 | Cyrus the Great : Or, The Tragedy of Love |  |
11
Actus Secundus,
Scæna Prima.
Cyrus discovered upon his Throne in Triumph amongst his Captains and Soldiers. Cræsus bound ready for Execution.Cyr.
Enough—These splendid Vanities I loath,
[Sounds of Triumphs.
The boast of Fools, and Pageanty of Cowards;
It sits too heavy on your Cyrus Arms—
O let me rise, and let 'em loose, my Soldiers,
To throw about your Necks, and thus embrace
My Valiant Friends, and all my brave Confed'rates,
By whose sole Aid (Gods be my Witnesses)
I own it with a Pride, I have restor'd
The World to its dear antient Liberty,
Freed Captiv'd Nations from their Tyrant's Yoaks,
And plac'd 'em on the Necks of barb'rous Kings,
Trod down the Walls of fam'd Semiramis,
That founded first this Asian Monarchy;
Made my Commands in one quick Moment spread
Like Thunder terrible through all the City.
But let's no more afflict this Monarch's Spirit,
But grant him that which ev'ry gallant Soul
In vast distress requires—a speedy Death—
Away with him, and having plac'd him on
The Fuel, let it blaze, a just Reward
For him that has so long set all the World
In Flames—Quick, take him hence—
[As they are carrying off Cræsus to Execution, Cyrus calls him back.
Cræs.
O Solon! Solon! Solon!
Cyr.
Stay, bring him back, say, What does Cræsus mean?
I did expect thou shouldst have ask'd thy Life,
And thou in scorn of me call'st loud for Solon—
Can Solon save thee from the Wrath of Cyrus?
Cræs.
No, 'tis too late, but that which made me call
On Solon was, to my remembrance came
The Sentence of that Wise and Learned Teacher,
Which I till now contemn'd, 'Twas in the midst
Of all my Glories, Children, Friends, and Riches,
Thinking my self, no God cou'd be more happy,
12
Tell me, said I, who is the happiest Man
On Earth: but Solon answer'd, there was none,
None cou'd be truly happy whilst he liv'd.
I ask'd him then, who 'twas he thought was happiest,
Expecting that he shou'd have said, 'twas Cræsus;
But he reply'd, the happiest Man he thought
Was Tellus, once a Citizen of Athens,
A Man that had no mean nor mighty Fortune;
His Wife not fair, nor homely, but belov'd,
And virtuous, and his Children all obedient,
Who, like the first Man, liv'd in Paradice,
And never press'd the Strangers luscious Fruits,
Nor drank but what his own full Vines did yield;
Fed on the Flesh of his own teeming Flocks,
And wore no Cloaths but what their Backs afforded;
In his own Pale grew all his Sustenance,
And in his Bosom all the World's content.
Cyr.
How brook you then your fall'n and lost Estate?
Methinks with brave Contempt you bear your Chains,
And Cræsus looks as if he spurn'd his Fate.
Cræs.
So much my Mind does soar above my Fortune,
That I behold with greater scorn these Bonds,
Than thou born up with the World's flattering Wings
Look'st down on me that am thy Slave—Yet in
Despite of all thou canst, I'm Cræsus still.
Cyr.
'Tis bravely said, and spoken like a King—
I have been told, that in thy spring of Glory
Thou didst consult the Delphick Oracle,
And kneel'd before the God days numberless,
Made rich Apollo's Shrines with such vast Presents,
As did excel what the Earth's Bowels hold,
Might make a Ransom wou'd restore the World,
Were't threatn'd to be ruin'd by the Gods.
Cræs.
All this, nay more, the God did heap upon me,
My Children, Friends, and Kingdoms so increas'd,
That Europe cou'd not bound my spreading Empire,
Nor Asian Cities number out my Wealth.
Cyr.
The God was grateful to thee for a while:
But by what wonderful neglect of thine
Hast thou since lost the Merit of his Bounty?
Cræs.
