University of Virginia Library

Actus Quintus,

SCENA Prima.

Enter Thomyris, Women, Guards, and Soldiers.
Thom.
Come, my brave Friends, I see you are resolv'd
To follow me, and share your Queens worst Fate.
Remember first who 'tis you go to fight with,
Cyrus, a braver Man indeed not lives;
But likewise call to mind your selves, a Nation
That all mankind has look'd upon with wonder,
Envying your State that never yet was Conquer'd;
But oh my son! We drop the Precious Minutes—
My Spargepyses did last night appear
With the curst Dagger, sticking in his Breast,
(In the same manner as your Eyes beheld him,
When Cyrus sent the Royal Body home,)
Let Balthazar still drown in Luxury,
Devour'd by Cycophants, undone by Harlots,
Whilst with your Aid I act such mighty things,
As never Woman yet perform'd, nor Man
Cou'd do.

Enter to them Abradatas, and Panthea, Hystaspes, and Guards.
Panth.
O Sacred joy!—Cou'd I have thought once more
To kneel before you, and have in these Arms
The kindest Mother, and the best of Queens?

Abrad.
O blest Panthea's Mother, Godlike Thomyris!

Thomy.
Rise, dear Children,
Bend only to the Gods, and not to me,
To that Ambitious, happy God, who wrested
This gallant Action from my feeble Arm,
And only wou'd ingross the glorious Deed.

Panth.
That God was Cyrus; who, alas! Tormented
With Jealousy, the worst of all Loves Tortures,
Besides the dismal sight of Cyaxares,
Dying before his Eyes, slain by the Hand
Of Abradatas, whom of all mankind
It was expected, he the least should pardon;
Yet notwithstanding all those fierce assaults
On his brave mind, to his eternal Fame,
He has restor'd Panthea to her wishes,
And a lov'd Rival to his Mistress Arms.

Abrad.
But we forget how soon th'assault begins,
Spite, and ambitious Rage have lent him Wings,
With which w'are to expect him at our Backs,
Rushing to overtake us with more speed,
Than falling Torrents, or the swiftest Tyde.

Hyst.
With Balthazar he now intends to fight—
Love that so long mis-led his Warlike Genius,
And turn'd him from the Path of his ripe Glory,
Having at length o'recome this worst of Foes,
This Moment he intends to end the War,
And with quick Marches rouze up the Assyrians—
I hear him coming: For on this large Plain
Betwixt both Camps, he forms his mighty Battel.

[Cyr. Trumpets within.
Thomy.
Now, now methinks I feel the noble Fire
That first inspir'd our Amazonian Chief,
When like a Star, shot from our Northern Sphere,
Her Courage ev'ry where like light display'd,
And gave the World a wonder to all Ages—
Does not this news inspire you Country Men?
Kindle a Flame through all your Frozen Sinews,
Which the Sun Beams cou'd never do to Scythia—
Go, Abradatas, mount thy dreadful Chariot,
Arm'd like the God of Thunder, Jove himself,
Send from thy Rage his Lightning, and his Bolts:
Let the wild Steeds the wing'd Winds out-fly,
And the sharp hooks like Death mow all before thee,
Whilst their carv'd Limbs, and mangled Bodies drop,
Like Fields of Corn before the Reapers Hand.

Hyst.
I have Commands to wait you to the Camp,
Thence to return with all the faithfulst speed,
And meet my Master in Bellonias Arms.

Abrad.
Away, let's rouze the sleepy Balthazar,
Fierce as a Lyon, waking to revenge.

Panth.
Come, Abradatas, see what Love has for thee,
Which take as Presents from Panthea's hand;
Trophies far Richer then Ulysses strove for,
And when I've seen my Mars in his Thron'd Chariot,
Return I will, and in my Closet kneel,
And never rise till thou Victorious be,
Thinking of nothing but the Gods, and thee.

Abrad.
Prepare my Soldiers—Hear you what he says?
Panthea calls, Panthea is the Word.

