University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene, A City Besieg'd.
Enter Zoilus, Messenger; Zoilus with a Letter in his hand
Zo.
Is this the Account, and this the News you bring?
Has faithless Archias too betray'd his King?
Fate shews her barefac'd Malice here too much,
For all are Traytors now; dye thou as such.
[Kills him.
Bury thy Tidings with thee in thy Death,
Thou should'st have made a better use of Breath.
Against all Heaven and Earth, and Hell I strive,
Rebellion only sicken'd to revive,
The lawful Prince, ye Gods! is now alive.
Where has he slept these twenty Winters past?
Thought dead by all, and yet he lives at last.
Here, my false Slave would sooth me to resign,
And in the Prince's Name, ye Powers Divine!
Presumes to pardon in an other Line;
He menaces, and counsels in the next,
And here, and here 'tis more and more perplext.
Rot his curst Hand, avenging Thunder fall
On all their Heads—
And tear, and rend them, like this Paper, all.

Enter Semanthe.
Sem.
What sudden Rage is this, what new Despair?
Why lyes, alas! that murther'd Soldier there?
Look on his Fate, and learn to dread your own,
For now long-suffering Heav'n begins to frown.
A Thousand Meteors threaten from the Skies,
On Earth a Thousand dreadful Phantoms rise.
Nought of the whole Creation is at Peace,
Earthquakes the Land, and Tempests toss the Seas.
Broad Sheets of Flame from Ætna's Mouth are thrown,
And Cataracts of Fire fall roaring down.
Thro' smoaking Plains, they burn their rapid way,
And mix their boyling Surges with the Sea.
A Voice in open Air is heard to roar,
Tyrants and Tyranny are now no more.

Zo.
Let it roar on, why tell you me of Storms,
Of Flaming Mountains, and Ætherial Forms?
Nor troubl'd Ocean, nor tempestuous Air,
Nor burst of Thunder should a Monarch fear.
Were Heav'n and Earth in wild Confusion hurl'd,
Should the rash Gods unhinge the rolling World,
Undaunted would I tread the tott'ring Ball,
Crush'd, but unconquer'd, in the dreadful Fall.

Sem.
Why then was all that desp'rate Fury, why
By your own Hands did this Sicilian dye?
What makes your Blood afresh in Flushes rise,
Why sparkles all that Vengeance in your Eyes?

Zo.
He told me things, Semanthe, might have made
Another Soul both anxious and afraid.
He talk'd of Archias, to the Rebels fled,
And young Araxes risen from the dead.
This wrought my Rage, but wrought at once Disdain,
In vain, young Prince, you come and arm in vain,
While this is in my Hand, 'tis I that reign.

Sem.
What dismal Scenes of Fate and Death are here;
How dreadful does that Hand, those Looks appear?
That fatal Sword shall find a purple Flood,
And Sicily shall be the Scene of Blood.
O whither shall I fly to shun the Sight?
Would I were wrapt in Everlasting Night.
Would I were lock'd within my silent Tomb,
Or thrown in Ætna's suffocating Womb,
Unknowing of the Woes—
That threaten from behind, and crowd to come.

Zo.
Fly where thou wilt, fly to Araxes—do,
Act like a Wife, do thou betray me too.
Fly from me with thy Train of servile Fears,
Thy Conscience, thy Eternal Tongue and Tears.
From my domestick Torment set me free,
And send ev'n Death it self instead of thee.

Sem.
Thus then commanded from thy Sight I go,
And leave thee to thy self, thy greatest Foe.
Yet not to Rebels, nor to Rome I fly,
But to those sacred Pow'rs which you defie,
And at their Shrines I'll study how to dye.
My Pray'rs shall hourly be to Heaven addrest,
Heav'n, still our last try'd Friend, but still our best.
For all my Crimes I have but once been curst,
Then, then, thou Tyrant, when we marry'd first.

