University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE, The City of Argos besieged by King Pyrrhus; the Camp of the Epirotes on the one side, and that of the Macedonians, who came to the Relief of it on the other.
Pyrrhus Solus.
The Time Night.
[Thunder and Lightning.
Pyrrh.
If Heaven is wont to mourn the Death of Princes,
And Gods above are sensible of Grief
For their Vicegerents here: If Nature sickens,
And looks with sad Concern, when impious Fate
Strikes at her Darling Sons; if Groans of Ghosts,
That leave their empty Tombs to stalk on Earth,
And scream in open Air, are justly call'd
The Voice of Fate, that of the King of Macedon,
Or mine, is near at hand; for all the Prodigies,
And all the Horrors, that fore-run the Funerals
Of dying Heroes have been seen to Night.
Approach my General, why so slow a March?
[Dion entring.
Why dwells that mournful Cloud upon your Brows?
Why look you more opprest with Grief than Years,
As all the Anger, and the Frowns of Heaven,
And the loud Tumult of a troubled Sky,
Could bend a Heart made firm with Age, like yours?

Dion.
No, Royal Sir, not these outragious Tempests,
Not massy Bolts reach'd by the brawny Cyclops,
Hot from the flaming Forge, and driven by Jove
Through the scorch'd Skies, can shock your Souldier's Soul:
But oh! imagine Prince what most would move you,
Drive you to Rage, make you fall out with Fate,
And rail at Heav'n.

Pyrrh.
Could any thing do this,
It were the loss of Battle, a shameful Overthrow
From an inglorious Enemy.

Dion.
You've lost more.
Much more than this.

Pyrrh.
There is but one that can be;
And if my Queen be safe, not slain, nor seized
By those that forc'd Her from Her Throne in Epirus,
I dare the utmost Malice of my Destiny.

Dion.
She's safe, and coming on apace to seek you:
Our outmost Scouts descry'd her glitt'ring Chariot,
Drawn by white Steeds, that ran as swift as Wind;
And long before that rising Sun appear
With his full Orb of Light above yon Hill,
You'll see her in your Tent.

Pyrrh.
Then be it as it will.
Thou might'st have told at first, and not have fear'd:
It would not overwhelm me.

Dion.
To him that loves, the loss of his Belov'd
Is Misery enough; and to the Warriour,
Who seeks in bloody Fields for Fame and Glory,
An Overthrow is yet a greater Ill:
But for a Father to lose a Princely Son;
And such a Son as Ptolemy, so like his Father,
Outweighs all other Ills.

Pyrrh.
Alas, I thought not
That Fate would wound me there.

Dion.
Would it had struck at any other Life,
Any but yours; my Breath I had resign'd
With Joy, and laid my Bosom naked for a Javelin.
Now all the Soldiers hang their drooping Heads,
Which late they bore aloft; they break their Launces,
And cry, No more to War, the Prince is gone
That taught us how to conquer; no more to Battles,
Since He who won them for us is no more.

Pyrrh.
If they grieve thus, sure he was well belov'd,
And died as did become him.

Dion.
He fell so brave,
No History can produce the like Example,
And no Tongue dare to say I'll shew his Equal.

Pyrrh.
Stop not: Say on, my Soldier.

Dion.
Sir, I dare not:
His Praises but renew the sad Remembrance,
And I would spare your Sorrow.

Pyrrh.
No, go on,
I bear it as I should do.

Dion.
When joyful Sparta saw your Tents took up.
And all your Camp remov'd, she gave a Shout
That eccho'd to the Skies; fierce Ptolomy rag'd
To hear their Boasts, and loyt'ring with some Troops
Far separate from the Body of your Army,
The Force of Lacedæmon sallied on him,
And yet he scorn'd to shun the unequal Combat.
'Twas then that he employ'd his utmost Strength,
Performing more than Man, none scap'd unhurt,
From his strong Arm: His single Sword slew more,
Than those of all the Combatants besides.
What could he do, by Multitudes oppress'd?
At length he fell, high on a heap of Spartans,
Whom himself kill'd, and smil'd, and look'd in Death,
As who should say I conquered.

