University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Athenais drest in Imperial Robes, and Crown'd: A Table with a Bowl of Poison.
Athen.
A midnight Marriage! must I to the Temple
Thus, at the Murderers hour? 'Tis wond'rous strange!
But so thou say'st my Father has commanded;
And that's Almighty Reason.

Delia.
Th'Emperour in compassion to the Prince,
Who would, perhaps, fly to extravagance,
If he in publick should resolve to espouse you,
Contriv'd by this close Marriage to deceive him.

Athen.
Go fetch thy Lute, and sing those Lines I gave thee;
So, now I am alone, yet my Soul shakes;
For where this dreadful Draught may carry me,
The Heav'ns can only tell; yet I am resolv'd
To drink it off in spite of Consequence,
Whisper him, O some Angel! what I am doing;
By sympathy of Soul let him too tremble,
To hear my wondrous Faith, my wondrous Love,
Whose Spirit not content with an Ovation,
Of ling'ring Fate, with Triumph thus resolv'd:
Thus in the rapid Chariot of the Soul;
To mount and dare as never Woman dar'd:
'Tis done, haste, Delia, haste! come bring thy Lute,
[Drinks.
And sing my waftage to immortal Joys,
Methinks I cannot but smile at my own bravery,
Thus from my lowest Fortune rais'd to Empire,
Crown'd and adorn'd! worshipt by half the Earth,
While a young Monarch dies for my Embraces:
Yet now to wave the Glories of the World,
O my Varanes! tho' my Births unequal,
My Vertue sure has richly recompenc'd,
And quite out-gone Example!

SONG.

Enter Pulcheria.
Pulch.
How fares my dear Eudosia? ha, thou look'st,
Or else the Tapers cheat my sight, like one
That's fitter for thy Tomb than Cæsar's Bed,
A fatal Sorrow dims thy shaded Eyes,
And in despite of all thy Ornaments,
Thou seem'st to me the Ghost of Athenais.

Athen.
And what's the punishment, my dear Pulcheria?
What Torments are allotted those sad Spirits,
Who groaning with the burden of Despair;
No longer will endure the Cares of Life,
But boldly set themselves at liberty,
Through the dark Caves of Death to wander on,
Like wilded Travellers without a Guide,
Eternal Rovers in the gloomy Maze,
Where scarce the Twi-light of an Infant Moon,
By a faint Glimmer checkering through the Trees,
Reflects to dismal view the walking Ghosts,
And never hope to reach the blessed Fields?

Pulch.
No more o' that, Atticus shall resolve thee;
But see, he waits thee from the Emperour;
Thy Father too attends.

Enter Leontine, Atticus, &c.
Leont.
Come, Athenais! Ha, what now in Tears?
O fall of Honour, but no more I charge thee,
I charge thee, as thou ever hop'st my Blessing,
Or fear'st my Curse, to banish from thy Soul
All Thoughts, if possible, the Memory
Of that ungrateful Prince that has undone thee.
Attend me to the Temple on this Instant,
To make the Emperour thine, this Night to wed him,
And lie within his Arms.

Athen.
Yes, Sir, I'll go—
Let me but dry my Eyes, and I will go;
Eudosia, this unhappy Bride shall go,
Thus like a Victim crown'd and doom'd to bleed,
I'll wait you to the Altar, wed the Emperour,
And if he pleases, lie within his Arms.

Leont.
Thou art my Child agen.

Athen.
But do not, Sir, imagine that any Charms,
Or Threatnings shall compel me
Never to think of poor Varanes more:
No, my Varanes: No—
While I have Breath, I will remember thee:
To thee alone I will my Thoughts confine,
And all my Meditations shall be thine:
The Image of thy Woes my Soul shall fill,
Fate and my End, and thy Remembrance still;
As in some Pop'lar Shade the Nightingale,
With piercing Moans does her lost Young bewail,
Which the rough Hind, observing as they lay
Warm in their Downy Nest, had stoln away,
But she in mournful Sounds does still complain,
Sings all the Night, tho' all her Songs are vain,
And still renews her miserable strain:
So my Varanes, 'till my Death comes on,
Shall sad Eudosia thy dear Loss bemoan.

[Ex. Athenais, Atticus.