University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A stately Temple, which represents the Christian Religion, as in its first Magnificence: Being but lately establisht at Rome and Constantinople. The Side Scenes shew the horrid Tortures, with which the Roman Tyrants persecuted the Church, and the Flat Scene, which is the Limit of the Prospect, discovers an Altar richly adorn'd, before it Constantine, suppos'd kneels, with Commanders about him, gazing at a bloody Cross in the Air, which being incompass'd with many Angels, offers it self to view, with these words distinctly written, (In hoc signo vinces!) Instruments are heard, and many Attendants: The Ministers at Divine Service, walk busily up and down, till Atticus, the Chief of all the Priests, and Successor of St. Chrysostom, in rich Robes, comes forward with the Philosopher Leontine: The Waiters in Ranks bowing all the way before him.
A Chorus
heard at distance.
Prepare, prepare! the Rites begin,
Let none unhallow'd enter in,
The Temple with new Glory shines,
Adorn the Altars, wash the Shrines,
And purge the place from Sin.

Attic.
O leontine ! was ever Morn like this,
Since the Celestial Incarnation dawn'd?
I think no Day since that, such Glory gave
To Christian Altars, as this Morning brings.

Leont.
Great Successor of holy Chrysostom,
Who now triumphs above a Saint of Honour.
Next in degree to those bright Sons of Heav'n;
Who never fell, nor stain'd their Orient Beams:
What shall I answer? How shall I approach you
Since my Conversion, which your breath inspir'd?

Attic.
To see this Day, th'Emperour of the East,
Leaves all the Pleasures that the Earth can yield,
That Nature can bestow, or Art invent,
In his Life's spring, and bloom of gawdy years,
To undergo the Penance of a Cloyster,
Confin'd to narrow Rooms, and gloomy Walks,
Fastings, and Exercises of Devotion,
Which from his Bed at midnight must awake him,
Methinks, O Leontine! is something more,
Than yet Philosophy could ever reach.

Leont.
True, Atticus; you have amaz'd my reason.

Attic.
Yet more, to our Religious lasting honour,
Marina and Flavilla, two young Virgins,
Imperial born, cast in the fairest mould,
That e're the hands of Beauty form'd for Woman;
The Mirrors of our Court, where Chastity
And Innocence might copy spotless Lustre;
To Day with Theodosius leave the World.

Leont.
Methinks at such a glorious resignation,
The Angelick Orders should at once descend,
In all the Paint and Drapery of Heav'n;
With charming Voices, and with lulling Strings,
To give full Grace to such Triumphant Zeal.

Attic.
No, Leontine; I fear there is a fault:
For when I last confess'd th'Emperour,
Whether disgust and melancholy Blood,
From restless Passions, urg'd not this Divorce?
He only answer'd me with Sighs and Blushes;
'Tis sure, his Soul is of the tenderest make:
Therefore, I'll tax him strictly; but, my Friend,
Why should give his Character to you,
Who when his Father sent him into Persia,
Were by that mighty Monarch then appointed
To breed him with his Son, the Prince Varanes.

Leont.
And what will raise your Admiration, is,
That two such different Tempers should agree:
You know that Theodosius is compos'd
Of all the softness that should make a Woman,
Judgment almost like Fear fore-runs his Actions;
And he will poise an Injury so long,
As if he had rather pardon than revenge it:
But the young Persian Prince quite opposite,
So Fiery fierce, that those who view him nearly
May see his haughty Soul still mounting in his Face;
Yet did I study these so different Tempers,
Till I at last had form'd a perfect Union,
As if two Souls did but inform one Body.
A friendship that may challenge all the World,
And at the proof be matchless.

Attic.
I long to read
This Gallant Prince, who, as you have inform'd me,
Comes from his Father's Court to see our Emperour.

Leon.
So he intended till he came to Athens;
And at my homely board beheld my Daughter;
Where, as Fate ordered, she who never saw
The Glories of a Court, bred up to Books
In Closets like a Sybil. She I say,
Long since from Persia brought by me to Athens!
Unskill'd in Charms, but those which Nature gave her,
Wounded this scornful Prince: In short, he forc'd me
To wait him thither, with deep protestations,
That Moment that bereft him of the sight.
Of Athenais, gave him certain Death.
Enter Varanes, and Athenais.
But see my Daughter honour'd with his presence.