Pyrrh.
One thing more,
And then eternal Peace be with Him. Tell me,
Who got his Body?

Dion.
His Soldiers all fought round it.
When word was brought me of the fierce Engagement,
I gather'd all the Forces next at hand,
and flew to rescue him; but all too late,
I only could revenge him, which I did;
For thousand Spartan Ghosts took flight that day
To wait on his.

Pyrrh.
Why yet 'tis well.
He was a Soldler, and he died as such,
As such he shall be buried. See him brought hither,
That we may pay him all the Rites he merits
From a just King, and an indulgent Father:
And since Revenge and Rage inflame my Breast,
I vow to all the Earth, by all the Gods,
By all the Furies that are kindled in me,
To Night to lay him in his Tomb in Argos.

Dion goes out, and returns with Soldiers bearing in the Prince.
Dion.
See here, my Lord, behold your hopes lie blasted,
Your Darling gone, first of thy Royal Off-spring,
And most resembling thee. Whom have we now,
When all thy youthful Vigour shall be spent,
Thy Arms grown tir'd with wielding of the Sword?
When old Age shall encroach, and seize thy Limbs,
Compelling thee to sit at home in quiet?
Who then shall lead thy Armies to the Battel,
And conquer in thy Cause? Who then shall fight
As thou hast done without the loss of Glory,
That the deluded Foe shall find no difference
'Twixt him and Thee? Who then shall bring fresh Laurels
To crown the aged Temples of their King?

Pyrrh.
Cease, good old Man, cease this unmanly Grief,
Lest I mourn too; I, who would brave the Fates,
And rise beneath the weight of all their Bolts.
Speak Comfort to me, urge me to Revenge,
And drive me to the Field: And you, his Soldiers,
Take up your Prince, and  bear him to his Tent,
Attend his mournful Hearse with weeping Eyes,
Till the loud Trumpets send their Notes to Heaven ,
Till the Drums beat to Battel, and the big Voice
Of Vengeance calls you forth; then rush to Arms.
Learn to forget your Griefs in heat of Combat:
Remember not you saw your Leader dead;
But fight as if he conquer'd at your Head.

Dion.
Shall we go arm our selves, my Lord.

Pyrrh.
We will.
The early Sun climbs o'er the Hills apace,
His Beams are darted upward to the Heavens;
And the first God that wakes, puts forth his hand
To draw aside the Curtains of the Skies,
And let the day light out. How many Thousand
That rise this dreadful Morn, all gay and healthful,
Must e'er it yet be Noon lie down again,
And rest for ever. Call the Athenian Min'strel,
I want some Musick: Let me have that Song
Sung at the Royal Banquet, made in Babylon
The last great Feast of Alexander.

SONG.

Enter an Officer.
Dion.
Is the Queen coming? And so near at hand!
By Mars she's welcome, though the first of the Sex
That e'er was so to me. My Lord, the Queen
Is in the Camp, will you not go to meet her?

Pyrrh.
How, my Queen! Dion, see, she's here already.
Enter the Queen.
Oh! I am the last in Love, as well as Honour.
Welcome my Love, by thy dear Self, a Welcome,
Great as the Man that loves like me, can give.
No Mother, that has mourn'd her long lost Infant,
Rejoices half so much to find her Darling,
Or view the lovely Babe with half the Fondness
I look on thee.

Queen.
Answer me, Gracious Heaven,
What God has saved my Pyrrhus yet unhurt,
Even in the Mouth of Slaughter? What kind Deity,
With a stretch'd Arm, held the broad Shield before him,
Oppos'd to Destiny, Does he still live?
And do I live to clasp him?

Pyrrh.
I live my Love,
And sure I shall not dye now thou art come,
My better half of Life.

Queen.
But yet I fear,
Lest Heaven at last grown weary of its Favours,
Should sullenly withdraw its bounteous hands:
And Fortune that has wound so many Victories
In one round and constant String,
Should rashly in a Pett unravel all.

