winding Labyrinth was led.

166

How shone he then, his Locks with Ribbands ty'd,
Whilst his pure Looks a Scarlet Tincture dy'd.
Strong Arms! His Face did like thy Phœbe's shine,
Or like my Phœbus looks, or rather thine.
Such, such he seem'd then, when he pleas'd the Eye
Ev'n of his Foe: So bare his Head on high.
Thy Looks are free from all adulterate Grace,
Thy very Father's Looks; yet in thy Face
Part of thy Mothers Sternness, with a sweet
And a becoming Mixture seems to meet.
A Scythian Rigour in a Grecian Look.
Hadst thou that Voyage with thy Father took,
When to the Cretan Monster he was sent,
My Sister thee, not him, the Clue had lent.
Oh Sister, wheresoe'er in Heav'n you shine,
Help me, now plung'd in a Distress like thine!

167

To one House both of us our Ruin owe,
Thou to the Father, I the Son. See, low,
As to thy Knees, a royal Suppliant bows,
And her unblemish'd Fame and Honour vows
To thy sole Will: With this resolved Mind,
Or of my Grief or Life an end to find.
Pity a Lover then.

168

Hipp.
Dread Sovereign
Of Heav'n-thron'd Deities! Crimes thus profane
Dost thou so slowly see; so slowly hear!
Sleeps thy just Vengeance? When will thy severe
Hand Thunder dart, if now the Heavens be clear?
Now let the forced Skies descend, and Clouds
The day invellop in dark pitchy Shrouds.
Stars retrograde their Course obliquely run!
O thou sidereal Head, thou radiant Sun!
Seest thou these horrid Crimes of thy bright Race?
Fly, fly for shame, and hide in Night thy Face.
Why is thy Hand thus idle, O thou Sire
Of Gods and Men? Why scapes the World the Fire
Of thy three-forked Thunder? At my Head
Level; let thy quick Lightning strike me dead.
I guilty am, and well deserve, since I
This wicked Stepmother did please, to dye.
Was I for thy foul Incest worthy thought?
Seem'd I alone fit matter to be wrought
To thy base Ends? Has my Austerity
Merited this? O thou, who dost outvy
Thy impious Sex in high Impiety?
That dar'st a more abominable Fact,
Than did thy Monster-bearing Mother act.
Far worse than she that bare thee: She with plain
Whoredom alone her Marriage-Bed did stain;
Yet was her Crime at last, tho' long conceal'd,
By her strange Issues double shape, reveal'd.
When the ambiguous Infant did proclaim,
With a fierce savage Look, its Mothers shame.

169

The Womb that bare that Monster, brought forth thee.
Thrice, oh, thrice happy, who by Treacherie
Or Hate, their Lives have lost. Father thy Fate
I envy, and deplore my own sad State.
A greater Mischief far is mine to me,
Than was thy Colchian Stepdame unto thee.

Phæd.
O now our wretched Houses Fate we find!
What we should fly we follow: Of my mind
All Rule is lost. Yet thee, through Fire, through Seas,
O'er Rocks, through Torrents threatning Deluges,
Fearless I'll follow: Wheresoe'er thou go'st,
Like to a Frantick, after thee I'll post.
Disdainful Youth! See! I again decline
My prostrate Limbs, and on my Knees hug thine.

Hipp.
Take off thy Hands, nor my chast Limbs pollute.
How's this? Like a lascivious Prostitute,
Into Embraces rushing? Then my Sword
Unto her Crime due Punishment afford.
See! In the Tresses of the impudent
My Hand I've wound; and her Head backward bent.
No juster Sacrifice, thou bow-arm'd Maid,
Was ever on thy Virgin-Altars laid.

Phæd.
Now thou art kind; thou grant'st me my Desires,
Hippolytus, and cur'st my raging Fires.
'Tis 'bove my Wish that slain by thee I dye
Without a Wrong unto my Chastity.

170

Hipp.
Hence! Live; lest to thy Pray'rs I seem to yield.
This Sword too, by thy lustful Touch defil'd,
Quit my chast side. What Tanais, from this Stain,
Or what Mœotis, near the Pontic Main,
Can wash me clean? Not Neptune with his whole
Ocean can ever expiate so foul,
So great a Guilt.—O Woods! O Beasts!

[Exit.
Nur.
Her Crime
Detected is.—What dull'd my Wits? No Time
Is to be lost: Turn back the Crime we must.
And charge Hippolytus with horrid Lust.
“Mischief with Mischief must be veil'd: We see't,
“'Tis safest, Dangers that are fear'd, to meet.
We may be Sufferers, not Aggressors thought,
Who knows? Since there's no Witness of the Fault.
Help! Help Athenians! Servants, help your Queen:
Behold Hippolytus (O horrid Sin!)
Attemps a Rape upon his Fathers Wife,
Threatning to force her Honour or her Life.
Now hence he's fled, swift as the Wings of Wind,
Yet in his Fear, hath left his Sword behind.
Which, as the Witness of his soul intent,
We keep; but first, be your Endeavours bent
To comfort the sad Queen. Let her torn Hair
Hang as it does; into the City bear
The Marks of this unparallel'd Offence.
Madam, cheer up, recover your lost Sence.
Tear not your self; or to be seen distast.
“Not Fortune makes us, but the Mind, unchast.

171

CHORUS.
Declaring the Flight, and praising the comely Person of Hippolytus.

Swift as a raging Storm he flies,
Or Hurricano through the Skies.
Swifter than Meteors rapid course,
Which the impulsive Winds do force,
When hurry'd through the airy Main,
They glide with a long fiery Train.
Let wand'ring Fame those Beauties praise,
That were the Grace of elder days.
Compar'd with thee, by so much thine
Their boasted Beauties would out-shine,
By how much greater Light adorns
Bright Phœbe, when she joyns her Horns

172

In a full Orb, and with swift Race,
Drives through the Skies with blushing Face,
When every lesser Star retires
Dim'd by the Splendor of her Fires.
Such the bright Usher of dark Night
Rises from Seas with new-bath'd Light,
Hesper; the same, Night chac'd away
Lucifer, Herald of the Day.

Not Indian Liber still unshorn,
Whom Youth unfading does adorn,
Who does with Vine-bound Spear enforce
His restife Tygers in their Course.

173

Whose Brows with Honrs Majestick crown'd
Are with a golden Mitre bound,
Can boast his curled Locks more fair
Than thy unordered Tresses are.

174

Nor yet let him too much be took
With self-conceit of his own Look,
Whom Fame says Ariadne's Eyes
Before great Bromio's self did prize.

Beauty, which few a Good can stile,
Thou Gift enjoy'd but a short while,
How swiftly dost thou fly away!
Not so the Sun's Meridian Ray,
Spoils the fresh Meadows of the Green
Which the late Spring had cloath'd them in;
When Earth beneath the Solstice fries,
And the short Night before him flies.

175

Pale Lillies languish, Roses shed
Their sweet Leaves, grateful to the Head.
So soon that radiant Tincture dies,
That does soft Cheeks vermilionize,
Rapt in a moment: Every day
From Beauty bears some Spoil away.
None wise then such a fleeting Toy
Will trust; but while they may, enjoy;
Time does with silent motion hast,
Succeeding Hours are worse than past.

Why seek'st thy self in Woods t'obscure?
Beauty's in Desarts not more sure.
Thee in some shady Covert laid,
When Phœbus his mid-Course hath made,
Will wanton Naïad's close in Rings,
Fair Youths imprisoning in their Springs.
Lascivious Wood-Nymphs, Mountain-Fawns,
Rude Satyrs that frequent the Lawns,
Will subtle Ambushes devise,
How they may, sleeping, thee surprize.
Should'st thou be by the Night's bright Queen
(Younger than the Arcadians) seen,
In star-deckt Skies as she does ride,
Her Chariot she'd forget to guide.

176

And late she blush'd, tho no dark Cloud
Did her bright Looks obscurely shroud.
When we imputing her chang'd Light
To some Thessalian Charmer's Spight,
Did make the hollow Brass resound.
But thou, the only Cause wert found,
And Charm, that did her stay enforce;
For seeing thee she stopt her Course.

On thy fair Looks let seldom beat
The Winter's Cold or Summer's Heat;
Their White the Marble shall outvy,
That does in Parian Quarries ly.
How lovely shews thy manly Face?
How sweet thy Brows majestick Grace?

177

Thy Ivory Neck thou may'st compare
With Phœbus, whose loose-flowing Hair
Beneath his Shoulders reaches down;
Thee thy rough Front, and curled Crown,
And shorter Tresses grace; which fly,
Whiskt by the Wind disorderly.
Thou may'st with warlike Deities
For Strength contend; and gain the Prize.
Thy Arms, like Hercules; thy Breast
Ample as Mars his broad-spread Chest.
When mounted on some bounding Steed,
Castor for Horsemanship exceed
Thou do'st; and canst, with nimble Hand
His Spartan Cyllarus command.

178

Unto thy Fingers fit thy Dart,
And throw with all thy Strength and Art,
Cretans, whose Skill we so commend,
Shall not their Arrows further send.
Or would'st thou, Parthian like, let fly
Thy winged Shafts into the Sky;
None shall return again unsped,
But in warm Entrails hide its Head,
And from the Clouds (thy Art to crown)
Its fleeting Mark, trasfix'd bring down.

Beauty in Men (Time's Annals see)
'Scapes rarely with Impunity,
May thine yet meet no Powers severe,
But safe as deform'd Age appear.

179

What is't that Women when they are
Incenst with Fury will not dare?
The guiltless Youth must now be made
Guilty of Rape: And to perswade
That horrid Fact, with Tresses rent,
And Head despoil'd of Ornament,
Mad Phædra runs, and weeps, and cries,
And all that Womans Wit can, tries
To make her Mischief take.—But see!
Who's this that bears such Majesty
In lofty Looks, and struts it thus?
How like to young Hippolytus!
Were not his Looks so wan, or Hair
All foul'd, did not so rudely stare.
Sure, if I not mistaken be,
'Tis Theseus new return'd; 'tis he.

180

Act III.

Scene I.

Enter THESEUS return'd from Hell.
THESEUS.

From Bounds of endless Night, and that vast Deep,
In whose dark Horrours Souls imprison'd keep,
At length w' are fled.—My Eyes the Light scarce brook,
Four times the Eleusinian Plowman's Hook
The Bounties of Triptolemus hath cut.
As oft in equal Scales hath Libra put
The Day and Night, since I my doubtful Breath,
Drew 'twixt the sad Extreams of Life and Death.
Yet in that Death-like state some Life remain'd,
My Sence in my Afflictions still retain'd;
These Ills their End from great Alcides found;
Who, when from Hell he dragg'd th'infernal Hound,

181

Me from my Adamantine Chains set free,
And brought along once more his Light to see.
My Limbs not now their former Strength retain,
My Legs beneath me tremble: O what Pain
Was it from the Abyss of Hell to climb.
To this Ætherial World, and at one time
Retreat from Death, and with unequal Pace
The mighty Strides of Hercules to trace!

What sadder Cries are these that strike mine Ears?
Declare some one; what mean these Plaints, these Tears
And mixed Lamentations in our Ports?
Well t'an infernal Guest this Mansion sorts.

Enter NURSE, in haste.
NURSE,
O Sir; an obstinate resolve to part
With her loath'd Life possesses your Queens Heart.
Nor can our Tears or supplicating Breath
Move her one jot, she's wholly bent on Death.

Thes.
What may the cause be? Why will she now dye
When I'm return'd?

Nur.
Ev'n that's the reason why
Her Death she hastens.

Thes.
Thy Words Riddles be,
Whose doubtful Sense conceals some Mystery:

182

Speak plain: What Grief does her sad Mind possess?

Nur.
Her secret Ill she will to none confess,
Resolv'd to keep t'her self for what she dies;
Haste, I beseech you, haste, Sir, her Life lies
Upon't—

Thes.
Open the Palace Doors there, oh
My Dear! is this the Welcome thou do'st show?
Thus thy long-lookt-for Spouse do'st entertain.
Throw by that Sword; restore to me again
My frighted Senses, and the Cause relate
Would force thee thus by Death t'anticipate.

Phæd.
By thy imperial Sceptre, by the Grace
And springing Glory of thy hopeful Race,
By thy return, and my determin'd Death,
Permit me to resign my hated Breath.

Thes.
What Cause constrains thee to't?

Phæd.
Should I disclose
The Cause of Death, I should Death's Comfort lose.

Thes.
None but my self shall hear it; dost thou doubt
To trust it to thy Husband's Ear? Speak out;
Close in my faithful Breast thy Words shall sleep.