[Exeunt.
As they are going off, enter on the other side, Cyrus, Cræsus, Artabasus, Soldiers, Guards, Sound of a March.
Cyr.
Something, my fellow Soldiers, I would say—
The Gods have often prov'd by your success
That in your Breasts Divinities are stamp'd
With all their Heav'nly Courages inspir'd;
The Sword is not so used to cut and slaughter,
When guided by some sure, and mighty Arm,
As you to fight and overcome—I will
Not boast, nor talk what I have done;
But let me tell you, I am Cyrus still,
Cyrus, that will not prize this worthless Life,
Nor yet refuse to put it in the Scale,
Weighed with the danger of the meanest Soldier,
But follow you as well as lead you on,
There is but this one Battel
That parts us from the Empire of the World—
Who wou'd not venture his last drop of Blood,
When this sole Action makes us All, or Nothing;
This over, we'll to Babylon retire,
Whence as the Hill of all the World, you may
Behold your several stately Provinces,
And I the only Man that e'er look'd down
Upon so many gallant Heroes at
One time, and blest an Army made of Kings.

Cræs.
Haste, for I long to face this Cursed Tyrant,
'Till he has let out from the Heart of Cræsus
The Father's Blood, and stab'd the Daughter's Image
Here in my heart—She calls on me to go
And end my Miseries where they first had being.

Cyr.
O Cræsus wound her not again, she's here,
The weight hangs heavier on me than thou seest—
Father—For henceforth thou shalt ever be so,
Let's have no thought to Day but of Revenge,
Deaf to the Charms of Grief, and more remorseless
Than Winds, or hideous Storms, or groaning Earthquakes,
Hide the least Species of our swelling Griefs,
As Streams are Coated in a Frosty Night—
But after Conquest, like a sudden Thaw,
We'll melt into a Deluge, and the World
Shall drown in tears—The Gods shall wonder at our Sorrows—
And for thy Daughter Babylon shall Mourn,
And nod its Spiring Pinacles to th'ground.
No more shall gaudy Worship fill the Town,
The Temples with their awful Shrines and Gods
Shall cast their Crowns and Golden Habits off,
And in exchange wear Rags and Ashes on
Their Heads—Then she shall have a Monument
Shall stop the Sun to cast his wondering Eye,
Astonish'd at the height, the vastness, and
The Richness of it—My Treasure, nay the Worlds
Huge Mass shall all be melted to an Urn,
And the proud Greatness of Massolus Tomb,
With those vast Pyramids by Hebrew Slaves
Built to the Skye, shall all be Dwarfs beneath it—
This shall the Gods and I bequeath to thy Lausaria.

Cræs.
On then, thou Glorious Conqueror—
Fate like a Cloud hangs o're th'Assyrians heads,
The God whom all the World with dread admires,
The Hebrews Worship, and th'Egyptians fear,
Has call'd thee by a Miracle to be
The King of this Great Empire, and the World.

Cyr.
If the wise God shew ought of me, declare it.

Cræs.
Last Night the Drunken Balthazar Carous'd
With all his vicious Concubines about him,
And Beardless Minions, far more lewd than Women;
Then in a Pride he took the Holy Treasure
Brought from the wondrous Fane of Solomon,
And in the Sacred Cups made impure Healths
Go round, and drank to th'Immortality
Of their proud King, who had in spight of Heav'n,
And its scorn'd Power committed such a Rape
Upon the Richest Shrine of all the World.

Cyr.
What but the wrath of Heaven, and dreadful Ruine
Cou'd follow such a Sacriledge!

Cræs.
This horrid Deed drew awful Thunder from
Th'impatient hand of the wrong'd Deity,
Whilst straight a dreadful Clap was hear'd, and Lightning
With a fierce Rage struck through their guilty Eyes,
And on a sudden snatch'd away the Flames
That gave the Tapers light, then in thick Darkness
The horrid sounds of dying groans ascended,
And dismal Voices pierc'd the trembling Earth,
Whilst straight a yet more strange and dreadful Scene disclos'd,
A Bloody Hand appear'd upon the Wall,
With a bright Bracelet set with flaming Stars,
Dazeling the Eyes of all th'astonish'd Crowd,
Then with a Finger which distill'd warm Gore,
The God wrote Words in Characters of Hebrew,
Which by a Wise Religious Captive of
That Nation, was Interpreted of Cyrus,
That you should be the Assertor of his God,
Who gave Assyria to the Medes and Persians.

Cyr.
O my dark Soul! Is there a Mighty God!
(As sure there must) in whose admir'd Belief
My Mother's Breasts ne're Nurs'd my Infancy,
Whose Being was before all Beings else,
Who is the Source, Beginning, and the End
Of all, yet has no Source, Original,
Nor Ending, but art that of which is all
Compos'd, and yet art still the same, and not
The less, nor greater—If then such thou art,
O help me, guide me by thy Sacred Power
To be the Man this Miracle has meant.