I'll tell thee all with a prodigious Patience—
Having at length tir'd out th'relenting God
With my unwear'd steps, ne'er ceasing Pray'rs,
This Answer I receiv'd from the bright Altar—
Cræsus no more—Let Cræsus know himself,
And he to his Life's end, shall happy be.—
13
That then, methought, I reign'd not amongst Men,
But rul'd the Sky, and saw the Stars below me;
My Wealth, my Friends were numberless as Sands,
Still no Storm grew upon my smiling Days;
No Cross, nor Rub lay in my smooth State's way,
No Vision was so calm as was my Life;
Elisium envy'd my strange Bliss, and wonder'd.
Cyr.
Now by the Gods, thy Blessings were so rare,
So very sensible thy Losses move,
That my stout Heart begins to pity thee.
Cræs.
Look to thy self, thy Fortunes reach their highest,
Mine touch the Ground, and can no lower be;
I from this Hour begin to know my self,
And from that Knowledge I renew my Joys—
But as I told thee, so my Life continu'd
In its still smiling Form and Flattery,
Till thou, swift Harbinger of Death and Ruine,
Hast let the Ocean in on Cræsus Glories,
And left him poor, bereft of all, but what thou seest.
Cyr.
Despair not, Cræsus, thou art still the same;
What Solon and the Gods have said is true,
And Cyrus, as a Servant of the Oracle,
Obeys thy Fortune, and absolves thy Doom—
Unbind him straight, unbind those sacred Hands,
Set fire with speed to the vast Fun'ral Pile
That was design'd to burn the pious King,
And Sacrifice thereon a hundred Heads
Of Oxen, dedicated to the Gods;
Augment the Flames with rich Arabian Gumms,
With Pearls, and Spice sent from the Kings of India—
My Laurels, Standards, and my Crowns shall burn,
T'atone the Gods, rather than one dear Hair
Of Virtue perish—Come, then to my Arms,
And shew me how to be a King indeed,
Solon taught thee, and thou shalt teach thy Cyrus.
Cræs.
O mighty Prince! Thou much more God than Man!
My emulating Soul flaggs at thy Sight,
The Genius of the World must bow to thine;
And all the Virtues of Mankind together
Make but dimm Light before thy beauteous Presence.
Cyr.
Your Children, and your Wives receive again,
With all those Kindoms you by Right were born to.
Sardis, wherein lies heap'd, both yours, and most
Of Asia's Wealth, I'll save from Death, and Plunder;
Only for Ransom some few Summs extract,
To reward my Soldiers, and divert their Hopes
14
Then Cræsus dwell for ever in my Breast.
Cræs.
My Thanks are too too great to be express'd,
I can no more then hoard 'em in my Thoughts,
And pay you Blessings as I wou'd Apollo.
May Cræsus meet the Death that was prepar'd,
When he for Love of Empire, Wife or Children,
Forsakes his Prince, and leaves to follow Cyrus.
Enter Lausaria attended.
Laus.
Where's this Divine, this Miracle of Virtue;
This Rival to the Merciful above?
Shew me the Face of this exalted Man,
Who stood betwixt the Vengeance of the Gods,
And from the dreadful Pile of flaming Ruine,
Has snatch'd a King, and sav'd my Father's Life;
Let me adore the Ground his Steps have bless'd,
And kiss the Feet of the Immortal Cyrus.
Cræs.
Great Prince, my Daughter, and your meanest Handmaid,
Cyr.
How, Cræsus! Now by th'sacred Sun she's fair—
Rise, or I blush at this unseemly Posture.
Laus.
Here let me fix—You shou'd be thus ador'd,
Thou Blessing of all Eyes, thou Heavenly Wonder—
Indeed I ne'er did see a God till now—
Where have I liv'd?—The Mountain, Cottage Girl,
That in her homely Life ne'er saw a Man
Above the Keeper of the neighb'ring Herds,
Cou'd not approach you with such Joy and Terrour,
As I do now; so much you do excell
The little World that I have still been bred in.
Cyr.
Thou pretty'st Innocence as ever talk'd,
Look back upon thy self, disperse these Clouds,
These sorrowful Looks that hide from thine own Eyes
Their Brightness, and thy near-approaching Joy.