Pyrrh.
What greater Proof could I desire from Heaven
Of its continu'd Goodness, than thus to send thee,
The Omen of my Conquest? Sure ill Fate
Durst never yet assume a shape so lovely,
Or put on Looks like thine.

Queen.
Alas, my Lord,
Methoughts I met it with a dreadful Aspect.
Late as I lay entranc'd, I saw you, Pyrrhus,
Far different, far unlike what now you are.
I thought I saw you stretch'd upon the Earth,
All pale, and ghastly, and your gaping Wounds
Still freshly bleeding: All the mangled Bodies
Of your defeated Army, in heaps beside you.
No more that awful Warriour, whose Name alone
Has shook the vast Foundations of the Capitol.
I saw you, oh my Pyrrhus, cold and dead,
That lovely Face besmear'd with Blood, those Lips
Fast clos'd for ever, had not power to answer
To the loud moan I made you; Oh! my Lord,
How was I daunted at a sight so dismal?
I almost died to have dreamt it, and unable
To bear the horrid Vision any longer,
I burst the Chains of my distracted Sleep.

Pyrrh.
'Twas but a Dream caus'd by your tender Fears.

Queen.
Yet by those Fears,
And by the Love I  bear you (and oh! if Heaven 
Loved half so well, it would be kind and constant)
My bleeding heart begs of you not to fight,
But instantly to raise the fatal Siege;
For something tells me with a dreadful Whisper,
Epirus ne'er shall see her Monarch more.

Pyrrh.
How art thou alter'd, Love, since first I knew thee!
Thy Spirit once was Masculine and Brave;
Thy self wer't wont to help me to my Arms,
And bid me hasten to the Glorious Field;
And when I talk'd of War, the Tale would please thee
As much as that of Love, What now has chang'd thee?

Queen.
I am not us'd to fear; yet something bodes,
I know not how, nor what; and I conjure you
By all I have heard you swear, by all your Sighs,
By all your Vows, deferr the great decision;
And if I ever had the Power to move you,
O let me charm you now, or now or never.

Pyrrh.
Oh! hold my Love, cease the unkind request,
I can deny you nothing; yet I beg
You would not ask me what I must not grant
You shou'd consult my Honour more than thus;
When all my tow'ring Thoughts were fix'd on Glory;
When all the Languishings of Love were fled,
And Mars alone had fill'd, and swell'd my Breast,
Thus with thy Tears to cool my heated Soul,
To turn me back from the bright track of War,
And melt me down again to Woman's Fondness.

Queen.
Then let it melt this obstinate heard heart.
Thus will I fold thee in my longing Arms,
Embrace thee thus; thus shalt thou listen to me:
Thus, whilst I hang upon my Pyrrhus's neck,
What loud Alarm of Drums, or what shrill Trumpet?
What dreadful roar of War shall charm him from me?

Pyrrh.
Why dost thou press me thus? Forbear to urge me,
To drive me on, and force me to deny thee:
Not fight Lanassa! What Request but this
Could I refuse thee? This I cannot grant.
Oh what, what would the murmuring Soldiers say,
Already rang'd, preparing for the Fight,
They wait my coming: Should I not haste to head them,
How would they storm to see themselves abandon'd?

Queen.
Enough, my Lord,
I have heard enough, and am at last convinc'd
My Tears are dry'd, and all my Prayers are ended.
No more will I push back your Coming-Glory,
Nor strive to crop your growing Wreaths of Lawrel:
Go then, my Pyrrhus, go, and fight, and prosper,
Lead your impatient Squadrons to the Field,
Rear all your Standards, let your warlike Ensigns
Loose all their golden Streamers to the Winds,
Rush to the War, may Conquest crown your Arms,
And your triumphant Garlands flourish ever.

