University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE III.

Enter Antigone, attended by two Women.
SCENE the out-Gates of a Prison.
Ant.
I'm torn! I'm torn! by Sorrow, Rage, Despair!
No Tydings yet of my Philisthenes?
I dare not, dare not ask, lest on my head
I pull the Thunder of some dreadful news.
Like a low Vale between two raging Seas,
Of Fear and Hope, I lye, and hourly expect
A deluge of delight, or of despair.
But oh! the Seas rowl fastest from despair:
For I like not this new and strange Command
Sent from my Father, to come visit here,
In her sad prison, the afflicted Queen.
(For if she sinn'd as some believe, I hate
To call her Mother) but of late she was
A hated, out-cast, and forbidden thing.
My Father wou'd not suffer to come near
This doleful dwelling, any thing he lov'd.
Then he has heard our Love, and is enrag'd;
If so, my dear Philisthenes is dead,
And with my Mother I'm condemn'd to dye.
It must be so! I grow exceeding ill.

1. Wom.
Oh! help! the Princess! help! she faints away.

Ant.
No matter what I do—let me alone!—
Oh! my Philisthenes! 'twill not be long
E're I be with thee!—Call the men that Guard
The Queen, my wretched Mother.

1. Wom.
Ho! within!

Enter a Keeper.
Keep.
Who calls?

1. Wom.
Come to the Princess.

Keep.
What's her will?

Ant.
Know you this Signet?

Keep.
Yes, it is the Kings.

Ant.
I must have entrance here.

Keep.
Madam, you shall.

Ant.
Let the Queen know that by the Kings command
I come to wait on her.

Keep.
I'le tell the Queen.

[Ex.
Ant.
Now Gods prepare me for th'afflicting sight.
For if report be true, the alter'd Queen
Is the most doleful Object in the World.

The Scene is drawn, the Queen in Hair-cloth, Chains at her Legs, she lies on the ground, a Lamp burning by her.
Qu.
My Daughter see me by the Kings command?
What does he mean? No good to us, I fear?

Ant.
Is that the Queen? Is that my Mother? oh!

Qu.
My Daughter there? Antigone! my Child!

[Rises and Embraces her.
Ant.
Ah! Mother!

Qu.
Daughter!

Ant.
O! my Tears! my Tears!
I cannot speak!

Qu.
Weep in my Bosom Child,
And let thy poor sad Mother weep in thine.
Come rest thy self, my Daughter, sit thee down
On the hard Floor, thy Mothers only Bed;
And hear the mournfull'st Story in the World.

Ant.
Oh! Mother! Mother!

Qu.
Oh! my lov'd, my dear,
My precious Comfort, dearer than my Life.
My Life! What is my miserable Life?
Dear as my Life was in my happy state.
And happy! oh! too happy once I was;
My Massy happiness tyr'd out my Fate,
It cou'd not carry it to my lives end.
Never did Woman love a Man more dear
Than I once did, and still do love the King;
Be witness all the Gods to what I say,
And ne're was Woman more belov'd by man
Than I was by the King,—until—oh! Child,
I cannot speak how sadly I have been wrong'd.

Ant.
Oh! my Dear Mother! I believe you indeed,
All the Gods know I ne're thought otherwise.

Qu.
Thyestes! (oh! Hell is in that Name,)
Me his own Brother's Wife, his dear lov'd Wife,
Me whom his Brother trusted to his Care,
Bruitishly forc'd—

Ant.
Oh! horrid!

Qu.
And then sought
To get, by fraud, the Sacred Golden Fleece,
The Monument and Instrument of Fate,
To gain the Kingdom to secure his Sin,
And retain me a Pris'ner for his Lust.

Ant.
All this I've heard, and ever did believe;
But no kind God wou'd e're conveigh this Faith
Into my Fathers Soul.

Qu.
Oh! no, my Child;
Then think, oh! think, what are thy Mothers wrongs;
And what her dismal alter'd sad Estate.

Ant.
Oh! Gods! was ever any thing so sad?

Qu.
Oh! I have know the time, I'd not have let
Such dirty Earth as this come near my Feet,
Which now is all the Lodging that I have:
I wou'd not once have vext my curious Eye
With seeing such a Garment as I wear,
Nor suffer'd to have come into my sight
So vile a Creature as my self appears.

