University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter Pulcheria, Julia, Attendants.
Pulch.
These Packets for the Emperour Honorius;
Be swift, let the Agent haste to Rome—
I hear, my Julia, that our General
Is from the Goths return'd with Conquest home.

Jul.
He is; to day I saw him in the Presence,
Sharp to the Courtiers, as he ever was:
Because they went not with him to the Wars.
To you he bows, and sues to kiss your Hand.

Pulch.
He shall, my dearest Julia; oft I have told thee
The secret of my Soul: If e'er I marry,
Marcian's my Husband; he is a Man, my Julia,
Whom I have study'd long, and found him perfect:
Old Rome at every glance looks through his Eyes,
And kindles the Beholders: Some sharp Atomes
Run through his Frame, which I could wish were out.
He sickens at the softness of the Emperour,
And speaks too freely of our Female Court;
Then sighs, comparing it with what Rome was.

Enter Marcian and Lucius.
Pulch.
Ha! Who are these that dare prophane this place
With more than barb'rous Insolence?

Marc.
At your Feet,
Behold I cast the scourge of these Offenders,
And kneel to kiss your Hand.

Pulch.
Put up your Sword,
And e'er I bid you welcome from the Wars,
Be sure you clear your Honour of this rudeness;
Or, Marcian, leave the Court.

Marc.
Thus then, Madam;
The Emperour receiv'd me with affection,
Embrac'd me for my Conquests, and retir'd;
When on a sudden all the gilded Flies
That buz about the Court came flutt'ring round me:
This with affected Cringes, and minc'd Words,
Begs me to tell my Tale of Victories;
Which done, he thanks me, slips behind his Fellow,
Whispers him in the Ear, then smiles and listens,
While I relate my Story once again:
A third comes in, and asks me the same favour:
Whereon they laugh, while I still ignorant
Go on; but one behind, more impudent,
Strikes on my Shoulder; then they laught out-right,
But then I guessing the abuse too late,
Return'd my Knight behind a box o'th'Ear;
Then drew, and briefly told them they were Rascals.
They, laughing still, cry'd out the General's musty,
Whereon I drove 'em, Madam, as you saw:
This is in short the Truth, I leave the Judgment
To your own Justice; if I have done ill,
Sentence me, and I'll leave the Court for ever.

Pulch.
First you are welcome, Marcian, from the Wars;
And still when e'er occasion calls for Arms,
Heav'n send th'Emperor a General
Renown'd as Marcian; as to what is past,
I think the World will rather praise than censure
Pulcheria, when she pardons you the Action.

Marc.
Gods! Gods! and thou great Founder of Old Rome!
What is become of all that mighty Spirit,
That rais'd our Empire to a pitch so high?
Where is it pent? What, but Almighty Power
Could thus confine it, that but some few Atoms
Now run through all the East and Occident?

Pulch.
Speak calmly, Marcian—

Marc.
Who can be temperate,
That thinks as I do, Madam? Why here's a Fellow,
I have seen him fight against a Troop of Vandals
In your Defence, as if he lov'd to bleed:
Come to my arms, my Dear! Thou canst not talk,
But hast a Soul above the proudest of 'em.
O, Madam, when he has been all over Blood,
And hackt with Wounds that seem'd to mouth his Praises;
I have seen him smile still as he pusht Death from him,
And with his actions rally distant Fate.

Pulch.
He has a noble Form.

Marc.
Yet ev'n this Man,
That fought so bravely in his Country's Cause,
This excellent Man this Morning in the Presence,
Did I see wrong'd before the Emperour,
Scorn'd and despis'd because he could not cringe,
Nor plant his Feet as some of them could do.
One said his Cloaths were not well made, and damn'd
His Taylor—Another said, he look'd
As if he had not lost his Maiden-head
If things are suffer'd to be thus, down all
Authority, Preeminence, Degree and Vertue.
Let Rome be never mention'd, no, in the Name
Of all the Gods, be she forgotten ever
Effeminate Persians, and the Lydian softness,
Make all your Fights, Marcian shall out no more;
For by my Arms it makes a Woman of me;
And my swoln Eyes run o'er to think this worth,
This fuller Honour than the whole Court holds,
Should be ridiculous to Knaves and Fools;
Should starve for want of what is necessary
To Life's Convenience. When luxurious Bawds
Are so o'er grown with Fat, and cram'd with Riot,
That they can hardly walk without an Engine.

Pulch.
Why did you not inform the Emperour?

