 | Hannibal and Scipio |  |
Scene the fourth.
To him Sophonisba.
She's already
Come e're my wish could summon her. Her sight
Begins to shake the weake foundation
Of my resolves. Like stones shot from an engine
She ruin's with the battery of her eye
What my intents had built.
Soph.
Come e're my wish could summon her. Her sight
Begins to shake the weake foundation
Of my resolves. Like stones shot from an engine
She ruin's with the battery of her eye
What my intents had built.
Why is my Lord
Thus clowdy? I expected entertainment
Of other difference; such as cheerefull love
Present's desire with from the enterchange
Of smiles and amorous glaunces.
Massa.
Sophonisba!
I was new enter'd into meditations
Of death, and other wretchednesse, depend's
Vpon mortality.
Soph.
Is that the argument
Of your dejectednesse? it shew's too much
Of womans weakenesse. Man should have a spirit
Above the feare any consideration
Can worke within him. Death is but an entrance
To our eternity: and if our life
Merit a blessednesse hereafter, we
Should runne with joy to meete it.
Massa.
But if one
Possest of happinesse beyond the hope
Of any greater; that denies another
Can be in expectation (more then what
His soule enjoy's already) apprehended
A separation from it by the malice
Of death, or other accident, 'twould force him
His outward teares.
Sopho.
This circumstance would seeme
To prepare something that should have relation
Vnto your selfe or me. Perhaps the Consull
Hath urg'd that I should be deliver'd up
To Romes disposing. Massanissas vow
Made with religious ceremony cannot
If he respect the gods consent to it.
And rather then their tyranny should make me
Wretched a new, to my first earth returne me,
The worst remaines of Sophonisba.
Massa.
Dare shee
Dye then to quit her feares?
Sopho.
And meete the instrument
With greater cherefulnesse, then fondest parents
Can shew at the returne of their deere child
From long captivity. This tender frame
Lodgeth a masculine and heroick spirit.
And if thy passionate love deny's thy selfe
To be the Actor in this benefit,
Give me thy sword; my owne right hand shall guide
The point unto my heart: I'le without trembling
Open a passage for the crimson drops;
And smile to see them diaper the pavement,
As if 'twere some conceited workemanship
Made by the lookers fancie.
Massa.
E're mine eyes
Should suffer such an object to offend
Their hitherto pleas'd sense, I would dissolve them
In their owne humour. No Sophonisba;
This breath shall first wast into empty ayre,
And leave my naked bones i'th' hallow'd pile
E're I prove false to thee. Give me some wine:
I'le drinke a bridall health to Sophonisba,
And mixe it with Nepenthe. Here's the juice
Will cause forgetfulnesse, and mock th'extremity
Messenger with wine.
Sopho.
Sure 'tis poyson.
Will Massanissa leave me then unguarded
To Scipios violence? I have here no father
Nor uncle to defend me; not so much
As a poore teare by weeping to stirre up
A Romanes pity: I shall only dart
An anger from my burning eye, to shew
The Carthaginian spirit I was borne with,
Which notwithstanding will not quit this part
From a captivity: this Scipios rage
Will hurry in his triumph to be gaz'd at,
And scorn'd by the course rabble. Doe not then
By such a keeping of it breake thy vow;
For 'tis no lesse to me. I must still want
The benefice of such a constancy.
For though himselfe live not to yeeld me up
I am expos'd to't, and without least power
To make resistance. Let me then partake
That meanes of best security
Massa.
Not to have
A Monument of lasting Adamant
Rais'd to my memory. No Sophonisba
This is no potion to preserve a beauty
In it's first greene; or ripe it to a Summer;
Or prevent th'Autumne; or returne the Winter
Into a new Spring. This will pale the dye
Which thy check blusheth when it would cloth modesty
In a rich scarlet: make that Ivorie brest
(Now Loves soft bed whereon he play's the wanton,
And ambusheth himselfe to catch the flames
He shoot's at others from thy eyes) as cold
As Scythian sands, bleak't with continuall freezing
Into a seeming christall. Scipio dar's not
Insult o're thee: thy face would check his malice
Into a silent admiration of it.
Or if he sin so much as to deject thee
Will leave their immortality to be
Each others rivals in thy love, and strive
Which should revenge thee best. This must not weaken
What is so powerfull.