Phæd.
“If Silence you'd expect, first, Silence keep.

Thes.
I'll take from thee Death's Opportunity.

Phæd.
None can, from one that is resolv'd to dy.

Thes.
The Crime, whose Expiation Death must prove,
Declare.

183

Phæd.
'Tis 'cause I live.

Thes.
Do these Tears move
No whit thy harder Heart?

Phæd.
“She happy dies
“Whose Death is waited on by weeping Eyes.

Thes.
She still persists in silence: yet what she
Denies to utter, from her Nurse shall be
By Whips, and clogging Chains enforc'd; in Bands
Of Iron quickly bind her guilty Hands,
And on her Back redoubled Stripes impose,
'Till she this Secret of her Mind disclose.

Phæd.
Hold! I'll confess't my self.

Thes.
Why turn'st aside
Thy sadder Looks? And with thy Veil do'st hide
Thy Tear-dew'd Cheeks?

Phæd.
Be Witness, O thou, Sire,
Of Heaven-thron'd Gods, and thou, whose radiant Fire
Ætherial Light begets: On whose bright Ray
Depends the Lustre of our House and Day.
By no Temptations could we be inclin'd,
Nor could or Threats, or Steel inforce my Mind,
Although my Body suffer'd Violence:
Whose Shame's Pollution now my Blood shall cleanse.

Thes.
What Villain was't durst thus our Honour wrong?

Phæd.
One whom you least imagin should.

Thes.
I long
To hear him nam'd.

184

Phæd.
This Sword will tell, which by
Thy brutish Ravisher (with the loud Cry
Of People that came passing to our aid,
Frighted) was left, as hence his Flight he made.

Thes.
What see I, Wretch! what Prodigy behold!
The Royal Ivory markt with Studs of Gold,
Grace of th'Actæan Name; but of his Guilt,
The cursed Evidence, shines in the Hilt.
Where is the Villain fled?

Thæd.
These Servants here
Beheld him swiftly flying, wing'd with Fear.

Thes.

O sacred Piety? O Jove! Who bears
The Rule, and guid'st the Motions of the Sphears.
And thou, who hold'st in Seas the second Reign,
Whence springs the Taint of this accursed Strain?

185

Seems he in Greece? Or near the Desart Head
Of Taurus? Or the Banks of Phasis bred!
“A vicious Kind to its first Rise turns back,
“And base Blood shews of its foul Spring the Track.
Those fierce Viragoes Venus chaster ties,
And the strict Laws of Wedlock do despise.
Their Virgin Shames exposing to the rude
Embraces of a lustful Multitude.
O the curst Fate of such a vicious Race!
Whose Manners better by no change of Place.
Even Beasts incestuous Coiture disclaim,
The Laws of Kind preserv'd by inbred Shame.
Where's that feign'd manly Look that seem'd t'affect
The Antient Garb and Manners? Grave Aspect?
“Deceitful Life! Who thy hid Sense can find?
“That mask'st with a fair Face, a deform'd Mind.
“The impudent Shames modest Blushes wears,
“The Ruffian Meekness; Irreligion bears
“The shew of Piety; and Truth, Deceit
“Seems to affect; Hardship th'Effeminate
Didst thou reserve thy self for me, thou rude,
And undefil'd Inhabitant o'th' Wood?
And seem'd it fit thy Manhood to begin,
By wronging of my Bed? By such a Sin?

Now, now, I gladly thank the Heavenly Powers,
Antiope fell by this Hand of ours.
That while for Stygian Deeps we were design'd,
We thy own Mother left thee not behind.

186

Go where thou wilt, to unknown Nations fly,
Get thee to Lands the most remote, that ly
From all the World divided by huge Seas;
Though thou descend to the Antipodes,
Or climb (to find thee out some obscure Hole
To hide thee in) above the high-rais'd Pole.
And see Snows, Storms, and the fierce Northern Wind.
Beneath thee bluster; Vengeance yet shall find
Thee out; through all thy lurking Holes I'll trace
Thee Fugitive, to the most distant place
Where yet no wandring Foot e'er found Access.
Although immur'd within some Rocks Recess;
Dark and abstruse; I'll search and find thee there,
No place shall hinder my Pursuit: And where
Arms cannot reach thee, Curses shall. Do'st know
From whence we came?—Dread Neptune did bestow
This Boon on us, that we Three Pray'rs should make,
To which he'd sign; and by th'adjur'd Lake

187

Of Styx, confirm'd his Vow. O now make good
This thy sad Gift, thou Ruler of the Flood!
No longer let Hippolytus the Light
Of Day behold; but to the Shades of Night,
Curst by his Father, in Youth's Prime descend.
To me this execrable Aid extend!

188

Had we not been by weighty Ills opprest,
We never had enforc'd this last Request.
When in Tartarian Deeps by Dis inchain'd,
This Vow we spar'd, from this last Wish abstain'd.
Kind Father, now thy promis'd Boon fulfil.
Why tarry'st thou? Why are the Seas yet still?
Let Cloud-compelling Winds blow Night on Day,
And take the sight of Heav'n and Stars away.
Unsluce the Main, and let the watery Flood
Rise high, and swell; big with a monstrous Brood.

[Exit.
CHORUS.
Great Parent of the Deities,
Nature! And thou who rul'st the Skies!
By whom the Star-imbellish'd Heaven
Is with a rapid Motion driven;
Who guid'st the Planets, and the Poles
On nimble-turning Hinges rowls.

189

So great a Care why do'st thou prove
T'inform those restless Spheres above!
That now the hoary Frost bereaves
The Woods and Forests of their Leaves.
Now Shade to every Shrub returns;
Now fiery Leo Ceres burns;
Now milder Autumn does asswage
The Rigour of his scorching Rage.
And yet great Monarch of this World
(By whom the just-pois'd Orbs are hurl'd
Round 'bout their Centres) seem alone
Of Mortals so neglectful grown,
As if by thee no Thought were had,
To help the Good or plague the Bad!
“Chance without Order does command
“Th'Affairs of Men; and with blind Hand

190

“Her ill-plac'd Bounties does dispence,
“Whilst Lust triumphs o'er Innocence.
“Fraud does in Courts of Princes reign,
“And 'tis the Peoples giddy vain
“With Power base Abjects to invest,
“And whom they honour, soon detest.
“Sad Virtue reaps an unjust Meed,
“And Chastity's opprest with Need.
“Whilst viciously potent grown,
“Th'Adulterer does climb a Throne.
Vain Modesty! Deceitful Grace!
But stay; what News with nimble pace,
Is this the hasty Nuncius bears?
His sad Cheeks stain'd with falling Tears.

Act IV.

Scene I.

Enter NUNCIUS and THESEUS.
NUNCIUS.
O the hard Fortune of a servile state!
Forc'd to be Nuncius of so sad a Fate.

Thes.
Fear not the worst of Crosses to disclose,
I have a Breast not un-inur'd to Woes.

Nunc.
Voice to so great a Grief my Tongue denies.

Thes.
On our crush'd State what heavier Burthen lies?

191

Nunc.
Hippolytus, ah me! Is dead—dead—

Thes.
He
Long since hath been as a Son dead to me.
Now, as a Ravisher, at length he's dead.
But say the manner how.

Nunc.
As hence he fled
With nimble steps, his harness'd Steeds he fits
Unto his Chariot, rein'd with curbing Bits.
When muttering much unto himself, the Land
That bred him cursing; oft with heav'd up Hand,
He cries, O Father! Then with Whip constrains
His Horses speed, and slacks their checking Reins.
When strait, the Sea, like a huge Mountain swelling,
Rose to the Stars, no breath of Wind compelling.
No Storm in any part of Heav'n was heard,
The Waters, with a self-rais'd Tempest stir'd.
Not so Sicilias storm-vex'd Ocean raves,
Nor work the Seas with such high-going Waves
At Corus Blasts, when Rocks their Fury dread,
And their white Spry strikes Leucad's misty Head.
The Sea a watry Pelion now appears,
Big with a Monster, which to shoar she bears.
Nor to wreck Ships is this wild Tempest meant,
The Land it threatens: Billows thither bent

192

Roll swiftly: Nor know we with what strange Birth
They labour; or what Miracle the Earth
Would shew the Stars. The toiled Waves appear,
Prest with a Burthen which they groan to bear.
That seems some Island from the troubled Seas,
Rais'd to augment the numerous Cyclades.
In Waves the Epidaurian Fane lies drown'd,
The Rocks, by Scyron's Villanies, renown'd,
And Isthmos, which two Seas imbrace; whilst we
This with Amazement view, behold the Sea
Begins with horrid Bellowings to resound,
Which the remugient Rocks do eccho round.
A big-swol'n Head, froath'd with a briny Spry,
Vomits the Sea's salt Charge alternately.
As some huge Whorlpool rowl'd through Deeps about;
From whistling Trunk the gulped Stream does spout.

193

And now the Waters, breaking with a Roar,
Discharge the dreadful Monster on the Shore.
Our Fears exceeding: the Waves rushing on,
Threat to the Land an Inundation,
Following their monstrous Birth: We shook for fear.

Thes.

Say yet what shape did this strange Monster bear?
Like to a Bull he seem'd above the Breast,
Advancing his green Front and curled Crest,
With bristled Ears, and party-colour'd Horn,
Such as the Ruler of the Herd adorn;
Or those that live in Seas; who from his dire
Throat vomits Flames, as his Eyes sparkle Fire.
His Neck, distinguished with azure Spots,
Swelling with brawny Rolls, and fleshy Knots.
His wide-stretch'd Nostrils snort; green Moss his Brest,
And, Dulaps like, a Pectoral invest.

194

His Sides with red distain'd: and where they end,
The rest does in a monstrous Fish descend,
Big as a mighty Whale, which in the Main
Swallows down Ships, and casts them up again.
The Land shook; Cattel, at the Noise afeard,
Ran 'bout the Fields; the Shepherd left his Herd.
Wild Beasts forsook their Coverts; Fear possest
With chilling Cold each Hunter's bloodless Brest.
Hippolytus undaunted yet remains,
Curbing his Horses in with hard-born Reins;
And to their Fears exciting Words applies.

A way through broken Rocks to Argos lies
A long the Shore. The Monster here makes halt,
Whets his keen Rage, and arms for the Assault.
When after a short Prelude with his Ire,
Finding his chafed Courage to aspire;
The Ground scarce touching, forth he swiftly flies,
And fronts the trembling Steeds with glaring Eyes.
Whom the brave Youth thus charges, undismaid,
With thundring Voice, and Looks that Wrath display'd.

195

Vain Fears my manly Mind can ne'er surprize,
To foyl Bulls, was my Fathers Exercise.
With that the frighted Horses hurry on
The whirling Chariot, and distracted run,
Where e'er their Fear their wilder Fury drives:
Quitting the Road, they climb the rocky Clives.
But, as a Pilot, lest rough Seas o'erwhelm
His Bark, with all his strength belays the Helm,
And breaks with Art the swelling Waves; so here,
In rugged ways does he his Chariot steer.
Now holds his Horses in, now as they skip,
And fling about, corrects them with his Whip.
His Foe pursues him still with equal pace,
Now siding him, now charging Face to Face;
Provoking Fear on every Hand: And now
Further he could not go; for with fierce Brow
Confronting him, the Sea-born Monster stands.
His frighted Horses breaking all Commands,
Plunge to get loose; and rearing bolt upright,
Throw to the ground their Master, who (sad Sight!)

196

Falling, lies fetter'd in th'intangling Reins,
Which bind him faster still the more he strains.
His Steeds perceiv'd the sad Disaster strait,
And with the Chariot (wanting now its Weight,
And wonted Driver) where Fear spurs them, run.
So the illustrious Chariot of the Sun.
(Missing its proper Guide) disdaining Day
Should know the Rule of an usurped Sway,
Threw from the Skies the erring Charioteer.
His Blood the Fields distains; rough Briars tear
His Hair away; dasht 'gainst the Rock, his Head
Rebounds; with many Wounds disfigured.
The hurry'd Wheels his dying Members rake,
At length his trailed Corps on a burnt Stake
Caught by the Groin, stuck fast; the Chariot found
A stop a while; its Lord transfix'd: the Wound
The Horses checkt: at length, at once, Delay
And their poor Lord, straining, they tear away.
His half-dead Flesh the thorny Brambles scratch,
And every Shrub some piece of him does catch.
His mournful Servants running every way
About the Fields, about the Thickets stray,
And follow where they see their Master trail'd
With a long bloody Track the Earth ingrail'd.
His tyr'd Hounds howling, trace his Limbs; nor yet
With all their Search could his sad Mates complete
His mangled Corps. Meets Beauty with such Grace?
He who but lately held the Second Place

197

With thee in Empire, thy Crown's Heir design'd,
Who, like the Stars, in glorious Lustre shin'd,
With recollected Limbs, defac'd and torn,
Now piece-meal to his Funeral-Fire is born.

