 | Cyrus the Great : Or, The Tragedy of Love |  |
Actus Quartus,
Scæna Prima.
Scene draws, and discovers Cyrus, and Cyaxares; They come forwards.Cyr.
Yet more! Have I not said enough, dear Unkle?
And have you not already seen and heard
With blushing, too much of your Cyrus Frailties?
Cyax.
Tell me, my Cyrus, when you have disclos'd
The heavy Load that lies upon your Soul,
I'll pour a Balm into't shall give you Ease—
These Strugglings of the Nobler Passions shew
The most Heroick Mind that ever was.
Cyr.
O Cyaxares! I'm all Guilt, all Stain,
Ev'n I that rid the foremost in the World,
And knew how Dear, how Great, and how Esteem'd
A Thing my hard-got Honour was—yet that,
And all are drown'd within a Sea of Love,
My Empires, Crowns quite ruin'd by the Fair,
That gilded o'er the deep deluding Danger,
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My matchless Glories with my self are sunk,
In the false footing of a Woman's smile.
Cyax.
You are Impartial to a fault, my Cyrus.
Whose Love is guided by the Rays of Vertue—
The Crime is not so great to be in Love;
The Gods themselves have often felt its Power,
Witness the many scapes of Jupiter.
And the Wise Men have all confess'd, that once
In his whole Life the bravest, greatest Man
May stoop to Love—
Nay, Solon has confess'd,
That he himself was once a Slave to Love.
Cyr.
Solon! had Solon that to lose as I have?
Had he the business of the World to fill
His thoughts, and chace away all soft Idea's?
Books might have fashion'd his tame Soul to Love,
But mine shou'd have been hardened wrought by War;
Proof as the Anvil 'gainst the Cyclop's Hammers;
And Glory in my Breast shou'd have Eclips'd
The Rays of Beauty—How I hate my self!
Achilles, when a Boy, did never handle
And ply the Distaff with such Female Skill.
Cyax.
Still you run on, are too severe a Judge
Ev'n to your self, your Honour is too nice,
And Dictates to you with a ridged Breath,
This noble caution o're your looser Passions,
Shews yet a greater Conquest o're your Mind,
Than if you ne're had felt what Love had bin;
'Tis Mortal-like to be the Aim of Vice,
But it is God-like to resist its Fury.
Cyr.
Teach me, dear Unkle, teach me how to do so:
I feel my Vertue now begins to tire,
And Love Plays all the Tyrant in my Soul,
When I begin to wish the Pain away,
O then I wish the pleasant grief to keep.
Enter to them Hystaspes.
Hyst.
Thus low Hystaspes falls beneath your Feet,
And comes to know his Monarch's joyful Doom.
Cyr.
Welcome, Hystaspes, once more to my Arms,
And from this time for ever to my Breast;
No Love, nor Jealousie shall henceforth throw
Suspitions 'twixt my Friend and me.
Hyst.
Then 'tis
Above the Malice of Fiends in Hell,
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Bless'd be the Gods that, have again Install'd me
In the Immortal Throne of Cyrus's Favour—
But oh! forgive, forgive your, Soldier's Crimes,
Led by his Frailties.
Cyr.
Thou art good Hystaspes;
'Tis thou hast cause to blame thy Cyrus's Temper,
When like a Man infected, mad in Love,
I threw at random; hurt my dearest Friends;
So rag'd I with the wild Promethean Fire;
But I will quench it, quench it ev'ry Spark,
And the bright Venus then, that glitter'd in
My Eyes, I will behold hurtless as shadows,
Or as Jove's Bird the Eagle does the Sun.
Hyst.
O my lov'd Lord, persue your gallant Hopes,
She shall be yours by all the Powers above;
My self shall hold your Hymen's Torch—O Sir
She's too Divine for all the World but you.
Cyr.
No more, Hystaspes—There is something in
Thy Face that shews thou art not yet well pleas'd—
Tell me—why look'st thou still upon us with
A troubled Brow?
Hyst.
I came from such a sight
Wou'd strike Compassion from obdurate Rocks,
And make soft Pity flow from Hearts of Steel,
The Courage of your Soldiers flags to tell it.
Cyr.
Out with it, tho', let it be ne're so dreadful.