To morrow is the Day, no longer then to morrow
Gives all thy Wishes and Revenge a Crown.
When Balthazar's last Stake, and hated Life
I'll sacrifice t'ppease the fairest injur'd,
And thy dumb Brother's Ghost shall from Elisium
Rise in a Form Divine, and bless thy Beauties.
[Enter Officer.
Offic.
Hystaspes is return'd, and brings with him
The Newes of Cyaxares his approach.
Laus.
Go on; whilst I retire to pray,
Lausaria's Guardian-Deity you are;
But turn: Oh turn that awful Look away,
My Eyes cannot endure the pointed Ray;
Spare it to conquer Balthazar in Fight,
For Beauty trembles at the strange Delight;
And if a Virgins Wish can prosper thee,
15
If not, and there's a God greater than Jove,
Save, save, (that God) his precious Life and Love.
[Ex. Laus. attended.
Cyr.
Cræsus, let nothing be refus'd that may
Increase her Welcome as becomes thy Daughter,
And the Fair Guest of Cyrus.
Now all prepare to meet my Royal Unkle.
Enter to them Hystaspes, Panthea, and Women.
When comes the Royal Cyaxares?
Hyst.
To his worst of Rage abandon'd,
And in proud Envy of your growing Conquests,
He bad me, in Contempt of your rich Kindness,
Return the mighty Present with my self;
Said he, I will be with the haughty Cyrus
'Ere thou canst bring my Message to the Boy.
Cyr.
What, did he scorn the Proffer of my Duty,
Return the Presents which I sent him, say'st thou?
O Gods! it cannot be; thou dost abuse my Unkle.
Hyst.
Sir, all that I have said—
Cyr.
No more, Hystaspes.
By my immortal Fame, and sacred Crowns,
None but thy self had told me so, and liv'd—
Ha! what do I behold! More Wonders still!—
What Lady's that? What weeping Lady's that?
Hyst.
Panthea, Sir.
Cyr.
Panthea, Sir—What, what, Panthea?
Hyst.
Thomyris Daughter, the brave Scythian Queen,
And the fair Captive whom you did command
Me to present to Cyaxares, yet
I fear to tell he did refuse her too.
Cyr.
Refuse her, say'st thou! Gods, did he refuse her!
Was I so lavish, say? What Right had I
To give the Wealth of all the World away?
Nay, what wou'd bankrupt all the Gods in Heav'n.
The Sun, the Moon, and Stars may be eclips'd,
But her bright Beauty is enough alone,
Without their feeble Aid to light the Globe,
And make eternal Day—
Hyst.
Sir—
Cyr.
Thus Prodigal like,
Not thinking of the Vastness of the Gift,
I threw away at once my whole Estate,
And ne'er repented till too late I see
The mighty Summ spread large before my Eyes—
Thou should'st have plaid the faithful Steward, and,
Restrain'd thy Master's wild destroying Bounty.
Hyst.
O pardon, mighty Sir, who cou'd but hear
Your dread Commands, and not obey you straight.
16
What shall I say? Tell me, Hystaspes, do
All you that know the secret Paths to Love,
The way to win a Woman's Smile direct me—
In Fights you oft have took me from amidst
My Enemies unhors'd, and bore me from the Danger,
Breathless upon the Arms of Victory,
But now y'ave left me to my worst of Foes,
So awful, so divinely formidable,
That your proud Cyrus Heart (mark that, my Soldiers)
Which never stoop'd to fear what Man cou'd do,
Nay, what the Gods through Miracles have wrought,
Lies panting now, and gasping at the Danger.
Hyst.
Madam—
Cyr.
Hold off thy sacrilegious Hands,
Shrines and their Deities may be approach'd
More near—Goddess, Divinity—Bright Venus.
Is there a Name in Heav'n th'art worshipp'd by,
O tell me that, and teach my Tongue to say it,
That I may call thee what the Gods have nam'd thee.
Panth.
O Cyrus! you forget your self, and me;
I'm no such thing, no Creature to be prais'd,
A Wretch forsaken of the World, and Heav'n,
Your Prisoner, you shou'd pity, not admire me.