Thes.
How strongly powerful Nature dost thou bind
The Hearts of Parents! How by thee inclin'd,
Though 'gainst our Wills! For him, whose guilty Head
I lately doom'd to Death; I grieve now dead.

Nunc.
“For what he wish'd done, none grieves honestly.

Thes.
“It is the height of Infelicity,
“When ev'n our Wishes prove our Curses.

Nunc.
But
Why griev'st thou for him, if thou lov'st him not?

Thes.
Not that I've lost him grieve I, but that I
The Cause should be, he such a Death should dye.

CHORUS.

What turns th'Affairs of Mortals Wheel
About! Small things do hardly feel
The Rage of Fortune; what is low,
Heavens high Hand strikes with a slight Blow.
Sweet Peace in obscure Mansions keeps,
A Cottage yields untroubled Sleeps.
When Turrets that to Clouds aspire,
Feel the rough Tempests storming Ire.
Moist Vallies dread not Thunders Stroke,
When Caucasus high Crown is broke

198

With Heaven's Artillery; great Hights
Jove in a jealous Anger smites.
No Storms Plebeian Roofs do rock,
Courts only feel the Thunders Shock.
Fortune, with doubtful Wings, still flies,
And Faith with all Men falsifies.
He who lare fled the Shades of Night,
And now enjoys the Day's clear Light,
Wails his return; finds his own Court
Worse Hell than his sad Stygian Port.
Great Goddess of th'Athenian State!
That Theseus with unwonted Fate
Reviews the Heav'ns (the Stygian shore
Declin'd) thou ow'st no Soul the more
To thy rapacious Unkle; he
His Number still complete does see.

What mournful Voice invades my Ear?
What means mad Phædra with a drawn Sword here?

199

Act V.

Scene I.

THESEUS, PHÆDRA, CHORUS, and Servants.
THESEUS.
What Fury to thy grief-pierc'd Soul adds Stings?
Why this drawn Sword? Whence is't this Passion springs?
What mean these Outcries? And these Tears you shed
Over the hated Reliques of the dead?

Phæd.

Me, me, thou King of Waves, invade 'gainst me
Send forth the horrid Monsters of the Sea.
Whatever Thetis in her inmost Deeps,
Or in its utmost Waves the Ocean keeps.
Unlucky Theseus! Thou, who to thy own,
Still fatally revert'st! Father and Son,
By thy return, both suffering; born to prove
Thy House's Ruine! In thy Hates or Love
Unto thy Wives equally hurtful; thus
Do I behold thee, dear Hippolytus!

200

And did I make thee such? These Limbs of thine
What Scinis or Procrustes did disjoyn?
Or hath the Cretan Bull (that makes the round
Of the Dædalian Labyrinth resound
With horrid Bellowings) mangled thus, and torn
Thy tender Body with his goring Horn?
Ah me! Where is thy Beauty fled? the Light
Of thy fair Eyes, my Stars! Set in dark Night?

201

And art thou dead? Yet let thy Soul a while
Here hover, and my last Words hear: Nought vile
Will we now speak: This Hand, and 'tis but right,
Shall with due Punishment thy Wrongs requite.
And this revenging Steel strike through my Brest,
And me, at once, of Life and Crime devest.
Then through Tartarean Lakes, dark Styx, and through
The flaming Phlegeton we'll thee pursue.
—But first thy Ghost appease we; thus I spread
My Hairs on thee, thus tear them from my Head.
It was not lawful that we Souls should joyn,
But sure we may joyn Fates: Thus I'll be thine.

If then thou'rt chast, unto thy Husband dye,
If not, unto thy Love.—Shall ever I
Guiltless and innocent again be led
To Theseus impiously defiled Bed?
O Death, of my unhappy Love the sure
Redress, and my Shame's expiating Cure!
To thee I fly; receive me in thy wide-
Stretch'd Arms, and in thy peaceful Bosom hide.

Hear you, Athenians! And thou, Theseus, hear!
Worse Father far than I a Stepmother.
Whate'er I told you were abhorred Lies,
Which from despis'd Affection did arise.
And poor Hippolytus is innocent
Of all those Crimes my Malice did invent.

202

To charge him with, and punish'd wrongfully.
Receive this Truth due to thy Chastity,
And see my bared Breast ready to take
The just-deserved Steel; whose Blood shall make
Atonement for thy Death.—Now learn by us
What thou shouldst do for thy lost Son,—dye thus.

[Falls upon the Sword.

203

Thes.

Thou pale Avernus! You Tenarian Caves!
And thou, dark Lethe! from whose grateful Waves,
The wretched Souls drink sweet Oblivion:
And ye dull Lakes, that with dead Currents run.
In Plagues eternal plunge this impious Head.
Now rise, thou Monster, from thy wavy Bed,
With all those numerous Fries, that Proteus keeps
In lowest Seas; into your gulphy Deeps
Hurry a Wretch that boasts a Crime so dire,
And thou too easily assenting Sire
To my rash Vows: Hear! I an Act have done,
That merits more than Death, murther'd my Son.
Whilst I with Vengence a feign'd Crime pursue,
I wickedly am fall'n into a true.
Seas, Hell, and Heaven alike our Mischiefs share;
What rests? Notorious to Three Realms we are.

For this returned we? Scap'd we from Hell free,
That we on Earth might double Slaughters see?
That Widower, and childless, both, I might
At once my Wife's and my Son's Funerals light.
O great Alcides! T'whom the Benefit
Of this sad Light we owe, to Disremit
Thy Gift again.—But on our impious Head
In vain do we invoke the Death we fled.

Thou bloody Murderer! That could'st devise
So many strange unheard of Cruelties.
Now on thy self just Vengeance irrogate.
May'st thou by Pines forc'd down; by Strength and Weight

204

Upward recoyling, torn asunder be,
Or cast from Scyron's Cliffs into the Sea.
More horrid Torments yet, where Phlegeton
With streams of Fire surrounds the damn'd, are known,
And we have seen: Those Plagues, that place full well
To us belong: Make room ye Ghosts of Hell.
On me the weighty Stone impose; and ease
The wearied Hands of old Æolides.
Let cousening Streams my thirsty Lips deceive,
Now let the greedy Vulture Titius leave,

205

And on my growing Liver ever feast!
Rest, dear Perithous his Parent, rest;
Unto thy torturing Wheel let me be bound,
And with perpetual motion hurried round:
Cleave Earth! And swallow me, thou dark Abyss
Of Night! This way to Hell more fitting is
For Theseus. Son! I follow thee. Nor fear
Thou King of Souls! Not as a Ravisher
Do I now come, but as thy peaceful Guest,
In thy eternal Mansions still to rest.
Receive me then!—But 'lass! These Pray'rs of mine
Are fruitless; nor relentless Gods incline;
Were it some Mischief we implor'd, our Pray'r
How soon would they then grant, how quickly hear!

Chor.
Time for thy Tears, enough rests: Theseus! now
Unto thy Son his Funeral Rites allow;
And decently his Limbs disjoyn'd and torn,
Quickly compose!

Thes.

O give me leave to mourn!
Hither the sad Remainders of his dear
Lov'd Body bring; here lay 'em, lay 'em here.
Is this Hippolytus?—My own dire Act
I now acknowledg; detestable Fact!
I murther'd thee, Hippolytus! 'twas I,
And lest my Guilt should want a double Dy;
Or I an Accessory to my Sin,
Unto my Aid I call'd my Father in.

206

Now see for what thou didst his Help engage!
O what a Cross is Orbity to Age
Broken with Sorrows! In thy Arms imbrace
His mangled Limbs, and groveling on thy Face,
A miserable Wretch, what yet does rest
Of thy Sons Limbs now cherish in thy Brest.
His torn and scatter'd Members recompose,
And every Limb in its due place dispose.
Here, as I take it, this stout Arm should stand;
Here, that so well could guide the Reins, this Hand;
This sure a Part of his Left Side appears:
How much of him yet's wanting to our Tears!
Hold, trembling Hands, till this sad Work be done;
And stay my parched Cheeks these Tears that run
From my swoln Eyes, whilst I recount my slain
Son's Limbs, and piece his Body up again.
Here's a torn shapeless Lump: What Part of thee
It is, I know not, but some Part 't must be;
Here lay't, in this void place; there let it lie,
And that, though not its own, since void, supply.
Is this that bright sydereal Face of thine,
That could thy Enemy to Love incline?
And is thy Beauty come to this? Dire Fate!
More cruel Love! But far more cruel Hate!

Thus at thy Father's Wish return'st thou, Son!
Of my great Parent, loe! The last kind Boon
Afforded me! That with repeated Cries
I thus should pay thee piece-meal Obsequies.

207

But now commit these Reliques to the Fire.
Set open wide our Palace by so dire
A Slaughter stain'd; and let sad Athens round
With Plaints of mournful Citizens resound.
You, whilst these here search for his Limbs that are
Yet unretriev'd; the Funeral Pile prepare.
For her, the Grave afford her Bones a Bed.
But lye Earth heavy on her impious Head.

FINIS.

209

TROADES;

OR THE Royal Captives. A TRAGEDY,

------ Res Asiæ, Priamique evertere Gentem
Immeritam, visum est superis. ------
Virg. Æn. 3.

211

THE ARGUMENT.

Troy yet in Flames, fresh Grief from old Grounds springs,
Revenge not satisfy'd: fierce Phthia's Kings
Offended Ghost Polyxena demands
As his vow'd Bride, be slain by Pyrrhus Hands.
Disputes 'bout this he with Atrides bands,
Ended by Chalcas; who, Great Hector's Son
Says must from Cæa's Tower be headlong thrown.
So what is said, is done.

213

Act I.

Scene I.

Enter HECUBA.

Who trust in Thrones, in proud Escurials reign,
Nor fear the Easie Gods, possest with vain
Credulity of a still prosperous State,
Me let him look on, and thee Troy! By Fate

214

A greater Document was never shown
On what a slippery Hight Pride stands! O'erthrown
Is Asia's strong Support, of God-like Hands
Th'egregious Labour; under whose Commands

215

He who cold seven-mouth'd Tanais drinks, once bore
Confederate Arms; and he who does adore
The Rising Sun, where Tigris warm Streams stain
Their Waters in the Erithræan Main;

216

And She, whose Realms the wandring Scythians bound,
Who beats with widowed Troops the Pontick Ground.

By Steel mow'd down, now her own Ruins Weight
Bears Pergamus; her Tow'rs which glister'd late

217

With their fir'd Buildings fallen: All, All's o'erturn'd
In Flames; Assaracus his Palace burn'd.
Nor Flames the Victors greedy Hands prevent,
But while yet burning, Troy's for Pillage rent.
Smoak in Waves rising takes Heaven's Sight away,
And black-burnt Cinders smeer the Face of Day.
Measuring with greedy Eye Troy's long sought Spoil
The Victor stands, and now his Ten Years Toil
Forgives; astonish'd at her Ruins, he yet
Scarce thinks it vincible, though won he see it.
The Dardan Wealth Greek Souldiers bear away;
Nor can a thousand Ships contain the Prey.

To witness here I call the adverse Pow'rs!
And thou, once Ruler of the Phrygian Tow'rs,

218

Beneath the Ruins of thy Empire laid
My Countries Ashes! and thy Dearer Shade,
Who standing, Ilium stood. Ye lesser Ghosts,
My Childrens numerous Souls! What ever Cross
Hath fall'n, what Ills th'inspired Maid foretold,
(The God belief forbidding) those of Old,
Saw pregnant Hecuba; nor held my Peace,
Before Cassandra, a vain Prophetess.
Not crafty Ithacus, nor Diomed,
Nor treacherous Sinon, through your Buildings spread
These Flames; These Fires are mine; and with my Brands
You burn. But why lamenting thus Troy's Ruins, stands
Too long-liv'd Age? Here Wretch! look here, on these
(Troy's an old Grief) more fresh Calamities.