Hyst.
The Fair, th'unhappy, Innocent Lausaria
Is grown distracted by a violent Grief;
Her Wits, her Pretious Senses quite are gone;
The Ornaments of so much Beauty fled!
Fled to the Gods that gave them, and, no doubt,
E're long will draw the lovely Body after.
Cyax.
Ha! what say'st thou?
Cyr.
Can this be true, Hystaspes?
Cyax.
The Cause?
Hyst.
Do you not guess it, since she own'd
A Passion for the Great, and Famous Cyrus?
The sad occasion was, alas! that she
Too lightly had reveal'd her Love to you:
For from your Presence, she no sooner was
Convey'd to her Appartment, but her Anger,
Which first adorn'd her Face with blushing Red,
Streight snatch'd the Roses from her Cheeks, and left
A Pale, and Trembling Colour in their stead—
Mountains and Hills come cover me she said;
No, no, Eternal Darkness shroud my Head,
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He mocks me—Hide me from his scornful Eyes.
Cyr.
Hold, hold, Hystaspes give me strength to hear thee;
Thou pour'st ill News too fast upon my Soul—
So—But go on.
Hyst.
This for some Minutes held her,
Till from the Fatal Extasie, she rose,
And strugling to recal her wandring Senses,
Look'd round about her, Wild and Beautiful.
But oh! (thou rash Minerva to permit it)
She let her Words at random so disperse,
That we too soon the Fatal Meaning knew,
Through all their dark and ridled Sense.
Cyr.
Pry'thee, what said she?—Say, did she not Curse me?
Hyst.
Thus she wou'd talk—
Where's Cyrus, where? Has he not heard I love him—
Curs'd be the Wretch that first disclos'd my flame,
See where she's hurld, and has no rest below,
A Thousand Souls of Chast and Modest Virgins
Arm at her sight, and drive me from the Shades;
Then must I back into the World again!
O there is Cyrus, and Panthea too,
He Loves her, and she Loves him not again!
Ha! There th'art punish'd false deluding Man,
Thou art—Revenge me, O Panthea, on him—
But see, my Cyrus weeps, O pity him—
Cruel Panthea! cruellest of thy Sex!
What merciless Panther gave thy Mother Suck,
That bred in thee such Monstruous Savage Nature,
As not t'adore so excellent a Man?
Enter to them Cræsus weeping.
Cræ.
O Cyrus, I perceive the Gods ordain
Thy Friends and Foes to fall alike by thee,
By all their Ruins to adorn thy Triumph
Pity the Man whose breath thou didst restore,
Pity my Daughter on whose future state
That Life depends—Go in, and see what Wrack,
What wild destruction thy still Conquering Genius,
In Love as well as War, has made amongst
Lausariar's Beauties.
Cyr.
When, when ye Gods will all these mischiefs cease,
Or grow to such a Bulk will sink me quite!—
Chide me not, Cræsus, chide not the unhappy,
Convey me to her streight, and strive,
36
And save the greatest miracle of Love.
[Exeunt Cyrus and Cræsus.
Cyax.
Why, why ye Gods, has Cyrus so deserv'd!
That almost at the Race's end of Glory,
Worse than Pandora's Plagues is sent amongst us?
Beauty thou subtile spoyler of the World,
Man were a God-head were it not for thee,
And there was never Hero yet below
That rais'd the Jealous Envy of the Gods,
But this, this never failing Curse was sent
To ruin all his Fame, and blast his Glories—
Hystaspes, when does Balthazar intend
To give us Battel?
Hyst.
Early this next Morning;
I understood it by a Slave of mine,
That fled at my Command some few days since,
And dewlt a Spy within the Enemies Camp.
He's now return'd, and tells me both the number,
Order, and strength of this so potent Army,
He likewise says, that next their multitudes
They put their chiefest Hopes and Confidence
In brave Thomyris, and her Scythian Bowmen.
Relying thus on his unweildy Forces,
And fed with lyes of Soothsayers, he remains
Close in his Tent, Carrouses, Feasts, and Revels,
Scorning the Gods, the Fates, and thinks them poor,
And all besides his boasted Power but mean.
Cyax.