[Exit.
Zo.
From thence I date my Woes, of that repent,
There, Mis'ries never lessen, but augment.
In vain with life-long Trouble we contend,
Where Women are concern'd, it cannot end.
On them we lavish our unhappy Life,
The Mistress plagues us first, and then the Wife.

Exit.
Enter Locris alone.
Lo.
What an odd Fortune must I hourly prove,
A Woman still prest with a Woman's Love;
Narcissus like, the Love-sick Nymph betray'd,
Pursues, and woes her own deceitful Shade;
She Follows that in following of a Maid.
She haunts me like a Ghost where-e'r I see,
As I Maherball chace, she chaces me.
She courts me for the Bliss I cannot grant,
Seeks what I seek, and covets what I want.
Her Disappointment on her Wedding-day
Do's all th'impatient, longing Bride betray,
Torn with Desire, and raging at Delay.

Enter Orythia.
Ory.
Is this, is this, ye Gods! my promis'd Bliss,
And am I drest in Nuptial Robes for this?
Those Trumpets call you hence, my Warlike Dear,
From these fond Arms, too weak to hold you here.
To Wounds, to Battle, and to Death you flee,
And for the Breath of Fame abandon me.
Speak every Voice of War, strike ev'ry Drum,
If I have any Charms, he shall not come.
Thus while I clasp you in so close a Fold,
You shall not let Bellona break my hold.

Lo.
Think not I go for want of Love away,
But Honour calls me, and I must obey.
Her rigid Laws now force me from your Arms,
And summon me to War with fresh Alarms.
New Glory in the dusty Field I'll meet,
And lay new Trophies at your lovely Feet.
At my return you shall new Triumphs see,
New pompous Arches shall erected be,
All dedicated to my Love and thee.

Ory.
But what if you should in the Battle fall,
What then becomes of me, of Love and all?
The Clash of Arms, the Cries of Men begin;
Now draws the Scene of Death—
And on all hands rush desp'rate Actors in.
I see the bloody Bus'ness from afar,
I see you madly spur amidst the War.
Now Death appears in all its hideous Forms,
And lops off lofty Heads, and lifted Arms.
Sharp Spears and shivering Launces fly around,
Wounds wait on Blows, and Fate on every Wound,
Men's Blood and Horse's Foam besmear the Ground.
Here the tall Youth lye breathless on the Plain,
There fights my Locris, and bestrides the slain.
Yonder agast our routed Army flies,
There, weltring in his Blood, your Father lyes,
And there, o'rewhelm'd with Numbers, Locris dyes.

Lo.
Stop those tempestuous Sighs, those silver Tears,
And banish from your Breast your groundless Fears.
Heav'n has not been at this Expence and Cost,
To save till now, and let me now be lost!
The same kind Genius all my Steps attends,
Heav'n is the same, and the same Gods our Friends.
And what will most your anxious Cares remove,
The same my Passion is, the same my Love.

Ory.
Faintly methinks that Passion you express,
Ev'n when you ought to show it to Excess.
Lovers, when parting, should confess their Pains,
And to Despair and Anguish loose the Reins.
Improve their Time, and all their Flames exert,
And swell their Eyes with Tears, with Sighs their Heart.
But unconcern'd you seem, and look unmov'd,
You look, alas! as if you never lov'd.
In your calm Cheeks no strugling Blushes rise,
No Love, no Passion lightens at your Eyes.
No mantling Blood runs flushing thro' your Face,
No murm'ring Whispers warm your cold Embrace.
Nor do you with a Lover's Awe approach,
Nor heave, nor pant, nor tremble at my Touch.
No wish'd for Signs of fierce Desire I see,
You do not, no, you do not love like me.

