University of Virginia Library

Actus Tertius.

Scæna Prima.

Enter Cyrus with Guards; Cyaxares, with Hystaspes meeting him.
Cyax.
I've a Request to beg of you, my Cyrus.

Cyr.
What, is't my Royal Unkle? speak, yet not,
'Tis granted 'ere 'tis nam'd

Cyax.
'Tis that you wou'd forgive the brave Hystaspes,
And here restore him to your wonted Favours.

Cyr.
O 'tis the thing that I with Joy intended,
And now he's doubly fix'd—Rise, my Hystaspes,
My Soldier, rise, my Kinsman, my Right Arm;
For that was ne'er so near me in the Fight,
Nor push'd it on so fiercely—O my Friend!
Dost think I have forgot my valiant Leader?
But above all at the Surprize of Sardis,
When thou wert follow'd by the Homotyms,
Led by thy brave Example, all dismounted
Your fiery Coursers, and with Scaling-Ladders
Climb'd up the Walls, and shouted on the Top,
In spite of Showres of Flints, and Clouds of Arrows;
Then leap'd into the Street, and there you fought,
Till you had op'd the Gates amidst the Guards,
And clear'd my Way through Clusters to the Town—
This, this with Joy I do remember still.

Hyst.
Your Royal Grace extends too far above
The Merits of Hystaspes—O I grieve
When I look back on my Offence to you,
The bravest Master, and the best of Kings—

Cyr.
No more, Hystaspes, welcome to thy Prince,
More dear to him than penitent Children are
To Parents, or than Martyrs to the Gods,
And like them too I will reward thee—

Hyst.
O I know y'are liberal,
Can disperse Crowns and Sceptres as you please,
And make a Monarch of the Man you favour;
But Pardon's the rich, only thing I beg,
And is from Cyrus more than I can merit.

Cyr.
Enough, Hystaspes; thou shalt see I love thee,
When I bestow upon thee such a Treasure.
That all Mankind shall wish to be thy Rivals—
Cræsus, thy Ear—send for thy Daughter straight—
I promis'd thee that I wou'd chuse a Husband
For her, and I will do it—Such a Husband,
That thou shalt bless the happy Moment when
Thy Wife brought such a Daughter to the World
To be so well bestow'd—Go fetch her, Cræsus.

Cræs.
O happy Girl, Lausaria! he does
Intend sure to bestow himself upon her.
[Exit Cræsus.

Hyst.
O Gods! I dream—Can there be such a Thought!
Has he resolv'd to give Panthea to me!

Cyr.
Prepare, Hystaspes, now to meet such Joys,
Which if thy Sences are not all Immortal,
Thou art not able to sustain—Behold—
Re-Enter Cræsus leading Lausaria attended.
Behold the brightest Star that gilds the World,
And makes that Bosom Heav'n where-e'er she shines.

Hyst.
Is this the Prize of all my flatt'ring Hopes!
Now I perceive the Gulf that lies before me,
Yet I run on, and cannot stop my self;
This Mortal Disobedience stabs me quite.

Laus.
Now all you gentle Powers that pity Love,
And thou, Diana, from the Stars look down,
Behold the bashful Virgin of thy Train—
I see my Life or Death writ in those Eyes,
There is no Mean betwixt my Heav'n or Hell,
I'm to be rais'd this Moment to the Skies,
Or flung into the bottom of Despair.

Cyr.
Assist me, Jove; and all you that disperse
Rich Blessings from the Skies—Lend me your Aid;
Extend my liberal Hands; for I'm to make
Two Mortals now so infinitely happy,
As will amaze your Godheads all to see,
And make you wish to be translated here—
Give me thy Hand, thou soft, thou lovely Virgin—
Ha! why, what makes thou tremble, start, and blush!
And now look pale? This Combat of thy Beauty's
Adorns thy Cheeks with double Victories,
Whilst both in Competition strive to paint
A Colour there to set at Enmity.
The Lilly and the Rose—Draw near, Hystaspes—

Laus.
O Gods, your Help! what does he mean to do!

Cyr,
Give me your Hand—what now? what means the Man?
Give me your Hand, I say—I did expect
You shou'd have flewn like Lightning to my Arms,
And snatch'd her from me, so unmannerly
Thy Raptures should have been—Here, take her to thee—
Why holds Lausaria back?—You both draw back.

Hyst.
Your Pardon, Royal Sir, if my Offence
Be not too great to challenge any Mercy.
I do confess the Wonder of the Bliss has stunn'd me;
The Joy's too great, too mighty for my Sense,
And therefore to approach it as I ought,
O give me time to study how to bear it.