Wou'd it were now, Hystaspes, wou'd the Fight
Were now beginning, and the Trumpets call
Did Rouze fond Cyrus from these Painted Dreams,
The danger wou'd be less to find him so
Inclos'd, than in his Tents besieg'd with Love,
His Breast lay'd open to the poysonous Darts
Of Cruel Beauty.
Hyst.
O the Happy time!
Thy Rage soft Tyranous Love shall then have End,
When Cyrus kindles once again the Heat
That first inspir'd his Noble Breast with Glory.
Cyax.
I hear a sudden noise of Clashing Swords—
[Noise of Fighting within.
Look out, Hystaspes, go and see the matter.
[As Histaspes is going off, enter in haste Artabasus with his Sword Drawn.
Arta.
Where's Cyrus? where's the King?—Great Cyaxares,
Pity the bravest Valour in the World—
Haste, Sir, and save the Gallant Abradatas,
With great and most unequal odds opprest—
Haste for the sakes of all your bravest Men:
For at so dear a Rate he sells his Life,
37
Strange Numbers of the stoutest Ranks, whose Valour
Pusht 'em first on to meet his daring Blows.
Cyax.
What madness forc'd him thus to his Destruction!
Arta.
His desperate Love led him so boldly on;
For with a Troop, compos'd of all his best
And stoutest Men, he straight broke through our Camp,
Who stood more Wondring at their madness, than
Afraid—And though of all his Valiant Followers
Scarce ten remain alive besides himself,
Yet still he ventures on, and calls for Cyrus—
But hark, they this way come—
Cyax.
Follow Hystaspes—
[As Cyaxares, and the rest are going off, Enters Abradatas fighting against a great many, Cyaxares and the rest joyn against him and his followers.
Brave Abradatas yield, whilst you are safe.
Abra.
Yield! By the Gods that hated Breath I scorn—
The Spirits of my murder'd Friends around me
Still guard me from the Thoughts of such a Baseness—
Do'st think I undertook so brave a Deed
With the least thought of Living, or of Yielding!
No, Fight I will till ev'ry Sinew fail me:
And when my Arms can lift a Sword no longer,
I'll stretch 'em forth to all your Cymeters;
Now to be parted from my Bleeding Body,
Before I'll suffer 'em to be tamely bound—
Come all—Quick, make an End of me—Ye Gods!
Wou'd I had Cyrus now but in thy Place;
Thus wou'd I do, thus use my hated Rival.
Hyst.
Kill, kill the raging Prince, if he'l be still
Thus Obstinate.
Cyax.
I charge you ev'ry Man
To save him, and with speed take him alive.
[They Fight, Cyaxares in the Skirmish is mortally Wounded, Abradatas is taken Prisoner, and Disarm'd.
Abra.
Base Villains! Choak'd I am with Multitudes—
O that I want the Fierceness of a Lyon
To chace this Herd of Slaves and Cowards from me.
Hyst.
What ail you, Sir? O Cursed sight, you Bleed!
Cyax.
I fear I've bin too rash—
And feel I'm wounded in my Mortal'st part.
Re-enter to them Cyrus in haste.
Hyst.
The Gods forbid—O Sir, retire, and view not
This sad Mischance.
38
Ha!
Cræs.
Hystaspes, how came this to pass?
Cyr.
Blast me, you Vitious Planets of my Birth;
Fall on me all the wrath of Heav'n at once,
Can this be true what here my Eyes behold—
My Unkle wounded! 'Tis not much, I hope?
Cyax.
Yes, 'tis to Death, and by my fleeting Soul
I am not sorry for't—But why grieve you?
I now shall tug the Reins of Rule no more,
And you shall drive the Chariot of the World
Alone—My Life that stood so long i'th' way
Dividing all the while Ambition with thee,
Shall share with thee, and of thy Hopes no more.
Cyr.
Fetch my Physitians—Run for Artists straight,
A Kingdom shall be his that Cures his Hurt.
Cyax.
Stir not, I charge you—'Tis beyond all Art
To save my Life—I've but a Moment's Breath
To speak, yet whilst that lasts, it's thine, my Cyrus;
And likewise all that's mine I give to thee;
Commit my only Daughter to thy Care,
She's young, and may in time grow up thy Wife.
Cyr.