Marc.
Because he will not hear me: Alas, good Man!
He flies from this bad World, and still when Wars
And Dangers come, he runs to his Devotions,
To your new thing, I know not what you call it,
Which Constantine began.

Pulch.
How, Marcian! are not you of that
Religion which the Emperour owns?

Marc.
No, Madam, if you'll see my naked thought,
I am not of their Principle, that take
A wrong; so far from bearing with a Foe,
I would strike first, like old Rome; I wou'd forth,
Elbow the neighbouring Nations round about,
Invade, enlarge my Empire to the bounds
Of the too narrow Universe. Yes, I own
That I despise your holy Innovations.
I am for the Roman Gods, for Funeral Piles,
For mounting Eagles, and the fancied greatness
Of our Fore-Fathers. Methinks my heated Spirit
Cou'd utter things worth losing of my Head.

Pulch.
Speak freely, Marcian, for I know thee honest.

Marc.
O, Madam! long, long may the Emperour live;
But, I must say, his gentle Disposition
Suits not, alas, the Oriental sway:
Bid him but look on Pharamond: O Gods!
Awake him with the Image of that Spirit,
Which, like a Pyramid revers'd, is grown
Ev'n from a point to the most dreadful greatness;
His very Name already shakes the World;
And still in Person heading his first Squadrons,
Like the first Cæsar o'er the hardy Gauls,
He seems another Thunderbolt of War.

Pulch.
I oft have blam'd my Brother most for this,
That to my hand he leaves the State Affairs:
And how that sounds, you know—

Mar.
Forgive me, Madam;
I think that all the greatness of your Sex,
Rome's Clelia; and the fam'd Semiramis,
With all th'Amazonian Valour too,
Meet in Pulcheria; yet, I say, forgive me,
If with reluctance I behold a Woman
Sit at the Empire's Helm, and steer the World.

Pulch.
I stand rebuk'd—

Marc.
Mark but the growing French.
The most auspicious Omen of their greatness,
That I can guess, is their late Salique Law,
Blest by their Priests, the Salii, and pronounc'd
To stand for ever; which excludes all Women
From the Imperial Crown: But, oh! I speak
The least of all those infinite grievances,
Which make the Subjects murmur: In the Army,
Tho' I proceeded still like Hannibal,
And punisht ev'ry Mutineer with Death;
Yet, oh! it stabb'd me through and through the Soul
To pass the Wretches Doom, because I knew
With Justice they complain'd; for hard they fought,
And with their Blood earn'd that forbidden Bread,
Which some at Court, and great ones, though un-nam'd,
Cast to their Hounds, while the poor Soldier's starv'd—

Pulch.
Your pity too in mournful fellowship,
No doubt might sooth their murmurs.

Marc.
Yes, it did,
That I might put 'em once again in heart,
I said 'twas true, the Emperour was to blame,
Who dealt too coldly with his faithful Servants,
And paid their great Arrears by second hand:
I promis'd too, when we return'd to Court,
Things should be mended—
But how! oh Gods! forgive my Blood this Transport!
To the Eternal Shame of Female Councils!
And to the blast of Theodosius Name,
Whom never Warlike Chronicle shall mention!
O let me speak it with a Roman Spirit,
We were receiv'd like undone Prodigals,
By curst ungrateful Stewards, with cold looks;
Who yet got all by those poor Wretches ruine.
Like Malefactors, at the hands of Justice,
I blush, I almost weep with bursting rage;
If thus receiv'd, how paid our long Arrears?
Why, as intrusted Misers pay the Rights
Of helpless Widows, or the Orphans Tears.
O Soldier, for to thee, to Thee I speak it,
Bawd's for the drudgery of Citizens Wives,
Would better pay debilitated Stallions.
Madam, I have said perhaps too much; if so,
It matters not, for he who lies, like me,
On the hard ground, is sure to fall no further.

Pulch.
I have given you patient hearing, honest Marcian!
And, as far as I can see into your Temper,
I speak my serious Judgment in cold Blood,
With strictest Consultation on the matter;
I think this seeming plain and honest, Marcian,
An exquisite and most notorious Traytor.

Marc.
Ha! Traytor!

Pulch.
Yes, a most notorious Traytor.