Cyr.
Away; I've heard too much—I'll talk with you
Anon—What means Lausaria? Rise, my Charge.

Laus.
Ah, why d'you kill with such a Look of Anger?
Now your strange Beauties are so awful grown,
That they're above all Mortals to behold
Without a Dread—O stay the Lightning in
Your Eyes—What will become of brave Hystaspes,
If you let loose to Action all your Frowns,
And execute the Terrour of your Looks!
Pour 'em on me, 'twas I the Grace deny'd:
For lo, I think so meanly of my self,
That I can live to be refus'd by him.

Cyr.
Rise, or you press my yielding Heart to Death—
This hurls me on the more to thy Revenge—
Guards, seize that Traytour, drive him from my Presence;
To Exile let him go, and not be seen
So near as Asia does her spreading Empire bound.

Laus.
O let me beg you wou'd recall your Doom.

Cyax.
Nephew.

Cræs.
O Cyrus!
Mighty Prince, but hear us.

Cyr.
Keep off, and give me Breath, you stifle me—
Why, Unkle, Cræsus, King of Lydia, I've decreed it,
And none amongst the Stars shall 'ere revoke—
Away with him—A thousand Basilisks
Are in his Eyes.

Hyst.
With haste I will obey you.
Thus on my Knees I take your gentle Doom; I go
To Banishment, and if my wand'ring Steps
Direct me where to do you some poor Service,
I'll do't with hazard of this hated Life—
Ten thousand Victories, nay more,
Immortal Crowns, and Everlasting Laurels
Adorn the Head of the most God like Cyrus.
[Exit Hystaspes.

Cræs.
He's gone, and see the King looks discontent,

Cyax.
Why, Nephew, Cyrus, you are mov'd.

Laus.
O Cyrus!

Cyr.
What says the bright, the wrong'd Lausaria?

Laus.
Why have you banish'd from your sight Hystaspes?
I'll tell you then, how rashly you have done.
The Sun and Moon might in our Heav'n appear,
And both at once disperse their Rival Lights,
E're our two Loves cou'd join; and shou'd Hystaspes hope,
Yet you your self forbid the scornful Hymen.
Since it must out, I'll tell it, if my Sighs,
Mixt with Ten Thousand Blushes, give me leave—
I love (Heav'ns!) This poor Daughter to a Captive Prince,
Owns it with Pride that she does love the Man,
Of all the World, the greatest, bravest Soul
As e'er the Gods put in a mortal Body.

Cyr.
Alas! What's this I hear!

Laus.
Now judge by what I've said, if I cou'd e'er
Descend to love another—I have done—
O look not on me, I am all on Fire,
Burnt up with Blushes which these Tears inrage.
This mortal Secret you have wrack'd from me
Will kill Lausaria:

Cræs.
Unhappy Girl.

Laus.
Give me a Vail: And now the World farewel.

Cyr.
What means the bright, the wrong'd Lausaria?
Why dost thou hide thy Charming Face from Cyrus?

Laus.
'Tis just, after a Confidence so new,
It shou'd for ever thus be shut from you.
My Blushes to all Eyes may be unknown,
But oh! I ne'er can shrowd 'em from my own.
Olympus is too low. I want beside
The Sun to be Eclips'd, my Shame to hide.
Cold Cydnus, make thy Icy Stream my Urn,
To drown my Flames, and quench me now I burn.
[Exit Laus.

Cyax.
What, does not this start Pity from your Eyes
And Heart?

Cyr.
Tell me, instruct me what to do—
O Cyaxares, lend me thy dear Breast,
T'unload my Griefs, and learn thy precious Council—
Run for Hystaspes quick, if not too late,
Tell him his Prince repeals his Banishment,
Will take him to his gentle Arms again—
Excuse, dear Unkle, these unruly Passions,
[Exit Officer.
And oh, my Friends, forgive your Cyrus Frailties.
[Sound of a Trumpet.
Enter to them Artabasus.
What means this Trumpet's formal sound?—The News?

Arta.
It is a Herauld from th'Assyrian Camp,
That says, the Scythian Queen, the brave Thomyris,
With Abradatas, the young Susan King,
Attend to ask a moments Parley with you.

Cyr.
Then we shall see this wonder of her Sex—
Cræsus, thou knowst her—Is she then so Brave,
So Great, and Valiant as the World reports her?