Vara.
'Tis strange! O Athenais! wondrous, all
Wondrous the Shrines, and wonderful the Altars!
The Martyrs, though but drawn in painted Flames,
Amaze me with the Image of their suff'rings:
Saints Canoniz'd that dar'd with Roman Tyrants.
Hermits that liv'd in Caves, and fed with Angels,
By Orosmades, it is wondrous all.
That bloody Cross, in yonder Azure Sky,
Above the Head of kneeling Constantine;
Inscrib'd about with Golden Characters:
Thou shalt o'er-come in this. If it be true,
I say again, by Heav'n 'tis wond'rous strange.

Athen.
O Prince, if thus Imagination stirs you,
A fancy rais'd from figures in dead Walls,
How would the Sacred Breath of Atticus
Inspire your Breast, purge all your dross away,
And drive this Athenais from your Soul,
To make a Virgin Room, whom yet the Mould
Of your rude Fancy cannot comprehend.

Vara.
What says my Fair? Drive Athenais from me:
Start me not into Frenzy, lest I rail
At all Religion, and fail out with Heaven:
And what is she alas! that should supplant thee?
Were she the Mistress of the World, as fair
As Winter Stars, or Summer setting Suns,
And thou set by in Nature's plainest Dress,
With that chaste modest look when first I saw thee?
The Heiress of a poor Philosopher,
[Recorders ready to flourish.
I swear by all I wish, by all I love,
Glory and thee, I would not lose a thought,
Nor cast an Eye that way, but rush to thee,
To these lov'd arms, and lose my self for ever.

Athenais.
Forbear, my Lord.

Vara.
O cruel Athenais!
Why dost thou put me off, who pine to death?
And thrust me from thee when I would approach thee?
Can there be ought in this? Curse then thy birth-right,
Thy glorious Titles and ill-suited Greatness,
Since Athenais scorns thee: Take again
Your ill-tim'd Honours; take 'em, take 'em Gods!
And change me to some humble Villager,
If so at least for toils at scorching Noon,
In mowing Meadows, or in reaping Fields,
At night she will but crown me with a smile,
Or reach the bounty of her hand to bless me.

Athen.
When Princes speak, their Subjects should be silent,
Yet with humility I would demand,
Wherein appears my scorn, or my aversion?
Have I not for your sake abandon'd home,
Where I had vow'd to spend my calmer days?
But you perhaps imagine it but little
For a poor Maid to follow you abroad,
Especially the Daughter of old Leontine,
Yet I must tell you Prince—

Vara.
I cannot bear
Those Frowns: I have offended, but forgive me.
For who, Athenais, that is toss'd
With such tempestuous tydes of love as I,
Can steer a steady course? Retire, my Fair,
[Recorders flourish,
Hark! the Solemnities are now beginning,
And Theodosius comes: Hide, hide thy Charms,
If to his clouded Eyes such Day should break,
The Royal Youth who dotes to Death for Love,
I fear would forfeit all his Vows to Heav'n,
And fix upon thy World, thy World of Beauty.

[Exeunt.
Enter Theodosius leading Marina and Flavilla (all three drest in white) followed by Pulcheria.
Theo.
Farewel, Pulcheria! and I pray, no more:
For all thy kind Complaints are lost upon me.
Have I not sworn the World and I must part?
Fate has proclaim'd it, therefore weep no more,
Wound not the tenderest part of Theodosius,
My yielding Soul, that would expire in Calms!
Wound me not with thy Tears, and I will tell thee,
Yet e're I take my last farewel for ever,
The cause of all my sufferings: O, my Sister!
A bleeding Heart, the stings of pointed Love,
What Constitution soft as mine can bear?

Pulch.
My Lord, my Emp'rour, my dearest Brother,
Why all this while did you conceal it from me?

Theo.
Because I was asham'd to own my Weakness,
I knew thy sharper Wit, and stricter Wisdom
Would dart Reproofs, which I could not endure
Draw near, O Atticus, and mark me well,
For never yet did my complaining Spirit
Unlaid this weighty Secret upon him,
Nor groan a syllable of her Oppression.

Attic.
Concealment was a fault; but speak at large,
Make bare the Wound, and I will pour in Balm.