Lo.
What shall I say to make you think me true,
By Heav'n, I never lov'd a Maid like you.
You reign sole Mistress of my faithful Heart,
No other Fair can claim the smallest Part.
Go then, my Love, with this Assurance go;
Leave me to meet, and overcome the Foe.
Their Drums and Trumpets dare us to the Fight,
And high-wav'd Swords to bloody Fields invite.
The furious King chafes for his loyt'ring Son,
While Shouts of rang'd Battalions urge him on,
All like grip'd Thunder strugling to be gone.
Go, my Orythia, and no longer pine,
But one short Hour, I shall again be thine.
Go somewhere, whence you may my Actions view,
And bless the Sword and Arm that strike for you.

Ory.
Save him, kind Heav'n! some God his Guardian be,
Take care, dear Youth! in your own self, of me.
Give me another, and another Sight
Of that dear Face in which my Eyes delight,
'Ere thou art lost in Everlasting Night.
Let me embrace thee thus, thus sold thee fast,
Take this last Kiss, and now another last.
With Fear and Hope I stand by turns possest,
That tears and rends, this lulls and sooths my Breast,
And flatters my tumultuous Soul to Rest.
My various Thoughts a Thousand Phantoms frame,
One while the conqu'ring Foes your Fall proclaim,
Then shifting Fancy shews propitious Scenes,
And I'o, Locris, ecchoes through the Plains,
I'o, my Locris conquers, lives and reigns.

[Exit.
Locris alone.
Lo.
Was ever Passion wrought to this Excess,
And yet, ye conscious Gods! mine is not less.
Her's will be cur'd as soon as I am known,
But how? kind Heav'n! how shall I cure my own.
I love a Man, from whom I hide my Fires,
And with my Sex conceal my fond Desires.
A Man, a Stranger, whom no Kindred claim,
Of Parentage obscure, tho' known to Fame.
Yet in his Eyes such Sparks of greatness rowl,
So charming is his Mien, so vast his Soul.
Such Glories in his awful Aspect shine,
He cannot come from an ignoble Line.
He wants a Crown, but shall Maherball want,
When that, in time, will be in me to grant?
He best can Guard it with his conquering Sword,
And he shall be mine, and my Empire's Lord.

[going.
Enter Cyllene.
Cyl.
Turn, Brother, lost Cyllene begs you turn,
For she will hold you, till you hear her mourn:
You were the first occasion of my Pain,
And you must help me to my Peace again.
Why did you bring that Stranger to our Court?
Why have the Gods ordain'd me for his Sport?
He knows in what a raging Flame I burn,
He knows my Love, but makes me no Return.
Your Breath, your Praise first kindled up my Fire,
Speak to him then, tell all my fierce Desire:
So wild my Passion is, my Pain is such;
Tell all that Poets feign, you cannot tell too much.

Lo.
What can the Gods at last by this design?
Theirs is the Sport, the Plague, and Pain is mine.
Methinks, in some enchanted Round we move,
Lost, and bewilder'd in the Maze of Love.
She begs me here to make her Passion known
To the dear Youth from whom I hide my own.
Your Story Sister, will become you best,
[To her.
Love still should be, by those in Love, confest.
Of all Mankind I shall not do you right,
Nor represent your Longings at their height.
I could not for my self Orythia wooe,
But left that part for Zoilus to do;
How can you think I should prevail for you?

Cyl.
Already have I told him all I bore,
And now if possible, I'll tell him more:
I'll seize him as he mounts his foaming Horse,
And with these Hands stop his impetuous Course.
Spight of the Voice of War I will be heard,
And e're he goes, he must my Voice regard;
Nor shall he from my close Embrace be free,
Nor move to Conquest, till he yields to me.

Lo.
Hark, I am summon'd by the embattled Foe,
But take this friendly Council e're I go.
Men slight the Love-sick Fool that tells her Pain,
As much as Women slight the whining Swain:
If you design to fix them, use them ill,
Still would you have them follow, fly them still.
No favour grant, comply with no request,
Still put them off, if you would still be prest.
What beauty Conquer'd, let your Pride maintain,
To raise Desire, receive them with disdain,
Bid them begone, to make them come again.
Let not their sighs or Tears your pity move,
Be sure you you let them not betray your Love:
Your Charm is at an end, when that is found,
And they for ever fly the Fairy Ground.