Cyr.
O say not so—Forsaken say'st thou! No,
Rather the World and Heav'n are left by thee—
Is there a Man that dares not call thee Queen?
What wou'dst thou have, or he, more than thou art?
Say but the Word, and thy Commands shall fly
Quick as the Lightning from thy killing Eyes,
And Cyrus is thy Slave to execute.
Panth.
I have no Power, no Charms but Grief about me,
That may move Pity, but can ne'er cause Love.
All this wild Passion but disturbs your self,
And cannot make a wretched Creature happy.
You sent me late a Slave to be abus'd:
But this is worse than when I was refus'd.
Cyr.
Pardon, thou Saint, a Man in Love untaught,
I have been us'd in Battels from my Youth,
Bred from my Birth like Lions in their Fierceness,
Free as the Light, and uncontroll'd as Air,
And never met a charming Foe like Thee,
Yet at thy Sight I can forget my Fury,
Moulded like Wax, made soft before the Sun,
And all my Passion, like a Storm quite spent,
Lies hush'd, and silent as an Evenings Breeze.
Panth.
Hold, mighty Cyrus, spare my tortur'd Bosom.
Play not the Tyrant with so great Misfortunes,
And talk to me of Murders, Massacres,
17
But tell me not of that which kills my Soul,
Calls to my Mind to view the mighty space
'Twixt me and Joy: For nothing yet can prove
So great a Misery to me as Love.
Cyr.
O let me catch that Sigh before it goes—
'Tis gone, 'tis gone, and each officious Wind
Strove who shou'd first convey the rich Perfume,
And hoard it with the Treasure of the Spring,
Thence to disperse, and brood o'er tender Blossoms,
And add new Scents to ev'ry fragrant Flower—
O give me leave to kiss this beauteous Hand—
Here has Arabia all its Sweets confin'd,
Rich as from thence, we Southern Breezes find,
When Trees of Spice had gently fann'd the Wind.
Hyst.
Awake Hystaspes from this horrid Slumber—
Shall I see ravish'd from me all my Right,
And dare not speak—By Heav'n I'll climb the danger,
Though he stood arm'd at my next daring Word,
To throw me from the Precipice, I'll do't—
May Heav'n give fetter'd Globes to Cyrus wish,
Crown you with Love, as you are crown'd with Conquest.
May all bright Beauties else adore your Charms,
And stoop to him that gives the World a Law,
But this fair Prisoner, give me leave to ask
Her who by Conquest is your Soldier's Prize.
Hystaspes begs the sharer of your Blood;
If that's too great a Fame for him to Challenge,
Thus I implore it as your humblest Vassal.
Cyr.
O Gods! He's Jealous, Jealous on my Life—
O thou most mighty Jove, hadst thou at once
Shot Thunder in my Ears, and Lighten'd in
My Eyes, I had not seen and heard more Horror—
Dear Cræsus,—Cræsus, give me Patience—
Am I thus soon so mean a thing become!
That he that is my Slave durst here presume
Before my Face to own so proud a Guilt,
And mix his haughty Love with mine—Traytor—
Cræs.
Hold gallant Cyrus, Cræsus bids thee hold.
Cyr.
O Cræsus say, Cou'd Solon suffer this?
Is there a Rule in all Philosophy
To teach me Patience now?—O tell it me—
Pant.
Cyrus no more.
In vain are all this Rage and Jealousies—
Farewel. I'll shut this Captive from your Eyes,
Prison and Absence will be both your Cures:
I am no more his Prisoner now but yours:
Cyr.
A Prisoner: ha! Conduct her to my Tent.
18
Adorn'd with Asia's Jewels, let her shine,
Serv'd like the Parthian Queen, ador'd and kneel'd to
By all her moving Empire round about her.
And on the Globe where now my Eagle stands,
Let Love be plac'd, and with its awful Banners
Spread her Commands thro' all the shining Camp,
And let an hundred thousand Hero's Hearts
Be Sacrific'd each Morning to her rising.—
Panth.