Ant.
No more, no more, dear Mother.

Qu.
O! my Child,
These outward pains are pleasures, when compar'd
With what I feel within me; for the loss
Of all my honour and my Husbands Love.
The Heavens are not so spotless as my Soul,
Nor Gods so fond of Heaven as I of him;
Yet am I thought a Strumpet, nay a lew'd
Incestuous monstrous Strumpet!—Furies—Hell—
Stand from me, Child, for I shall do thee hurt;
My Wits are going; when I think of this
They always leave me—stand away dear Child.
Who says I am a Strumpet? is it thou?
Lyar! 'tis well I have thee in my Arms,
I'le throw thee piece-meal to the Furies—thus!

[Tears her self. Ant. holds her Hands.
Ant.
Oh! Mother! Mother! 'tis your self you rend.

Qu.
How now, contend with me? This is a Whore.

Ant.
Help, the Queen's mad!—

Qu.
Ay! help me from a Whore
That comes to get my Husband from my Arms:
Oh! this is right the Picture of the Age,
A shining Strumpet, and a tatter'd Wife.
Indeed! and am I thus abus'd for thee?
Some Water there! I'm burnt out o' my Bed,
My Husbands Arms, by a hot flaming whore.

Ant.
Oh! Mother! Mother! I'm Antigone
Your Daughter! oh! the Queen will kill me! help!

Qu.
The Fire goes out! alloo! the ashes flye!
[Pulls some loose Ornaments from Ant.
So, now in the King's arms I will go sleep.

[Falls.
Ant.
Help! help the Queen! what are there none in call?
Ha! her Heart strongly beats, breath comes and goes
Upon Lifes errant, with no little force.
Then all is well I hope! she sweetly sleeps.
Her raving Spirit's in a wild uproar,
Thrust her in tumults to the Vaults of sleep,
Then shut the door with violence upon her.
Sleep on, dear Mother, heal thy wounded mind
With these sweet balmy slumbers; though, alas,
'Tis only heal'd for new and deeper wounds.
Oh! were there ever two so innocent;
And yet so miserable as we are?

Enter Keeper.
Keep.
Where is the Queen?

Ant.
Peace, peace, she's fallen asleep.

Keep.
The King is coming here to visit her.

Ant.
The King?

Keep.
The King.

Ant.
See in her Sleep she smiles,
Her Spirits rebound at mentioning a Name
That has such sweet agreement with her Soul;
As strings when tun'd alike, if one be touch'd
The other leaps; and now she starts, as if
She fain wou'd break through all the Gates of Sleep
To meet the Voice that bears the pleasing sound;
And now she wakes.

Qu.
Oh! I have had a sweet
Reviving slumber; not these many months
Have I been so refresh'd. Antigone!
Now I perceive whence I had all my rest,
From the delight my Soul did take in thee.
But, oh! my Child! was I not very ill
Before I slept? did I no hurt at all?

Ant.
Yes to your self I fear.

Qu.
If that be all,
It is no matter; 'tis as it shou'd be,
I am the Center of all Miseries.
What wander from me, leave their proper course.

Enter Women with a rich Robe, and other Attires.
Wom.
Madam, the King—

Qu.
The King, ha! what of him?

Wom.
Sends you these Robes, and begs you wou'd be pleas'd
With these to hide your misery from his sight,
And let the wondrous joy he means to take
In seeing you, be pure from any grief.

Qu.
Will he see me? and can the sight of me
Be joy to him? Why does he tell me this?
He does not well to make the miseries
Of his poor ruin'd, injur'd Wife, his sport;
I love him dearly, (witness all ye Gods)
In spite of all my sufferings and wrongs.

Ant.
Oh! Mother! Mother! sudden beams of hope
Shine out upon me; oh! there is a change!

Wom.
Madam, upon our lives we tell you truth,
The stormd toss'd King is on the sudden calm,
We know not what shou'd charm the billows down,
Except the good old Peneus.

Ant.
Oh! no doubt,
It was the Wisdom of that wond'rous man.

Enter Keeper.
Keep.
The King is near.

Qu.
Fling the Robe loosely o're;
I never yet dissembled with the King;
Nor hid from him was ever yet my heart:
The wretch I am, let his own Eyes behold,
I ne're deserv'd to be thus cast away.