Curst Abradatas—Curst be all the Fates
That led thee thus to Triumph still upon me,
First in my Love, and now in Cyaxares;
But by the Gods—By my wrong'd Self I Swear
I will be tame no longer, but will sweep thee,
Like a fierce Whirlwind from the Face of Cyrus,
Wert thou the Mynion of the spiteful Stars;
Yes, though ten Thousand Cupids on their Knees,
And Venus weeping Eyes shou'd beg to save thee.
Abra.
I kill'd him bravely, by the Gods I did,
Kill'd him as I wou'd thee, hadst thou bin there.
Cyr.
Away with him to speedy Death, I charge you.
Cyax.
Hold, Cyrus, hold, the Gallant Prince says true;
Let me not be the cause of his hard Fate,
It was my Fortune, and the Chance of War.
Cyr.
Torture me not with the Request; I vow
It is the only thing I cannot grant you.
Cyax.
You must—O my Dear Cyrus; I have bin
To blame, my Envy of thy gallant Deeds
Brought me to meet the Death I have deserv'd;
Had I but pleas'd my self to hear thee prosper,
And Treasur'd thy Exploits within my Breast,
As a kind Unkle shou'd have done to Cyrus,
O then I had bin happier,
Persia, and Media now shall be but one;
Far greater than Astyages thou art,
39
Cyrus farewel—Kiss me, and then I go.
dyes.
Cyr.
He's fled, the kindest, dearest, bravest Man
That ever blest the World, is gone—Dry up
Your Tears, and hide your Sorrows in your Breasts.
'Tis poor and mean to spend our griefs like Women;
Ten Thousand Deaths are all too little for thee,
To Abrad.
No, thou shalt live, and grow in study'd Torments;
I'll carry thee where-e're I go, to be
The sport of my Revenge, and ev'ry Day
Thou shalt be brought i'th' midst of all thy Pains
To hear thee houl before me—Go with him
To Tortures, Chains, Imprisonment—Away.
Enter to them Running, and Weeping, Panthea attended, as Abradatas is carrying off.
Panth.
Hold, whither is my Abradatas going?—
Brave Cyrus stay, recal your dread Commands—
Ah! where d'ye hurry my dear Prince so fast?
[To the Guard.
Still Abradatas will you be thus rash?
Adventuring through a Thousand threatning Deaths,
To come to this accursed Place to meet
Your certain Ruin; Cruel as you are,
More Cruel to your self and me than Cyrus far.
Cyr.
Still does she come to brave my little Power,
And chain my weak Resolves—She knows her strength,
By all the Gods she does, and dares me to't—
Keep 'em asunder, part 'em whilst I'm in
The mind—Perhaps anon I may forget
I bid you—Do, and part 'em now for ever.
Abra.
You urge in vain, the Tyrant must b'obey'd—
Farewel, our Loves shall shine amongst the Stars,
And make Immortal Lights that never shall
Be quench'd—There we will Rule, and guide the Planets,
Causing 'em ev'ry one to shed their worst,
And mortal'st Venom on his Cursed Head.
Panth.
Ah no, you wrong the brave and God-like Cyrus,
He is more mild than tender Mothers are;
The Spring is not so sweet that flows from Winter,
As are the Passions of that Brave rough Man—
Look thou Immortal; great on Earth as Jove
[Kneels.
Can you behold me kneel, and hear me beg,
In vain, who once you said was Beautiful, and lov'd?
Cyr.
Panthea rise, I cannot see you bend—
There's something in those Eyes wou'd cheat me still,
Although I know their kindness is not meant
40
My Rivals still—Behold there's one cou'd speak
If it had Life, but that is slain by thee—
[Shews the body of Cyax.
See, see, the silent everlasting Cause
Of Abradatas Fate.
Panth.
Ah me, the sight
Is dreadful, but you must forget it—
He kill'd him fairly in his Life's defence,
And you may add a little too for Love—
The gallant Cyrus wou'd have done as much,
Had he bin urg'd, or had the like Occasion.
Cyr.
Away Panthea, hence, thou plead'st against
Thy self, and hast recall'd each wandering Spark
That stray'd without my Breast, and fann'd 'em to
A Flame, that if thou talk'st, will ne're be quench'd—
Away with him, I say—Death to you all
That disobey a Moment—
Abrad.