Marc.
Your Grandfather, whose Frown could awe the World,
Would not have call'd me so—or if he had—

Pulch.
You would have taken it—But to the Business,
Was't not enough! Oh Heaven! Thou know'st, too much!
At first to own your self an Infidel,
A bold Contemner, even to Blasphemy,
Of that Religion which we all profess;
For which your Heart's best Blood can ne'er suffice:
But you must dare, with a seditious Army,
Thus to conspire against the Emperour;
I mention not your Impudence to me,
Taxing the folly of my Government,
Ev'n to my Face: Such an Irreverence,
As sure no barb'rous Vandal would have urg'd;
Beside your libelling all the Court, as if
You had engrost the whole World's honesty:
And Flatterers, Fools, Sycophants, Knaves,
Such was your Language, did inhabit here.

Marc.
You wrest my honest meaning, by the Gods
You do, and if you thus go on, I feel
My strugling Spirit will no longer bear it.

Pulch.
I thought the meaning of all rational Men
Should still be gather'd out of their Discourse;
Nor are you so imprudent, without thinking,
To vent such words, tho' now you fain would hide it;
You find the Guilt, and bank the Accusation:
But think not you shall scape so easily!
Once more I do confront you, as a Traytor;
And as I am entrusted with full pow'r,
Divest you, in the Name of Toeodosius,
Of all your Offices, Commissions, Honours,
Command you leave the Court within three Days,
Loyal, plain-dealing, honest Marcian.

Marc.
Gods! Gods!

Pulch.
What now! ha! does the Traytor murmur?
If in three days! mark me; 'tis I that doom thee!
Rash inconsiderable Man, a Wretch beneath
The Torments I cou'd execute upon thee!
If after three days space thou'rt found in Court,
Thou dy'st! thy head, thy head shall pay the forfeit.
Farewell: now rage! now rail and curse the Court;
Saucily dare to abuse the best of Princes,
And let thy lawless Tongue lash all it can;
Do, like a mad-man rave! deplore thy Fortune,
While Pages laugh at thee. Then haste to the Army,
Grow popular, and lead the multitude:
Preach up thy Wrongs, and drive the giddy Beast
To kick at Cæsar. Nay, if thou weep'st, I am gone.
O Julia! if I stay, I shall weep too.
Yet 'tis but just that I the Heart should see
Of him who once must Lord it over me.

[Ex. Pulcheria, &c.
Luc.
Why do you droop, Sir—Come, no more o'this,
You are and shall be still our General:
Say but the Word, I'll fill the Hippodrome
With Squadrons that shall make the Emp'ror tremble;
We'll fire the Court about his Ears.
Methinks like Junius Brutus I have watcht
An Opportunity, and now it comes!
Few words and I are Friends; but, noble Marcian,
If yet thou art not more than General,
E'er dead of Night, say Lucius is a Coward.

Marc.
I charge thee in the name of all the Gods,
Come back. I charm thee by the name of Friend.
All's well, and I rejoyce I am no General.
But hush! within three days we must be gone,
And then, my Friend, farewel to Ceremony.
We'll fly to some far distant lonely Village,
Forget our former state, and breed with Slaves.
Sweat in the Eye of Day, and when Night comes,
With bodies coursely fill'd, and vacant Souls,
Sleep like the laboured Hinds, and never think;
For if I think again, I shall go mad.
Enter Leontine and Athonais, &c.
Therefore no thought. But see, we are interrupted!
O Court! O Emperor! yet let Death threaten,
I'll find a time. Till then be still my Soul—
No General now? A Member of thy Country,
But most corrupt, therefore to be cut off,
Loyal, plain-dealing, honest Marcian!
A Slave, a Traytor! O ye Eternal Gods—

[Exeunt.
Leon.
So, Athenais! now our complement,
To the young Persian Prince, is at an end,
What then remains but that we take our leave,
And bid him everlastingly Farewell?

Athen.
My Lord!

Leon.
I say that decency requires
We should be gone, nor can you stay with Honour.

Athen.
Most true, my Lord.

Leon.
The Court is now at peace,
The Emperour's Sisters are retir'd for ever,
And he himself compos'd; what hinders then,
But that we bid adieu to Prince Varanes?

Athen.
Ah, Sir, why will you break my heart?

Leon.
I would not;
Thou art the only Comfort of my Age;
Like an old Tree I stand among the storms,
Thou art the only limb that I have left me:
[She kneels.
My dear green branch, and how I prize thee, Child,
Heaven only knows! why dost thou kneel and weep?

Athen.
Because you are so good, and will I hope
Forgive my fault, who first occasion'd it.

Leon.
I charg'd thee to receive and hear the Prince.