Hold Cyrus: Cease this unwelcome strife.
What tho' y'have in your Power my Death or Life,
Know I am bound in faster Bonds, a Wife.
Cou'd I but Cyrus Fame have lov'd before,
When I had seen him, shou'd have lov'd him more.
Yet there are greater Chains than all beside,
I am both by Virtue and by Passion ty'd.
When I on Cyrus look I must admire;
But for my Lord I burn with nobler Fire:
And Two I must confess are Gods to me,
Which are my Abradator first, and thee.
[Exit Panthea attended.
[Drums and Trumpets within.
Enter to them an Officer.
The News?
Offic.
Great Cyaxares is arriv'd.
Cyr.
'Tis well—Have you inclos'd the way he comes,
With Persian Homotyms, and Median Horse?
Offic.
Most mighty Cyrus 'tis already done.
Cyr.
His Drums and Trumpets answer you more loud,
And as he passes thro' your noble Ranks,
With welcome Shouts receive my loving Uncle—
[Exeunt Cyrus, Cræsus, Hystaspes. Manent the Guards. The Scene opens, and discovers a way rank'd with Soldiers, and after a Warlike sound, and Shouts, Cyrus and Cyaxares meet. Cyrus offers to embrace Cyaxares, but he refuses—They come forward on the Stage.
My honour'd Unkle, Royal Cyaxares!—ha!
How long have you been absent from these Arms!—
Ha! What is this I see! when I expect
A kind return of my true Hearts salute;
You bend your Head, and look another way,
And sigh as if my Eyes were Bassalisks,
Or Breath shot Venome—Ha! what means my Unkle!
Cyax.
The meaning is too plain, 'tis Shame, and Coward—
Do you not see 'em written in my Forehead?
What means this Pomp, these Shouts, these heaps of Trophies,
These crowds of Conquer'd Kings, and mighty Slain,
And I but a poor idle gazer on?
19
Branded the Son of great Astyages,
Made me the talk of all the World;
A senceless Block for Cyrus Foot to tread on,
And mount the Throne of all the Universe—
Ingrateful Cyrus!
Cyr.
Hold—O cease dear Uncle—
Let not our Passions here be made a sport
To common Eyes—we pray you wou'd withdraw—
'Tis Cyaxares Pleasure we shou'd be
Alone—so Unkle, let's sit down together,
And I will hear with Patience if I can.
[Exeunt, Præter, Cyrus and Cyax.
Speak, and I'll glew my Ears to ev'ry Word
Your voice shall utter.
Cyax.
God's that I were Dumb!
That ever I shou'd speak, when what I say
Recounts my loss, and my eternal Shame,
With Cyrus false Ingratitude.
Cyr.
Still, still
You touch the same harsh String—Tell't out,—
What is't that hangs upon your troubled Brow?
Cyax.
O this it is
The Man that I have nourish'd in my Bosom,
Safe guarded from an Host of private Foes,
That sought his Life with great Astyages.
Led by the dictates of Prophetick Dreams,
Which now to Cyaxares proves most true;
That thou, I say, should'st like a subtile Serpent,
Wind thy self round my guardless Breast,
Then watch thy time, and Poyson thy Preserver.
Cyr.
Go on, go on—I hear you patiently.
Cyax.
Nay, give me leave to put it to thy Conscience,
And answer me as thou believ'st it true.
Cyr.
I will.
Cyax.
Did I not save thee in thy Cradle?
No sooner had Mandana brought thee to
The World (who then I think was innocent)
But by Astyages Command thou wert
Deliver'd to be slain by Harpagus—
Have you not heard this oft for truth?
Cyr.
I have.
Cyax.
Have you not heard too how I ventur'd 'twixt
My Father's Wrath and Pity, to preserve
Thy Life by awing Harpagus, who caus'd thee
At my request, in private to be Nurst,
Telling the King that thou wert surely dead.
Cyr.
This I have oft been told too.
Cyax.