219

I saw (O cruel Fact!) the old King slain;
And, a worse Crime, the sacred Altars stain
Than armed Ajax dar'd. When with Hands wreath'd
In's Hair, his Head reversing, Pyrrhus sheath'd
In a deep Wound his cursed Blade; which strook
Up to the Hilts; when the King willing took;
Drawn forth his aged Throat, scarce reek'd with Blood.
Whom not the sense of his extreme Age cou'd
From so abhorr'd a Murder once restrain,
Nor present Gods, nor yet Joves sacred Fane,
The Glory once of this now levell'd State.
He to so many Princes Father late,

220

Now wants a Sepulcher, and Funeral Fire,
His Troy in Flames. Nor can all this Heaven's Ire
Appease. To Lords, lo! Priam's Daughters by
The Urn are given, whom, a scorn'd Prize, shall I

221

Attend? Some one may his Wife Hector's make,
Some Helenus, some may Antenor's take:

222

Perhaps some one thy Bed, Cassandra, seeks;
I'm only a fear'd Lot to all the Greeks.

Cease you my Captive Troops! Your Plaints forbear!
Beat with your Hands your Breasts, with Cries the Air,
And Troy's sad Obsequies perform: Now round
Ide, that dire Judge's Fatal Seat, resound.

CHORUS of Captive Trojan Ladies.

No rude Crew un-inur'd to Tears
Bid you to mourn: Successive Years
Can witness, this w'have never ceast
To do, since first the Phrygian Guest
Amyclæ reach'd, and Cybel's Pine
Did plow blew Neptune's foaming Brine.

223

On to our Plaints, and as we weep,
Do thou, O wretched Queen, Time keep
With thy advanced Hand: whilst we,
Skill'd in our Parts, do follow thee.

224

Hecuba.
You faithful Consorts of our Woe
Unbind your Tresses: Let your Hair
About your sad Necks loosely flow,
Powder'd with Troy's warm Ashes: Bare
Your Arms; your Vestures, slackly ty'd
Beneath your naked Bosoms, slide
Down to your Wasts. For whose Bed drest
Vail'st thou, O Captive, Shame! thy Breast?
A looser Zone your Garments bind!
Your Cries with frequent Strokes be join'd!
Hands prest t'assail! Aye, now you please,
Thus habited! Now Troades
I know you all: Again renew
Your mournful Plaints, and strive t'outdo
Th'Expressions common Sorrows vent,
'Tis Hector whom we now lament!

CHORUS.
Our Locks oft torn to wail the Dead,
See! We have all unfilleted,

225

And 'bout our shoulders loosly thrown;
Upon our Heads warm Ashes strown.

Hecuba.

Fill then your Hands; From Troy this yet
We lawfully may take; and let
From your devested Shoulders slide,
Your Garments, down on either side.
Now bared Bosoms call for Blows.
Now, Sorrow, all thy Pow'rs disclose.
Rhætean Shores with Plaints resound,
And Eccho the sad Cries rebound:
Nor, as she's wont, ingeminate
The last of Words, but iterate
Troy's Plaints entire; that all the Main,
And all the Heav'ns may ring again.

226

Now let remorsless Hands infest
With sounding strokes each suff'ring Breast;
W' are not with usual Stripes content;
'Tis Hector whom we now lament,

CHORUS.
For thee our Arms we beat, and Blows
On bleeding Shoulders thus impose.
For thee our Heads these Strokes do bear,
Our nursing Breasts for thee we tear.
The Wounds which since thy Death remain
Yet green, now freshly bleed again.
Thy Country's strength! Fates Remora!
The tired Phrygians only stay.
Troy's Rampart! who upheld'st her Tow'rs
Ten Years against assailing Pow'rs.
With thee she fell; one Day a Grave
To Hector and his Country gave.

227

HECUBA.
Turn now your Plaints; Let Priam too
Be wept for: Hector hath his due.

CHORUS.
Receive our Tears, twice captiv'd King!
Thee Reigning, Fates no Cross did bring
Single on Troy; twice did she feel
Herculean Shafts, twice Grecian Steel.
When after all the Tragic Falls
Of Hecub's Race; and Funerals
Of Princely Sons; thy self, in fine,
Did'st close their Tragedies with thine.
And to great Jove, a Victim slain,
Troy's Shores thy headless Trunk sustain.

228

Hecuba.
Your Tears on other Subjects spend,
Ye Ilian Dames, my Priam's End
Is not to be lamented. All
Deceased Priam Happy call.
He to th'infernal Shades went free,
Not thrall'd in Grecian Slavery.
He ne'er th'Atrides saw, he never
The false Ulysses knew, nor ever
Shall bow his captiv'd Neck, a Prize
In their triumphed Victories.

229

Nor shall his Hands, which late sustain'd
A Scepter, be behind him chain'd,
Nor in Gold Fetters manacled
Following the Victor's Car, be led
In pomp through proud Mycenæ.

CHORUS.
All
Deceased Priam happy call;
Attended at his latest Fate
With the whole Ruine of his State.
Who now in the Elizian Groves
Delightful Shades securely roves,

230

And 'mong the pious Ghosts makes Quest
For Hector. Happy Priam! “Nor less blest
“Whoever in War's bloody strife
“Falling, sees all things perish with his Life.

231

Act II.

Scene I.

TALTHIBIUS, and CHORUS of old Trojans.
Talthibius.
How long in Port the Greeks still wind-bound are!
When War they seek, or for their Homes prepare!

CHORUS.
The Cause declare them and their Fleet detains,
What God it is that their Return restrains.

232

Talthibius.
Amazement strikes my Soul; a trembling Cold
Palsies my Joynts. Prodigious Truths when told
Are hardly credited; yet these, these Eyes
Were Witnesses: And now the Sun's uprise
New gilt the Mountain tops, and Eastern Light
Had clearly vanquish'd the whole Hoast of Night;
When on a sudden the sore-shaken Ground,
Breath'd from its Centre a strange bellowing Sound:
Woods bow'd their Heads, the sacred Grove with loud
Cracks rung, like Thunder breaking through a Cloud;
Stones from cleft Ida's Quarries fell: Nor shook
The Earth alone; the Sea with Terrour strook,

233

Th'Approach of her Achilles felt, and laid
Her swelling Waves. Th'Earth yawning then display'd
Her immense Caves, and from the Depths of Night
Open'd a Passage to Ætherial Light:
The Tomb disburd'ning, whence the Ghost arose
Of great Achilles; Such when Thracian Foes
(The Prelude to thy Fates, Troy!) he o'erthrew,
And the white hair'd Neptunian Cycnus slew.
Or when in heat of Fight, with strenuous Force
Through Troops he charg'd, and stopp'd the Rivers Course

234

With slaughter'd Carcasses, while Xanthus Tide,
Seeking a Passage through, did slowly glide.
Or such when Victor trailing by the Heels
Hector and Troy, born on triumphant Wheels.
Then with this Voice of Anger fills the Coast:
Go, go, ye lingring Greeks, and rob our Ghost
Of its due Honours; weigh ingrateful! weigh
Your Anchors, through our Seas to make your way.
'Twas not with Trifles Greece did satisfie
Achilles Anger, nor a Price less high
Shall she now pay. Polyxena be wed
T'our Ashes; and her Blood let Pyrrhus shed.

235

This said, he shrouds himself in Night, and sinks
To Hell again: the Earth together shrinks,
Closing her gaping Clefts; the quiet Main
Becalmed lies; the Winds their Rage restrain,
The smooth Seas move with gentle Murmurings,
And Triton thence the Hymeneal sings.

236

Scene II.

PYRRHUS, AGAMEMNON.
Pyrrhus.
When home you thought to sail, full Fraught with Joy,
Achilles fell; by whose sole Arm fell Troy.
Whose all-o'er-mastering Valour soon repaid
The loss of that Delay which Scyros made,

237

And Lesbos, that divides th'Ægean Flood;
For Troy's Fall doubtful still, he absent, stood.
Should you now haste to satisfie his Will,
Yet were it tardy Satisfaction still.
Now every Chief his proper Share hath took;
For less Reward can so much Virtue look?
Merits he nothing? Who, when (charg'd to shun
Wars Hazards) his Life's Course he might have run
In peaceful Quiet beyond Nestor's Years;
Yet slighting his Disguise and Mothers Fears,

238

He himself Man, by assum'd Arms, confest.
When Telephus with barbarous Pride represt
Our Entrance into Mysia, his yet rude
Hand in that Prince's Blood he first imbru'd.
Who felt with what a force the same could wound,
Yet in his Cure, that no less gentle found.

239

Thebes and Eetion by his Arms pursu'd,
Both fell; his State and he at once subdu'd.
The small Lyrnessus Mountain-seated Tow'rs,
He with like Slaughter level'd by his Pow'rs.

240

Enobled by fair Briseis Captive made.
He Chryse, cause of kingly Difference, laid
In her own Ruins. Tenedos renown'd
By Fame, and Cilla rich in fertile Ground
To Phœbus sacred, whose fat Pastures fed
Large Thracian Flocks, by him were vanquished.

241

What? And those Lands through which Caycus flows;
Whose Streams augment by Spring-dissolved Snows.
These so great Slaughters, Nations mighty dread,
Like Whirlwinds through so many Cities spread,

242

Which might have been anothers closing Fame,
Were but his Marches Actions; thus he came:
And in so many glorious Conquests shar'd
The Spoils of War, while lie for War prepar'd.
Though we his other Merits should refrain;
Were not this One sufficient? Hector slain!
He Ilium conquer'd; 'twas but sack'd by you.
Our Parents noble Praises we'll pursue,
And his brave Acts, for which that Praise is due.

243

Who knows not Hector, in his Fathers Sight;
In's Unkles, Memnon, fell by him in Fight?
Whose Death his Parents Cheeks with Sorrow pal'd,
And morning's rosie Looks in Mourning veil'd.
Himself abhor'd the fatal Precedent,
And learn'd, that Sons of Gods were not exempt
From Death. Penthesilea too, of all
Our Fears the last, did by his Valour fall.

244

A Virgin then might but his Due be thought,
Though even from Argos or Mycenæ brought,
Priz'd you his Merits justly: Can you move
A Doubt yet, or refuse his Will t'approve?
Think you 'tis Cruelty to Peleus Son
To offer Priam's Daughter? When your own
A Sacrifice to Helena was made?
For what even Precedent allows, we plead.

Agamemnon.

“Not to curb Passion, childish Weakness is.
“Others the Heat of Youth inflames: But this

245

In Pyrrhus is Hereditary. We
Have felt thy Father's Rage; and th'Injurie
Of his high Threats have suffer'd heretofore.
“The more thy Power, thy Patience should be more.
Why with the Blood of a young Virgin slain,
Seek'st thou so great a Leader's Ghost to stain?
“'Tis fit this first we learn to know, what e'er
“The Victor ought to do; the Vanquish'd bear.

246

“No violent Dominions long endure:
“'Tis Moderation makes a Throne stand sure.
“When Fortune swells our State to an Excess,
“'Tis Wisdom to restrain our Happiness:
“The Turns of Chance, and too propitious Pow'rs
“Still fearing; Conquest teaching, how few Hours
“Can to Subversion bring the greatest State.
Troy's Fall hath rais'd our Thoughts to too elate,
Too stern a Pride; in the same place we stand
From whence she fell. Once with too proud a Hand
I must confess I bare my self, but what
Might have rais'd others Thoughts, Success; e'en that
Hath humbled Mine. Thou Priam, make me proud!
Thou bid'st me fear. “What but a splendid Shroud
“Of Vanity, may we think Crowns to be,
“Our Brows impaling with false Majesty,
“Which Chance, in one short Hour, may make her spoil,
“Without a Thousand Ships, or Ten Years Toil.

248

“So slow a Fate attends not all. And Greece!
(If with thy leave I may confess it) This
I'll say; I would have Ilium distrest,
Nay more, subdu'd; her Ruin yet represt;

249

But the hot Rage of an incensed Foe,
And Victory, by Night obtained, know
No Curb. What cruel or unworthy Fact
May seem committed, that Revenge did act,
And Darkness, which does Fury forward thrust,
And the victorious Sword; whose killing Lust
Having once tasted Blood 's ne'er satisfy'd.
If ought of ruin'd Troy may yet abide
After all this, now let it stand secur'd:
Enough, more than enough, she hath endur'd.

That at thy Father's Tomb the Princess shou'd
Be made a Sacrifice, and with her Blood
Sprinkle his Ashes, or that yet so vile
Cruel a Murder we should Nuptials stile,
We'll ne'er permit: 'Tis we must bear the blame:
“Who ought, yet not forbids Ill, bids the same.

Pyrrhus.
Shall then Achilles Ghost due Honours want?

Agamemnon.
Dues it shall have, and every Tongue shall chant
His Praise; and Lands unknown resound his Fame,
And celebrate the Glory of his Name.