Pyrrh.
It shall be Battel now, and, by yon Heav'n,
It seems auspicious, that my Love has said it.
I thank thee for the Conquest; and methinks
Already I behold Antigonus vanquished.
Oh! Hadst not thou, my better Self, been willing,
Had you not spoke it, had your Assent been wanting,
I had not fought with half my usual Bravery;
But now, Whole Pyrrhus pours upon the Foe,
And fights with Forces not divided now.

Queen.
Yet grant me this, my Lord, my much lov'd Pyrrhus,
You must not, ought not to deny me this:
Swear to me by your Honour, by your Arms,
By all the Oaths a Soldier holds as Sacred;
Swear somewhat to enliven your fainting Queen,
That when the dreadful Tug at last begins,
When the last Trumpets urge you to the Battel,
And Arms and Heads are lop'd, and shivering Launces,
Sharp Spears, and all the Darts of Death fly round you,
When all your drooping Soldiers fall in Heaps;
And the tall Youths that stood but now erect,
Lye breathless on the Plain, swear then, my Love
To guard your own dear Life as much as possible,
To seek no Dangers Prudence bids you shun,
And Glory will permit, and not rush wilful
Into the Arms of Death. Grant me but this,
And half my Fears are vanish'd.

Pyrrh.
No more, I grant you this, but ask no more.
Retire, my Love, I hear the shouting Soldiers
Cry for their Chief, and my old General yonder
Is come to call me hence: I go to reap
The Noble Harvest of a bloody Field,
Whose Crop shall all be thine.

Queen.
Success attend thee,
And all the mighty Gods of War and Love
Take part with thee, guide, and direct thy Arms,
And Heav'n restore thee to me.

Pyrrh.
One Embrace,
Such as the Queen of Beauty gave to Mars,
When he march'd forth to the Overthrow of Giants
In the Phlegrean; and doubt not, Love,
I go to Conquest as assured as his,
And will return more glorious to thy Arms,
And bring new Trophies to thee.
When after drawn in thy triumphant Carr,
Thy self the beauteous Goddess of the War;
Whilst Kings shall walk in Fetters by thy side,
And even the Conqueror's Self before thee bleed;
Whilst all my Wreaths thy lovely Temples bind,
And all the Laurel-Crowns I won are thine,
And all by Crowning thee become divine.
From ev'ry part shall vanquish'd Princes come;
Thou shalt pronounce the Royal Captive's Doom,
Each Vassal shall bow down his suppliant Knee,
And all the Earth receive their Laws from thee.

[Leads her out, and returns.
Enter Helenus.
Hel.
My Lord, the Enemy
Have all their Forces ready, and their Trumpets
Have sounded twice to Battel.

Pyrrh.
Did not ours sound
As often, in answer to them?

Dion.
They did:
Our Men are all in order too as theirs,
We only wait for the third Call from them;
Then sound on our side too, and march to meet them.

Pyrrh.
We'll give them the third Call our selves,
Trumpets sound.
Not stay to take it from them. Sound all the Trumpets,
So loud a Blast, that Heav'n and Earth may hear us.
What Order is Antigonus's Army in?

Hel.
Himself at the Head of his Auxiliaries,
The Romans marching foremost.

Pyrrh.
Helenus, you have lost a Princely Brother,
His Spirit be infused in thee, his Fires
Added to thine, with all thy Force revenge him;
Fight in his Cause, as he has done in thine,
And be a Ptolomy to me.

Dion.
Heaven make him like
In all things, but his end.

Pyrrh.
Hark, we are answer'd.
[Trumpets sound
Now they begin to march.

Dion.
By Heav'n, in gallant Order,
Rome's Legions, and the Macedonian Phalanx
Are rang'd in Noble Discipline.

Hel.
Methinks we move like Clouds beneath the Sky.
Driven by the breath of Winds our Fire's conceal'd
Until we come so near to meet, and strike,
And then the Lightning follows.

Pyrrh.
My Blood boils high,
And all my Sinews stretch themselves for War:
Draw all, and follow with your lifted Sword,
Strike for the Revenge, let Ptolemy be the Word;
Send loud defiance forth from every Breath,
And wound as sharply, and as sure as Death.

[Exeunt.