Did I not,
20
Oft put into my Fathers cruel Mind
The sence of his most foul unnat'ral Crime
In killing thee so long that he repented,
And wish'd a thousand times thou wert alive
Again—This opportunity I took
To tell the King of the deceipt, and beg'd
The Life of Harpagus—Then streight wert thou
Sent for to Court, and this thou well rememberst.
Cyr.
I do.
Cyax.
This did I, though 'twas Prophecy'd
That thou shou'dst quite subvert the Median Empire,
And fill the Throne of great Astyages.—
Then did I not, after my Father's Death,
And when I reign'd alone, keep thee still by me,
Taught thee the use of Arms, to chace the Boar,
To hurl thy little Dart, and wound the Panther;
And when the fiery Beast wou'd turn upon thee,
I then wou'd interpose a violent stroak,
And taught thee how to give a mortal Blow,
Leaving the Savage gasping at thy Feet;
And this thou art well witness of thy self.
Cyr.
All this, and more you bring to my remembrance.
Cyax.
Is't possible, thou hast not then forgot!
Is this a kind return for all my Love!
Who first began the War with Balthazar?
Was't not my self twice beat him in set Battels
Until thou wert of Years, when for thy Fame
I sent thee with the flower of all my Strength
To prosecute my Victories, and thou
Whole tedious Years hast kept the War on foot,
Using my Subjects till they have forgot
Their Countries Gods, their Fashions, and their King,
And worship nothing but the Sun and thee—
Pity me Gods; for sure I am become
But the poor Shadow of the thing I was.
Cyr.
O Unkle, hold: For I can hear no more.
What wicked Man has poison'd thus your Ear?
Your words, though they are most unjust, and I
Am guiltless, yet they're Daggers to my Soul
When spoken with unkindness—ah why droops
My Royal Uncle, hanging down your Head,
Throbbing that noble Heart, as if the weight
Of all the Miseries on Earth depress'd it?
Snatch me ye Gods this Moment into Nothing,
If I your Cyrus am the least to blame
In what you have accus'd me.
Cyax.
Well, I've done.
21
Have I worn out my Youth, at home, your Subject,
In War your General; deny'd my self
The soft Retirements of the Court, in which
Your meanest Parasite enjoys more Pleasure—
Have not my Courriers found you in the Height
Of Banquetting, inform'd you of the Dangers
That I had pass'd in ev'ry dreadful Fight,
Which only the Relation of 'em made
Your trembling Courtiers spill their brimming Bowls,
And with the Palsie lift 'em to their Mouths.
Cyax.
No more, my Cyrus.
Cyr.
And have I not augmented all the Kingdoms
Of great Astyages, with Hazard of
My own—What Crown, what Treasure have I gain'd
Of which I did not make you first a Proffer?
Do I a Secret keep, or hide from you?
Or hoard that Wealth of which you shall not share?
Is it for this I have so ill deserv'd
My Unkle's Envy, and unjust Suspicion!
Cyax.
Enough, my Cyrus.
Cyr.
Will you then embrace me?
Cyax.
I will.
Cyr.
And let me kiss your Cheek?
Cyax.
Thou shalt—
O Cyrus! Thou hast conquer'd me, my Cyrus—
I can no longer hold but must forgive thee.
See, see, these Tears that sprung from Tydes of Grief,
Are now augmented to a Sea of Joy.
Hide 'em for shame, Oh, hide 'em in thy Bosom!
Come, I will chide no more—may I be thought
[They both rise up.
A Coward, led in Triumph by my Foes,
And put t'an ignominious Death when I
Again reflect unkindly on my Cyrus.
Thou art my Son, this Moment I adopt thee,
And I will die the sooner to make Room
For thee.
Cyr.
O my dear Father, say not so—
To morrow brings the Empire of the World,
I see it plain, and dazling Victory
Flies like an Eagle circling round your Head,
To shew our Way o'er Hills of slain Assyrians,
And under falling Clouds of Scythian Darts,
Which from our Shields we'll throw like scatter'd Hail,
Whilst with one Voice, around the conquer'd Field,
The Dying praise us, and the Living yield.
[Exeunt Omnes.
Finis Actus Secundi.
| Cyrus the Great : Or, The Tragedy of Love | |