250

If yet his Ashes nought but Blood can ease,
Let that of slaughter'd Herds his Ghost appease.
But let not Blood be spilt to be bewail'd,
By wretched Mothers: How ye Gods prevail'd,
Or whence did this inhumane Custom rise,
Of making Man to Man a Sacrifice!
Think but what Hate would to thy Sire accrue,
Should such dire Rites be to his Honour due.

Pyrrhus.
Thou insolently haughty in Success,
As fearfully dejected in Distress!
Tyrant o'er Kings! Does new-sprung Love infest
Yet once again with sudden Flames thy Breast?
Does Agamemnon think that he shall still
Thus wrong Achilles? No; know Pyrrhus will,

251

Or see this Victim offer'd to his Grave,
Or else a greater, worthier Victim have:
This Sword here thinks it does too long abstain
From Royal Blood, and Priam's Ghost would fain
Have a King's bear it company.

Agamemnon.
'Tis true;
The greatest Praise that is to Pyrrhus due,
Is that he murder'd Priam, whom his Sire
Spar'd when his Suppliant.

Pyrrhus.
'Tis Truth entire;
We know't: that They who were my Father's Foes
Were forc'd to be his Suppliant; you 'mongst those.
But Priam was the stouter of the Two,
He came in Person to petition; You
Not yet so valiant as to supplicate,
Like a tame Coward, chose to delegate
Ajax and Ithacus to make your Prayer,
Whilst you lay sculking, and kept close for fear.

Agamemnon.
But your brave Father fear'd not, 'tis confest,
He 'mongst fir'd Ships, and slaughter'd Greeks could rest

252

Secure; unmindful of his Charge; and run
Upon his Lute nimble Division.

Pyrrhus.
Yet was great Hector, who your Arms despis'd,
At sound but of his Lute with sear surpriz'd.
And in the midst of Terrour and Dismay
His Navy yet in peaceful Quiet lay.

Agamemnon.
Yes, the same Navy Priam durst to board.

Pyrrhus.
“'Tis kingly to a King Life to afford.

253

Agamemnon.
Then why a King did you deprive of Breath?

Pyrrhus.
“There's Mercy sometimes shewn in giving Death.

Agamemnon.
So you'd in Mercy sacrifice a Maid?

Pyrrhus.
And such a Sacrifice can you dissuade,
Who offer'd your own Child?

Agamemnon.
“Their Kingdom's Good
“Kings should prefer before their Childrens Blood.

Pyrrhus.
Forbid a Captive's Death no Law e'er did.

Agamemnon.
“What the Law does not, is by Shame forbid.

254

Pyrrhus.
“What likes, is lawful, by all Victors thought.

Agamemnon.
The more your Licence, to will less you ought.

Pyrrhus.
'Fore these thus vant'st thou, who by Pyrrhus are
Freed from the Bondage of a Ten Years War?

Agamemnon.
Breeds Scyrus such high Blood?

255

Pyrrhus.
Scyrus which knows
No Brothers Sins.

Agamemnon.
Which strait'ning Seas inclose.

Pyrrhus.
Yes, Seas that owe us a relation;
Indeed Thyestes noble House w' have known,
Great Atreus too.

256

Agamemnon.
Out thou Girls Bastard Brat,
Got by Achilles, when scarce Man.

Pyrrhus.
By that
Achilles, who to the whole World ally'd
Enjoys the Honours of the Deifi'd,

257

Who can a Claim to Seas by Thetis move,
To Hell by Æacus, to Heav'n by Jove.

Agamemnon.
Yes, he who fell by Paris feeble Hand.

Pyrrhus.
Whom yet not any of the Gods durst stand
In open fight.

258

Agamemnon.
Sir, I could rule your Tongue,
And give your Boldness due Correction;
But that this Sword of ours knows how to spare
E'en Captives: Let the Gods Interpreter,
Calchas, be call'd, and what the Fates command
By him, to that we willingly will stand.

[Enter Calchas.
Agamemnon.
Thou Sacred Minister, who loos'dst the Bar
Which stop'd the Grecian Navy, and the War;
Whose Art unlocks the Heavens, expounds their Laws,
And from Beasts Entrails, Thunder, Comets, draws
The sure Presages of ensuing Fate;
Whose Words we purchas'd at so dear a Rate,
Now here declare what 'tis the Gods intend:
And this our Strife, let thy grave Counsel end.

Calchas.
The usual means, Fates of Return afford
The Greeks. To th'Tomb of the Thessalian Lord
The Virgin must be sacrific'd; so drest
As Grecian Brides are at their Nuptial Feast,
And, Pyrrhus, wedded to thy Sire by thee,
With these due Rites shall she espoused be.

259

Yet is not this our Fleets sole Remora.
More noble Blood than thine, Polyxena,
The Fates require. Great Hector's only Son
From some high Turret must be headlong thrown;
So have the Gods decreed he should be slain.
Then may your conquering Navy plough the Main.

260

CHORUS.
Is it a Truth? or Fiction blinds
Our fearful Minds?
That when to Earth we Bodies give,
Souls yet do live?
That when the Wife hath clos'd with Cries
The Husband's Eyes,

261

When the last fatal Day of Light
Hath spoil'd our Sight,
And when to Dust and Ashes turn'd
Our Bones are urn'd;
Souls stand yet in no need at all
Of Funeral.
But that a longer Life with Pain
They still retain?
Or dye we quite? Nor ought we have
Survives the Grave?
When like to Smoak immix'd with Skies,
The Spirit flies.

262

And Funeral Tapers are apply'd
To th'naked Side.
Whate'er Sol rising does disclose,
Or setting shows;
Whate'er the Sea with flowing Waves
Or ebbing laves;
Old Time, that moves with winged pace,
Doth soon deface.
With the same Swiftness the Signs rowl
Round, round the Pole,
With the same Course Day's Ruler steers
The fleeting Years;
With the same Speed th'oblique-pac'd Moon
Does wheeling run:
We all are hurried to our Fates,
Our Lives last Dates;
And when we reach the Stygian Shore,
Are then no more.
As Smoak, which springs from Fire, is soon
Dispers'd and gone;

263

Or Clouds which we but now beheld,
By Winds dispel'd;
The Spirit, which informs this Clay,
So fleets away.
Nothing is after Death; and this
Too, Nothing is:
The Gaol, or the extreamest space
Of a swift Race.
The Covetous their Hopes forbear,
The Sad their Fear.
Ask'st thou, whene'er thou com'st to dye,
Where thou shalt lye?

264

Where lye th'unborn. Away Time rakes us,
Then Chaos takes us.
Death's Individual; like kind
To Body or Mind.
Whate'er of Tænarus they sing,
And Hell's fierce King,
How Cerberus still guards the Port
O'th' Stygian Court,
All are but idle Rumours found,
And empty Sound;
Like the vain Fears of Melancholy
Dreams, and fabulous Folly.

265

Act III.

Scene I.

ANDROMACHE, SENEX, ASTYANAX mute.
Andromache.
Why tear you thus your Hair, and weeping beat
Your wretched Breasts, ye Phrygian Dames? We yet
Suffer but lightly, if we suffer what
Is only to be wept. Troy fell but late
To you, to me long since. When in our view
Cruel Achilles at his Chariot drew
My Hector's Limbs; whilst with a Weight unknown
The trembling Axletree did seem to groan.
Then, then was Troy o'erthrown, then Ilium fell;
Sense of that Grief makes me unsensible.
And now by Death freed from Captivity
I'd follow Hector; but this Boy here, he
Witholds me; he (sweet Child) my Will restrains,
And from a much-desired Death detains.
'Tis he that makes me yet the Gods intreat;
He to my Griefs a longer time hath set.

266

And though my greatest Comfort, took from me
The greatest Comfort in my Misery,
Security from Fear; no place doth rest
For happier Fortune with the worst opprest
And saddest Miseries: “For to fear still,
“When Hope hath left us, is the worst of Ill.

Senex.
What sudden Fear does thy sad Mind surprize?

Andromache.
From our great Ills still greater Ills arise.
Nor yet can Iliums fatal Woes have end.

Senex.
What further Miseries does Heaven intend?

Andromache.
Hell's open'd; and our Foes, that we might ne'er
Want Terrour, rising from their Graves appear.
And can this only to the Greeks befall?
Sure Death is equally the same to all.
That common Fear all Phrygians doth distress;
But my sad Dream doth me alone oppress.

Senex.
Declare, what did thy dreadful Dream present?

Andromache.

Two parts of quiet Night were almost spent,

267

And now the Seven Triones had wheel'd round
Their glittering Wain, when Rest (a Stranger found
To my afflicted Thoughts) in a short Sleep
Upon my wearied Eyes did gently creep,
(If such Amaze of Mind yet Sleep may be.)
Strait to my thinking I did Hector see.
Not such, as when against the Argives bent
On Grecian Ships, Idæan Flames he sent;
Nor such, when he his Foes with slaughter strook,
And real Spoils from false Achilles took.

268

Nor did his sprightly Eyes with Lightning glance,
But with a sad dejected Countenance
Like mine, he stood; his Hair all soil'd and wet,
(It joyed me though, even such to see him yet.)
His Head then shaking, thus at length he spake;
Awake, my dear Andromache, awake,
And quickly hence Astyanax convey;
Let him be closely hid; no other way
Is left to save him: Thy sad Cries forbear.
Griev'st thou Troy's fall'n? Would God it wholly were.
Quickly dispatch, and to some secret place
Convey this last small Hopes of all our Race.
Sleep from my Senses a cold Horrour shook,
When staring round with an affrighted Look,
Wretch, I (my Child forgot) for Hector sought;
But lo the fleeting shadow, whilst I thought
To have embrac'd it, fled. O my dear Joy,
True Bloud of thy great Sire, sole Hopes of Troy!
Unhappy Issue of too fam'd a Race!
Too like thy Father; even such a Face

269

My Hector had; his Gait such, so he bare
His conq'ring Arms; so did his curled Hair
Part on his threatning Forehead, so from's Head
Covering his Neck, 'bout his tall Shoulders spread.
O Son, too late unto thy Country born,
Too soon unto thy Mother! will that Turn,
That happy Revolution never come,
That I mey see thee build up Ilium,
And her fled Citizens reduce once more,
And to their Town and them their Name restore?
But I forget my self, and fondly crave
Too happy things: “Enough poor Captives have
“If they may live. What place Wretch, can secure
Thy Fears? Sweet Child, where shall I hide thee sure?

270

That late proud Palace, rich in Wealth and Fame.
Built by the Gods, worthy ev'n Envy's Aim,
Is now to a rude heap of Ashes turn'd,
All's levell'd with the Ground, the whole Town burn'd
In wastful Flames; nor doth there now abide
So much of Troy as may one Infant hide.

What place would fittest serve for my intent?
Hard by's my Husbands stately Monument,
Which ev'n the Enemy doth reverence,
Which with much Cost, nor less Magnificence,
(On his own Sorrows too too prodigal)
Old Priam built; there I may best of all
Intrust him with his Sire.—A cold Sweat flows
O'er all my Limbs, my Mind distracted grows,
And dreads the Omen of the dismal place.

Senex.
“Oft a suppos'd Destruction (in this case)
“Men from a real Ruine hath preserv'd.
No other Hope of Safety is reserv'd.
A great and fatal Weight on him doth lie,
The Greatness of his own Nobility.

Andromache.
Pray Heav'n no one discover or betray him.

Senex.
Let there be none to witness where you lay him.

271

Andromache.
How if the Enemy demand the Boy?

Senex.
Say, He was murder'd in insubverted Troy.

Andromache.
What boots it to lie hid a while, that past,
To fall into their cruel Hands at last?

Senex.
Despair not, hope for better Fate: “The first
“Charge of the Victors Fury is the worst.

Andromache.
Alas, what should we hope, if he can ne'er
Be kept conceal'd without apparent Fear?

Senex.
“Choice of their Safety the Secure may make,
“Those in distress must hold of any take.

Andromache.
What desert place or unfrequented Land
Will give thee safe Repose? What friendly Hand

272

Protect us? To our Fears who'll Comfort yield?
O thou who always didst, thy own now shield,
Great Hector! This dear Treasure from thy Wife
Receive, let thy dead Ashes guard his Life.
Come, Child, enter this Tomb; back why dost start?
Scorn'st thou to lurk in Holes? His Fathers Heart
In him I see; he shames to fear.—Quit, quit
Thy Princely Thoughts now, and take such as fit
Thy present state. See all of Ilium
That's left, a Child, a Captive, and a Tomb.
Submit to Heavens Decree, nor fear to enter
Thy Fathers Monument; go, boldly venture.
There, if on Wretches Fates Compassion have,
Thou'lt Safety find; if Death they give, a Grave.