Enter Atreus attended: The Queen kneels.
Atr.
Kneeling? this must not be!—Rise, Madam, rise.

Qu.
I do not kneel, Sir, as a Criminal,
But as an innocent poor Woman, thrown
By grievous wrongs into a state unfit
For you to see; I fall upon the Earth
To hide my self, and save your generous heart
From the affliction it must bear to see
My woful change, whether deserv'd or not.

Atr.
Kneeling's a state I cannot bear to see.

Qu.
You may be, Sir, assur'd I'le quit it then.

[Chairs brought.
Atr.
Now seat your self—Madam, I think you'l own
I lov'd you well.

Qu.
I were ungrateful else:
And I lov'd you as dearly the Gods know,
And I have ever been your faithful Wife,
And ne're deserv'd to lose that glorious Name.

Atr.
Well, Madam, I will shew I love you still,
If you have wrong'd me, be it to your self.
The Gods forgive you freely, as I do:
If not, Gods bring your innocence to light.

Qu.
Oh! Gods! good Gods! grant! grant! so good a prayer.

Atr.
However, Madam, whatsoe're you be,
All things are so forgot, as if the Gods
Had made a Queen o' purpose for my Love,
And you were newly come out of their hands,
Just when they finish'd you, and said 'tis well,
We cannot add one beauty to our work;
So I receive you to my arms and heart.

Qu.
Oh! this is too much joy for me to bear,
You build new Palaces on broken Walls.

Atr.
Madam, Eternal Gates are lock'd and bar'd
On all past deeds, ne're to be open'd more,
By this new happy meeting of our Lips,
Which have been Strangers now these many Months;
You are as dear to me, as when you came
A fond young beautious Virgin to my Arms.

Qu.
How bounteous are the Gods in the Rewards
Of suffering Innocence?

Atr.
Oh! my dear Queen!
Never admit past sufferings in thy thoughts,
I'le have this joyful day without one Cloud.
And joy shall shine through all my Family:
Even my Brother shall not want his share.

Qu.
Your Brother!

Atr.
Yes, I can forgive, even him;
Nay, have invited him home to my Court,
Both to receive my Pardon and my Love.

Qu.
Invite that wicked man home to your Court!

Atr.
You do not know how dearly once we lov'd.

Qu.
Nor you believe how much he injur'd me.

Atr.
I know his violent desires by mine;
We were so one, one Fire must burn us both,
And where Fire comes all things asunder fall;
Our Union ruin'd us, but I'le build
Our Friendship more magnificent than ever.

Qu.
Then will my Life as wretched be as ever;
The sight of him will like a Winter Cloud,
Darken and Freeze the Joy I have in you.

Atr.
I send not home for him, who did you wrong,
But him whose penitence has done you right,
Wicked Thyestes you shall ne're see more,
But new Thyestes so to goodness chang'd,
You will know nothing of him but his Name.
Oppose not then what all the Gods design,
These breaches threaten ruine to our House;
But the good Gods design our House shall stand.
Did you ne're see a weather-beaten Wall
Breed up young Ivy to support its age?
By Heavenly care from us bad men is sprung
An excellent Race, to bind our Friendship close,
And stop up all the breaches in our House.
The Gods ne're made a more accomplish'd Youth,
Than his sweet Eldest Son, Philisthenes.

Ant.
Oh! Gods!

Atr.
And I have sworn to marry him
To my beloved Child, Antigone.

Ant.
With all the pleasing wonder mixt with dread,
[Aside.
A crowd behold a shining God descend,
Have I been looking for this glorious news,
'Tis lighted on me, and I'm overwhelm'd.

Atr.
Child, you have seen your noble Kinsman oft,
What think you of him? Cou'd you love him? speak.

Ant.
My thoughts are always in your keeping, Sir.

Atr.
Well answer'd, Daughter: Love your Kinsman then,
Give him your Heart; but give him not such hold,
But you may take it back, if ill shou'd chance,
And ill may happen; I have sent the Youth
With good old Peneus, to invite to Court
My exil'd Brother; if he shou'd not come,
I shou'd relapse into my grief again.
The Noble Youth, at parting, left with me
A wealthy Token for you, his dear Love:
But you shall take no Presents from the Son,
Unless the Father first accept of mine:
Which for my Comfort beg of Heaven he may.

Ant.
Oh! how devoutly will I make that Prayer?