I Court that Death, and cannot wish to live
A life so mean that's in thy power to give;
But ah, Panthea!
Panth.
Stay, for we must live
Or dye together Cyrus, take thy Choice—
Give me thy Hand, my Love—Thus we will grow,
[Panthea runs and takes Abrad. by the hand.
Joyning our selves together thus—Thus fix'd,
By great Diana's Soul, immoveable—
So mingle not our Souls, nor beams of sight so twist
As are these Hands united—Why d'ye stay?—
Come bear him to his Fate—By Constancy,
I vow this Hand shall go along with him,
Not all your Torments, Pincers, nor Devices
Shall wrench these Knots asunder; no, unless
You cut this off, so you may part our Bodies,
But then my Spirits shall retire that moment,
Flying to th'part that's nearest to my Love,
And my lost Hand shall hold him still thus fast,
And Perish with him as the Body wou'd.
Cræs.
Behold, do not the Gods look down, and wonder?
Cyr.
What shall I do? Cræsus advise me straight.
Cræs.
I am beyond all Sence, the Miracle
Has almost struck me dumb—Yet you had best
Begone—Retire, Sir, from this melting Object;
O never interrupt such Happiness,
But send these rare and faithful Lovers home,
To be the Wonder of all Worlds to come.
Cyr.
O how shall I begin! Cræsus, I'll do it,
I am resolv'd, yet cannot though I wou'd;
41
My mind, then straight I feel my climbing Love
Ascends by stealth, and reaching to the top,
Pulls all my slippery Resolutions down—
Assist me Gods, and guide my sickly Virtue.
Enter to them Lausaria Distracted, drest like a Cupid, with a Bow and Quiver, follow'd by her Women.
Laus.
Ye daring Mortals, wou'd ye hinder me?—
Let me alone, I say—Prepare my Chariot;
Go fetch me Boreas straight, and bid him bring me
A gentle Wind to spread my fiery Wings,
Then I'll ride faster than the Fleeting Air,
Or Raceing Clouds—The Stars shall be my Guides,
And in a Moment I will reach the Gods.
Cræs.
O Dismal sight!
Laus.
—My Father weeps: If tears cou'd quench thee!
I. SONG.
O take him gently from the Pile,
And lay him here to rest,
And I will scorch for him the while;
If he must burn, then burn him in my Breast,
For there is Fire, there is shame
Enough to set the World on flame.
Cræs.
Hear me Lausaria, thou hadst once a Brother
Doom'd by the Gods to want the gift of Speech,
And yet his Dumbness could not so afflict me,
As these wild words torment thy Father's Soul.
Laus.
This Bow and Quiver were a wanton Cupid's;
I watch'd the Boy, as he lay down to sleep,
And stole his Amunition from his side;
And now I've got 'em, I will be reveng'd
On all mankind, on all the Sex at once,
And shoot Love's Plague into their Breasts—Stand fair.
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II. SONG.
I am arm'd, and delare
For a Vigerous War;
By my Bow and my Quiver I swear
Not a Rebel to Love will I spare,
This Shaft I will draw to the Head,
And shoot the great Persian, shoot him dead.
The Tyrani shall die, there's one will deny him,
Let him Court her with Crowns she shall fly him,
This Shaft I will draw to the Head,
And shoot the great Archer dead.
Cyr.
Her Sence is out of Tune, her Wits not well,
But yet, alas! her Tongue is Charming still.
Laus.
Here is a Dart by Limping Vulcan made,
Tip'd with the Clippings of a red hot Star;
The same that Venus, when she robb'd her Son,
Chose from the rest to shoot Adonis with;
I'll burn you ev'ry one, till you indure
Worse Pains than I—Ha! Cyrus there—Have at thee—
I think I've struck thee, Cruel Flint, I have.
[She shoots and hits Cyrus.
Cyr.
Thou hast indeed, and touch'd me to the quick;
I thank the Gods there wanted but this sight
To rouze my slumbering Vertue—Sweet Lausaria,
Th'ast pierc'd my rocky Heart, and see it melts.
[Cyrus Weeps.
Laus.