Theo.
'Tis folly all, and fondness—O, remembrance!
Why dost thou open thus my Wound again,
And from my Heart call down those warmer drops
That make me die with shame? Hear then, Pulcheria!
Some few preceding days before I left
The Persian Court, hunting one morning early,
I lost my self and all the Company,
Still wandring on as Fortune would direct me,
I past a Rivulet, and alighted in
The sweetest Solitude I ever saw!
When streight, as if Enchantment had been there,
Two charming Voices drew me 'till I came,
Where divers Arbours over-lookt the River.
Upon the Osier Bank two Women sate,
Who, when their Song was ended, talkt to one,
Who, bathing, stood far in the Chrystal stream.
But, oh, what thought can paint that fair Perfection,
Or give a glimpse of such a naked Glory!
Not Sea-born Venus, in the Courts beneath,
When the green Nymphs first kiss'd her Coral Lips,
All polisht, fair, and washt with Orient Beauty,
Could in my dazling Fancy match her brightness.

Attic.
Think where you are?

Theo.
O! Sir, you must forgive me,
The chaste Enthusiastick Form appears,
As when I saw her; yet I swear, Pulcheria,
Had cold Diana been a looker on,
She must have prais'd the Vertues of the Virgin,
The Satyrs could not grin, for she was veil'd:
Nothing immodest, from her naked Bosom
Down to her knees, the Nymph was wrapt in Lawn:
But oh for me! for me, that was too much!
Her Legs, her Arms, her Hands, her Neck, her Breasts,
So nicely shap'd, so matchless in their Lustre!
Such all-perfection, that I took whole draughts
Of killing Love, and ever since have languisht
With lingring surfeits of her fatal Beauty!
Alas, too fatal sure! O Atticus!
Forgive me, for my story now is done,
The Nymph was drest, and with her two Companions,
Having descry'd me, shriekt and fled away,
Leaving me motionless, till Leontine,
Th'Instructer of my Youth, by chance came in,
And wak'd me from the wonder that entranc'd me.

Attic.
Behold, my Lord, the Man whom you have nam'd,
The Harbinger of Prince Varanes here.

Theod.
O Leontine! ten thousand Welcomes meet thee!
Thou Foster-Father of my tender Youth,
Who rear'd the Plant, and prun'd it with such Care;
How shall I look upon thee, who am fallen
From all the Principles of manlier reason,
By thee infus'd, to more than Woman's weakness?
Now by the Majesty Divine, that aws
This sacred place, I swear you must not kneel:
And tell me, for I have a thousand things
To ask thee; Where, where is my Godlike Friend?
Is he arriv'd, and shall I see his Face,
Before I am cloyster'd from the World for ever?

Leont.
He comes, my Lord, with all the expecting Joys
Of a young promis'd Lover, from his Eyes
Big hopes look forth, and boiling Fancy forms
Nothing but Theodosius still before him;
His thought, his every word, is Theodosius.

Theo.
Yet Leontine, yet answer me once more:
With tremblings I demand thee.
Say—hast thou seen? Oh, has that Heav'nly form
Appear'd to thee again? Behold he's dumb:
Proceed then to the Solemn last farewel;
Never was Man so willing, and prepar'd.

Enter Varanes, Aranthes, Attendants.
Vara.
Where is my Friend! oh where is my belov'd,
My Theodosius! point him out ye Gods,
That I may press him dead betwixt my Arms;
Devour him thus with over-hasty Joys,
That languish at his Breast, quite out of breath,
And cannot utter more.

Theo.
Thou mightiest Pleasure!
And greatest Blessing, that kind Heav'n could send,
To glad my parting Soul, a thousand Welcomes!
O, when I look on thee, new starts of Glory
Spring in my Breast, and with a backward bound
I run the Race of lusty Youth again.

Vara.
By Heav'n it joys me too, when I remember
Our thousand Pastimes, when we borrow'd Names;
Alcides, I, and Thou, my dearest Theseus,
When through the Woods, we chas'd the foaming Boar,
With Hounds that open'd like Thessalian Bulls,
Like Tygers flu'd, and sanded as the shoar,
With Ears, and Chests, that dasht the morning Dew:
Driv'n with the Sport, as Ships are tost in Storms,
We ran like Winds, and matchless was our Course;
Now sweeping o'er the limit of a Hill!
Now with a full Career come thundring down
The Precipice! and sweat along the Vale.