Enter to them Hystaspes, and Guards.
Hystasp.
Make ready, Sir, th'Assyrians are approaching,
Pusht on at length by your indulgent Fate,
To a desparing Courage—Fierce Thomyris
And Balthazar are joyn'd—And Abradatas
Sits in his Chariots, midst a thousand Deaths;
He, with five hundred of those hooked Waggons
Protects the Right Wing of the Tyrant's Army,
And Thomyris with all her of Strength the Left—
But Oh! Had you then seen Panthea's Courage,
You cou'd not blame the Fates to be divided,
How to bestow this mighty Victory;
Whether to her, as Challeng'd by such Virtue,
Or Crown your Brave, and still Triumphant Brow.

Cyr.
What sayst—My Soul stands listning at my Ears,
And fain I wou'd hear something of Panthea.

Hyst.
Fierce Abradatas she her self saw mounted,
Clad in an Armour far more Rich and Noble,
Than that which Vulcan made the God of War,
Which the Skill'd Workman hammer'd from pure Gold,
And ev'ry joint with Diamond Stars had nail'd.
'Twere long to tell you how much breath she sigh'd,
The thousand Tears she shed for grief, and joy;
'Till the shril Trumpets call'd him swift away,
O Then she rais'd her tender-voice more Charming,
And more provoking than the Wars loud Musick;
Clasp'd her soft Hands about the guilded Spokes,
And kiss'd the Chariot Wheels;
The fiery Steeds, as if then slash'd with Lightning,
Upon a sudden started from her hold,
Swift as an Arrow from a Scythian Bow,
And left her senseless, clinging to the ground.

Cyr.
Enough, th'ast said too much—Sound, Sound a Charge,
I'll shut my loitering Soul close in her Home,
That she shall never have the power to send
[Charge sound.
One Truant Thought abroad, not the least glance,
Or secret wish after forbidden Love.

Cræs.
Lead us to Victory that the Gods have shewn thee.

Cyr.
Yes Cræsus, yes—We come; dear slaughter'd Unkle,
To give an Army to thy Funeral Pomp—
See, see, thy Daughter's Spirit, like Jove's Eagle,
Sails o're our heads with Lawrels in her Beak—
Now, now's the Sign to draw your Conquering Swords,
Cy'axares, and Lausaria are the Words.

[Exeunt Omnes.
Scene draws, and discovers a great Battle between both Armies: Cyrus, Balthazar, and Thomyris seen Fighting at their Heads. Battle over, a Retreat is sounded. Scene shuts, and then Enter Cyrus, Cræsus, and Guards.
Cyr.
Now, Cræsus, the Assyrian War is over
And Balthazar is Slain—Thou seest him drop,
Whilst his Blasphemous Soul burst by my side,—
His Spirit groan'd, and gave a horrid flight—
This was the bloodiest Battle to our Foes,
That e'er my Sword yet won.

Re-enter Artabasus.
Arta.
Greatest of Kings,
Immortal may'st thou live, and ever Reign—
More than two hundred thousand of your Foes
Lie breathless in the Field—None but a few
With the bold Scythians make a quick Retreat.

Re-enter and Hystaspes.
Cræs.
Kings, Senates, and the World obey thee, Cyrus;
For lo the Gods did never at a time
Heap so much Greatness on one Man before.

Cyr.
What is become of Valiant Abradatas?

Hyst.
Something to his misfortune we must owe:
For with a Drove of hooked Chariots which
He led, he first began a dreadful Slaughter,
'Till the fierce Steeds, stung with the pointed Darts,
Started, recoil'd, and overthrew their Guiders,
Then, like a Whirlwind, broke through their own Ranks,
And where 'twas thickest, mow'd a dismal passage,
That the sad spaces midst their numbers look'd
Like empty Ridings through a Forrest cut,
So Abradatas is by all Men thought
From his fierce Chariot to be hurl'd and torn.

Cræs.
But the Brave Scythian Queen retreating fights,
And whilst the Homotyms are eager in
Pursuit, as a Stout Lyon that is hunted,
Turns eager on the nearest of his Foes,
And tears 'em piece meal, then retreats again;
So in their flight, the Scythians send huge showers
Of Mortal Arrows on the Conquerours Faces.

Cyr.
My self will haste with the Cadusian Archers,
And gaul their backs with much more dreadful Flights.

Cræs.
Mingle not Sir, in the unruly Chace—
We beg you wou'd retire into the Camp,
Your Wounds, and Labour ask some quick relief.