Athen.
You did, and, Oh, my Lord! I heard too much!
Too much I fear for my Eternal Quiet.

Leon.
Rise, Athenais! Credit him who bears
More years than thou: Varanes has deceiv'd thee.

Athen.
How do we differ then? You judge the Prince
Impious and base; while I take Heav'n to witness,
I think him the most Vertuous of men:
Therefore take heed, my Lord, how you accuse him,
Before you make the Tryal. Alas, Varanes,
If thou art false, there's no such thing on Earth
As solid Goodness, or substantial Honour.
A thousand times, My Lord, he has sworn to give me
(And I believe his Oaths) his Crown and Empire,
That day I make him Master of my Heart.

Leon.
That day he'll make thee Mistress of his power,
Which carries a foul name among the Vulgar.
No, Athenais! let me see thee dead,
Born a pale Corps, and gently laid in Earth,
So I may say she's chaste, and dy'd a Virgin,
Rather than view thee with these wounded Eyes
Seated upon the Throne of Isdigerdes,
The blast of Common Tongues, the Nobles scorn,
Thy Father's Curse; that is, the Prince's Whore.

Athen.
O horrid supposition! how I detest it!
Be witness Heav'n, that sees my secret thoughts!
Have I for this, my Lord, been taught by you
The nicest Justice, and severest Vertue,
To fear no Death, to know the end of Life,
And with a long search discern the highest good?
No, Athenais! when the Day beholds thee
So scandalously rais'd, Pride cast the down,
The scorn of Honour, and the People's prey!
No, cruel Leontine, not to redeem
That aged Head from the descending Axe,
Not tho' I saw thy trembling Body rackt,
Thy wrinckles about thee fill'd with Blood,
Would I for Empire, to the Man I love,
Be made the object of unlawful Pleasure.

Leon.
O greatly said, and by the Blood which warms me,
Which runs as rich as any Athens holds,
It would improve the Vertue of the World,
If every Day a thousand Votaries,
And thousand Virgins came from far to hear thee!

Athen.
Look down ye pow'rs, take notice we obey
The rigid Principles ye have infus'd;
Yet oh my noble Father! to convince you,
Since you will have it so, propose a Marriage;
Tho with the thought I am covered o're with Blushes,
Not that I doubt the Prince, that were to doubt
The Heavens themselves. I know he is all truth:
But modesty—
The Virgins troublesome and constant guest,
That, that alone forbids—

Leon.
I wish to Heav'n
There prove no greater bar to my belief:
Behold the Prince, I will retire a while,
And, when occasion calls, come to thy aid.

[Ex. L
Enter Varanes, and Aranthes.
Vara.
To fix her on the Throne, to me, seems little,
Were I a God, yet would I raise her higher.
This is the nature of thy Prince: But oh!
As to the World thy judgment soars above me,
And I am dai'd with this Gigantick Honour;
Glory forbids her prospect to a Crown,
Nor must she gaze that way; my haughty Soul,
That day when she ascends the Throne of Cyrus,
Will leave my Body pale, and to the Stars
Retire in Blushes, lost, quite lost for ever,

Aran.
What do you purpose then?

Vara.
I know not what,
But see she comes, the glory of my arms,
The only business of my instant thought,
My Souls best Joy, and all my true repose.
I swear I cannot bear these strange desires,
These strong impulses which will shortly leave me
Dead at thy Feet—

Athen.
What have you found, my Lord,
In me so harsh or cruel, that you fear
To speak your griefs?

Vara.
First let me kneel and swear,
And on thy hand seal my Religious Vow,
Streight let the breath of Gods blow me from Earth,
Swept from the Book of Fame, forgotten ever,
If I prefer thee not, O Athenais,
To all the Persian greatness!

Athen.
I believe you!
For I have heard you swear as much before.

Vara.
Hast thou? O why then did I swear again?
But that my Love knew nothing worthier of thee,
And could no better way express my Passion.

Athen.
O rise, my Lord—

Vara.
I will do every thing
Which Athenais bids: If there be more
In Nature to convince thee of my Love,
Whisper it, oh some God, into my Ear!
And on her Breasts thus to her listning Soul
I'll breath th'Inspiration! Wilt thou not speak?
What but one sigh, no more! Can that suffice
For all my vast expence of Prodigal Love?
O Athenais! What shall I say or do,
To gain the thing I wish?

Athen.
What's that, my Lord?