Qu.
Oh! wondrous goodness!

Atr.
Now my dearest Wife,
And my Antigone, embrace me both.

Qu.
Oh! Sir!

Ant.
Oh! Father!—

Atr.
Oh! my perfect joy,
Come let our new-born pleasures breath sweet air;
This Room's too vile a Cabinet for Gold.
Then leave, for ever, Love, this doleful place,
And leave behind thee all thy sorrows here,
And dress thy self as this great day requires;
'Twill be thy Daughters Nuptials, and I dreamt
The Sun himself wou'd be asham'd to come
And be a Guest in his old tarnish'd Robe,
But leave my Court t'enlighten all the Globe.

[Ex.
Enter Thyestes.

[Scene]

SCENE a Cave in a Desart.
Thy.
Astonishment! Confusion! how came I
To be the horrid Villain that I was?
I had it not from Nature, if I had,
Why did it not break out in many years:
How cou'd I carry such a load of sin
And feel no pain? Did Custom dull my sence?
No, for as soon as e're my greedy Eyes,
Numbring the Treasures of my Brothers Bed,
Had stoln more Appetite than I cou'd appease,
I bowed beneath the weight, and cou'd not rest
Till I had laid it on his Bed again.
Perhaps I felt no sin, because I liv'd
In th'Element of sin, my Brother's Court.
Things in their Element lose all their weight;
Water in water feels as light as Air.
No, 'twas not that; I was the first that brought
Incest and Treason to my Brother's Court.
From my own self came all my Villany;
Had I not been a Dunghill, Beauty might
Have shin'd as wholesomely on me, as others.
I loath, detest my self, and flye mankind,
Counting the worst of men too good for me.
Heark! I hear voices!—nay, and I see men;
They're very near me too, I'le hide my head.

Thy. goes into a Cave. Enter Peneus and Philisthenes.
Pen.
Here dwells your Father.

Phi.
In this Wilderness?

Pen.
Here in this Cave.

Phi.
Ah! lonely, poor abode.

Pen.
'Tis his own choice: I proffer'd him my House,
Where I had Rooms to hide, and ways to fly.
In case of danger; but he rather chose
This melancholly Desart, and this Cave.
I'le call him out to you. Thyestes! ho!
Ho! Prince Thyestes! know you not the Voice
Of your old faithful Peneus?

Enter Thyestes.
Thy.
Peneus here?

Phi.
Is that my Father? oh! how sadly chang'd?

Thy.
Who hast thou here, old Friend?

Phi.
One you may trust,
Half your own self, your Son Philisthenes.

Thy.
My Son?

Phi.
My Father—

Thy.
Welcome to my arms,
My Hope, my Comfort!—Time has rowld about
Several Months since I have seen thy Face,
And in its progress has done wond'rous things.

Phi.
Strange things indeed, to chase you to this sad
Dismal abode, nay, and to Age I think.
I see that Winter thrusting it self forth,
Long, long, before its time, in Silver Hairs.

Thy.
My fault, my Son, I wou'd be great and high;
Snow lies in Summer on some Mountain tops.
Ah! Son, I'm sorry for thy noble Youth,
Thou hast so bad a Father; I'm afraid
Fortune will quarrel with thee for my sake;
Thou wilt derive unhappiness from me,
Like an hereditary ill disease.

Phi.
Sir, I was born when you were innocent,
And all the ill you have contracted since,
You have wrought out by painful penitence.
For healthy joy returns to us again.
Nay, a more vigorous joy than e're we had.
Like one recover'd from a sad desease,
Nature for dammage pays him double cost,
And gives him fairer flesh than e're he had.
For a spoil'd Cottage, she bestows a Brief
On all her works, that doubles what he lost.

Pen.
Your Son Philisthenes, has told you truth:
The King your Brother, by what God transform'd
I cannot tell, is turn'd an excellent man.
He has no memory of all Errours past,
Except his own; the chief of which he counts
His too immoderate passion for revenge.

Thy.
And can this be?

Pen.
Will I not tell you truth?

Thy.
By thy own goodness, art thou not deceiv'd?
Thou dwell'st in open truth, and when thou com'st
Among dark men, thou knowst not what they are.