Cræs.
She is indeed a Woman of such Spirit
As you have heard of Juno, of such Honour,
Such haughty Valour, and so Masculine,
That she's well call'd, the Miracle of Women;
But then, like bold Simiramis, she rages
With ev'ry Vice of the most furious, wild,
And monstrous of her Sex; Yet Abradatas
Is truly Valiant, Brave, and Virtuous—
But heark, she comes,—this Trumpet speaks her Entrance.

Enter to them Thomyris, Abradatus, Women and Attendance, in State, Scythian Guards.
Cyr.
She is indeed of admirable Presence.

Thom.
There cannot be a Wonder on the Earth
So Great as Cyrus is: If thou art he,
Or is't some God, or Mars himself I see;
For sure these Eyes were never bless'd before
With such a sight—What's Balthazar, and all
The Princes of the Globe compar'd to him!
Now I no more admire his mighty Fortune,
That Godlike Mein and Presence is enough
T'enslave great Kings, and awe the barb'rous World—
I need not ask who is the famous Cyrus?
Something which makes great Souls so near ally'd,
Tells me you are that excellent brave Man.

Cyr.
I am that most unworthy Cyrus—
What wou'd the Great, th'most famous in the World
The Scythian Queen?

Thom.
Hear me, Divinest King—
Curse me, you Powers, and languish all my Fame,
Now I behold the gallant Cyrus Person,
If e'er injustly I become your Foe.
Nay, I'll forget the Murder of my Son,
And say his Death was my misfortune only—
You have a Virgin that's Panthea call'd,
The Mourning, longing Wife of this young Prince,
Whom (e're the Priest had said his binding Pray'r)
The Gods, to shew the most incertain State
Of human things, snatch'd from his Nuptial Arms,
And bore her from him by a Storm of Fate,
Ev'n in a time when they did think to join
Fast as their Wishes—She your Prisoner is.
All Places save, and priviledge the Fair;
Beauty is even held in War most sacred,
And Cyrus cannot stoop to do a thing
That is not brave.

Cyr.
Go on, bright Queen.

Thomy.
Long hearing of thy vast and proud Successes
O'er all Mankind. In pity of the World,
I drew a force of Forty Thousand Men,
From my own yet unconquer'd Land to aid
Thy Enemies this Army we'll withdraw;
And with brave Cyrus make immortal League,
If he'll restore the sad Panthea to us.

Cyr.
Now blest be all those Deities that saw
The solemn Rites performing 'gainst their Wills,
And would not let the Hymeneal Torch
Be light—Ask you me, whom piteous Heaven
Sent by a Miracle to my Protection!
Demand my Crowns, my everlasting Fame,
My shining Trophies, and my Victories:
For they are not so dear, nor half so sacred,
Nor look so bright in all the World's esteem.

Abra.
O I am ruin'd—Hell is in my Bosom—
Panthea's lost, undone, inconstant, ha!
She loves him too perhaps—O thought-like Death!
Curse on this feeble Arm that cou'd nor guard her,
Nor had the Courage to assault my Breast.

Cyax.
It is apparent that the Gods were all
Displeas'd, and meant those Nuptials shou'd not be,
When at the very Altar, like a Dove
From the fierce Vultures Claws they rescu'd her.

Abra.
O King of an Immortal Fame!
Dread Cyrus, thou art Great, above the World.
There is no thought a Woman here can fix
Thy Soul, that soars and ranges like the Sun,
Behold me from thy Power, like awful Jove,
And O! restore me to my Heav'n of Love,
Pity my Youth, and give Panthea to me;
O give her to my Soul, and I will add
To the bright Queens, Ten Thousand Valiant Archers,
And vow my self thy true Confederate.—
Think not 'tis Fear that makes me stoop so low
To beg of Thee, but mighty Love that must
Be still obey'd; else I cou'd meet thee daring
At th'Head of all thy Army, shouting loud
To animate the Courage of their Leader:
And O Panthea! were Panthea but
The Victor's Prize, the blessed Hopes shou'd aid me
To kill this great Disturber of the World.

Thom.
Spoke like thy self, my Valiant Abradatas,
Thou hast a Scythian's Courage in thy Breast—
Intreat no more; for Cyrus dare not hold her.
The Gods and Thomyris have decreed
To fetch Panthea back in Triumph from him—
To morrow I will meet thee in the Front
Of Battel, where it shall be then recorded
To thy eternal Shame and Infamy,
A Woman conquer'd thee.

Cyr.
Proud Queen, retreat least we profane the Truce,
The nicest Law of Arms can ne'er indure
Such daring Provocations.

Enter Panthea attended.
Panth.
My Abradatas.
Soul of my Love, and Lord of my Desires,
Am I so blest to see thee once again!
To embrace thee once before I die,
Save me from Fears, from Prison, and from Harms,
And lock me safe within these tender Arms.