Vara.
Thus to approach thee still! thus to behold thee—
Yet there is more—

Athen.
My Lord, I dare not hear you.

Vara.
Why dost thou frown at what thou dost not know
'Tis an imagination which ne'er pierc'd thee;
Yet as 'tis ravishing, 'tis full of Honour.

Athen.
I must not doubt you, Sir: But oh I tremble
To think if Isdigerdes should behold you,
Should hear you thus protesting to a Maid
Of no Degree, but Vertue, in the World—

Vara.
No more of this, no more; for I disdain
All Pomp when thou art by; far be the noise
Of Kings and Courts from us, whose gentle Souls
Our kinder Stars have steer'd another way.
Free as the Forest-Birds, we'll pair together,
Without remembring who our Fathers were;
Fly to the Arbors, Grots, and flow'ry Meads,
And in soft murmurs interchange our Souls.
Together drink the Chrystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow Fruit which Autumn yields,
And when the Golden Evening calls us home,
Wing to our Downy Nest, and sleep till Morn.

Athen.
Ah Prince! no more!
Forbear, forbear to charm me,
Since I am doom'd to leave you, Sir, for ever.

Vara.
Hold, Athenais—

Athen.
I know your Royal Temper,
And that high Honour reigns within your Breast,
Which would disdain to wast so many hours
With one of humble blood compar'd to you:
Unless strong passion sway'd your thoughts to love her,
Therefore receive, oh Prince! and take it kindly,
For none on Earth but you could win it from me,
Receive the gift of my Eternal Love.
'Tis all I can bestow, nor is it little,
For sure a heart so coldly chaste as mine,
No Charms but yours, my Lord, could e'er have warm'd!

Vara.
Well have you made amends by this last comfort,
For the cold Dart you shot at me before,
For this last Goodness? (Oh, my Athenais!)
(For now, methinks, I ought to call you mine!)
I empty all my Soul in thanks before you:
Yet oh! one Fear remains, like Death it chills me;
Why my relenting Love did talk of parting!

Athen.
Look there, and cease your wonder, I have sworn
To obey my Father and he calls me hence—

Enter Leontine.
Vara.
Ha, Leontine! by which of all my Actions
Have I so deeply injur'd thee, to merit
The smartest wound revenge could form to end me?

Leon.
Answer me now, O Prince! for vertue prompts me,
And honesty will dally now no longer,
What can the end of all this Passion be,
Glory requires this strict accompt, and asks
What you intend at last to Athenais?

Vara.
How, Leontine!

Leon.
You saw her, Sir, at Athens; said you lov'd her,
I charg'd her humbly to receive the Honour,
And hear your Passion: Has she not, Sir, obey'd me?

Vara.
She has, I thank the Gods! but whither wouldst thou?

Leon.
Having resolv'd to visit Theodosius,
You swore you would not go without my Daughter,
Whereon I gave command that she should follow.

Vara.
Yes, Leontine, my old Remembrancer,
Most learn'd of all Philosophers, you did.

Leon.
Thus long she has attended, you have seen her,
Sounded her Vertues and her Imperfections;
Therefore, dread Sir, forgive this bolder Charge,
Which Honour sounds, and now let me demand you—

Vara.
Now help, Aranthes, or I am dasht for ever.

Aran.
Whatever happens, Sir, disdain the Marriage.

Leon.
Can your high thoughts so far forget themselves,
To admit this humble Virgin for your Bride?

Vara.
Ha!

Athen.
He blushes, Gods! and stammers at the question.

Leon.
Why do you walk, and chafe your self, my Lord?
The business is not much.

Vara.
How, Leontine!
Not much; I know that she deserves a Crown;
Yet 'tis to Reason much, tho' not to Love?
And sure the World would blush to see the Daughter
Of a Philosopher on the Throne of Cyrus.

Athen.
Undone for ever!

Leon.
Is this your answer, Sir?

Vara.
Why dost thou urge me thus, and push me to
The very brink of Glory? where, alas!
I look and tremble at the vast Descent:
Yet even there, to the vast bottom, down
My rash Adventurer Love would have me leap,
And grasp my Athenais with my Ruine.

Leon.
'Tis well, my Lord—

Vara.
Why dost thou thus provoke me,
I thought that Persia's Court had store of Honour
To satisfie the height of thy Ambition.
Besides, old Man, my Love is too well grown,
To want a Tutor for his good Behaviour;
What he will do, he will do of himself,
And not be taught by you—

Leon.
I know he will not!
Fond Tears away; I know, I know he will not;
But he would buy with his Old Man's Preferment,
My Daughter for your Whore.