Pen.
Oh! Sir, my reason is not dim with age,
What-e're my Eyes are; time which steals our sight,
Is for the Thievery by Nature fin'd,
To make us recompence in inward light.
Know, Sir, I did not lend your Brother Faith,
Without a Pawn, as wealthy as his Crown;
The Golden Ram, let this prevail, not I.

Thy.
I stand amaz'd, for what wou'd this prevail?

Pen.
To make you glorious in your Brothers Throne,
Your Brother happy in the sight of You.

Phi.
And me in the possession of my Love:
I love his Daughter, fair Antigone,
And he has sworn to place her in my Arms,
When-ever to his Arms I can bring you.

Thy.
This is too much; a man that wou'd revive
His famish'd Friend, wou'd never cram him thus:
He choaks my Faith with gorging it too fast,
And surfeits sickly Friendship with a Feast.

Pen.
Can you suspect, when you have such a pledge?

Thy.
If the King be so good; 'twere a new Treason
To blast him with my sight.

Pen.
Your penitence
Restores intirely all your innocence,
And now your presence wou'd restore your Joys.

Thy.
Things are miscall'd, I ne're was blest till now:
When I was great, I had not one delight:
Who needs a Taster has small joy in taste
Who needs a Guard for safety, ne're are safe.
And who needs watching, has but little rest.
What solitude so bad, as throngs of Knaves!
What dwelling so uneasie as is his,
Who in a thousand Rooms can take no rest,
Till his proud Palace has beat back a Sea,
And lifted up a Forrest on its brow?
Say Poyson come not in a Princes Cup,
Care will, and that's as bad; say Care shou'd not,
Intemperance may, which is as bad as both;
A lingring Poyson that consumes our time,
Our Nights in drunkenness, our Days in sleep.
Say he ne're see the bloody face of War,
A thousand Dishes are a dangerous Camp,
Where very often men have met with Death,
Among those fair pretended Friends of Life;
Nor is his rest the more for silent peace,
In Calms of peace, when all without is still,
Factions within will make a Kingdom rowl.

Pen.
No doubt these Evils, and a thousand more,
Attend on Royal greatness; but what then?
Will you adventure nothing for your Friends?

Phi.
Oh! Father! humbly on my knees I beg,
Go to the King, if for my sake alone.

Thy.
For thy dear sake alone I fear to go,
I fear to make thee guilty of my blood.

Pen.
What reason have you to distrust the King?

Thy.
He has had heavy wrongs, and no revenge.

Pen.
Is Poverty and Exile no revenge?
Shame and Repentance is revenge enough
To a good man.

Thy.
It cannot be denyed.

Pen.
Can you not say he once was a good man?

Thy.
The best of Kings, and Brothers?

Pen.
Did he e're
Shew any hate to you, till you wrong'd him?

Thy.
Oh! never! never!

Pen.
Did he then requite
Your hate so ill, as you return'd his love?

Thy.
Oh! no!

Pen.
Why judge you then of him so ill?
Since you cou'd make him turn from good to ill,
May not the Gods turn him from ill to good?

Thy.
It cannot be deny'd.

Pen.
Are you not turn'd?
Wou'd you fain act o're all your Crimes again?

Thy.
I'd rather dye?

Pen.
Do you excell him so,
That goodness shall be reconcil'd to you
On easie terms, but on no terms with him?

Thy.
I think him a much better man than I.

Pen.
Since you are chang'd, why may not he be so?
I leave it to your choice, believe the King,
And make up all the breaches of your House,
Or begin new Confusions by your stay;
Affront the King, and make him shed the blood
Of your dear Son, and me your just old Friend,
Hew Nations down to make his way to you,
Whilst Curses in full cry shall hunt you out,
As the great common mischief of the world.

Thy.
No more, no more, I'm overcome—I'le go.—

Pen.
Oh! Gods! I thank you for so good success
In my good Embassy.

Phi.
And in my Love.

Thy.
You Divine Guardians of these innocent Woods,
My only Friends of all the Heavenly Powers;
Who here so faithfully have hid me long,
And blest my mind with penitence and ease,
If you can bear the wickedness of Courts,
Go with us thither, and preserve us there:
Not but my life to Justice is a debt;
But let not my dear Son, and good old Friend,
Prove guilty of shedding their own blood and mine,
By undertaking such a good Design.
For who will Vertue follow, and obey,
If when she is their Guide, men lose their way?