Abra.
O my Panthea! Let me hold thee fast,
Hoard all my numberless and breathless Kisses,
On thy soft Cheeks at once: For something tells me,
This Pleasure is too great and rich to last—
O stir not from me.

Panth.
No, we'll never part—
Our Loves shall here incorp'rate us like Air;
Not Swords, nor Death, shall any way divide us.
Now 'tis beyond the Power of Jealousie,
Or Jove himself this Gordion to untie.
Nay, Cyrus is too Brave, too Good to see
Such faithful Lovers languish any longer.

Cyr.
O I am struck!—A thousand Stings dart all
At once their pointed Venom in my Eyes,
And now I feel 'em in my Breast—Tell me,
What is't besides the mortal stroke of Love
That pains your Cyrus thus? See how they grasp!—
'Tis that, 'tis that—assist me Cyaxares—
Say quickly, Friends, what shall be done to part 'em—
Speak, will you see me rack'd?—My Soul's between
Each close Embrace,
And will not, cannot, bear it any longer—
Prince, from this fatal Extasie retire,
This sight will mortal be to one of us.

Abra.
Thou shalt not stirr—I will not move without her,
But leave Ten thousand Limbs, if I'd so many,
Hack'd off, and hew'd from this unhappy Body,
But I will bear her hence—O my Panthea!—
Oh Mother! let me lose this hated Life:
First let me dye before I part with her.

Panth.
Think not of Death, my Abradatas, loe,
The Gallant Monarch melts, and says it too;
Our Lives shall be immortal as our Loves.

Thom.
Cyrus has reach'd the utmost brink of Greatness—
The Gods no longer will dispute thy Fate,
Since they have punish'd thee with lawless Love;
A cursed Charm that slumbers all thy Virtues,
That thou shalt never more awake to Glory—
Retire, my Son, from Beauty run to day,
And, by the Gods, Panthea shall be thine
To morrow, when we only shall encounter
With the starv'd Genius, weary Fame of Cyrus.
My Women shall be foremost in the Fight,
And, with their naked Breasts and Arms display'd,
Shall lead this once brave Man a Captive-Slave,
This empty Form of his departed Greatness.

Panth.
O Royal Mother!
Why d'you mistake? You wrong the God-like Cyrus.
O give him gentle Words, mild as the Sound
Of Pray'rs and Sighs in Sacrifices us'd;
Speak t'him, approach him as indeed you ought,
As Conqu'rour of the World, and you shall see
No God can be so lavish, nor so kind.

Abra.
My dear Panthea, why d'you thus proceed?
Unless you wish to make me worse than Woman—
Hold, while I've Resolution in my Breast,
And all thy Heav'n of Charms will let me go;
By those, thy self I swear, the greatest Oath
That I can take, to morrow I will bring
Thy Abradatas to thee, live or dead.

Panth.
No, say not so—Thus kneel with thy Panthea,
My Hand close lock'd in thine, my Abradatas,
And send our Tears and our Requests together—
Look, Mighty Conqu'rour, cast your Eyes beneath,
[Both kneel.
And may your Arms, and Fame increase in Wars,
As you to Love, are pityful and kind.

Abra.
Now, God-like Cyrus, from thy Rage look down,
By all those Virtues that have made thee shine,
And gain'd the Name of the Immortal Cyrus.
Oh, stoop to see what mighty Love can do,
That humbles thus thy generous Enemy,
And makes a Suppliant of thy mortall'st Foe—
Since you have felt the Rage of Jealous Love,
The Fire that burns unruly in your Breast,
Pity me then, and give Panthea to me:
O give her to these Arms!

Panth.
Mighty Cyrus,
Give Abradatas to my thousand Wishes,
And Oh, restore his lov'd Panthea to him!

Cyr.
They kneel—She kneels—
See, see, my valiant Friends,
Do not my Eyes shed Blood?—They shou'd, they shou'd,
For all the Torments that I feel within.
This is the sharpest Stroak that ever touch'd
My Virtue here—Rise, Goddess—In this Posture
Thou art more cruel to thy Cyrus far
Than he can be to thee.

Panth.
Here we will grow,
Thus ever fix'd, thus rooted as you see us,
Till from the noblest Breath of all the World,
We hear the Sentence of our Death or Life.