[Exit.
Manet Cyllena.
Cyl.
Too well, alas! the Truth of this I see;
But who can be so wise, and love like me!
Already has my Tongue my Pain confest,
And what I once have told—
Can never more lye buried in my Breast.
I've reach'd the middle Sea to shun a Wreck;
'Tis better vent'ring thro', than sayling back.
I cannot hazard more; 'tis then decreed,
Spight of my first Repulse, I will proceed.
Heaven! now he comes; and at his awful Sight,
My raging Flames still reach a greater Height;
Apace my Breath now sallies, now returns,
Apace my Spirits pant, my Bosom burns,
My Pride apace before my Passion flies,
Wishes in Sighs, and Flames in Blushes rise,
Love dawns, and darts its Rays around my dazzl'd Eyes.

Enter Maherball, giving Orders to his Soldiers as he enters, which assoon as receiv'd, they retire.
Ma.
You to the Walls, the Ram's Assault repair,
You, to your Tow'r, and take your station there.
The Roman Army shews a noble Form,
And marches boldly to begin the Storm.
Stones, huge as Rocks, from batt'ring Engines fly,
First seem to strike, then tumble from the Sky,
And Men, as Thunder-struck, drop down and dye.
Why, Madam, do you stand unguarded here,
Where Destiny crouds on, and come so near.
Why thus expos'd before your Palace-gate?
Why, bare of Shelter will you brave your Fate?
When Groans around of either Sex are heard,
And Death's rude Hand gives Beauty no Regard.

Cyll.
Why should Maherball ask, who knows her Flame?
Knows too the Reason why Cyllene came.
I came the passing Pomp of War to view,
To bid my Father, and my Friends adieu,
I came to see, and take my Leave of you.
Love drew me forth, which makes a Woman dare,
As much as Heroes in their hottest War.
No greater Harms have I to fear, who feel
Worse Wounds than e're were giv'n—
By poyson'd Arrows, or by pointed Steel.
Think that I feel more than I can express,
And save a Virgin's Shame—
And save her Words, which make her Passion less.

Ma.
What shall I think; or why should you reveal
Wounds which Maherball has not Power to heal?
Love only is imaginary Pain—
Reason and Thought will make you well again.
From an ungrateful Man recall your Heart,
And let your conscious Beauty take your Part.
Tho' in the Pride and Bloom of Nature born,
A Thousand Heavenly Charms your Face adorn,
And you look lovely, as the blushing Morn.
No Looks can pierce my Breast, no Charms can move,
You cannot conquer, for I cannot love.

Cyll.
Why are you then of that Cœlestial Frame,
Which sets all wondring Woman-kind on Flame.
Why are your Looks and Actions so Divine,
Why to your Charms must I my Soul resign,
And you remain unmov'd, untouch'd by mine.
Why from your Eyes should Beams of Beauty flow,
To scorch my Breast, while yours is cold as Snow?
Why should you not the Love you raise return,
Why should you freeze, while you make others burn?

Ma.
Blame not me, fair Cyllene, but my Fate,
That form'd me free from Passions, Love or Hate.
No warm Desires ruffle my peaceful Blood,
Which flows as smoothly as a Summer's Flood,
Nor can I work a Tempest, if I wou'd.
Nothing but War can move me with Delight,
A dusty Field, and well disputed Fight
Raises my ravish'd Spirits to their Height.
Hark, when I hear such charming Notes as those,
[Trumpets.
Shrill Trumpets, ratling Drums, and shouting Foes,
My Heart leaps up with Joy, my Blood around
Circles, with shrilling Pleasure at the Sound,
And I bound lightly o're the unbeaten Ground.