Senex.
He's hid: but lest thy Fears should him betray,
Remove some distance hence another way.

Andromache.
“The nearer that we fear, we fear the less:
But if you please, let us withdraw—

Senex.
Whist! Peace:

273

Madam, your sad Complaints a while suspend,
The Cephalenian Prince this way does bend.

Andromache.
Cleave, Earth! and thou, dear Spouse, rend up the Ground
From lowest Hell, and in that dark Profound
Hide our Loves Pledge. He comes, he comes, his Pace
And Looks speak Plots; there's Mischief in his Face.

274

Scene II.

Enter ULYSSES.
Ulysses.
Tho to promulgate a severe Decree
I come; I beg you'll be so just to me,
As not to think the rigorous Sentence mine,
But what the Votes of all the Greeks enjoyn.
Whose late Return to their lov'd Homes withstands
Great Hector's Heir: Him Destiny demands.
Still doubtful Hopes of an uncertain Peace,
And fear of Vengeance will the Greeks oppress,
Nor suffer them to lay down Arms so long
As thy Son lives, Andromache.

Andromache.
This Song
Does Calchas your great Prophet sing?

Ulysses.
Although
He had said nothing, Hector tells us so.
Whose Stock we dread: “A generous Race aspires
“Unto the Worth and Virtue of their Sires.

275

So the great Herds small Playfellow, which now
Sports in the Pastures with scarce budded Brow,
Strait with advanced Crest and armed Head,
Commands the Flock which late his Father led.
And so the tender Sprout of some tall Tree
Late fell'd, shoots up in a short time to be
Equal to that from whence it sprung, and lends
To Earth a Shade, to Heav'n its Boughs extends.
So the small Ashes of a mighty Fire
Carelessly left, into new Flames aspire.
“Grief does indeed Matters unjustly state,
“And makes of things but a wrong Estimate.
Yet if your Case you duly shall perpend,
You'll not think strange if after Ten Years end,
Th'old Soldier spent with Toil new Wars should fear,
And never enough ruin'd Troy; for ne'er
Can we enjoy Security of Mind,
Our selves not safe, whilst still we fear to find
Another Hector in Astyanax.
Then rid us of this Terror that thus wracks
Our Thoughts. This is the only cause of stay
Unto our Fleet, ready to wing its way.
Nor think me cruel, 'cause by Fates compell'd
I Hector's Son require; had Heav'n so will'd,

276

I had as soon ask'd Agamemnon's Son,
Than suffer what the Victor's self hath done.

Andromache.
Would God, dear Child, I had thee in my Hand,
Or knew thy present Fortune, or what Land
Now harbours thee; though Swords transpierc'd my Breast,
Though galling Chains my captiv'd Hands opprest,
Or Flames beset me round, they ne'er should move
My Heart to quit a Mothers Faith or Love.
Poor Infant, O where art thou? what strange Fate
Is fall'n on thee? Wandrest thou desolate
In untrac'd Fields? Or perish'dst thou, my Joy,
Amidst the Smoke and Flames of burning Troy?
Or hath the Victor in a wanton Mood
Of Cruelty plaid with thy childish Blood,
And murder'd thee in sport? Or by some Beast
Slain, do thy Limbs Idæan Vultures feast?

277

Ulysses.
Come, come, dissemble not; 'tis had to cheat
Ulysses: Know we can the Plots defeat
Of Mothers although Goddesses. Away
With these vain Shifts, and where thy Son is, say.

Andromache.
Where's Hector? Priam? all the Trojans? You
For one ask, I for all.

Ulysses.
Torture shall scrue,
Since our Persuasions cannot gain a free,
A forc'd Confession from thee.

Andromache.
Alas she
Is 'gainst the worst of Fate secured still,
That die not only can, but ought, and will.

Ulysses.
These Boasts at Deaths approach will quickly fly.

Andromache.
No, Ithacus; if me thou'dst terrifie,

278

Threaten me Life, for Death's my wish.

Ulysses.
Fire, Blows,
And Tortures shall enforce thee to disclose
The Secrets of thy Breast. “Oft-times we see
“Severity works more than Lenity.

Andromache.
Doom me to Flames, dissect with Wounds, and try
All torturing Arts that witty Cruelty
Did e'er devise; Thirst, Famine, all Plagues, through
My Bowels burning Irons thrust; or muc
Me up in some dark noisom Dungeon: And
(If yet you think not these enough) command
Whatever Cruelties on captiv'd Foes
A haughty barbarous Victor dare impose:
No Tortures e'er shall a Confession wrest,
Nor Terrors daunt my stout Maternal Brest.

Ulysses.
This obstinate Love thou to thy Child dost bear
Warns all the Greeks to like parental Care.
After a War so far, so long, less I
Shold fear the Ills Calchas does prophecy.
Fear'd I but for my self: But 'tis not us
Thou threatst alone, but my Telemachus.

279

Andromache.
And must I Comfort then afford my Foes
Against my Will? I must.—Sorrow disclose
Thy hidden Griefs. Now ye Atrides, chear!
And be thou still to Greeks the Messenger
Of happy News, Great Hector's Son is dead.

Ulysses.
Where be the Proofs may make this credited?

Andromache.
So fall on me what e'er the Victor's Rage
May threat; so Fates to my maturer Age
An easie close; and where I had my Birth
Afford me Burial: So may the Earth
Lie light on Hector's Bones, as he bereav'd
Of Light lies 'mongst the Dead, and hath receiv'd
The dues of Funeral.

Ulysses.

Fate's in his Fate
Accomplish'd, and firm Peace to Greece, then strait
Pronounce, Ulysses.—Stay, fond Man, what dost?
Shall Grecians thee, and thou a Mother trust?
Perhaps the feigns, nor fears her dreadful Curse.
Fear Imprecations they that fear nought worse?

280

Sh'as sworn 'tis true; if so, than her Son's loss
What can she fear to her a heavier Cross?
Now summon all thy Slights together; be
Wholly Ulysses. Truth's ne'er long hid. We
Must sift her throughly.—See, shee weeps, sighs, mourns.
With anxious steps, now this, now that way turns.
And our Words catches with a heedful Ear;
We must use Art, she does not grieve, but fear.

That with the Sorrows of some Mothers we
Condole 'tis fit, but we must gratulate thee,
Happy in Misery and thy Sons loss!
For whom a heavier Death intended was,
Who from that lofty Tower which now alone
Remains of Troy was destin'd to be thrown.

Andromache.
My Heart faints, Fear shakes all my Joynts, a cold
Congealing Frost upon my Blood lays hold.

Ulysses.
See, see, she trembles; this must be the way.
Her Fears a Mothers Love in her betray.
I'll fright her further yet.—Go, search with speed
This Foe, that by his Mothers Fraud is hid,
This onely Plague of Greece; find him where'er
He lies.—So, have y'him? bring him here.
Why lookst thou back and tremblest?—Now he dies.

[To himself.

281

Andromache.
Would God this Fear from present grounds did rise;
'Las, 'tis with us habitual. “The Mind
“From what it long hath learnt is late declin'd.

Ulysses.
Since thy Sons better Fate prevented hath
The lustral Sacrifice, thus Calchas saith,
Our Fleet may hope return if we appease
With Hector's Ashes the incensed Seas,
And raze his Monument unto the Ground.
Now since the Son by Death a way hath found
To scape the Justice of his destin'd Doom.
We must exact it from his Father's Tomb.

Andromache.
What shall I do? My Mind a double Fear
Distracts; here my poor Child, the Ashes there
Of my dear Husband. Which shall I first prize?
Bear witness, ye relentless Deities,
And thy blest Manes, real Gods to me!
Nought, Hector, in my Son I pleasing see

282

But thy self only: Long then may he live
Thy Representative.—And shall I give
My Husbands Ashes to the Waves? O'er vast
Seas suffer that his rifled Bones be cast?
Let t'other rather die.—And canst thou be
Spectatress of thy own Childs Tragedy?
See him thrown headlong from the Tower's steep height?
I can and will, rather than Hector yet
Be after Death the Victor's Spoil again.
Think yet this lives, hath Sense, can feel his Pain,
Whilst t'other Fates from Ills secured have.
Why staggerest thou? resolve strait which to save.
Ingrateful, doubt'st thou? There thy Hector is.
Mistaken Wretch, either is Hector: This
Yet young and living, who in time may be
Th'Avenger of his Father's Death—Still we
Cannot save both.—Resolve o'th' two howe'er
To save him yet whom most the Grecians fear.

Ulysses.
The Prophet's Words shall be fulfill'd; the place
I will demolish.

283

Andromache.
Which ye sold.

Ulysses.
Deface
The Monument.

Andromache.
The Faith of Gods and thee,
Achilles, we appeal to. Pyrrhus, see
Thy Father's Gift made good.

Ulysses.
Down it shall go,
And with its Ruines the wide Champain strow.

Andromache.
No Wickedness, ye Greeks, have ye refrain'd,
But this alone; Temples you have profan'd,
And Gods propitious to you; yet ye spar'd
The Mansions of the Dead. I am prepar'd
To hinder their intent, and will oppose
With weak unarmed Hands these armed Foes.
Anger and Indignation strengthen me!
Penthesilea-like I'll 'mongst them flie,
Or mad Agave, that the Woods did trace,
Shaking her Thyrsus with a frantick pace,

284

Dealing dire Wounds insensibly, and by
Defending bear his Ashes company.

Ulysses.
What does a Womans Passion move your Hearts,
And vainer Cries? On Slaves, and ply your parts.

Andromache.
First by your bloody Hands let me be slain.
Up from Avernus! Break thy fatal Chain!
Rise, Hector! Rise! Ulysses to subdue,
Thy Ghost alone will be sufficient. View
How Arms he brandishes! How Flames do fly
From his stout Hands! See y' him? Or is it I
That see him only?

Ulysses.
Down with't to the ground.

Andromache.
What dost? Wilt see one Ruine then confound
Father and Son? Perhaps my Prayers may yet
Appease them; strait resolve, or else the Weight
O'th' falling Tomb will crush thy Child to death.
First lose he any where his wretched Breath,

285

Or e'er the Father the Son's Ruine be,
Or Son the Father's.—Thus, Ulysses, we
Low as thy Knees fall, and beneath thy Feet
These Hands (which yet no Mans e'er touch'd) submit.
Pity a Mothers Woes, with Patience hear
Her pious Plaints, and lend a Gentle Ear.
“And how much higher Heav'n hath advanc'd thy state,
“So much the less depress a Wretches Fate.

286

“When to the miserable we extend
“Our Charity, we unto Fortune lend.
So to the chast Embraces of thy Wife
May'st thou in peace return, and Fates the Life
Of old Laertes, till that day extend.
So may thy Son, thy Age's hope, transcend
Thy Hopes and Wishes, live more Years to see
Than hath his Grandsire, wiser prove than thee.
O pity! All my Comfort's in this Boy.

Ulysses.
Produce him first, then what you ask enjoy.

Scene III.

ULYSSES, ANDROMACHE, ASTYANAX.
Andromache.
Forth from the hollow Entrals of the Tomb
Thou wretched Theft of thy sad Mother come!
The Terror of a Thousand Ships here see,
Ulysses, this poor Child! down on thy Knee,
Thy Lord, with humble Reverence adore,
And Mercy, with submissive Hands, implore.
Nor think it shame for Wretches to submit
To what e'er Fortune wills; the Thoughts now quit

287

Of thy great Ancestors, nor Priam call
To mind, nor his great Pow'r; forget it all,
And Hector too: assume a Captives state.
And though unsensible of thy own Fate,
Poor Wretch, thou be, yet from our Sense of Woes
Example take, weep as thy Mother does.
'Tis not the first time Troy hath seen her Prince
Shed Tears: So Priam, when a Child long since
The Wrath of stern Alcides pacifi'd;
He who so fierce was, who in strength outvy'd
Ev'n Monsters, who from Hell's forc'd Gates could yet
Through ways impervious open a Retreat:
Quell'd by the Tears of his small Enemy;
Resume (says he) thy former Royalty,
And in thy Father's Throne and Empire reign.
But Faith more firmly than he did, maintain.
Happy that such a Victor him did seize!
Learn thou the gentle Wrath of Hercules.

288

Or only please his Arms? See 'fore thine Eyes
No less a Suppliant than that Suppliant lies;
And begs but only Life, his Crown and State
He leaves to Fortune and the Will of Fate.

Ulysses.
Trust me the Mothers Sorrow moves me much,
But nearer me the Grecian Mothers touch,
To whose no little Grief this Child aspires.