Vara.
Away, I say, my Soul disdains the Motion!

Leon.
The Motion of a Marriage; yes, I see it;
Your angry looks and haughty words betray it:
I found it at the first; I thank you, Sir,
You have at last rewarded your old Tutor
For all his Cares, his Watchings, Services;
Yet, let me tell you, Sir, this humble Maid,
This Daughter of a poor Philosopher,
Shall, if she please, be seated on a Throne
As high as that of th'Immortal Cyrus.

Vara.
I think that Age and deep Philosophy
Have crackt thy Brain: Farewel, old Leontine,
Retire to rest, and when this brawling Humour
Is rockt asleep, I'll meet my Athenais,
And clear the accounts of Love, which thou hast blotted.

Leon.
Old Leontine! perhaps I am mad indeed.
But hold my Heart, and let that solid Vertue,
Which I so long ador'd, still keep the Reins.
O Athenais! But I will not chide thee,
Fate is in all our Actions, and, methinks,
At least a Father judges so; it has
Rebuk'd thee smartly for thy Easiness;
There is a kind of mournful Eloquence
In thy dumb grief, which shames all clamorous sorrow.

Athen.
Alas! my Breast is full of Death; methinks
I fear ev'n you—

Leon.
Why should'st thou fear thy Father?

Athen.
Because you have the Figure of a Man!
Is there, O speak, a possibility
To be forgiven?

Leon.
Thy Father does forgive thee,
And Honour will; but on this hard Condition,
Never to see him more—

Athen.
See him! Oh Heavens!

Leon.
Unless it be, my Daughter, to upbraid him:
Not tho' he should repent and streight return,
Nay proffer thee his Crown—No more of that.
Honour too cries revenge, revenge thy Wrongs,
Revenge thy self, revenge thy Injur'd Father.
For 'tis Revenge so wise, so glorious too,
As all the World shall praise—

Athen.
O give me leave,
For yet I am all tenderness, the Woman,
The weak, the mild, the fond, the coward Woman,
Dares not look forth; but runs about my Breast,
And visits all the warmer Mansions there,
Where she so oft has harbour'd false Varanes.
Cruel Varanes! false forsworn Varanes!

Leon.
Is this forgetting him? is this the Course
Which Honour bids thee take?

Athen.
Ah, Sir, allow
A little time for Love to make his way;
Hardly he won the place, and many sighs,
And many tears, and thousand Oaths it cost him.
And oh I find he will not be dislodged
Without a Groan at parting hence for ever.
No, no! he vows he will not yet be raz'd
Without whole Floods of Grief at his farewel,
Which thus I sacrifice! and oh I swear,
Had he proved true, I would as easily
Have empty'd all my Blood, and dy'd to serve him,
As now I shed these drops, or vent these sighs,
To shew how well, how perfectly I lov'd him.

Leon.
No Woman sure, but thou, so low in Fortune,
Therefore the nobler is thy fair Example,
Would thus have griev'd, because a Prince ador'd her;
Nor will it be believ'd in after-times,
That there was ever such a Maid in being;
Yet do I advise, preserve thy Vertue;
And since he does disdain thee for his Bride,
Scorn thou to be—

Athen.
Hold, Sir, oh hold, forbear.
For my nice Soul abhors the very sound;
Yet with the shame of that, and the desire
Of an Immortal Name, I am inspir'd!
All kinder Thoughts are fled for ever from me,
All Tenderness, as if I ne'er had lov'd,
Has left my Bosom colder than the Grave.

Leon.
On, Athenais! on, 'tis bright before thee,
Pursue the Track, and thou shalt be a Star.

Athen.
O, Leontine, I swear, my noble Father,
That I will starve e'er once forego my Vertue;
And thus let's joyn to contradict the World,
That Empire could not tempt a poor old Man,
To sell his Prince the Honour of his Daughter;
And she, too, match'd the Spirit of her Father;
Tho' humbly born, and yet more humbly bred;
She for her Fame refus'd a Royal Bed;
Who, tho' she lov'd, yet did put off the Hour,
Nor could her Vertue be betray'd by Pow'r.
“Patterns like these will guilty Courts improve,
“And teach the Fair to blush at Conscious Love:
“Then let all Maids for Honour come in view,
“If any Maid can more for Glory do.

SONG after the Second ACT.