Cyll.
Stay but a while, till yonder Squadrons move,
I'll hold you fast with all the Force of Love.
They march not yet, you shall, you shall be gone,
E're the first Brunt of Battle calls you on.
Nay, I'll go with you too, your Steps attend,
Or in my stead at least my Wishes send.
Vows after Vows for your Deliverance make,
And bribe all Heaven for my Maherball's sake.
These Eyes shall watch you still amdst the Foe,
This Heart shall follow you where're you go,
And when they strike at you—
I'll stretch these Arms abroad to catch the Blow.

Ma.
My Soul was form'd fierce, and averse to Love,
And yet bear Witness, all you Pow'rs above,
How much these soft Endearments melt and move.
You've made my haughty, strugling Temper fall,
Lower than ever any other shall.
Here stop your Conquest, where it first began,
For you have conquer'd all that Woman can.
Would you could drive your Passion to an end,
Or would you were a Man to make a Friend.

Cyll.
Would I were Locris, would I could pursue,
The Chace of Glory to the Goal with you.
Would that these Hands the Massy Spear could wield,
Would that these Legs could bear me to the Field.
Would I could dart the Javelin from afar,
And spur my thund'ring Courser thro' the War.
Oh! would I were some wond'rous Man to do
What'ere Man did, or more than Man for you.
Your Harms and Hazards in your stead I'de meet,
Dye with your Wounds contented at your Feet.

Ma.
Then should we never part, but side by side,
Thro' broken Ranks in batter'd Armour ride.
Urge on our foaming Horses o're the slain,
And pant with noble Toyl along the Plain.
Our chief Concern should for each other be,
I guarding you, and you defending me.
Shielding from either's Head the falling Blow,
So should we live,—Locris and I live so.
But since the Gods have giv'n you other Charms,
Not meant for rugged War, or rough Alarms,
But melting Love in some young Monarch's Arms.
No longer at indulgent Heav'n repine,
Nor strive against the Bliss your Stars design,
Which destine you for worthier Arms than mine.

Cyll.
Our Sex should never be the first to wooe,
The Case is diff'rent here 'twixt me and you.
Has not my Father promis'd you my Bed?
And ought not I to love the Man I wed?

Ma.
To me the Gods that Priv'ledge have deny'd,
Nor dare I, till they bid, receive a Bride.
Suspect not this a slight of proffer'd Love,
But secret Pleasure of the Powr's above.

Cyll.
In vain is all those trifling Pow'rs Decree,
If I must ever be depriv'd of thee.
Down then the strugling Woman in my Breast,
I'll forfeit Modesty to purchase Rest.
My Passions drive me like the raging Wind,
And Love and Pride raise Tempests in my Mind.
Honour, Discretion, Reason, Sense unite,
Disdain, and kindling Shame, and burning Spight
Mix all at once in the tumultuous Fight.
All lab'ring to prevail, oppress my Life,
And undecided leave the doubtful Strife.

[Swoons.
Ma.
[Enter Julia.
See, she revives, I dare not longer stay,
But for our mutual Ease must haste away.
And now, the Trumpets sound their last Allarms,
[Drums.
And now, the ready Soldier starts to Arms.
[Trumpets.
Hark, how the Gates on brazen Hinges jar,
While eager Troops bolt forward from afar,
O'rerun the Plain, and plunge amidst the War.
[Exit.
Cyllene recovering and rising.
What? Is he fled, but whither shall I flee?
Oh! 'tis no Matter what becomes of me.
Was I so mean to condescend to sue?
And could a Woman, could a Princess wooe?
What Passion mixt with what Despight I feel?
Was I so slavish, tell me, did I kneel?
O it was time to swoon, to burn, to bleed,
To grow distracted after such a Deed.
'Twixt Love and Shame no Peace will e're be had,
Till Life is worn away,—
Or till my rolling Brain at last runs mad.