Andromache.
And shall he then the Ruines which these Fires
Have made, repair? These Hands erect Troy's Fall?
Poor are the hopes she has if these be all.
We Trojans are not so subdu'd, that yet
We should to any be a Fear: is't Great
Hector in him you look at? Think withal,
That Hector yet was dragg'd 'bout Ilium's Wall.
Nay, he himself, did he now live to see
Troy's Fate, would of an humbler Spirit be.
“Great Minds by pressures great Ills are broke.
Or would you punish? Than a slavish Yoke
What to free Necks more grievous? let him bring
His Mind to serve. This who'll deny a King?

Ulysses.
Not we, but Calchas this denies to thee.

Andromache.
O thou damn'd Author of all Villany!

289

Thou, by whose Valour none yet ever dy'd,
Whose Treacheries the Greeks themselves have try'd.
The Prophet and th'abused Deities
Dost thou pretend? No, 't's thine own Enterprize,
Thou base Night-Soldier. Thou whose Manhood's Proof
The Sun ne'er witness'd; only stout enough
To kill a Child: Now thou may'st brag and say,
Thou hast dar'd something yet in open day.

Ulysses.
Enough the Greeks, too well the Trojans know
Ulysses Worth; but time we cannot now
Spend in vain Talk. The Fleet does Anchor weigh.

Andromache.
Yet so much time afford us, as to pay
A Mother's last Dues to my dying Boy;
And by our strict Embraces satisfie
My greedy Sorrows.

Ulysses.
Would our Power would give
Thy Woes Relief; yet what we can receive,
As long a time as thou thy self shalt please
To grieve and weep. “Tears Sorrow's Burthen ease.

290

Andromache.
O thou sweet Pledge of all my hopes! the Grace
Of a now ruin'd, but once glorious Race!
Terror of Greece! the Period of all
Thy Countries Ruines! her last Funeral!
Vain Comfort of thy wretched Mother! Who
(Fondly, God knows) of Heaven did often sue,
Thou mightst in War thy Father equallize,
In Peace thy Grandsire; but Heav'n both denies.
The Ilian Sceptre thou shalt never sway,
Nor shall the Phrygian Realms thy Laws obey,
Nor conquer'd Nations stoop thy Yoke to bear.
The Greeks thou ne'er shalt foil, nor Pyrrhus e'er,
T'avenge thy Sire, at thy proud Chariot trail:
Nor with light brandish'd Arms wild Beasts assail
In the wide Forests: Nor, when e'er it falls,
Shalt solemnize Troy's chief of Festivals,
And well-train'd Troops in noble Motions lead:
Nor 'bout the sacred Altars nimbly tread;

291

And when exciting Notes shrill Cornets sound,
In Phrygian Temples dance an antick round.
A Death than Death it self more sad, for thee
Remains; and Trojan Walls shall something see
More woful yet than Hector dragg'd.

Ulysses.
Here close
Thy mournful Plaints; immoderate Sorrow knows
No Bounds.

Andromache.
The time we for our Tears demand,
Alas, is small; permit yet with this Hand

292

I close his Eyes in Life though not in Death.
Dear Child, although so young thou lose thy Breath,
Yet thou dy'st fear'd. Go, thy Troy looks for thee;
Go, and in Freedom thy free Trojans see.

Astyanax.
O pity, Mother!

Andromache.
'Las, why dost thou wring
My Hand, and to my Side (vain refuge!) cling?
As when a sucking Fawn a Lion spies,
Or roaring hears, strait to the Hind it flies:
Yet the fierce Beast frightning the Dam away,
With murdering Fangs seizes the tender Prey.
So from my Bosom will the cruel Foe
Drag thee, poor Child! Yet (Dearest) e'er thou go
Take my last Kisses, Tears, and this torn Hair;
Then to thy Father full of me repair.
Tell him, if former Passions Ghosts do move,
Nor Funeral Flames extinguish those of Love,
Hector is much to blame, to let his Wife,
Enthrall'd by Greeks, thus lead a Servile Life,
Though he lie still, Achilles yet could rise.
Take from my Head again, and from my Eyes,
These Tears and Tresses; all that now is left
Andromache, of Hector since bereft.
These Kisses to thy Father bear from me:
But leave this Robe, that may some Comfort be

293

(When thou art gone) to thy poor Mother; this
Did thy Sire's Tomb and sacred Ashes kiss:
So shall these Lips, if any Reliques here
Of their lov'd Dust, yet unshook off, appear.

Ulysses.
She'll ne'er have done;—“Grief knows not what is fit.
Bear hence this stop of the Argolick Fleet.

CHORUS.

What Seats shall we poor Captives find?
Where are our new Abodes design'd?
Planted in hilly Thessalie,
Or shady Tempe shall we be?

294

Or sent to Phthia's rugged Fields?
Phthia, which stoutest Soldiers yields.
Or stony Trachis? fitter place
For Cattle of a hardy Race.
Shall us Iolchos entertain,
Proud of the Conquest of the Main?

295

Or Creet, whose spacious Land is round
With Hundred of fair Cities crown'd?
Or barren Tricca? small Gyrton?
Or Modon with light Bents o'ergrown?

296

Or the Oetœan Woods Recess,
Which more than once to Troy's Distress
Shafts fatal sent? Or must we store
Thin-peopl'd Olenos with more?

297

Or unto Pleuron shall we go,
Pleuron the Virgin Dians Foe?
Or to fair-harbourd Træzen get?
Or Pelion, Prothous proud Seat?

298

Third step to Heaven, where Chiron laid
In's Cell, which eating time had made
In the Hill's side, oft us'd to whet
His Pupil's Courage, (then too great)
By singing to his Harp's tun'd Strings
Battles and bloody Bickerings?

299

Or make Carystus, rich in vein'd
Marble, with various Colours stain'd?
Or Chalcis, plac'd on a rough Shore,
Where the swift Euripus does roar?

300

Or shelter in Calydnæ find,
Easily reach'd by any wind?

301

Or Gonoessa, which ne'er fails
Of stormy Blasts and bustering Gales?
Or to Enispæ shall we steer,
Which Boreas angry Breath doth fear?
For Sea-girt Peparethos stand,
Which lies 'gainst Acte's pointed Land?

302

Or seek Eleusis through the Deep,
Where silent Festivals they keep?

303

Or Ajax his true Salamine?
Or Calydon, by a wild Swine
His furious Mischiefs fam'd? Or make
For Bessa and Scarphe, where the Lake

304

Like Titaressus with dull Waves
Creeping along, the Vallies laves?
Or shall we at the last set down
In Pylos, aged Nestor's Town?

305

Pharis, Jove's Pisa, Elis see,
Adorn'd with Wreaths of Victory?

306

Let any Winds our Canvas fill,
And bear us to what Lands they will,
So we poor Wretches Sparta miss,
That bred the Bane of Troy and Greece;
So we at least from Argos run,
So we the proud Mycenæ shun.

307

So we in Neritos ne'er plant,
Shorter and narrower the Zant.
So we ne'er reach the treacherous Bay,
And Shoals of rocky Ithaca.

308

Who, Hecuba, can tell thy Fate?
(Of Queens the most unfortunate!)
What servile Hardships shalt thou try?
Where, or in whose Dominions dye?

309

Act IV.

Scene I.

HELENA, ANDROMACHE, HECUBA, and POLYXENA.
Helena.
Wherever Hymen is unfortunate,
On whom Sighs, Mourning, Blood and Slaughter wait,
There Helen's a fit Auspex, forc'd t'extend
The Woes of ruin'd Troy beyond their End.
False News of Pyrrhus Nuptials I must bear,
Gems, and Greek Habits for his Bride to wear.

310

Whilst (circumvented by my treacherous Wile)
I Paris Sister of her Life beguile;
And beguil'd be she. “'Tis a Courtesie
“Unprepossess'd with fear of Death, to dye:
Why doubt'st thou to perform thy Task? “On those
“The Guilt of inforc'd Crimes lies, who impose.
Thou Female Glory of the Dardan Race!
Heaven now begins to shew a friendlier Face
To the Afflicted; does a Mate provide,
Such as not Priam could in all Troy's Pride.
For thee to lawful Hymen's sacred Rites,
The Chief of the Pelasgian Name, invites,
Who rules wide Thessaly: Thee Tethys, all
The watry Powr's, thee, hers will Thetis call,
The Seas mild Empress! Pyrrhus marry thee,
Thou Niece to Peleus shalt, and Nereus be.
Put off these sad, and festive Habits take,
Unlearn thou Captive art, and Captive make.
Thy Hair frightfully staring, recommand
To order, by some curious Dressers Hand.

311

This chance may raise thee to a better State;
“Captivity hath made some fortunate.

Andromache.
Was this then only wanting to our Woes?
This? To rejoyce, when Troy in Ashes glows?
O time for Nuptials fit! But who denies,
Or doubts to wed, when Helen does advise?
Helen the Bane, the Ruin, and the Pest
Of either Nation; See these Graves! where rest
Their valiant Chiefs! These Fields! 'Bout which are spread
The bared Bones, sad Reliques of their Dead.
These, these, thy Marriage scatter'd, with a flood
Of Europe's best, and Asia's bravest Blood:

313

Whilst thou at ease saw'st both thy Husbands fight,
Careless on which the Victory should light.
Go then, and for these Wedding Joys prepare!
For Nuptial Lights and Torches never care;
Troy's Flames will those supply. Now Troades
The Marriage Rites of Pyrrhus solemnize
As they deserve; that is, with Tears and Cries.

Helen.
Though mighty Grief no Curb, no Reason knows,
But oft hates those are sharers in its Woes;
Yet 'fore a partial Judge can I defend
My Cause; who suffer more than you pretend.
Andromache for Hector, Hecuba
For Priam, freely mourns, I closely pay
My conceal'd Sighs for Paris. 'Tis severe,
Hateful and sad, a servile Yoak to bear.
Yet that have I endur'd, these Ten Years past.
Your Houshold Gods are sack'd; Ilium laid wast.
To lose ones native Land, is a sad Curse;
To fear, like me, without Relief, yet worse.
A fellow-sufferance does your Woes asswage.
'Gainst me, the Victors both, and vanquish'd rage.
Whom you must serve, Chance yet hath scarce design'd,
I'm sure, without a Lot, a Lord to find.
You'll say I was to Troy the cause of War,
And her sad Ruin. Take what you infer,
To be a Truth; if you can prove that e'er
A Spartan Ship me to your Coasts did bear.

314

But if by Phrygians I a Prize was made,
And to her Judge a Gift by Venus paid,
Excuse then Paris. For our Cause, 'twill come
'Fore a rough Judge; it waits Atrides Doom.
But now, Andromache, thy Plaints laid by
A while, to bow this resolute Virgin try.
I scarce can hold from Tears.—

Andromache.
The thing is sad
That Helen weeps for; it must needs be bad.
But wherefore weeps she? say! What new Deceit?
What Mischief plots Ulysses, that grand Cheat?
Must from Idæan Rocks the Maid be cast?
Or from this Tow'r, or yond' Clifts, into vast
Seas hurld? where with his crook'd and ragged side
Lofty Sygæum does imbay the Tide?
Speak! What beneath thy Looks sly Vail is laid?
No ill, but's less, than Pyrrhus to be made
To Priam Son in Law, and Hecuba.
What Pains, what Torments, must we suffer? say!
For this from our Woes Sum may well be spar'd;
To be deceiv'd. To dye, w'are all prepar'd.

Helen.
Would Heav'n, the Gods Interpreter had doom'd
Me to have dy'd; and at Achilles Tomb

315

By Pyrrhus furious Hand t'have fall'n! That I
With thy sad Fate, Polyxena! might vye,
Whom Thetis Son (t'his Grave first Victim made)
Demands for Spouse in the Elysian shade.

Andromache.
See how great Joy does her high Soul express
At her declar'd Death! Royal Robes and Dress
Now she assumes, now yields t'adorn her head;
To dye she Marriage thinks, but Death to wed.
Her aged Mother yet at the Report,
Is Thunder strook; nor more can Grief support,
With this Surcharge opprest.—Courage! recall
Your Life and Spirits, Madam?—On how small
A Thread hers hang!—How little will suffice
T'ease Hecuba of all her Miseries!
She breaths, and comes t'her self again:—I find
Death to the miserable is unkind.

Hecuba
Yet lives Achilles to the Phrygians Woe?
Yet does he plague us? Is he still our Foe?