Theo.
O glorious time! and when the gathering Clouds
Have call'd us home, say, Did we rest, my Brother?
When on the Stage, to the admiring Court,
We strove to represent Alcides Fury,
In all that raging Heat, and pomp of Madness,
With which the stately Seneca adorn'd him:
So lively drawn, and painted with such horror,
That we were forc'd to give it o'er; so loud
The Virgins shriek'd, so fast they dy'd away.

Vara.
My Theodosius still; 'tis my lov'd Brother;
And by the Gods we'll see those times agen!
Why then has Rumour wrong'd thee, that reported
Christian Enthusiasm had charm'd thee from us,
That drawn by Priests, and work'd by Melancholy,
Thou hadst laid the golden Reins of Empire down,
And sworn thy self a Votary for ever?

Theo.
'Tis almost true; and had not you arriv'd,
The solemn business had by this been ended.
This I have made the Empress of the East,
My elder Sister: These with me retire,
Devoted to the Pow'r, whom we adore.

Vara.
What Power is that that merits such Oblations?
I thought the Sun more great and glorious,
Than any that e're mingled with the Gods;
Yet even to him my Father never offer'd
More than a Hecatomb of Bulls and Horses:
Now by those golden Beams, that glad the World,
I swear it is too much: For one of these,
But half so bright, our God would drive no more,
He'd leave the darken'd Globe, and in some Cave
Injoy such Charms for ever.

Attic.
My Lord, forbear!
Such Language does not suit with our Devotion:
Nothing prophane must dare to murmur here.
Nor stain the hallow'd Beauties of the Place.
Yet thus far we must yield; the Emperour
Is not enough prepar'd to leave the World.

Vara.
Thus low, most Reverend of this sacred place,
I kneel for Pardon, and am half converted,
By your permission that my Theodosius
Return to my Embraces. O my Brother!
Why dost thou droop? There will be time enough
For Prayer and Fasting, and Religious Vows;
Let us enjoy, while yet thou art my own,
All the Magnificence of Eastern Courts;
I hate to walk a lazy Life away:
Let's run the Race which Fate has set before us,
And post to the dark Goal.

Theo.
Cruel Destiny!
Why am not I thus too? O my Varanes!
Why are these costly Dishes set before me?
Why do these sounds of Pleasure strike my Ears?
Why are these Joys brought to my sick remembrance;
Who have no appetite; but am to sense,
From Head to Foot, all a dead Palsie o're?

Vara.
Fear not, my Friend, all shall be well again,
For I have thousand ways, and thousand stories
To raise thee up to Pleasure, we'll unlock
Our fastest Secrets, shed upon each other
Our tender'st Cares, and quite unbarr those Doors,
Which shall be shut to all Mankind beside.

Attic.
Silence and Reverence are the Temple's dues:
Therefore, while we pursue the Sacred Rites,
Be these observ'd, or quit the awful place,
Imperial Sisters, now twin-stars of Heaven,
Answer the Successor of Chrysostom;
Without least Reservation answer me;
By those harmonious Rules I charg'd ye learn:

Atticus Sings.
Attic.

2 Priest.

3 Priest.

Attic.

Chor.

Marina
Sings.

Flavilla
Sings.

Attic.
Sings.

Scene shuts, and all the Priests with Marina, and Flav. disappear.
Pulch.
For ever gone! for ever parted from me!
O Theodosius, till this cruel moment
I never knew how tenderly I lov'd 'em;
But on this everlasting separation,
Methinks my Soul has left me, and my Time
Of dissolution points me to the Grave.

Theo.
O my Varanes, does not now thy temper
Bate something of its fire? dost thou not melt
In meer Compassion of my Sister's Fate,
And cool thy self with one relenting thought?

Vara.
Yes, my dar'd Soul rouls inward, melancholy,
Which I ne'er felt before, now comes upon me;
And I begin to loath all humane greatness.
Oh! sigh not then, nor thy hard Fate deplore!
For, 'tis resolv'd, we will be Kings no more:
We'll fly all Courts, and Love shall be our guide;
Love that's more worth than all the World beside.
Princes are barr'd the liberty to roam,
The fetter'd mind still languishes at home;
In golden Bands she treads the thoughtful round,
Business and Cares eternally abound.
“And when for Air the Goddess would unbind,
“She's clogg'd with Scepters, and to Crowns confin'd.

[Exeunt.