Cyr.
Fly then, Hystaspes, to the Homotyms,
Bid 'em their vain and eager Chace give o're;
In the mean time, you valiant Cræsus may
Wheel round about 'em with your Lydian Horse,
And beat 'em in their Front.

Cræs.
It shall be done—
Expect my Death, or the brave Queen a Prisoner.

Cyr.
Attend me but at Distance for a Moment.
[Exeunt Cræsus and Hystaspes.
What is it to rule the World,
To hold the wealth, and sumpter of the Earth,
And find it all but Dreams of Happiness,
As I do?
[Going off, Lausaria's Ghost rises to him.
What object does my flattering Eyes present!
The Lydian Princess, ha, it is! tis she,
Or else some Star, the darling of the Sky,
Dropt from the Gods, and Pattern'd in her Likeness!—
But ha! if this shoud prove a Dream,
Thou look'st quite thro' me, speak, if thou art Lausaria!

Ghost.
O Cyrus, I am come from far to blame thee,
To chide my Love, and stand 'twixt him and Ruin.

Cyr.
Thou art alive then! ha! and thou canst talk too—
O sacred joy!—Who told me thou wert dead?
—Thou look'st thin, pale and wan,
Give me thy cold fair hand in mine, and let me lead thee
From the cold Mansion of the Grave;
To a warm room in Cyrus Breast for ever.
Where is thy hand?—Ha! Thou art fled, and hid
As in a mist, thou dazelest every Sense,
And mak'st thy Cyrus giddy to behold thee.

Ghost.
Ah! Cyrus,
Thou may'st as well grasp Water, or fleet Air,
As think of touching my Immortal Shadow—
I am the wandering Spirit of Lausaria,
That still dotes on thee in her Solitude;
So well, that when thou think'st but of Panthea,
By secret Charms thou call'st me from my quiet,
And givest my Soul no rest below, nor Peace above.

Cyr.
A cold and sudden damp sits on me round,
Thy Eyes run pointed with thy wrongs, and shoot
Quite through my Heart, as thy keen Spirit with horrour
Pierces the ground, and glances through the Air—
Thou strikest a terrour trembling in my Blood,
And I with torture find thou art a thing
Immortal—
Speak, awful Shade, what brings thee from thy Rest?

Ghost.
When I had pass'd the Lake that leads to Bliss,
(Bliss so unjustly term'd by Mortals here,)
To those dull Shades, Elizium fondly call'd,
Where the sad Scene gives mournful Lovers Souls
A Melancholly Prospect of Delight;
I heard the Powers of Hell
Call for the Fates to cut thy thread before 'em—
What shall be done, said they, with this Great Man,
This Barbarous Hunter of the World, and Love?
Let us ordain that by a Woman's Hand
His blood be in a fatal moment spilt,
So to Revenge the Sex's wrongs at once—
Haste from the Field—Beware th'inrag'd Thomyris—
Come, follow me, I'll shew thee such a Sight
Shall Cure thy Breast of all Love's Wounds for ever.
Hold, stay, and take my Ghost along with thee.

Ghost.
O Live, I charge you—
Live happy as a God on Earth, live ever;
Each drop of Blood you drain from that brave Breast,
You double all the Pangs upon my Soul—
O think that on your Joys depend my Bliss,
Your Torment is my Hell, your Happiness
My blest Elisium—Follow me, I Charm you,
By all the pity once you pay'd my Love,
By all the Love you owe my Memory.

Cyr.
Lead then the way, thou brightest Angel Guide,
Conduct me quickly to thy blest Abode.

Ghost.
The Minute's come—This way, thou gallant Cyrus.

Cyr.
I follow thee, and if my Body proves too heavy,
I'll throw it off, and mount all Soul to reach thee.

Scene Draws, and discovers Panthea with her Women weeping o're the mangled Body of Abradatas, whose Limbs she had seemingly fix'd to his Body, a Dagger in her hand.
Panth.
I charge you live—Live to excuse my Fault,
And sooth the sorrows of the sad Thomyris;
The Story of our Deaths told from your Mouths,
May from her tender Eyes draw floods of Tears,
But the sad Object would have kill'd her quite—
Likewise relate the dismal Scene to Cyrus;
Tell it with all the pity that in grief
Can be express'd—Be sure t'adorn our Ends
As sumptuously with Sorrow as you can—
But oh! you need not—Tell 'em as they were,
And your sad tun'd Description will surpass
All Fiction, Painting, or dumb shew of Horrour
That ever Ears yet heard, or Eyes beheld—

Wom.
O cast that Weapon from you—

Panth.
Vex me not—
What, can't I be obey'd in Death—Now, now,
My dearest Partner of my Soul, I come:
Look back as thou art in the Milky Road to Bliss,
And take thy lov'd Panthea with thee.