316

O Paris feeble Hand! his very Grave
And Ashes thirst our wretched Blood to have.
Once me a happy Troop of Children round
On every side enclos'd; enough I found
T'impart to all my Kisses; nor could tell
'Mong such a fair and numerous Issue, well
How to divide a Mother. Now, there's none
Left me but this, my sole Companion,
My Joy and Comfort in Affliction
This, this poor Girl; the last Remain of all
Hecuba's Race! she only lives to call
Me Mother.—Leave hard-temper'd Soul my Breast!
And this one Funeral after all the rest
Remit at length to me. She changes hue,
A show'r of Tears does her pale Cheeks bedew.
Rejoice dear Child! gladly Andromache,
Gladly Cassandra thus espous'd would be.

Andromache.
We, we poor Wretches, Hecuba, are most
To be deplor'd; who must on Seas be tost,
Now here, now there, and God knows whither hurry'd?
She's happy; by Fates destin'd to be bury'd
In her own Native Land.

317

Helen.
You'd grieve yet more
Did you but know what Lot's for you in store.

Andromache.
Is of my woes yet any Part unknown?

Helen.
The Captives Dooms th impartial Urn hath shown.

Andromache.
Whose Slave am I? Whom must I master call?

Helen.
Unto the Syrian Youth, by Lot you fall.

Andromache.
Happy Cassandra! whom Prophetic Rage
And Phœbus from the Lot does disengage.

Helen.
She's Agamemnon's Prize.

318

Hecuba.
Is Hecuba
By any sought for?

Helen.
You a short-liv'd Prey
Are to Ulysses, 'gainst his Will, become.

Hecuba.

O who could be Dispenser of a Doom
So cruel and tyrannical! that brings
Queens to be Slaves to those that are not Kings?
What God does so unluckily dispose
Poor Captives? What stern Judg, unto our Woes
Weight adding, does so little understand
To chuse us Lords? and with a rigorous Hand
Deals such cross Fates to Wretches? What dire Lot
T'Achilles Arms does Hector's Mother put?
Given to Ulysses!—Now indeed distress'd
I seem; with all Calamities oppress'd.
I shame at such a Lord, not Servitude.
Must he then who Achilles Spoils indu'd,
Have Hector's too? And must the barren, small,
And Sea-girt Ithaca give me Funeral?
Lead, lead, Ulysses, when you please; no stay
I'll make, but follow thee, my Lord. And may
My own Fates follow me. No Calms asswage
The angry Seas, let them with Tempests rage.
May Wars, Fire, mine and Priam's Miseries
Pursue you; and till those Plagues come, suffice

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It, this is sure: You have your Lot; I yet
Have rob'd you of all hop'd-for Benefit.

But see, with a precipitated pace
Where Pyrrhus comes? with Fury in his Face.
Pyrrhus, why stop'st thou in thy bloody Race?
Sheath in this Breast thy Sword: let Death in fine
Achilles Father-in-law and Mother join.
Go on thou Murderer of the Aged! On!
This Blood fits thee: to Execution
Drag hence a Captive Wretch: And by so vile
Abhor'd a Slaughter, Gods above defile,
And Ghosts below.—What, shall I pray for you?
Seas to such dismal Sacrifices due.
On your whole Fleet, your thousand Ships, like Curse
Fall, I wish that shall carry me, or Worse.

CHORUS.
Of mix'd Trojans, comforting themselves by their Community of Sorrows.

To those that Mourn, 'tis sweet Relief,
When Nations Sorrows eccho to their Grief.
Less felt is that Afflictions Sore
Which numerous Sharers mutually deplore.
Sorrow is like Infection; loves t'obtrude
It self upon a Multitude.
And counts it some Content,
Not singly to lament.
There none denies to bear that Fate
All suffer under: in a common Wo

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None thinks himself unfortunate,
Tho he be so.
Take hence the Happy, lay the Rich aside,
Whose Gold and fertile Acres is their Pride;
The Poor will raise their drooping Heads. There's none
Miserable but by Comparison.

To those by great Calamities o'ertook
'Tis sweet to see none wear a chearful Look.
Sadly that Man his Fate bewails,
Who in a Private Vessel sails;
And naked, helpless, and forlorn,
Sinks in the Port to which his Course was born.
Storms and his Fate he bears with evener mind,
Who sees a thousand Ships before him drown'd,
And all the Shore scatter'd with Wrecks does find,
Whilst Waves by Corus dash'd 'gainst Rocks resound.
Phrixus for Helle's single Loss complain'd,
When by the Gold-fleec'd Leader of the Flock
They both were took

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(Brother and Sister) on his Back.
And she in Mid-Seas fell a helpless Wrack.
Deucalion yet and Pyrrha, both refrain'd
From Tears, when they the swelling Sea beheld,
And nothing but the Sea that swell'd;
Of Lost Mankind, all that remain'd.

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But these sad Meetings, these our mutual Tears
Spent to deplore our miserable State,
The Fleet, which ready now to sail appears
Will strait dissolve and dissipate.
Soon as the Trumpets hasty Sound shall call
The Mariners aboard, and all
With favouring Gales and Oars for Sea shall stand,
When from our Sight shall fly our dear-lov'd Land:
What Fears will then our wretched Thoughts surprize,
To see the Land to sink, and the Sea rise?
When Ida's tow'ring Height
Shall vanish from our Sight;
The Child shall then unto its Mother say,
The Mother to the Child, pointing that way
Which tends unto the Phrygian Coast;
Lo! yonder's Ilium where you spy
Those Clouds of Smoke to scale the Sky.
By this sad Sign, when all Marks else are lost,
Trojans their Country shall descry.

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Act V.

Scene I.

NUNCIUS, ANDROMACHE and HECUBA.
Nuncius.
O horrid, cruel, cursed Fates! what Crime
Hath bloody Mars yet seen in ten years time
Like sad or barbarous! where shall I begin?
With your Woes, Madam? Or yours, Aged Queen?

Hecuba.
Whose Woes soe'er you tell, they're mine; each Breast
Bears its own Griefs, but mine's with all opprest,
The universal Sorrow: None can say
He's wretched, but he's such to Hecuba.

Nuncius.
The Virgin's sacrific'd, and the Youth cast
From the Tow'rs Height: both Brave yet to the last.

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Andromache.
Relate the Series of their Deaths: declare
This double Tragedy: I long to hear
The Sum of all my Griefs. Speak then and show
Th'intire Complement of all my Wo.

Nuncius.
A Tow'r yet stands; All now that's left of Troy,
Whence, bearing in his Arms his Age's Joy,
His little Grandson; Priam us'd to view
His Troops, and order what those Troops should do.
Thence (when brave Hector in that glorious Fight
What time the routed Greeks he chac'd in flight
With Sword and Fire) to young Astyanax
The old King show'd his Father's valiant Acts.

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This noted Tow'r, once our Walls cheifest Grace,
(Now a curs'd Rock, and a detested Place)
Huge Crowds of Soldiers with their Troops surround.
A Seaman scarce to guard the Fleet is found.
All thither flock: To some a Hill does lend
From far an open Prospect: Some ascend
The rocky Cliffs, and there, eager to see,
On Tiptoes stand. Some climb this neighbouring Tree,
Some that: Th'adjoining Woods tremble to bear
The numerous Spectators. Some here are
Climb up steep Precipices. Some bestride
Ridges of half-burnt Houses. Others ride
On pieces of the broken Wall: And some
To see his Son's Death, get on Hector's Tomb.
Ulysses proudly stalks through all the Throng,
As way was made; leading in's Hand along
The Princely Youth, who makes no sluggish stop
In this sad March; but gaining the Tow'r's top,
Thence, here and there, with an undaunted Gest,
Casts round his angry Eyes: Of some fierce Beast,
As a young tender Cub, not able yet
To tyrannize with murdering Fangs, does threat,
And vainly snarls, and snaps, and swells with Rage;
The Princely Captive on this lofty Stage
Like Courage shows; and from all Hearts does force
Compassion, ev'n Ulysses feels Remorse.
He weeps not yet, for whom all else shed Tears.
Now whilst Ulysses (as enjoin'd) prepares

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His solemn Speech; and with set Pray'rs invites
The cruel Gods to those more cruel Rites,
He nimbly of his own accord leaps down
Amidst the Ruins of his State and Town.

Andromache.
What Colchian, or what wand'ring Scythian,
Or Hyrcan, bordering on the Caspian Main,
That knows no Law, would such an Act have dar'd?
Cruel Busyris butchering Altars spar'd

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Yet Childrens Blood; nor ever Diomed
His Horses with the Flesh of Infants fed.
Who'll take thy Limbs and give them Funeral?

Nuncius.
What Limbs could there be left by such a Fall?
His Bones were crush'd to pieces; nor one Grace,
Or Mark was left in Body or in Face
Resembling his illustrious Father: All
Were utterly defac'd by the sad Fall.
His Neck was broken. His Head 'gainst a Rock
Encount'ring, dash'd his Brains out with the Knock.
Nought but a shapeless Trunk he lay.

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Andromache.
Ev'n so
Too like his Father.

Nuncius.
From this Scene of Wo
The Greeks next, (weeping yet for what they'd done)
To act another Crime as barbarous run,
In haste t'Achilles Tomb; whose farther side
Rhetæan Waves beat with a gentle Tide.
Th'Extreams to that oppos'd, a Champaign Ground
Invests; in th'midst of which a Vale is found,
From whose low Edge a hilly Ridge ascends,
And 'bout it like a Theatre extends.
The Shore is cover'd with the numerous Press.
Some think this done in order to release
Their Navy's stop; some look on the Design
As meant t'extirpate all Troy's Hostile Line.
Most of the giddy Vulgar seem to hate
The Act, they come to see and perpetrate.
Trojans attend too; and with fearful Eyes
Expect the last of all Troy's Tragedies.

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When strait, as at our solemn Marriage Rites,
In head of all, are born the Nuptial Lights:
Next Helen, ar the Bride's sad Pronuba,
Comes with dejected Mein; whilst Phrygians pray
So may Hermione wed; and so may she
Return'd with Shame to her first Husband be.
Trojans and Greeks are both with Horror strook,
When forth the Princess comes; with submiss Look,
But Cheeks that dy'd in modest Blushes shine,
More beautiful in this her sad Decline.
As Phœbus seems to cast a sweeter Light
Now near his Set, when the approaching Night
Invades the Confines of the doubtful Day.
The vulgar Minds are lost in strange Dismay;
Who (as their Custom is) always commend
Those who are going to their fatal End.
Her Beauty some, others her Youth as much.
Some the sense does of her chang'd Fortune touch.
All her high Spirit praise; that Death dares meet.
Fearless she out-steps Pyrrhus; whilst to see't,

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Some quake, some pity, some admire. Now come
To the Land's Point, Pyrrhus his Father's Tomb
Ascends; nor does the stout Virago shrink
Or draw one Foot yet back, tho at Death's brink,
But with a stern Look, Pyrrhus to provoke,
Turns to receive the Sacrificing Stroke.
Pity at once, and Wonder all Minds fill,
Seeing her so brave, and Pyrrhus slow to kill.
Soon as his Hand into her tender Breast
Had forc'd the murthering Steel, a full Stream press'd
Of bubling Gore through the large Wound: nor dy'd
Her Courage yet: she fell as tho she try'd
T'oppress Achilles in his Grave, and force
The Earth to lye yet heavier on his Corse.
Both sides, the Phrygians and the Greeks lament:
These tim'rously, their Sighs those louder vent.
This was the Order of the Sacrifice.
Nor on the Grounds hard Surface stangnant lies,
Or floats in streams the sacrificed Blood;
The thirsty Grave soon drank up all the Flood.

Hecuba.
Go, go ye Greeks! now seek your Homes again,
With your wing'd Fleet securely plough the Main,
The Royal Virgin, and the Youth are slain.
The War's now ended.—Would my Life were so.
Where shall I bear this Burden of my Wo?

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How quit my Deaths vivacious Remora?
For whom shall I my Tears sad Tribute pay?
For my Girl? Grand-son? Husband? Country lost?
Or for all these at once? or my self most?
Whose only Wish is Death. Cruel! thou hy'st
To murder Infants; to young Virgins fly'st:
Each where mak'st hast to kill: But me alone
Thou fear'st; and shun'st, though all Night call'd upon
'Mid'st Fire and Sword:—Nor Rage of hostile Pow'rs,
Nor Flames, nor Ruins of Troy's falling Tow'rs,
One poor old Woman could dispatch. How nigh
To thee yet (Priam!) when thou fell'st, stood I?

Nuncius.
Away to Sea, ye Captives! Now unmor'd
The Greek Fleet hoises Sail: Hast, hast abord.

FINIS.