Sopho.
If my Lord be then
Resolv'd to leave me widdow'd, being yet
Scarce warme in his embraces, let me mixe
A teare with his last drink, that he may carry
Something of Sophonisba with him.
Massa.
That
Hath in't sufficient vertue to convert
All the Thessalian, Pontick, Phasian aconites
Into preservatives, and turne this draught
Into an antidote: which yet is powerfull,
'Bove all that Art and Nature in conspiracy
Of mischiefe e're invented. We that are
Great, and yet subject to th'incertainty
Of Fortune, have this custome to prevent it.
We affect glory: and conclude no state,
That end's not in it selfe, is fortunate.
So—
Offers to drinke
Soph.
Let my Lord first give me leave to breath
An errant o're it; that when he is entred
Elysium, throngs of Carthaginian Heroes
May bid him welcome, and informe themselves
From him of Sophonisba.
Massa.
Do't then quickly.
I'le beare it, and command the King of night
Resigne his ravish't Queene to be thy hand-maid.
Hell, I shall now be armed to meete thy horrour:
With greater power then thine.
Soph.
If there be Fate,
Why is't conceal'd? The revelation of't
Would make us strive to mock eternall providence:
Th'ingenious Artist that did forme this cup
Foresaw not such a use of't. Had he knowne
His trembling hands could ne're have finish't it
With such exactnesse. What so e're decree
Is written in the Adamantine Tables
Of Destiny, we must subscribe to. Time
Though he keepe on his swift and silent pace,
Death's sure at first or last to win the race.
Pray keepe out Scipio: I have almost ended.
So—
Drink's.
Massa.
Ha! what hath Sophonisbas madnesse done?
Oh Æsculapius if thy deity
Be not a feign'd one, then administer,
And shew it powerfull in restoring back
My Sophonisba to her former safety.
Numidia shall pay worship to none other
But thee and Phœbus. Altars shall be rais'd
Made of Iberian gold, and flame with incense,
Vntill Arabia's richest earth grow's barren
Of gummes and spices.
Sopho.
Why doth Massanissa
Invoke vaine aide? The gods are mercifull
In their denying it: and 'tis but justice
That I should dye; m'adulterous easinesse
Deserv'd it, that without the least resistance
Left my yet living husband to embrace
His enemy. But it had warrant from
The end, my Countries good, and the first love
I bare thee Massanissa. Now let Scipio
Boast of his conquest; Sophonisba is
Her owne subverter. It begin's to worke
With a full strength: my blood would serve to heate
A Salamander, and convert his ice
Into a flame. Ætna's but painted fire
To that which burn's my marrow. Yet my lookes
Are cherefull and erected. Victory
Was never met more joyfully, then I
Embrace that death prevents my misery.
That sink's it downewards: my still living spirit
Rid's upon clowds to reach Ioves highest skie.
Who feare not death, but in the worst part dye.
Dy's.
Mass.
She's dead. Sincke ye supporters of this fabrick
Into your deep foundations; make them graves
For your owne ruines, since there is not left
A weight worthy your bearing. Shee's not dead:
Only she hath translated her divinity
To it's owne blest abodes, and call's on me
To pay a mortals duty. Shallt have sacrifice,
And rich too. Kings out of devotion shall
Offer themselves in flames, and from their ashes
Rise glorious stars; whence learned curiosity
Deriving a new art, shall teach Astrologers
The vertues of an influence shall include
Secrets to make credulity astonish't
At their presages. I will be their president;
And make this earth, already consecrated
With Sophonisba's pretious feete, an altar.
Open thy crannies to receive my blood,
And from it's mixture spring a grove of Balsame.
Led by whose ravishing odour the new issue
Of every Phœnix shall neglect Paxehaia,
To bring her mothers spicy death bed hither,
That's likewise her owne cradle. But this action
Should have more state, and ceremony. No.
A King's the Priest; a King's the Sacrifice;
His owne sword whilst 'tis yet warme with his victory
Shall serve for th'axe, and so—Shall I but dye then?
I'le live to pay her more then th'expiration
Of a short breath, and dye to all delights,
But what I can derive from her faire memory:
Which shall be treasur'd here; and by it's virtue
Revive to kill me; every life it giv's
Causing another death.
| Hannibal and Scipio | |