Ha! have I hurt him! Curst was I to do so—
Look how the Blood runs trickling down his Face—
Help, help Panthea, Abradatas help—
Can you behold that Bleeding brave good Man,
And not bestow one Sigh, or Tear between you,
Indeed you are to blame—I cou'd shed Rivers,
And with my sighs disturb the endless Ocean.
[Weeps.
Cræs.
Poor Girl! She tires her self with her Wild Thoughts—
When will her roving Fancy get some rest?
Laus.
Go, go; you are a pair of Constant Fools,
[To Panthea, &c.
You are not fit to dwell amongst Mankind—
Get you to Wilds, to Fountains, and the Woods,
There graft your Follies on the Barks of Trees,
And write sad Songs upon th'unconstant Sands,
Which are as false as are the Hearts of Men:
Or get you to the Eccho, Owl, and Magpye;
They say, they once were Mortals like your selves—
Dye like a pair of faithful silly Lovers,
Dye, dye, and get you to Elizium,
There be the things you dream of; there be such
43
And I will follow you so soon as e're
I can—Hey hoe!—I have a mind to sleep—
Cræs.
Come, lead her gently to her Bed.
Laus.
Well let me make my Will, since Love must dye,
And leave to every one a Legacy:
This Dart I give—
To those that are Ambitious of a Name,
And fall in Love with such a Jilt as Fame;
This tipt with Gold to Sages on the Bench
Who have—
One Eye for Bribery, t'other for a Wench.
This Wicked one that at the Pulpit Drives
To Priests, who Love good Livings, hate good Lives,
And send you all to Heaven by your Wives;
This Matrimonial Dart, that shames the Giver,
To Marry'd Folks, the worst of all my Quiver,
My Wealth to Poets, thrift to Eldest Sons,
My Truth to Courtiers, Chastity to Nuns.
My Wantonness I do bequeath in Plenty,
To all the Women in the World of Twenty,
My Eyes to Alchymists, my Brains to Schools,
Scorn to the Brave, and all my Love to Fools.
[Exit.
Cræs.
What say you now? How feel you now your self?
Cyr.
Just like a Man fast ty'd upon the Rack,
When, feeling the fierce pain too great to bear,
Starts up and stretching every Nerve about him,
Expands his Joynts, and loosens all his Bands,
As threads of Flax are driv'n before the Flame—
Now mighty Love, I will despise thy Nets,
And like the hunted Deer, rush through the Thicket
That once I fear'd, and hung by ev'ry Bough—
Cræs.
—Bravely resolv'd and like the Godlike Cyrus.
Cyr.
—Hence, hence my Torment—All fond thoughts of Love
Away, and vanish into slender Air,
And from this time, let Pity and Revenge
Fill up my tortured Bosom in its stead—
Release the Prince—Panthea, take the Man
You Love—Quick, not one word of thanks, for I
Deserve none—But be sure you Charm him, hold him
Till he's Immortal made in your Embraces—
Haste Abradatas—Thou shalt dearly pay
For all the Pleasures of this long'd for Night—
To Morrow I will Summon thee like Fate
Soft slumbering in Panthea's Arms.
Abra.
And I,
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Fir'd with each Kisses heat, that thou shalt blush
To see what Beauties happiest Man can do.
Cyr.
Ye Gods! To Morrow! Did I say to Morrow?
To day, this hour, a Moment is too long—
He goes just now to ravish all those Beauties,
To ransack so much Joys, compar'd to which
Heav'ns store is all but nigardly compos'd—
Away, away—I'll overtake thee else,
Swift as the Winds that drive behind thy Back.
Re-enter to them Cræsus.
Cræs.
O Cyrus, your sad Cræsus Daughter's Dead.
Cyr.
Dead is she then. Poor Innocent Lausaria!
But hold, I have more griefs to spend for thee
Hereafter—
Panth.
These sad Disasters make me move but slow,
And stir unwillingly to meet my Joys—
I go, but still to pray for Cyrus Life—
Thou generous, great, unhappy Man, farewell.
Cyr.
Farewell—And sinee the Gods have so decreed,
May this Divorce so happy be to prove
The last of meetings, and the End of Love.
[Exeunt severally.
Finis Actus Quarti.
| Cyrus the Great : Or, The Tragedy of Love | |