Cyr.
Oh Friends! I feel a War within my Breast.
The horrid Sound of Fights, and parting Ghosts
Are all but Musick to my tortur'd Sence—
Yet fain I'd get the Vict'ry o'er my self;
But Oh, I can't! and find I am too weak—
By all the Gods it is beyond a Mortal—
Ha! Part 'em, or the Sight will kill
Your General—And Oh, my Fellow-Soldiers!
Stay whilst this dreadful Moment I retire,
And having rais'd Panthea from the Ground,
Send my triumphant Rival back; for this
Is more than all the Wounds e'er had in Fight,
And I can fly from nothing but this Sight.
[Exit Cyrus.

Abra.
Now, now I curse my Tameness, and these Knees,
That made me stoop so low to beg ev'n thee—
Away, Panthea, wish me not to stay;
Go to thy Gaoler back, and load his Head
With Curses, whilst thy Abradatas shall
Prepare to fight, and pour 'em all upon him.

Thom.
Go, we must leave thee in thy Prison again,
But in the Morning thou shalt rise from thence,
Bright as the Sun that revels in his Chariot,
And see thy self as free—Go, whilst we stay,
Revenge grows tame, and we forget thy Wrongs.

Panth.
Then must we part! Yet I'm to blame—Begone,
Go, whilst my Woman's Soul can give thee leave,
And all the Blessings of a Love that's chaste,
A faithful, tender Wife's kind Thoughts attend thee.

Abra.
O my Panthea!

Panth.
And to inspire thee more, call to thy Mind
Our Infant-Loves, the soft, and precious Vows
That we have oft exchang'd Nights without Number,
As were the Stars our Witnesses, till all
Those petty, lesser Knots were quite unravell'd,
And made one Nuptial Bond—I've done—Farewell—
But Oh, regard—Regard that precious Life,
By which both live, and all the Gods protect thee.

Abra.
The Thoughts of thee shall still enrich my Mind
With all the Pleasures that are yet to come,
And those that are like Visions slid away;
How oft we've tyr'd the Watchings of the Moon,
Till the pale Empress of the Night grew weary,
And sate to rest behind a silken Cloud.

Thom.
Have done, or I must act the Part of Cyrus,
And tear you from each others Arms.

Abra.
This Kiss, and then we part—Farewell—It comes,
Methinks already the fierce Storm begins,
And bears thee from me o'er a thousand Billows.

Panth.
Thee, like a Rock, I fain wou'd hold but cannot.
But Oh! rough Horrour like a desperate Sea,.
Throws me from off Love's Fortress and from thee.

Abra.
Weep not, my Soul—Who knows but that 'ere long,
Our weary'd Barks may meet, the Storm o'er-blown.
Trust till to morrow what the Gods can do.

[Exeunt Thomyris, Abradatas, and their Attendants, at one Door; and Panthea weeping with her Maids, at another. Manent Cyaxares, Cræsus, Artabasus, and Guards.
Cyax.
Let a strong Guard attend the Scythian Queen,
Till she is safe arriv'd within her Camp.

Re-Enter Cyrus.
Cyr.
Tell me, kind Unkle, tell thy Cyrus quickly,
How bore the sad Panthea her Departure?

Cyax.
As silent as the Day gives way to Night,
And patient as the Spirit of a Saint
Dying, and leaving all the World behind him.

Cyr.
Run, Artabasus, run, and kneel before her,
Tell her, what Kingdom in the World can buy
One Smile, or Tear on Abradatas thrown,
And't shall be hers—The Sea's, nor Cræsus Hoard,
Holds not the Wealth that I will bid for either;
My Life, nay say Ten thousand Lives are hers—
Tell what thou canst invent—Tell her what not—
Say more than if thou wert in Love, thou then
Cou'dst say—Yet hold, I will not trust thy self alone—
Come all with me—You, Unkle, are a Father,
Speak as you wou'd do to your only Daughter;
Drop all the Sweetness of a Parent's Tongue—
Cræsus is wise, and has been taught to speak,
Thy Eloquence has clear'd the Delphick Riddles,
O charm my Goddess as thou charm'st the God—

Cræs.
Else may I fall a Sacrifice to Cyrus—

Cyax.
Rejoice, my Cyrus, doubt not thy Success;
That needs must move, which tortures all our Pity.

Cyr.
'Tis she must pity, you forgive my Passion—
Lend me a Dagger one of you, or kill me;
Come, who is Noble level here thy Dart,
And reach this wanton Cupid in my Heart:
Death from my meanest Vassal I will stand,
Or fall by any but a Woman's Hand;
For Love still plays the Tyrant with the Great,
Lets Fools and Cowards prosper in their State,
And only makes the Brave Unfortunate.

[Exeunt Omnes.