Wom.
Still you advance that dreadful Weapon.

Panth.
No more—These Hands and Feet which the sharp Scythes
Mow'd from thy lovely Body, I have try'd
A thousand times to joyn 'em with my Kisses,
But 'tis in vain—O you Immortal Powers!
Cannot these Lips so Deify'd, restore
One hour of Life—See what Idolaters
You are, false Men!—You Lying Prophets say
A Kiss, a Sigh, a Tear from those you Love,
Can fetch you from the Grave to Life again,
And make a God of the least Doting Swain.
But I have groan'd ten thousand Sighs and Wishes,
And bath'd his Body all, all o're in Tears,
Yet find 'em all too little; one small drop
Of Rain is worth an Ocean of these Pearls;
That gives the sweets that from the Roses flow,
And makes the Violets and the Lillies grow.
Yet I cannot restore one Finger back
To Life, unless my heart's warm blood can do it.

Panthea Stabs her self, and just as she gave the Wound Cyrus Enters, led in by the Ghost, the Ghost vanisheth.
Cyr.
Ah! cruel, spiteful—yet thou lovely Spirit
Coud'st thou not bring me one half moment sooner?
Give me this Dagger, and I'll plunge it in my Breast,
Wipe off the stain of thy most precious Blood,
And reak it in my own; revenge thy wrongs,
And please Lausaria's Ghost, whose shadow haunts me—

Panth.
This Weapon I'll not part with—
This Glorious Relique here that sets me free;
Thus I will hold it, brandish'd up on high,
And die with the lov'd Passport in my Hand—
Live, happy, Cyrus, may these ills forewarn thee
To shun the fatal Deed of crossing Love,
Love that will ne'er be stop'd, but have its Course,
Or overflow to drowning with the least resistance.

Cyr.
O forgive me, blest Panthea;
And the same time thou leav'st thy lovely Body,
Forgive my passion too, and carry with thee
My Pardon to be Seal'd by all the Gods,
And by the Soul of thy departed Love,
And tell him how I took his hand in mine,
Wash'd with thy Tears, and bath'd in my Repentance,
And put it to my eager Lips, and ask'd
His pardon thus—Ha! Horror! Worse than Horror.

[Cyrus taking Abradata's hand, offering to put it to his mouth, it comes from the Body; Panthea places it again.]
Panth.
What have you done? Why touch you him so rudely?
Give me this Hand back to my Lips again—
These marvellous Limbs with industry I sought
Amidst an hundred heaps of mangl'd Bodies,
And pick'd and cull'd 'em, as is sifted Gold
Parted from loads of common Dross;
And plac'd each torn-off Member in its proper state,
Just as you see—Forbear again to touch him,
For they are ev'ry one alike dismember'd,
Mow'd by the Hooks of his own dreadful Chariot,
Fierce as the Horses wildest rage cou'd guide 'em—
I feel Death's giddy vapour in my Eyes,
And covers all my Senses on a suddain—
Lay me—O lay me gently by my Lord.

[Dies.
Cyr.
Die all that's good—die Sacred Love and Friendship.
Let none presume to say that Virtue lives,
That Beauty gilds the World, now she is dead.

Enter to Cyrus, Thomyris, Women and Soldiers, as persu'd.
Thom.
There, there's the dreadful summ of all our Woes;
Look there, my Friends—What, Cyrus Mourning o're 'em!
Run, run, with speed, and snatch his hated Life—
Quick, e're your Foes that have you in the Chase,
Prevent you—Hold—And shall 'a dye by Slaves!—
There is some Pity to his Vertue due.

Cyr.
Ha! Am I then surpriz'd—I was to blame—
Though I abhor to live, yet loth I am
To dye by Treachery, and Cowards Hands.

Thom.
Look, Cyrus, look, I am thy Mortallest Foe—
Thou dwell'st o're the sad Ruines there, which I
Look on with Horrour, at so great a distance—
Do, glut thy self—Call likewise to thy Mind,
My Spargepyses Blood, and think the Fates
Are gentle still—Bend, bend your Bows,
Draw every one a Dart up to the Head,
And send a thousand winged Deaths to seize him—
Yet hold—My self the glorious deed will do.

Cyr.
Thou dar'st not, sure!—Naught but thy VVomans Spleen
Cou'd be Seducer to such base Revenge.

Thom.
Talkest thou!—Now to thy Heart this pointed Justice.
[As she is ready to shoot at him, Lausaria's Ghost rises up betwixt them, and stands before Cyrus, and Faces Thomyris.
Hah! sure there is something there controls my Hand?
Or I am lost in a wild Maze of Fancy—
What shining Form is that so fills my Eye!
Cyrus, thy Guardian Genius 'tis protects thee,
That with her tender Wings Roosts o're thy Head,
And with a Look shoots awful Brightness through me,
And Fetters every thing that's brave within me—
My Sinews slack, and Nature at this Sight
Shrinks back to her first feeble Infancy.

Sold.
You stand amaz'd—Let's kill him whilst we may.

Thom.
Hold, Villains—What, through her Immortal Body!
Your Darts would all turn Heads against your selves;
You might as soon touch the bright shining Sun,
Or fix your Arrows in the Marble Skye—
Loose, loose your Strings, and let fall all your Bows,
And to appease that Goddess, Worship him,
That all the World is destin'd to Obey.

Re-enter Cræsus, Hystaspes, Gobrias, and Artabasus, shouting, Ghost vanishes.
Cræs.
He lives, is safe; thanks to the Immortal Powers.

Cyr.
I charge you on your Lives, none touch the Queen,
And hurt no man but such as shall resist.

Thom.
'Twas never known, that any Scythian yet
Did yield his Person, or his Weapon up.
Then, Cyrus, since great Balthazar is slain,
And all our Lives too mean to adorn thy Triumph:
O give, without denyal, to these Tears,
Panthea's and her Abradata's Bodies:
Then undisturb'd, let us forsake this place,
Of all the World the fatallest to Thomyris.

Cyr.
'Tis granted, and you may with safety go—
Cyrus can do no less to such a Queen,
Whose brave and generous Pity sav'd his Life—
But begs that you would make the Town your way;
My Crowns, my happiness, and Life to me
Is not so dear as what you carry with you—
There you shall see what mourning Babylon
Can do; the Fires, the Temples, and the Urns
That shall adorn these Lovers Funerals;
Cyprus, instead of Lawrel, Wreaths shall bind
The Conquerours Brows, and Groans instead of Shouts
shall fill the Streets, the Houses Lamentations;
All the vast City shall indead appear,
But one wide spatious Room fill'd full of Sorrow.

Thomy.
No, no, cover the Bodies from their Eyes,
Then in a Mourning Chariot place the Bridgroom,
And his pale Bride so leaning on his Cheek—
Cyrus, farewell—And may'st thou live to be
Unconquer'd still, and great as Creetan Jove—
Beat a dead March—Let Trumpets hoarsest sound
Fright Birds of softer Musick from the Air,
And naught be heard but Horrour and despair.

[Exeunt Thomyris, and all her Party, bearing away the Bodies of Panthea, and Abradatas. Dead March Sounds.
Hyst.
Live happy as a God, and o're past miseries
Rejoyce—Fate is your slave, and puts and End
To all your toyls this day—The conquered Globe
Has not that Monster now that from its Chains
Durst stir to interrupt your sacred Bliss—
Go, for new Pleasures Court you ev'ry where,
And having spread your Laws o're all the Earth,
And settl'd first the Business of the World,
Think then to make your Median Kingdoms happy,
And there in Person wed the fair Mandana,
Whose Youth and Beauty shall like buds increase,
Still grow upon you, and with fresher Charms
Supply your Soul, and make your joys Immortal.

Cyr.
Come, Fellow Souldiers, let's to Babylon,
Empress of Nations, and great Queen of Cities—
Make haste, my Friends, and share the World with me,
All shall have some—Amongst the meanest here
I'll throw Rewards they shall not live to spend,
And scatter Provinces as thick as Drachma's—
First with Lausaria's Funerals we'll begin;
Three Days with strictest Mourning shall be kept,
And all things else forgotten for that time;
These Hands her fragrant Funeral Pile shall bur,
And Princes shall Officiate at her Urn—
I Invite you all to come and weep with me,
O're this rare Miracle of Constancy;
Let the loud War to gentler Griefs remove,
And mourn with us the Tragedy of Love.

[Exeunt Omnes.